Lays and Legends of the English Lake Country

It might almost seem as if some such legend as that of the Snow Miracle were necessary to account for the singular form of this extensive and populous parish: which includes the large and opulent town of Whitehaven; the five chapelries of Hensingham, Ennerdale, Eskdale, Wastdale-Head, and Nether-Wastdale; and the townships of St. Bees, Ennerdale, Ennerdale High End, Eskdale and Wastdale, Hensingham, Kinneyside, Lowside-Quarter, Nether-Wastdale, Preston-Quarter, Rottington, Sandwith, Weddicar, and Whitehaven. It extends ten miles along the coast, and reaches far inland, so that some of its chapelries are ten and fourteen miles from the mother-church.

In the monkish chronicle of the Life and Miracles of Sancta Bega occurs the following passage:—

"A certain celebration had come round by annual revolution which the men of that land use to solemnise by a most holy Sabbath on the eve of Pentecost, on account of certain tokens of the sanctity of the holy virgin then found there, which they commemorate, and they honor her church by visiting it with offerings of prayers and oblations."4

In allusion to which, Mr. Tomlinson the editor and translator of the MS. observes that "this is another of those marks of dependence of the surrounding chapelries which formerly existed; a mark the more interesting because to this day some traces of it remain. Communicants still annually resort to the church of St. Bees at the festival of Easter from considerable distances; and the village presents an unusual appearance from their influx; and at the church the eucharist is administered as early as eight in the morning, in addition to the celebration of it at the usual time. There can be no doubt but that Whitsuntide, and perhaps Christmas, as well as Easter, were formerly seasons when the church of St. Bees was resorted to by numbers who appeared within it at no other time, save perhaps at the burial of their friends. The great festivals of the church appear in the middle ages to have been considered by the English as peculiarly auspicious for the solemnization of marriages. At these seasons then, from concurring causes, the long-drawn solemn processions of priests and people would be chiefly seen, and then also, the accustomed oblations of the latter to the mother church of St. Bees would be discharged."

As to the "town and haven of Whitehaven" included in the gift to "St. Bees Abbie," its eligibility as a fishing ground, when the tides ran nearer the meadows than at present, would doubtless attract the attention of the monks of St. Bees; and the fact of its being denominated Whittofthaven, Quitofthaven, Wythoven, Whyttothaven, Whitten, &c., in the register of St. Bees and other ancient records, evidently shows that it is a place of greater antiquity than has generally been ascribed to it; and some fragments of tradition, still extant, seem to countenance this opinion.

Denton (MS.) speaking of Whitehaven or White-Toft Haven, says "It was belonging to St. Beghs of antient time, for the Abbot of York, in Edward I.'s time was impleaded for wreck, and his liberties there, by the King, which he claimed from the foundation, to be confirmed by Richard Lucy, in King John's time, to his predecessors."

That Whitehaven was anciently a place of resort for shipping appears from some particulars respecting it mentioned in those remarkable Irish documents, called the Annals of the Four Masters, much of which was written at the Abbey of Monesterboice, in the county of Louth—nearly opposite, on the Irish shore. In the account of the domestic habits and manufactures of the Irish, it is stated that their coracles, or Wicker Boats, their Noggins, and other domestic utensils, were made of wood called Wythe or Withey, brought from the opposite shore of Baruch (i.e. rocky coast) and that a small colony was placed there for the purpose of collecting this wood. That Barach mouth, or Barrow mouth, and Barrow mouth wood is the same as that alluded to by the Four Masters, is evident from the legend of St. Bega, which places it in the same locality; and that the colony of Celts resided in the neighbourhood of the now Celts, or Kell's Pit, in the same locality also, is manifest from the name. About the year 930, it appears that one of the Irish princes or chiefs, accompanied an expedition to this place for wood (for that a great portion of the site of the present town and the neighbouring heights were formerly covered with forest trees there can be no doubt) and that the inhabitants who were met at Whitten, or Wittenagemote, fell upon and look the chief and several of the accompanying expedition prisoners from a jealousy of their sanctuary being invaded. Many of the Irish utensils were imported hither, particularly the noggin, or small water pail, which was made of closely woven wickerwork, and covered inside with skin, having a projecting handle for the purpose of dipping into a river or well. The same article, in its primitive shape, though made of a different material, called a geggin, is still used by some of the farmers in that neighbourhood. When Adam de Harris gave lands at Bransty Beck to the church of Holm Cultram, he also gave privilege to the monks to cut wood for making geggins or noggins.

From an old history of the county of Durham, Whitehaven appears to have been a resort for shipping in the tenth century; and when the Nevills of Raby were called upon to furnish their quota of men to accompany Henry in his expedition to Ireland in 1172, they were brought to Wythop-haven, or Witten-haven, and transported thence in ships to the Irish coast. When Edward was advancing against Scotland, in the fourteenth century, he found a ship belonging to this place, in which he sent a cargo of oats, to be ground by the monks of St. Bees.

In nearly all histories of Cumberland, the name of Whitehaven has been attributed either to some imaginary whiteness of the rocks on the east side of the harbour, or to the cognomen of an old fisherman who resided there about the year 1566, at which time the town is said to have had only six houses. In 1633 it consisted of only nine thatched cottages. Sir Christopher Lowther, second son of Sir John Lowther, purchased Whitehaven and the lands lying in its neighbourhood, and built a mansion on the west end of the haven at the foot of a rock. He died in 1644, and was succeeded by his son, Sir John Lowther, who erected a new mansion on the site of the present castle, described by Mr. Denton, in 1688, as a "stately new pile of building, called the Flatt," and having conceived the project of working the coal mines, and improving the harbour, he obtained from Charles the Second, about the year 1666, a grant of all the "derelict land at this place," which yet remained in the crown; and in 1678, all the lands for two miles northward, between high and low water mark, the latter grant containing about 150 acres. Sir John having thus laid the foundation of the future importance of Whitehaven, commenced his great work, and lived to see a small obscure village grow up into a thriving and populous town.

There is a traditionary account of the existence of an ancient ruin where the castle stands (probably Druidical; or, where at a later period, the Whitten, or Wittenagemote, was held) the remains of which were broken up about the year 1628. Respecting these real or imaginary stones it has been related, that the inhabitants believed them to be enchanted warriors, and gave them the appellation of "Dread Ring, or Circle," and occasionally "Corpse Circle"—corrupted into the word Corkickle, the name which the locality now bears.

A reminiscence of the old mansion of the Lowthers is preserved by the road which skirts the precincts of the castle. This is still called, by the older townspeople, the Flatt Walk.

CREWL-WORK

Krull, or Crewel, is a word evidently derived from the old Norse Krulla, signifying to blend, to mix, and also to curl; in fact, "crewel" work is embroidery, the Berlin wool work of modern days; but the word is generally applied, in this locality, to the covering of a hand ball with worsted work of various colours and devices, the tribute of mothers and sisters in our boyhood.

HART'S-HORN TREE

When wild deer ranged the forest free,Mid Whinfell oaks stood Hart's-Horn Tree;Which, for three hundred years and more,Upon its stem the antlers boreOf that thrice-famous Hart-of-GreaseThat ran the race with Hercules.The King of Scots, to hunt the gameWith brave de Clifford southward came:Pendragon, Appleby, and Brough'm,Gave all his bold retainers room;And all came gathering to the chaseWhich ended in that matchless race.Beneath a mighty oak at mornThe stag was roused with bugle horn;Unleashed, de Clifford's noblest HoundRushed to the chase with strenuous bound;And stretching forth, the Hart-of-GreaseLed off with famous Hercules.They ran, and northward held their way;They ran till dusk, from dawning grey;O'er Cumbrian waste, and Border moor,Till England's line was speeded o'er;And Red-kirk on the Scottish groundMark'd of their chase the farthest bound.Then turned they southward, stretching on,They ran till day was almost gone;Till Eamont came again in view;Till Whinfell oaks again they knew;They ran, and reached at eve the placeWhere first began their desperate race.They panted on, till almost brokeEach beast's strong heart with its own stroke!They panted on, both well nigh blind,The Hart before, the Hound behind!And now will strength the Hart sustainTo take him o'er the pale again?He sprang his best; that leap has wonHis triumph, but his chase is done!He lies stone dead beyond the bound;And stretched on this side lies the Hound!His last bold spring to clear the wallWas vain; and life closed with his fall.The steeds had fail'd, squires', knights', and king's,Long ere the chase reached Solway's springs!But on the morrow news came inTo Brough'm, amidst the festive din,How held the chase, how far, how wideIt swerved and swept, and where they died.Ah! gallant pair! such chase beforeWas never seen, nor shall be more:And Scotland's King and England's KnightLooked, mutely wondering, on the sight,Where with that wall of stone betweenLay Hart and Hound stretched on the green.Then spoke the King—"For equal praiseThis hand their monument shall raise!These antlers from this Oak shall spread;And evermore shall here be said,That Hercules killed Hart-of-Grease,And Hart-of-Grease killed Hercules."From Whinfell woods to Red-kirk plain,And back to Whinfell Oaks again,Not fourscore English miles would tell!But"—said the King—"they spann'd it well.And by my kingdom, I will sayThey ran a noble race that day!"—Then said de Clifford to the King—"Through many an age this feat shall ring!But of your Majesty I craveThat Hercules may have his graveIn ground beneath these branches free,From this day forth called Hart's-Horn Tree."And there where both were 'reft of life,And both were victors in the strife,Survives this saying on that chase,In memory of their famous race—"Here Hercules killed Hart-of-Grease,And Hart-of-Grease killed Hercules."

NOTES TO "HART'S-HORN TREE."

I.—The memorable Westmorland Forest, or Park of Whinfell, anciently written Qwynnefel, was a grant to Robert de Veteripont from King John. This grant restrained him from committing waste in the woods, and from suffering his servants to hunt there in his absence during the king's life. Till the beginning of last century it was famous for its prodigious oaks; a trio of them, called The Three Brothers, were the giants of the forest; and a part of the skeleton of one of them, called The Three Brothers' Tree, which was thirteen yards in girth, at a considerable distance from the root, was remaining until within a very recent period.

On the east side of this park is Julian's Bower, famous for its being the residence of Gillian, or Julian, the peerless mistress of Roger de Clifford, about the beginning of the reign of Edward III. The Pembroke memoirs call it "a little house hard by Whinfell-park, the lower foundations of which standeth still, though all the wall be down long since." This record also mentions the Three Brother Tree and Julian's Bower, as curiosities visited by strangers in the Countess of Pembroke's time, prior to which a shooting seat had been erected near these ruins, for she tells us, that her grandson, Mr. John Tufton, and others at one time, "alighted on their way over Whinfield park at Julian's Bower, to see all the rooms and places about it." Its hall was spacious, wainscotted, and hung round with prodigious stags' horns, and other trophies of the field. One of the rooms was hung with very elegant tapestry; but since it was converted into a farm-house all these relics of ancient times have been destroyed.

A large portion of the park was divided into farms in 1767; and the remainder in 1801, when its deer were finally destroyed. It was thus stripped of its giant trees, and consigned to its present unsheltered condition.

II.—A fine oak formerly stood by the way side, near Hornby Hall, about four miles from Penrith on the road to Appleby, which, from a pair of stag's horns being hung up in it, bore the name of Hart's-Horn Tree. It grew within the district which to this day is called Whinfell Forest. Concerning this tree there is a tradition, confirmed by Anne, Countess of Pembroke in her memoirs, that a hart was run by a single greyhound (as the ancient deer hound was called) from this place to Red-Kirk in Scotland, and back again. When they came near this tree the hart leaped the park paling, but, being worn out with fatigue, instantly died; and the dog, equally exhausted, in attempting to clear it, fell backwards and expired. In this situation they were found by the hunters, the dog dead on one side of the paling, and the deer on the other. In memory of this remarkable chase, the hart's horns were nailed upon the tree, whence it obtained its name. And as all extraordinary events were in those days recorded in rhymes, we find the following popular one on this occasion, from which we learn the name of the dog likewise:—

Hercules killed Hart-o-Grease,And Hart-o-Grease killed Hercules.

This story appears to have been literally true, as the Scots preserve it without any variation, and add that it happened in the year 1333 or 1334, when Edward Baliol King of Scotland came to hunt with Robert de Clifford in his domains at Appleby and Brougham, and stayed some time with him at his castles in Westmorland. In course of time, it is stated, the horns of the deer became grafted, as it were, upon the tree, by reason of its bark growing over their root, and there they remained more than three centuries, till, in the year 1648, one of the branches was broken off by some of the army, and ten years afterwards the remainder was secretly taken down by some mischievous people in the night. "So now," says Lady Anne Clifford in her Diary, "there is no part thereof remaining, the tree itself being so decayed, and the bark so peeled off, that it cannot last long; whereby we may see time brings to forgetfulness many memorable things in this world, be they ever so carefully preserved—for this tree, with the hart's horn in it, was a thing of much note in these parts."

The tree itself has now disappeared; but Mr. Wordsworth, "well remembered its imposing appearance as it stood, in a decayed state by the side of the high road leading from Penrith to Appleby."

This remarkable chase must have been upwards of eighty miles, even supposing the deer to have taken the direct road.

Nicolson and Burn remark, when they tell the story, "So say the Countess of Pembroke's Memoirs, and other historical anecdotes. But from the improbable length of the course, we would rather suppose, that they ran to Nine Kirks, that is the Church of Ninian the Scottish Saint, and back again, which from some parts of the park might be far enough for a greyhound to run." These writers have overlooked the circumstance, that the animal which in those days was called a greyhound was the ancient deerhound, a large species of dog having the form of the modern greyhound, but with shaggy hair and a more powerful frame. The breed is not yet extinct: Sir Walter Scott's Maida was of the species.

Dr. Burn deals another blow at the tradition; for he goes on to say, "And before this time there was a place in the park denominated from the Hart's horns; which seem therefore to have been put up on some former occasion, perhaps for their remarkable largeness. For one of the bounder marks of the partition aforesaid between the two daughters of the last Robert de Veteripont is called Hart-horn sike".

III.—Dr. Percy, referring to the expression hart-o-greece in a verse given below from the old ballad of "Adam Bell," explains it to mean a fat hart, from the French word graisse.

"Then went they down into a lawnde,These noble archarrs thre;Eche of them slew a hart of greece,The best that they cold se."

Clarke, in an appendix to his "Survey of the Lakes," speaking of the Red Deer which is bred upon the tops of the mountains in Martindale, gives Hart of Grease as the proper name of the male in the eighth year.

In Black's "Picturesque Guide to the English Lakes," it is stated in a note upon this subject, that there is an ancient broadside proclamation of a Lord Mayor of London, preserved in the Archiepiscopal Library at Lambeth, in which, after denouncing "the excessyve and unreasonable pryses of all kyndes of vytayles," it is ordered that "no citizen or freman of the saide citie shall sell or cause to be solde," amongst other things, "Capons of grece above XXd. or Hennes of grece above VIId."

BEKAN'S GHYLL

Dim shadows tread with elfin paceThe nightshade-skirted road,Where once the sons of Odin's raceIn Bekan's vale abode;Where, long ere rose Saint Mary's pile,The vanquish'd horsemen laidTheir idol Wodin, stained and vile,Beneath the forest's shade.There hid—while clash of clubs and swordsResounded in the dell,To save it from the Briton's hordesWhen Odin's warriors fell—It lay with Bekan's mightiest charmsOf magic on its breast;While Sorcery, with its hundred arms,Had sealed the vale in rest.It woke when fell with sturdy strokeThe Norman axe around,And builders' hands in fragments brokeThe Idol from the ground;And hewed therefrom that corner stoneWhich yet yon tower sustains,Where Wodin's Moth sits, grim and lone,And holds the dell in chains.There youth at love's sweet call oft glidesBy cloister, aisle, and nave,To stop above the stone that hidesThe beauteous Fleming's grave:—Fair flower of Aldingham—the childOf old Sir William's days,—Low where the Bekan straggling wildIts deadly arms displays.There in the quiet more profoundThan sleep, than death more drear,Her shadow walks the silent groundWhen leaves are green or sere;When autumn with its cheerless skyOr winter with its pall,Puts all the year's fair promise byWith fruits that fade and fall.And where the Bekan by the rillSo bitter once, now sweet,Its lurid purples ripens stillWhile ages onward fleet,She tastes the deadly flower by night,—If yet its juices flowSweet as of yore; for then to lightAnd rest her soul shall go.Ah, blessed forth from far beyondThe Jordan once he came,—Her Red-cross Knight,—the marriage bondTo twine with love and fame:His meed of valour, Beauty's charms,Pledged with one silvery word,Beneath the forest's branching armsAnd by the breezes stirred.Another week! and she would standIn Urswick's halls a bride:Another week! the marriage bandHad round her life been tied:When wild with joyfulness of heartThat beat not with a care,She carolled forth alone, to startThe grim Moth from its lair.She bounded from his heart elate!But Urswick's halls of light,And Aldingham's embattled gateNo more shall meet her sight.For her no happy bridal crowdPress out into the road,But Furness monks with dirges loudBend round her last abode.To chase the moth that guards the flowerThat makes the dell its own,Flew forth the maid from hall and towerThrough wood and glen alone.Where Odin's men had left their godIn earth, long overgrownWith tangled bushes rude, she trodEnchanted ground unknown.The abbey walls before her gazeAt distance rising fair,While deep within the magic mazeShe wandered unaware:She loitered with the song untiredUpon her lips, nor thoughtWhat foes against her peace conspired,While love his lost one sought!They found her with close-lidded eyes,Watched by that Moth unblest,Perched high between her and the skies,And nightshade on her breast.There lay she with her lips apartIn peace; by Wodin's powerStilled into death her truest heartWith Bekan's lurid flower.Woe was it when Sir William's hallReceived the mournful train:No more her voice with sweetest callHis morns to wake again!No more her merry step to cheerThe days when clouds were wild!No more her form on palfrey nearWhen sport his noons beguiled!Worse woe when Furness monks with dole—While gentle hands conveyedHer body—for a parted soulThe solemn ritual said;And laid her where the waving leavesBreathed low amidst the calm,When loud upon the fading evesRolled organ-chant and psalm.With Urswick's hand in fondest graspSaid Fleming—"Vainly riseMy days for me: my heart must claspHer image, or it dies!Through mass and prayer I hear her voice;I know the fiends have power—That chant and dole and choral noiseCan purge not—o'er that flower!"They wandered where Engaddi's palmsAnd Sharon's roses wave;Where Hebrew virgins chant their psalmsBy many a mountain cave:Mid rock-hewn chambers by the Nile,Where Magian fathers lay;—The secret of the spell-struck pileTo drag to realms of day.In vain! His gallant heart sleeps well,Beneath the Lybian air;And still the enchantment holds the dell,And her so sweet and fair.Still on yon loop hole stretched by night,The tyrant-moth is laid:While circling in their ceaseless flightThe ages rise and fade.There sometimes as in nights of yore,Heard faint and sweet, a soundPeals from yon tower, while o'er and o'eThe vale repeats it round.And down the glen the muffled toneFloats slowly, long upborne;Answered as if far off were blownA warrior's bugle-horn.Yet one day, with unconscious art,May some rude hand unfoldGreat Wodin's breast, and rend apartThe fragment from its hold.Then, while the deadly nightshade's veinsIn bitter streams shall pourTheir juices, his usurped domainsShall own the Moth no more.Then him a milk white swallow's powerShall timely overthrow.And fair, as from a beauteous bower,In raiment like the snow,The Flower of Aldingham—the childOf old Sir William's days—Shall break the bondage round her piled;But not to meet his gaze.Nor forth beneath the dewy dawn,All radiant like the morn,Shall Urswick's Knight lead up the lawnBeside the scented thorn,His bride into the blighted hallsWhence once she wildly strayedIn ages past, by Furness walls,And with the Bekan played.The sea-snake through the chambers rovesOf old Sir William's home—Fair Aldingham, its bowers, and groves,And fields she loved to roam:And where the gallant Urswick gracedHis own ancestral board,Now ferns and wild weeds crowd the waste,The creeping fox is lord.But gracious spirits of the lightShall call a welcome downOn her, the beauteous lady bright,And lead her to her own.Not to that home o'er which the tideUnceasing heaves and rolls;But through that porch which opens wideInto the land of souls.

NOTES TO "BEKAN'S GHYLL."

In the Chartulary of Furness Abbey, some rude Latin verses, written by John Stell a monk, refer to a plant called Bekan, which at some remote period grew in the valley in great abundance, whence the name of Bekansghyll was anciently derived. The etymology is thus metrically rendered:

"Hæc vallis, tenuit olim sibi nomen ab herbaBekan, qua viruit; dulcis nunc tunc sed acerba,Inde domus nomen Bekanes-gill claruit ante."

This plant "whose juice is now sweet, but was then bitter," is assumed to be one of the species of Nightshade which are indigenous in the dell and flourish there in great luxuriance; probably the Solanum Dulcamara, the bitter-sweet or woody nightshade, although the Atropa Belladonna, the deadly nightshade, also grows among the ruins of the Abbey. This "lurid offspring of Flora," as Mr. Beck calls it, the emblem of sorcery and witchcraft, might well give the name of Nightshade to that enchanting spot. But what authority the monks may have had for their derivation it is now impossible to ascertain. Various glossaries and lexicons are said to have been consulted for bekan, as signifying the deadly nightshade but without effect; "and after all," says Mr. Beck, "I am inclined to believe that Beckansgill is a creation of the monastic fancy."