Lays and Legends of the English Lake Country

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.

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'erThose 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 crewHe 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 boastAs 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 thoughtOf the sorrow, or wrong, or suffering wroughtOn souls and bodies thus sold and boughtFor 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 rareHe sailed, that on Christmas morningHe might pass both village and town againWhen 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,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 shockWent ripping along on the Giltstone Rock,In sound of the bells which seemed to mockHer 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'dIn 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;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 gayLook over the hills and far away—At the Ferry-house Inn, sat warm besideThe bright wood-fire and hearthstone wide,A rollicking band of jovial soulsWith tinkling cans and full brown bowls.Without, the sycamores' branches rodeThe storm, as if fiends the roof bestrode;Yet stout of heart, to that wild holloaThe 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 waveWell 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 concealedOf 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 gayLooked 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 wakeThe night's foul echoes across the lake;But never again would a hand unmoorThe 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;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 powerTo bind thee on earth till the morning hour.He rests his oars; and the faint blue gleamFrom 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 smileOf 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 boreTheir 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 treeThe ivy flourished, his rest might be.So did the good monk; and thus was laidThe Crier in ground by greenwood shade.In the quarry of Claife the wretched ghostTo human ear for ever was lost.And country folk in peace againWent forth by night through field and lane,Nor dreaded to hear that terrible noteCry 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 gayLook 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;Clear the Lake that lull'd his rest.Though the many ages goneLong 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 dimThis, the burden of his hymn:—"Ave, Thou before whose nameWrath 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 groundSeeds of Thy eternal rest."Wrath and Evil, then no moreHere 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, to the owners of Calgarth.

The singular name of the "Crier of Claife" is now applied to an extensive slate or flag quarry, long disused, and overgrown with wood, on the wildest and most lonely part of the height called Latter-barrow, which divides the vales of Esthwaite and Windermere, above the Ferry. In this desolate spot, by the sanctity and skill of holy men, had been exorcised and laid the apparition who had come to be known throughout the country by that title; and the place itself has ever since borne the same name. None of the country people will go near it after night fall, and few care to approach it even in daylight. Desperate men driven from their homes by domestic discord, have been seen going in its direction, and never known to return. It is said the Crier is allowed to emerge occasionally from his lonely prison, and is still heard on very stormy nights sending his wild entreaty for a boat, howling across Windermere. Mr. Craig Gibson, in one of his graphic sketches of the Lake country, says that he is qualified to speak to this, for he himself has heard him. "At least," says he, "I have heard what I was solemnly assured by an old lady at Cunsey must have been the Crier of Claife. Riding down the woods a little south of the Ferry, on a wild January evening, I was strongly impressed by a sound made by the wind as, after gathering behind the hill called Gummershow for short periods of comparative calm, it came rushing up and across the lake with a sound startlingly suggestive of the cry of a human being in extremity, wailing for succour. This sound lasted till the squall it always preceded struck the western shore, when it was lost in the louder rush of the wind through the leafless woods. I am induced to relate this," he continues, "by the belief I entertain that the phenomenon described thus briefly and imperfectly, may account for much of the legend, and that the origin of many similar traditional superstitions may be found in something equally simple."

The late Mr. John Briggs, in his notes upon "Westmorland as it was," by the Rev. Mr. Hodgson, has furnished his readers with some curious information upon the "philosophy of spirits," which he collected from those ancient sages of the dales who were supposed to be best acquainted with the subject. Many of these superstitions are now exploded: but the marvellous tales at one time currently believed, still furnish conversation for the cottage fireside. According to the gravest authorities, he says, no spirit could appear before twilight had vanished in the evening, or after it had appeared in the morning. On this account, the winter nights were peculiarly dangerous, owing to the long revels which ghosts, or dobbies, as they were called, could keep at that season. There was one exception to this. If a man had murdered a woman who was with child by him, she had power to haunt him at all hours; and the Romish priests (who alone had the power of laying spirits,) could not lay a spirit of this kind with any certainty, as she generally contrived to break loose long before her stipulated time. A culprit might hope to escape the gallows, but there was no hope of escaping being haunted. In common cases, however, the priest could "lay" the ghosts; "while ivy was green," was the usual term. But in very desperate cases, they were laid in the "Red Sea," which was accomplished with great difficulty and even danger to the exorcist. In this country, the most usual place to confine spirits was under Haws Bridge, a few miles below Kendal. Many a grim ghost has been chained in that dismal trough!

According to the laws to which they were subject, ghosts could seldom appear to more than one person at a time. When they appeared to the eyes, they had not the power of making a noise; and when they saluted the ear, they could not greet the eyes. To this, however, there was an exception, when a human being spoke to them in the name of the Blessed Trinity. For it was an acknowledged truth, that however wicked the individual might have been in this world, or however light he might have made of the Almighty's name, he would tremble at its very sound, when separated from his earthly covering.

The causes of spirits appearing after death were generally three. Murdered persons came again to haunt their murderers, or to obtain justice by appearing to other persons likely to see them avenged. Persons who had hid any treasure, were doomed to haunt the place where that treasure was hid; as they had made a god of their wealth in this world, the place where their treasure lay was to be their heaven after death. If any person could speak to them, and give them an opportunity of confessing where their treasure was hid, they could then rest in peace, but not otherwise. Those who died with any heavy crimes on their consciences, which they had not confessed, were also doomed to wander on the earth at the midnight hour.

Spirits had no power over those who did not molest them; but if insulted, they seem to have been extremely vindictive, and to have felt little compunction in killing the insulter. They had power to assume any form, and to change it as often as they pleased; but they could neither vanish nor change, while a human eye was fixed upon them.

Midway on Windermere, below the range of islands which intersect the lake, extends the track along which ply the Ferry boats between the little inn on the western side and the wooded promontory on the opposite shore. The Ferry House, with its lawn in front and few branching sycamores, occupies a jutting area between the base of a perpendicular cliff and the lake. Few finer prospects can be desired than that afforded from the summit which overhangs the Mere at this point. The summer house, which has been built for the sake of the views it commands of the surrounding country, is a favourite resort of lovers of the beautiful in nature, whence they may witness, in its many aspects afar, the grandeur of the mountain world; and near and below, the beauty of the curving shores and wooded isles of this queen of English lakes. From the Ferry House to the Ferry Nab, as the promontory is called, on the western shore, is barely half a mile. It was from thence that in the dark stormy night the Evil voice cried "Boat!" which the poor ferryman obeyed so fatally. No passenger was there, but a sight which sent him back with bloodless face and dumb, to die on the morrow.

THE CUCKOO IN BORRODALE

Far within those rocky regionsWhere old Scawfell's hoary legions,Robed and capped with storms and snow,Here like rugged Vikings towering,There like giants grimly cowering,Look into the vales below;Once where Borrhy wild and fearless,Once where Oller brave and peerless,Hew'd the forest, cleared the vale,Gave their names to cling for everRound thy dells by crag and river,Dark and wintry Borrodale!In that dreariest of the valleys,Strifes for evermore, and maliceWithout end the dalesmen vexed.Neighbour had no heart for neighbour.Never side by side to labourWent or came they unperplex'd.Cheerless were the fields and houses.Gloomily the sullen spousesMoved about the hearths and floors.Sunshine was an alms from HeavenThat not one day out of sevenGod's bright beams brought to their doors.And 'mid discontent and anguishEvery virtue seem'd to languish;Every soul groan'd with its load.Lingering in his walks beside them,Oft their friendly Pastor eyed them,And his heart with pity glow'd."Ah!" he thought, "that looks of kindnessCould but enter here! the blindnessOf this life, could it but seemTo them the death it is!—but listen!"—And his eyes began to glisten:Spring was round him like a dream."'Tis the Cuckoo!"—In the hollowUp the valley seem'd to followSpring's fair footsteps that sweet throat.All the fields put off their sadness;Trees and hills and skies with gladnessAnswering to the Cuckoo's note.Then on that still Sabbath-morrow,Spake the Pastor—"Let us borrowGladness from this new-born Spring.Hark, the bird that brings the blossoms!Brings the sunshine to our bosoms!Makes with joy the valleys ring!"Coming from afar to cheer us,Could we always keep him near us,All these heavenly skies from far,All this blessed morn discovers,All this Spring that round us hovers,Would be still what now they are!"Let us all go forth and labour,Sire, and son, and wife, and neighbour,First the bread, the life, to win:Then by yonder stream we'll rally,Build a wall across the valley,And we'll close the Cuckoo in."So this Spring time, never failing,While it hears his music hailingFrom the wood and by the rill.Shall, its new born life retaining,Till our mortal hours are waning,Warm and light and cheer us still."—Flush'd the morn; and all were ready.Sowers sowed with paces steady;Plough'd the ploughers in the field;Delved the gardeners; planters planted;Then to their great work, undauntedForth they fared their wall to build.Stone by stone, the wall beside themRose. Their Pastor came to guide them,Day by day, and spake to cheer;While each labouring hand the othersHelped, and one and all like brothersWrought along the ripening year.Then they gathered in their houses,Men and maidens, sires and spouses,Talking of their wall. And whenSoon the long bright day returningCalled them, every heart was yearningTo resume its task again.And on every eve they partedAt their thresholds, kindlier-hearted,Looking forth again to meet.All had something good or gladdeningOn their lips; the only saddeningSounds were those of parting feet.So their wall, extending ever,Spann'd at length the vale and river;Grasp'd the mountains there and here:Reached towards the blue of heaven;Touched the light cloud o'er it driven;And the end at length was near.June had come; and all was vernal:Seemed secure their Spring eternal:Eyes were bright, and skies were blue:When—at Nature's call—unguided—Out the voice above them glided,"Cuckoo!"—far away, "Cuckoo!""Gone!" a hundred tongues in chorusShouted; "Gone! the bird that bore usSpring with all things bright and good!"While, in stupor and amazement,Vacantly from cope to basementGlowering at their wall, they stood.—But though all forgot, while buildingUp their wall, that months were yieldingEach in turn to others' sway,With their leaves and landscapes changing;And, to skies more constant ranging,Fled the Cuckoo far away!Winter from their hearts had perished;Spring in every heart was cherished;Every charm of life and love—Love for wife and home and neighbour—Sprang from out that genial labour;Peace around, and Heaven above.Faith into their lives had entered;Joy and fellowship were centredWheresoe'er a hearth was found.While the calm bright hope before themTemper'd even the rains, and o'er themCharmed to rest the tempests' sound.