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Title: Lays and Legends of the English Lake Country With Copious Notes Author: John Pagen White Release Date: February 8, 2015 [EBook #48207] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAYS, LEGENDS OF LAKE COUNTRY *** Produced by Shaun Pinder, Moti Ben-Ari and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) LAYS AND LEGENDS [i] OF THE ENGLISH LAKE COUNTRY. LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THE ENGLISH LAKE COUNTRY. WITH COPIOUS NOTES. BY JOHN PAGEN WHITE, F.R.C.S. "In early date, When I was beardless, young, and blate, E'en then a wish, I mind its power, A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast; That I for poor auld Cumbria's sake, Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least." LONDON: JOHN RUSSELL SMITH. CARLISLE: G. & T. COWARD. MDCCCLXXIII. INTRODUCTION. In submitting this Book to the Public, I have thought it best to give it precisely as it was left in manuscript by my late Brother. His sudden death in 1868 prevented the final revision which he still contemplated. The Notes may by some be thought unnecessarily long, and in many instances they undoubtedly are very discursive. Much labour, however, was expended in their composition, in the hope, not merely of giving a new interest to localities and incidents already familiar to the resident, but also of affording the numerous visitors to the charming region which forms the theme of the Volume, an amount of information supplementary to the mere outline which, only, it is the province of a Guide Book, however excellent, to supply. The Work occupied for years the leisure hours of a busy professional life; and the feelings with which the Author entered upon and continued it, are best expressed in those lines of Burns chosen by himself for the motto. B. J. July 1st, 1873. PREFACE. The English Lake District may be said, in general terms, to extend from Cross-Fell and the Solway Firth, on the east and north, to the waters of Morecambe and the Irish Sea; or, more accurately, to be comprised within an irregular circle, varying from forty to fifty miles in diameter, of which the centre is the mountain Helvellyn, and within which are included a great portion of Cumberland and Westmorland and the northern extremity of Lancashire. [ii] [iii] [iv] [v] [vi] [vii] After the conquest of England by the Normans, the counties of Cumberland and Westmorland, the ancient inheritance of the Scottish Kings, as well as the county of Northumberland, were placed by William under the English crown. But the regions thus alienated were not allowed to remain in the undisturbed possession of the strangers. For a long period they were disquieted by the attempts which from time to time were made by successive kings of Scotland to re- establish their supremacy over them. Supporting their pretensions by force of arms, they carried war into the disputed territory, and conducted it with a rancour and cruelty which spared neither age or sex. The two nations maintained their cause, just or unjust, with unfaltering resolution; or if they seemed to hesitate for a moment, and a period of settlement to be at hand, their frequent compromises only ended in a renewal of their differences. Thus these northern counties continued to pass alternately under the rule of both the contending nations, until the Scottish dominion over them was finally terminated by agreement in the year 1237; Alexander of Scotland accepting in lieu lands of a certain yearly value, to be holden of the King of England by the annual render of a falcon to the Constable of the Castle of Carlisle, on the Festival of the Assumption. The resumption, at no distant period, of the manors which had been granted to Alexander, renewed in all their strength the feelings of animosity with which the Scots had been accustomed to regard their southern neighbours, and the feuds between the two kingdoms continued with unabated violence for more than three centuries longer. The dwellers in the unsettled districts lying along the English and Scottish borders, being originally derived from the same Celtic stock, had been gradually and progressively influenced as a race by the admixture of Saxon and Danish blood into the population; and although much of the Celtic character was thereby lost, they seem to have retained in their mountains and forests much of the spirit, and many of the laws and manners, of the ancient Britons. They continued to form themselves into various septs, or clans, according to the Celtic custom; sometimes banded together for the attainment of a common end; and as often at feud, one clan with another, when some act of personal wrong had to be revenged upon a neighbouring community. Thus a state of continual restlessness, springing out of mutual hatred and jealousies, existed among the borderers of either nation. The same feelings of enmity were fostered, and the same system of petty warfare was carried on, between the borderers of the two kingdoms. Cumberland and Westmorland, from their position, were subject to the frequent inroads of the Scots; by whom great outrages were committed upon the inhabitants. They drove their cattle, burned their dwellings, plundered their monasteries, and even destroyed whole towns and villages. A barbarous system of vengeance and retaliation ensued. Every act of violence and bloodshed was perpetrated; whilst the most nefarious practices of free-booting became the common occupation of the marauding clans; and a raid into a neighbouring district had for them the same sort of charm and excitement which their descendants find in a modern fox chase. Even after the union of the two kingdoms under one sovereign, when the term "Borders" had been changed to "Middle Shires," as being more suitable to a locality which was now nearly in the centre of his dominions, the long cherished distinctions and prejudices of the inhabitants were maintained in all their vigour; and it required a long period of conflict with these to be persevered in, before the extinction of the border feuds could be completely effected. These distractions have now been at an end for more than two centuries. The mountains look down upon a peaceful domain; the valleys, everywhere the abode of quiet and security, yield their rich pasturage to the herds, or their corn-fields redden, though coyly, to the harvest; and the population, much of it rooted in the soil, and attached by hereditary ties to the same plots of ancestral ground in many instances for six or seven hundred years, is independent, prosperous, and happy. Some evidences of the old troublous times remain, in the dismantled Border Towers, and moated or fortified houses called Peles, which lie on the more exposed parts of the district; in the ruins of the conventual retreats; and in the crumbling strongholds of the chiefs, which still retain something of a past existence in the names which even yet cling about their walls, as if the spirits of their former possessors were reluctant to depart entirely from them. Whilst a few traditions and recollections survive of those stirring periods which have left their mark upon the nation's history, and are associated for ever with images of those illustrious persons whose familiar haunts were within the shadows of the hills. But the great charm of this region, which is not without attractions also of a superstitious and romantic character, lies in the variety of the aspects of nature which it presents; exhibiting, on a diminutive scale, combinations of the choicest features of the scenery of all those lands which have a name and fame for beauty and magnificence. Mr. West, a Roman Catholic clergyman, long resident in the district, and the author of one of the earliest Guides to the Lakes, thus expresses himself: "They who intend to make the continental tour should begin here; as it will give in miniature, an idea of what they are to meet with there, in traversing the Alps and Appenines: to which our northern mountains are not inferior in beauty of line, or variety of summit, number of lakes, and transparency of water; not in colouring of rock or softness of turf; but in height and extent only. The mountains here are all accessible to the summit, and furnish prospects no less surprising, and with more variety than the Alps themselves." Wordsworth also, who could well judge of this fact, and none better; he who for fifty years "Murmured near these running brooks A music sweeter than their own," and looked on all their changing phases with a superstitious eye of love; after he had become acquainted with the mountain scenery of Wales, Scotland, Switzerland, and Italy, gave his judgment that, as a whole, the English Lake District within its narrow limits is preeminent above them all. He thus speaks: "A happy proportion of component parts is indeed noticeable among the landscapes of the North of England; and, in this characteristic essential to a perfect picture, they surpass the scenes of Scotland, and, in a still greater degree, those of Switzerland.... On the score even of sublimity, the superiority of the Alps is by no means so great as might hastily be inferred; and, as to the beauty of the lower regions of the Swiss mountains, their surface has nothing of the mellow tone and variety of hues by which our [viii] [ix] [x] [xi] [xii] mountain turf is distinguished.... The Lakes are much more interesting than those of the Alps; first, as is implied above by being more happily proportioned to the other features of the landscape; and next, as being infinitely more pellucid, and less subject to agitation from the winds." And again, "The water of the English Lakes being of a crystalline clearness, the reflections of the surrounding hills are frequently so lively, that it is scarcely possible to distinguish the point where the real object terminates, and its unsubstantial duplicate begins." It is therefore not to be wondered at, that during the greater part of a century, where the old Border raids of violence have ceased, excursions of a very different character should have taken their place. Every summer brings down upon the valleys clouds of visitors from every corner of our island, and from many countries of Europe and America, eager to enjoy their freshness and beauty, and breathe a new life in the companionship of the lakes and hills. And if in a spirit somewhat more akin to the moss-trooping Borderer of an earlier time, an occasional intruder has scoured the vales in search of their traditions; and in the pursuit of these has ransacked their annals, plundered their guides, and levied a sort of black-mail upon even casual and anonymous contributors to their history; it may in some degree extenuate the offence to remember that such literary free-booting makes no one poorer for what it takes away; and that the opima spolia of the adventurer are only so much gathered to be distributed again. More especially to the Notes which constitute so large a portion of the present Volume may this remark be applied. Scenery long outlasts all traditional and historical associations. To revive these among their ancient haunts, and to awaken yet another interest in this land of beauty, has been the aim and end of this modern Raid into the valleys of the North, and the regions that own the sovereignty of the "mighty Helvellyn." CONTENTS PAGE The Past 1 The Banner of Broughton Tower 3 Giltstone Rock 15 Crier of Claife 19 Cuckoo of Borrodale 29 King Eveling 38 Sir Lancelot Threlkeld 44 Pan on Kirkstone 66 Saint Bega 73 Harts-Horn Tree 81 Bekan's Ghyll 88 The Chimes of Kirk-Sunken 102 The Raven on Kernal Crag 106 Lord Derwentwater's Lights 110 Laurels on Lingmoor 124 Vale of St. John 136 The Luck of Edenhall 143 Hob-Thross 153 The Abbot of Calder 162 The Armboth Banquet 170 Britta in the Temple of Druids 179 The Lady of Workington Hall 191 Altar upon Cross Fell 199 Willie o' Scales 209 Ermengarde 217 Gunilda 227 The Shield of Flandrensis 234 The Rooks of Furness 242 King Dunmail 255 The Bridals of Dacre 266 Threlkeld Tarn 279 Robin the Devil 284 [xiii] [xiv] [xv] [xvi] The Lay of Lord Lucy of Egremond 295 Sölvar How 312 The Church among the Mountains 323 THE PAST. (IN SIGHT OF DACRE CASTLE.) Through yon old archway grey and broken Rides forth a belted knight; Upon his breast his true-love's token And armour glittering bright. His arm a fond adieu is waving, And answering waves a hand From one whose love her grief is braving— The fairest of the land. The trumpet calls, and plain and valley Give forth their armed men; And round the red-cross flag they rally, From every dale and glen. And she walks forth in silent sorrow, Who was so blest to-day, And thinks on many a lone to-morrow In those old towers of grey. From many a piping throat so mellow The joyful song bursts forth: On many a field the corn so yellow Makes golden bright the earth. And mountains o'er the green woods frowning Close round the banner'd walls; While mid-day sunshine, all things crowning, In summer splendour falls. But ours is not the age they walk in; It is the years of yore: And ours is not the tongue they talk in; 'Tis language used no more. Yet many an eye in silence bending O'er this unmurmur'd lay, Beholds that knight the vale descending, And feels that summer's day. Lives it then not? Yes; and when hoary Beneath our years we stand, That scene of summer, love, and glory, Shall still be on the land. Truth from the earth itself shall perish Ere that shall be no more; The heart in song will ever cherish What has been life of yore. THE BANNER OF BROUGHTON TOWER. [1] [2] [3] The knight looked out from Broughton Tower; The stars hung high o'er Broughton Town; "There should be tidings by this hour, From Fouldrey Pile or Urswick Down!" Far out the Duddon roll'd its tide Beneath; and on the verge afar, The Warder through the night descried The beacon, like a rising star. It told that Fouldrey by the sea Was signall'd from the ships that bore, With Swart's Burgundian chivalry, The false King from the Irish shore. And Lincoln's Earl, and Broughton's Knight, And brave Lord Lovel, wait the sign To march their hosts to Urswick's height, To hail him King, of Edward's line. Brave men as ever swerv'd aside! But faithful to their ancient fame, The white Rose wooed them in her pride Once more; and foremost forth they came. The Knight looked out beneath his hand; The Warder pointed to the glow; "Now droop my banner, that my band May each embrace it! then we'll go. "And if we fall, as fall we may, Thus resolute the wronged to raise, The banner that we bear to-day, Shall be our monument and praise!" One look into his lady's bower; One step into his ancient hall; And then adieu to Broughton Tower, Till blooms the white Rose over all! High o'er the surge of many a fight, That banner, for the Rose, had led The liegemen of the Broughton knight To victory's smiles, or glory's bed. And 'twas a glorious sight to see That break of day, from tower and town, Pour forth his martial tenantry, To swell the array on Urswick Down: To see the glancing pennons wave Above them, and the banner borne All joyously by warriors, brave As ever hailed a battle morn. And 'twas a stirring sound to hear, Uprolling from the camp,—the drum, The music, and the martial cheer, That told the chiefs, "We come, we come!" Then in that sunny time of June, When green leaves burdened every spray, With all the merry birds in tune, They marched upon their southward way. [4] [5] And, as through channel'd sands afar The tides with steady onward force Push inland, roll'd their wave of war To Trent, its unresisted course. And spreading wide its crest where Stoke O'erlook'd the Royal lines below, Spent its long gathering strength, and broke, And plung'd in fury on the foe. For three long hours that summer morn King Henry by his standard rode, Through onset and repulse upborne, A tower of strength where'er it glowed. For three long hours the fated band Of chiefs, that summer morning waged A desperate battle, hand to hand, Where'er the thickest carnage raged, Till midst four thousand liegemen slain, The flower of that misguided host, Borne down upon the fatal plain, Fame, honour, life, and cause were lost. Turn ye, who high in hall and tower Sit waiting for your lords, and burn To wrest the tidings of that hour From lips that never may return: Turn inwards from the news that flies Through England's summer groves, and close The circlets of your asking eyes Against the coming cloud of woes! Wild rumour, like the wind that wings, None knows or how or whence, its way, Storm-like on Broughton's turret rings The dire disaster of that day. Storm-like through his dislorded halls And farmsteads lone, the rumour breaks; And far by Witherslack's grey walls, And hamlet cots, despair awakes. And all old things meet shock and change, Since Broughton, down-borne in his pride On that red field, no more shall range By Duddon's rocks, or Winster's side. And while the hills around rejoiced, And in the triumph of their King Old strains of peace sang trumpet-voiced, And bade the landscapes smile and sing; Far stretching o'er the land, his sign The King from Broughton's charters tore; And the old honours of his line In his old tower were known no more. His halls, his manors, his fair lands, Pass'd from his name; round all he'd loved, And all that loved him, power's dread hands In shadow through the noontide moved: [6] [7] E'en to those cottage homes apart, His poor men's huts by lonely ways— To crush from out the humblest heart Each pulse that dared to throb his praise! But when old feuds had all been healed, And England's long lost smiling years Returned, and tales of Stoke's red field Fair eyes had ceased to flood with tears; 'Twas whispered 'mid the fields and farms, That once were Broughton's free domain,— His banner, saved from strife of arms, Was somewhere 'mid those homes again. That o'er the hills afar, where lies Lone Witherslack by moorland roads, His own old liegemen true the prize Held fast within their safe abodes. Thrice honour'd in that matchless zeal To brave proscription, death and shame; Thus rescued by their hearths to feel The symbol of his ancient fame! So for old faithfulness renowned, The tenants of that knightly race Their age-long acts of service crowned With that last deed of loyal grace. Last? Nay! for on one Sabbath morn, An old man, blanch'd by years and cares, Gave up his spirit, tired and worn, Amidst those humble liegemen's prayers. Gave up a long secreted life 'Mid hinds and herds, by peasant maids Nurtured and soothed, while shadows rife With death's stern edicts, stalked the glades. He pass'd while Cartmel's monks sang dole, As for a brave man gone to rest; And men sighed, "Glory to his soul!" And wrapt the banner round his breast: And placed the tassell'd bridle reins And spurs that, by his lattice, led His thoughts so oft to far off plains, Beside him in his narrow bed: And borne on high their arms above, As hinds are borne to churchyard cells, With kindly speech of truth and love, Mix'd with the sound of mournful bells, They laid him in a tomb, engraved With no memorial, date, or name; But one dear relic round him, saved To whisper in the earth his fame. And when that age had all gone down To mingle with its native dust, And time his deeds had overgrown, His banner yielded up its trust; [8] [9] And told from one low chancel's shade Where good men sang on holy days— "Here Broughton's Knight in earth was laid. Peace! To his tenants, endless praise!" NOTES TO "THE BANNER OF BROUGHTON TOWER." Broughton Tower, the ancient part of which is all that remains of the residence of the unfortunate Sir Thomas Broughton, stands a little to the eastward of the town of that name, upon the neck of a wooded spur of land, which projects from the high ground above the houses towards the river Duddon, about a mile distant. The towered portion, as it rises from the wood, has much of the appearance of a church; but is in reality part of the ancient building, now connected with a modern mansion. It has a southern aspect, with a slope down to the river, being well sheltered in the opposite direction. "It commands an extensive view, comprising in a wonderful variety hill and dale, water, wooded grounds, and buildings; whilst fertility around is gradually diminished, being lost in the superior heights of Black Comb, in Cumberland, the high lands between Kirkby and Ulverston, and the estuary of the Duddon expanding into the sands and waters of the Irish sea." The Broughtons were an Anglo-Saxon family of high antiquity, in whose possession the manor of Broughton had remained from time immemorial, and whose chief seat was at Broughton, until the second year of the reign of Henry the Seventh. At this period the power and interest of Sir Thomas Broughton were so considerable, that the Duchess of Burgundy, sister to the late King and the Duke of Clarence, relied on him as one of the principal confederates in the attempt to subvert the government of Henry by the pretensions of Lambert Simnel. Ireland was zealously attached to the house of York, and held in affectionate regard the memory of the Duke of Clarence, the Earl of Warwick's father, who had been its lieutenant. No sooner, therefore, did the impostor Simnel present himself to Thomas Fitz-Gerald, Earl of Kildare, and claim his protection as the unfortunate Warwick, than that credulous nobleman paved the way for his reception, and furthered his design upon the throne, till the people in Dublin with one consent tendered their allegiance to him as the true Plantagenet. They paid the pretended Prince attendance as their sovereign, lodged him in the Castle of Dublin, crowned him with a diadem taken from a statue of the Virgin, and publicly proclaimed him King, by the appellation of Edward the Sixth. In the year 1487 Lambert, with about two thousand Flemish troops under the command of Colonel Martin Swart, a man of noble family in Germany, an experienced and valiant soldier, whom the Duchess of Burgundy had chosen to support the pretended title of Simnel to the crown of England, and a number of Irish, conducted by Thomas Gerardine their captain from Ireland, landed in Furness at the Pile of Fouldrey. The army encamped in the neighbourhood of Ulverston, at a place now known by the name of Swart-Moor. Sir Thomas Broughton joined the rebels with a small body of English. The army, at this time about eight thousand strong, proceeded to join the Earl of Lincoln, Lord Lovel, and the rest of the confederates, passing on through Cartmel to Stoke field, near Newark-upon-Trent, where they met and encountered the King's forces on the 5th of June, 1487. The day being far advanced before the King arrived at Stoke, he pitched his camp and deferred the battle till the day following. The forces of the Earl of Lincoln also encamped at a little distance from those of the King, and undismayed by the superior numbers they had to encounter, bravely entered the field the next day, and arranged themselves for battle, according to the directions of Colonel Swart and other superior officers. The charge being sounded, a desperate conflict was maintained with equal valour on both sides for three hours. The Germans were in every respect equal to the English, and none surpassed the bravery of Swart their commander. For three hours each side contended for victory, and the fate of the battle remained doubtful. The Irish soldiers, however, being badly armed, and the Germans being overpowered by numbers, the Lambertines were at length defeated, but not before their principal officers, the Earl of Lincoln, Lord Lovel, Sir Thomas Broughton, Colonel Swart, and Sir Thomas Gerardine captain of the Irish, and upwards of four thousand of their soldiers were slain. Young Lambert and his tutor were both taken prisoners. The latter, being a priest, was punished with perpetual imprisonment; Simnel was too contemptible to be an object either of apprehension or resentment to Henry. He was pardoned, and made a scullion in the King's kitchen, whence he was afterwards advanced to the rank of falconer, in which employment he ended his days. Sir Thomas Broughton is said to have fallen on the field of battle: but there remains a tradition, that he returned and lived many years amongst his tenants in Witherslack, in Westmorland; and was interred in the Chapel there; but of this nothing is known for certain at present, or whether he returned or where he died. Dr. Burn, speaking of the grant of Witherslack to Sir Thomas, on the attainder of the Harringtons in the first year of Henry's reign for siding with the house of York, and of its subsequent grant to Thomas Lord Stanley, the first Earl of Derby, on the attainder of Sir Thomas for having been concerned in this affair of Lambert Simnel, goes on to say—"And here it may not be amiss to rectify a mistake in Lord Bacon's [10] [11] [12] history of that King, (Henry VII.) who saith that this Sir Thomas Broughton was slain at Stoke, near Newark, on the part of the counterfeit Plantagenet, Lambert Simnell; whereas Sir Thomas Broughton escaped from that battle hither into Witherslack, where he lived a good while incognito, amongst those who had been his tenants, who were so kind unto him as privately to keep and maintain him, and who dying amongst them was buried by them, whose grave Sir Daniel Fleming says in his time was to be seen there." The erection of the new chapel of Witherslack by Dean Barwick, in 1664, at a considerable distance from where the ancient chapel stood, has obliterated the memory of his once well-known grave. With this unhappy gentleman the family of Broughton, which had flourished for many centuries and had contracted alliances with most of the principal families in these parts, was extinguished in Furness. After these affairs the King had leisure to revenge himself on his enemies, and made a progress into the northern parts of England, where he gave many proofs of his rigorous disposition. A strict inquiry was made after those who had assisted or favoured the rebels, and heavy fines and even sanguinary punishments, were imposed upon the delinquents in a very arbitrary manner. The fidelity therefore of Sir Thomas Broughton's tenants to their fallen master was not without its dangers, and is a pleasing instance of attachment to the person of a leader in a rude and perilous age. In the wars of the Roses the Broughtons had always strenuously supported the House of York. It is however remarkable that, the manor of Witherslack having been granted to Sir Thomas by Henry the Seventh in the first year of his reign, he should have joined the Pretender in arms against that monarch in the following year. Methop and Ulva, though distinctly named in the title and description of this manor, yet make but a small part of it. They are all included within a peninsula, as it were, between Winster Beck, Bryster Moss, and Lancaster Sands. The fate of Lord Lovel, another of the chiefs in this disastrous enterprise, is also shrouded in mystery. It has often been told that he was never seen, living or dead, after the battle. The dead bodies of the Earl of Lincoln and most of the other principal leaders, it was said, were found where they had fallen, sword-in-hand, on the fatal field; but not that of Lord Lovel. Some assert that he was drowned when endeavouring to escape across the river Trent, the weight of his armour preventing the subsequent discovery of his body. Other reports apply to him the circumstances similar to those which have been related above as referring to Sir Thomas Broughton; namely, that he fled to the north where, under the guise of a peasant, he ended his days in peace. Lord Bacon, in his History of Henry the Seventh, says "that he lived long after in a cave or vault." And his account has been partly corroborated in modern times. William Cowper, Esquire, Clerk of the House of Commons, writing from Hertingfordbury Park in 1738, says—"In 1708, upon the occasion of new laying a chimney at Minster Lovel, there was discovered a large vault or room underground in which was the entire skeleton of a man, as having been sitting at a table which was before him, with a book, paper, pen, etc.; in another part of the room lay a cap, all much mouldered and decayed; which the family and others judged to be this Lord Lovel, whose exit has hitherto been so uncertain." A tradition was rife in the village in the last century to the effect that, in this hiding place, which could only be opened from the exterior, the insurgent chief had confided himself to the care of a female servant, was forgotten or neglected by her, and consequently died of starvation. The ancient Castle or Pile of Fouldrey, (formerly called Pele of Foudra, or Futher,) stands upon a small island near the southern extremity of the isle of Walney; and is said by Camden to have been built by an Abbot of Furness, in the first year of King Edward the Third (A. D. 1327). It was probably intended for an occasional retreat from hostility; a depository for the valuable articles of the Monastery of Furness; and for a fortress to protect the adjoining harbour; all which intentions its situation and structure were well calculated to answer at the time of its erection. It seems to have been the custom in the northern parts of the kingdom, for the monasteries to have a fortress of this kind, in which they might lodge with security their treasure and records on the approach of an enemy; of this the Castle on Holy Island, in Northumberland, and Wulstey Castle, near the Abbey of Holm Cultram, in Cumberland, are examples. It has even been said that an underground communication existed between Furness Abbey and the Pele of Fouldrey. The harbour alluded to, appears to have been of considerable importance to the shipping of that period, when the relations of Ireland with the monks had become established. In the reign of Henry the Sixth, it is mentioned as being found a convenient spot for the woollen merchants to ship their goods to Ernemouth, in Zealand, without paying the duty; and in Elizabeth's days as "the only good haven for great shippes to londe or ryde in" between Scotland and Milford Haven, in Wales. It was apprehended that the Spanish Armada would try to effect a landing in this harbour. [13] [14] GILTSTONE ROCK; OR, THE SLAVER IN THE SOLWAY. The Betsey-Jane sailed out of the Firth, As the Waits sang "Christ is born on earth"— The Betsey-Jane sailed out of the Firth, On Christmas-day in the morning. The wind was East, the moon was high, Of a frosty blue was the spangled sky, And the bells were ringing, and dawn was nigh, And the day was Christmas morning. In village and town woke up from sleep, From peaceful visions and slumbers deep— In village and town woke up from sleep, On Christmas-day in the morning, The many that thought on Christ the King, And rose betimes their gifts to bring, And "peace on earth and good will" to sing, As is meet upon Christmas morning. The Betsey-Jane pass'd village and town, As the Gleemen sang, and the stars went down— The Betsey-Jane pass'd village and town, That Christmas-day in the morning; And the Skipper by good and by evil swore, The bells might ring and the Gleemen roar, But the chink of his gold would chime him o'er Those waves, next Christmas morning. And out of the Firth with his reckless crew, All ready his will and his work to do— Out of the Firth with his reckless crew He sailed on a Christmas morning! He steer'd his way to Gambia's coast; And dealt for slaves; and Westward cross'd; And sold their lives, and made his boast As he thought upon Christmas morning. And again and again from shore to shore, With his human freight for the golden ore— Again and again from shore to shore, Ere Christmas-day in the morning, He cross'd that deep with never a thought Of the sorrow, or wrong, or suffering wrought On souls and bodies thus sold and bought For gold, against Christmas morning! And at length, with his gold and ivory rare, When the sun was low and the breeze was fair— At length with his gold and ivory rare He sailed, that on Christmas morning He might pass both village and town again When the bells were ringing, as they rung then, When he pass'd them by in the Betsey-Jane, On that last bright Christmas morning. The Betsey-Jane sailed into the Firth, As the bells rang "Christ is born on earth"— The Betsey-Jane sailed into the Firth, And it was upon Christmas morning! The wind was west, the moon was high, [15] [16] [17] Of a hazy blue was the spangled sky, And the bells were ringing, and dawn was nigh, Just breaking on Christmas morning. The Gleemen singing of Christ the King, Of Christ the King, of Christ the King— The Gleemen singing of Christ the King, Hailed Christmas-day in the morning; When the Betsey-Jane with a thundering shock Went ripping along on the Giltstone Rock, In sound of the bells which seemed to mock Her doom on that Christmas morning. With curse and shriek and fearful groan, On the foundering ship, in the waters lone— With curse and shriek and fearful groan, They sank on that Christmas morning! The Skipper with arms around his gold, Scared by dark spirits that loosed his hold, Was down the deep sea plunged and roll'd In the dawn of that Christmas morning:— While village and town woke up from sleep, From peaceful visions and slumbers deep— While village and town woke up from sleep, That Christmas-day in the morning! And many that thought on Christ the King, Rose up betimes their gifts to bring, And, "peace on earth and good will to sing," Went forth in the Christmas morning! NOTE. The rock thus named, lies off the harbour at Harrington, on the coast of Cumberland, and is only visible at low water during spring tides. The Gleemen, or Waits, as the Christmas minstrels are called, still keep up their annual rounds, with song and salutation, and with a heartiness and zeal, which have been well described by the great Poet of the Lake district in those feeling and admirable verses to his brother, Dr. Wordsworth, prefixed to his Sonnets on the River Duddon. In the parish of Muncaster, on the eve of the new year, the children go from house to house, singing a ditty, which craves the bounty, "they were wont to have, in old king Edward's days." There is no tradition whence this custom arose; the donation is two-pence or a pie at every house. Mr. Jefferson suggests, may not the name have been altered from Henry to Edward? and may it not have an allusion to the time when King Henry the sixth was entertained at Muncaster Castle in his flight from his enemies? CRIER OF CLAIFE. A wild holloa on Wynander's shore, 'Mid the loud waves' splash and the night-wind's roar! Who cries so late with desperate note, Far over the water, to hail the boat? 'Tis night's mid gloom; the strong rain beats fast: Is there one at this hour will face the blast, And the darkness traverse with arm and oar, To ferry the Crier from yonder shore? A mile to cross, and the skies so dread; With a storm around that would wake the dead; And fathoms of boiling depths below; [18] [19] The ferry is hailed, and the boat must go. Snug under that cliff, whence over the Mere, When summer is merry and skies are clear, In holiday times hearts light and gay Look over the hills and far away— At the Ferry-house Inn, sat warm beside The bright wood-fire and hearthstone wide, A rollicking band of jovial souls With tinkling cans and full brown bowls. Without, the sycamores' branches rode The storm, as if fiends the roof bestrode; Yet stout of heart, to that wild holloa The ferryman smiled—"The boat must go." His comrades followed out into the dark, As the young man strode to the tumbling bark; And, wishing him luck in the perilous storm, With a shudder went back to the fireside warm. An hour is gone! against wind and wave Well struggled and strove that heart so brave. Another! they crowd to the whistling door, To welcome the guide and his freight to shore. But pallid, and stunn'd, aghast, alone, He stood in the boat, and speech had none: His lips were locked, and his eyes astare, And blanched with terror his manly hair. What thing he had seen, what utterance heard, What horror that night his senses stirr'd, Was frozen within him, and choked his breath, And laid him, ere morning, cold in death. But what that night of horror revealed, And what that night of horror concealed Of spirits and powers in storms that roam, Lies hid with the monk in St. Mary's Holm. Still, under the cliff—whence over the Mere, When summer was merry and skies were clear, In holiday times hearts light and gay Looked over the hills and far away— When the rough winds blew amid rain and cold, The Ferry-house gathered its hearts of old, Who sat at the hearth and o'er the brown ale, Oft talked of that night and its dismal tale. And often the Crier was heard to wake The night's foul echoes across the lake; But never again would a hand unmoor The boat, to venture by night from shore: Till they sought the good monk of St. Mary's Holm, With relics of saints and beads from Rome, To row to the Nab on Hallowmas night, And bury the Crier by morning's light. With Aves muttered, and spells unknown, The monk rows over the Mere alone; Like a feather his bark floats light and fast; [20] [21] When the Crier's loud hail sweeps down the blast. Speed on, bold heart, with gifts of grace! He is nearing the wild fiend-blighted place. Now heed thee, foul spirit! the priest has power To bind thee on earth till the morning hour. He rests his oars; and the faint blue gleam From a marsh-light sheds on the ground its beam. There's a stir in the grass; and there's ONE on a knoll, Unearthly and horrid to sight and soul. That horrible cry rings through the dark, As the monk steps out of the grounding bark; And he charms a circle around the knoll, Wherein he must sit till the mass bell toll. Then over the lake, with the fiend in tow, To the quarry beyond the monk will go, And bury the Crier with book and bell, While the birds of morning sing him farewell. The morn awoke. As the breezy smile Of dawn played over St. Mary's Isle, The tinkling sound of the mass-bell rose, And startled the valleys from brief repose. Then, like a speck from afar descried, The monk row'd out on the waters wide— From the Nab row'd out, with the fiend in his wake, To lay him in quiet, across the lake. And fear-struck men, and women that bore Their babes, beheld from height and shore, How he reached the wood that hid the dell, Where he laid the Crier with book and bell. "For the ivy green" the spell was told; "For the ivy green" his knell was knoll'd; That as long as by wall and greenwood tree The ivy flourished, his rest might be. So did the good monk; and thus was laid The Crier in ground by greenwood shade. In the quarry of Claife the wretched ghost To human ear for ever was lost. And country folk in peace again Went forth by night through field and lane, Nor dreaded to hear that terrible note Cry over the water, and hail the boat. And still on that cliff, high over the Mere, When summer is merry, and skies are clear, In holiday times hearts light and gay Look over the hills and far away. But what that night of horror revealed, And what that night and morrow concealed, Of spirits so wicked and given to roam, Lies hid with the monk in St. Mary's Holm. Peace be with him, peaceful soul! Long his bell has ceased to toll. Green the Isle that folds his breast; [22] [23] Clear the Lake that lull'd his rest. Though the many ages gone Long have left his place unknown; Yet where once he kneel'd and pray'd, By his altar long decay'd, Stranger to this Island led! Humbly speak and softly tread; Catching from the ages dim This, the burden of his hymn:— "Ave, Thou before whose name Wrath and shadows swiftly flee! Arm Thy faithful bands with flame, Earth from foulest foes to free. "Peace on all these valleys round, Breathe from out this Islet's breast; Wafting from this holy ground Seeds of Thy eternal rest. "Wrath and Evil, then no more Here molesting, all shall cease. Peace around! From shore to shore— Peace! On all Thy waters—peace!" NOTES TO "CRIER OF CLAIFE." The little rocky tree-decked islet in Windermere, called St. Mary's, or the Ladye's Holme, hitherto reputed to have formed part of the conventual domains of the Abbey at Furness, had its name from a chantry dedicated to the Virgin Mary, which was standing up to the reign of King Henry the Eighth, but of which no traces are now remaining. "When," says an anonymous writer, "at the Reformation, that day of desolation came, which saw the attendant priests driven forth, and silenced for ever the sweet chant of orison and litany within its walls; the isle and revenues of the institution were sold to the Philipsons of Calgarth. By them the building was suffered to fall into so utter a state of ruin, that no trace even of its foundations is left to proclaim to the stranger who meditates upon the fleeting change of time and creed, that here, for more than three centuries, stood a hallowed fane, from whence at eventide and prime prayers were wafted through the dewy air, where now are only heard the festal sounds of life's more jocund hours." Lately renewed antiquarian investigation has, however, disclosed the erroneousness of the generally received statement respecting the early ownership of this tiny spot; as in Dodsworth's celebrated collection of ancient evidences there is contained an Inquisition, or the copy of one, taken at Kendal, so far back as the Monday after the feast of the Annunciation, in the 28th Edward the Third, which shews that this retreat, amid the waters of our English Como, appertained not to Furness Abbey, but to the house of Segden, in Scotland, which was bound always to provide two resident chaplains for the service of our Ladye's Chapel in this island solitude. For the maintenance and support of those priests, certain lands were given by the founder, who was either one of that chivalrous race, descended from the Scottish Lyndseys "light and gay," whose immediate ancestor in the early part of the thirteenth century had married Alice, second daughter and co-heiress of William de Lancaster, eighth Lord of Kendal; and with her obtained that moiety of the Barony of Kendal, whose numerous manors are collectively known as the Richmond Fee; or the chantry may have owed its foundation to the pious impulses of Ingelram de Guignes, Sire de Courci, one of the grand old Peers of France, whose house, so renowned in history and romance, proclaimed its independence and its pride in this haughty motto:— "Je ne suis Roy ni Prince aussi, Je suis Le Seignhor de Courci." And which Ingelram in 1285 married Christiana, heiress of the last de Lyndsey, and in her right, besides figuring on innumerable occasions as a feudal potentate, both in England and Scotland, he became Lord of the Fee, within which lies St. Mary's Isle. On an Inquisition taken after the death of Johanna de Coupland, in the 49th Edward the Third, it was found that she held the advowson of the Chapel of Saint Mary's Holme, within the lake of Wynandermere, but that it was worth nothing, because the land which the said Chapel enjoyed of old time had been seized into the hands of the King, and lay within the park of Calgarth. It is on record, however, that in 1492, an annual sum of six pounds was paid out of the revenues of the Richmond Fee, towards the support of the Chaplains; and in the returns made by the ecclesiastical Commissioners in Edward the Sixth's reign, "the free Chapel of Holme and Wynandermere" is mentioned, shortly after which it was granted, as aforesaid, [24] [25] [26]