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LEGENDARY YORKSHIRE

by

FREDERICK ROSS, F.R.H.S.,

Author of
"Celebrities of Yorkshire Wolds," "Yorkshire Family Romance,"
etc.







Hull:
William Andrews & Co., The Hull Press.
London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent, & Co., Limited.
1892.




_NOTE._

Of this book 500 copies have been printed, and this is

No....




Contents.

                                          PAGE

  THE ENCHANTED CAVE                         1

  THE DOOMED CITY                           15

  THE "WORM" OF NUNNINGTON                  34

  THE DEVIL'S ARROWS                        51

  THE GIANT ROAD-MAKER OF MULGRAVE          70

  THE VIRGIN'S HEAD OF HALIFAX              80

  THE DEAD ARM OF ST. OSWALD THE KING      100

  THE TRANSLATION OF ST. HILDA             117

  A MIRACLE OF ST. JOHN                    131

  THE BEATIFIED SISTERS OF BEVERLEY        147

  THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY                    168

  THE MIRACLES AND GHOST OF WATTON         176

  THE MURDERED HERMIT OF ESKDALE           195

  THE CALVERLEY GHOST                      214

  THE BEWITCHED HOUSE OF WAKEFIELD         231




LEGENDARY YORKSHIRE.




The Enchanted Cave.


Who is there that has not heard of the famous and redoubtable hero of
history and romance, Arthur, King of the British, who so valiantly
defended his country against the pagan Anglo-Saxon invaders of the
island? Who has not heard of the lovely but frail Guenevera, his Queen,
and the galaxy of female beauty that constituted her Court at Caerleon?
Who has not heard of his companions-in-arms--the brave and chivalrous
Knights of the Round Table, who went forth as knights-errant to succour
the weaker sex, deliver the oppressed, liberate those who had fallen
into the clutches of enchanters, giants, or malicious dwarfs, and
especially in quest of the Holy Graal, that mystic chalice, in which
were caught the last drops of blood of the expiring Saviour, and
which, in consequence, became possessed of wondrous properties and
marvellous virtue of a miraculous character?

If such there be, let him lose no time in perusing Sir John Mallory's
"La Morte d'Arthur," the "Chronicles of Geoffrey of Monmouth," the
"Mabinogian of the Welsh," or the more recent "Idylls of the King,"
of Tennyson. According to Nennius, after vanquishing the Saxons in
many battles, he crossed the sea, and carried his victorious arms into
Scotland, Ireland, and Gaul, in which latter country he obtained a
decisive victory over a Roman army. Moreover, that during his absence
Mordred, his nephew, had seduced his queen and usurped his government,
and that in a battle with the usurper, in 542, at Camlan, in Cornwall,
he was mortally wounded; was conveyed to Avalon (Glastonbury), where
he died of his wound, and was buried there. It is also stated that in
the reign of Henry II. his reputed tomb was opened, when his bones
and his magical sword "Excaliber" were found. This is given on the
authority of Giraldus Cambrensis, who informs us that he was present on
the occasion. But the popular belief in the West of England was that
he did not die as represented, his soul having entered the body of a
raven, which it will inhabit until he reappears to deliver England in
some great extremity of peril.

This is what is told us by old chroniclers of Western England, the
Welsh bards, and some romance writers; but in Yorkshire we have a
different version of the story. It is true, say our legends, that
Arthur was a mighty warrior, the greatest and most valiant that the
island of Britain has produced either before or since; a man, moreover,
of the most devout chivalry and gentle courtesy, and withal so pure
in his life and sincere in his piety as a Christian, that he alone is
worthy to find the Holy Graal, if not in his former life, in that which
is forthcoming--for he is not dead, but reposes in a spell-bound sleep,
along with his knights, Sir Launcelot, Sir Gawaine, Sir Perceval, etc.,
and that the time is coming when the needs of England will be such as
only his victorious arm, wielding his magically wrought Excaliber,
can rescue from irretrievable ruin. He sleeps--it is asserted--along
with his knights, in a now undiscoverable cavern beneath the Castle
of Richmond, whence he will issue in the fulness of time, scatter the
enemies of England like chaff before the wind, as he so frequently
dispersed the hordes of Teuton pagans, and place England on a higher
eminence among the nations of the earth than it has ever previously
attained. This enchanted cave has been seen but once, and by one man
only. It happened in this wise:--

Once on a time there dwelt in Richmond one Peter Thompson. At what
period he flourished is not recorded, but it matters not, although
a little trouble in searching the parish registers and lists of
burgesses of the town might reveal the fact. He gained a living by
the fabrication of earthenware, and hence was popularly known amongst
his comrades and townspeople as Potter Thompson. He was a simple and
meek-minded man, small in stature and slender in limb, never troubling
himself with either general or local politics. His voice was never
heard at the noisy meetings of the vestry, nor did he join in the
squabbles attendant on the meetings of the electors for the choice
of their municipal governors or representatives in Parliament; he
merely recorded his vote for the candidate who came forward as the
representative of the colour he supported, leaving the shouting and
quarreling and cudgel-playing to those of his fellow-townsmen who had
a liking for such rough work. As for himself, he was only too glad
when he had discharged his duty as a citizen to get back to his clay
and his wheel, for he was an industrious little fellow, had plenty of
work, and was thus enabled, by living a frugal life, to lay by a little
money, and would have lived a comfortable and happy life but for one
circumstance.

Unfortunately, Peter Thompson was a married man; not that matrimony,
in the abstract, is a misfortune, but he was unfortunate inasmuch as
his wife was a termagant, and made his life miserable. Her tongue went
clack, clack, clacking all day long; nothing that he did was right. She
declared herself to be the greatest fool in Richmond to have united
herself to an insignificant little wretch like him; and even when the
bed curtains were drawn around them at night, the poor fellow was kept
awake for an hour or more while she dinned into his ears a lecture on
his manifold faults and his failures of duty as a husband. Peter seldom
replied, but bore it all with meekness, and allowed her to go on with
her monologue until she was tired, or ceased for want of breath. At
times, when she was more exasperating than usual, he would start up
from his wheel, clap his hat on his head, and rush out of the house to
escape her pertinacious scolding. At such times he would go wandering
about the hills and picturesque scenery by which Richmond is environed,
and especially about the hill on which stands the Castle, and amongst
the castle ruins, remaining away for three or four hours, moodily
meditating on the mischance or infatuation which had led him to ally
himself with so untoward a helpmate.

It chanced one day that Peter, unable to endure the persecution of
his wife's tongue, rushed out of his house with the full intention
of throwing himself into the Swale, so as to end his misery there
and then. It was a brilliant summer's day, and there was a glorious
sheen cast over hill and vale, rock and ravine, the silvery river
winding between its emerald-hued banks and the clumps of foliaged
woodland--over the Castle keep standing pre-eminently above all other
buildings, church tower, ruined friary, antique bridge, and the
quaint houses of the burghers, with the tower of Easby gleaming in
the distance, imparting to the whole scene, which is one of the most
picturesque in Yorkshire--which is saying a great deal, and which for
natural beauty can scarcely be surpassed in England--a charm which
had a wonderful effect on Peter's perturbed mind. He was a lover of
nature in all her aspects, and an ardent admirer of the landscape
beauties which surrounded his native town; and he began to reflect, as
he ran down the <DW72>, that if he carried out his purpose, he would
never more be able to delight his eyes with the lovely prospects of
nature so lavishly displayed before him at that moment; and by the
time he reached the river's bank he had almost determined to live on
and find compensation for his domestic discomforts in his communings
with nature--or at least, continued he to himself--"I will take another
turn among the hills and rocks and old ivy-mantled ruins, before I bid
good-bye to it all." He wandered along round the base of the Castle
hill, his spirits becoming more elevated the farther he went, as he
gazed on the glorious landscape which gradually became revealed to his
view. Anon he fell into a contemplative mood, and reasoned calmly and
philosophically on the wisdom of disregarding the minor ills of life,
when it was possible for him as a compensating alternative to revel
in the delights he was now enjoying, and he soon forgot altogether his
purpose of terminating his woes and his life together from the parapet
of Swale bridge. Onward he wandered; when suddenly turning a corner
he came upon a spot altogether unknown to him--a ravine which seemed
to wind away under the Castle hill, walled in with rugged rocks, from
whose crevices sprang upward trees and shrubs, whilst underfoot was a
flooring of rough scattered stones and fragments of fallen rocks, which
appeared not to have been trodden for centuries. Astonished at the
sight, for he imagined that he knew every nook in the neighbourhood,
he rubbed his eyes to ascertain whether he was dreaming; but he found
himself to be fully awake, and the unknown ravine to be a palpable
reality. It just flashed across his mind that sorcery had been at work,
and that what he beheld was the result of necromancy, for in his time
enchanters, warlocks, wizards, and witches were rife in the land; but
Peter had a bold heart, and he resolved upon solving the mystery by an
exploration of the recesses of the ravine, let what would come of it.

Summoning up all his courage, Peter entered the ravine, stumbling
now and then over the stones bestrewn along his pathway. The road
wound about, now to one side then to another, and the trees overhead
to stretch out towards each other so as to overshadow the ravine and
impart a twilight effect, which, as Peter proceeded onward, deepened
into gloom, and eventually almost to darkness. At this period, when
he was compelled to move along with caution, he encountered what at
first seemed to be a wall of rock forming the end of the ravine. On
feeling it carefully he found it to be a huge boulder which obstructed
his path, but, his courage failing him not, he found means to clamber
over it and land safely on the further side. On looking about him, as
well as he could by the dim light, he found that he had alighted on
the entrance to a cavern, the boulder seeming as if it had been placed
there to prevent the intrusion of unauthorised persons, and then he
imagined that it might be the cave of a gang of banditti, and was at
once their treasure house and their refuge in times of peril; and this
idea seemed to be confirmed by the circumstance that he could perceive,
in the extreme distance, a glimmer of light. He felt that it would be
extremely dangerous to be discovered in the purlieus of their haunt,
but curiosity got the better of his fears, and he resolved upon going
forward, mentally adding "After all it may be nothing more than the
daylight streaming in at the other end, and by going on I may come out
into the open air without having to return by the rough, shinbreaking
road by which I have come;" and onward he went, feeling his way by the
rocky walls cautiously and slowly, and, it must be added, with some
degree of trepidation.

As he proceeded along, the distant light increased, and could be seen
beaming through an opening like a doorway, with a mild effulgence
resembling moonlight. Clearly it could not be the light of the sun
streaming in through the aperture, and Peter, becoming more convinced
that he was either approaching a robbers' haunt or a scene of
enchantment, crept along as silently as possible, with some timidity,
it is true; but having come thus far, and his curiosity being excited
to the utmost pitch, he determined to carry out his adventure to the
end. As he approached the portal, he stood to listen; but not the
slightest sound broke the death-like stillness, and concluding from
this that the cave was not occupied--at least, was not at present--he
ventured onward with silent footstep, and stood within the illuminated
aperture. What was his amazement cannot be told at beholding the scene
before him. The opening gave entrance to a lofty and spacious cavern,
its walls glittering with crystals and spars, whilst from the roof
depended a profusion of stalactites, glistening and scintillating with
hues of spectroscopic brilliancy. The light which was diffused around
seemed to be something supernatural; it was not that of the sun, nor
that of the moon, nor was it our modern electric light; but seemed to
be an intensity of phosphoric radiance--soft, mild, and provocative
of slumber--which came not from any lamp or other visible source,
but appeared to be self-evolved from the atmosphere. In the centre
of the cave, upon a rocky table or couch, lay the figure of a kingly
personage, resting his head on his right hand, after the fashion of the
recumbent effigies in our mediaeval churches. He was clad in resplendent
armour and a superb over-cloak, with a golden crown, studded with
precious stones, encircling his head. By his side was a circular shield
emblazoned with arms, which would have told Peter, had he been versed
in heraldry, that the owner was the famous King Arthur; whilst close
by, suspended from the wall, were a diamond-hilted sword in a chased
golden scabbard, and a highly ornamented horn, such as were used by
military leaders for collecting their scattered troops. Around the King
lay his twelve Knights of the Round Table, some prostrate on the floor,
others reposing on fragments and projections of the rocks, each one
handsome in figure and reclining in unstudied natural grace, presenting
a study for a painter. They all lay as still as death save that their
heaving chests and audible breathing showed that they were wrapped in
profound slumber. Peter gazed upon them for a while with wondering
eyes, keeping within the doorway, so as to have the road clear behind
him for escape, in case of any hostile demonstration on the part of the
knights. As they still slumbered on, without any sign of awakening, he
plucked up courage enough to go amongst them; and, attracted by the
splendour of the sword, he took it down to examine it more closely;
then took it by the handle, and half drew it from its sheath. The
moment he had done so, the sleepers around him gave symptoms of
awakening, turned themselves, and seemed to be preparing to rise; but
the spell of disenchantment was not complete. Peter, terribly alarmed
at what he saw, pushed back the sword into the scabbard, threw it
on the floor, and hurried with all speed to the doorway; whilst the
half-awakened slumberers sank back again into deep sleep. Peter, not
noticing this, rushed through the opening, thinking the knights were
following him to inflict some terrible punishment on him--perhaps that
of death--for his presumptuous intrusion. It was but a few moments,
and he reached the boulder which defended the entrance, and which was
much more difficult to scale from that side. He was endeavouring to
find projections to enable him to clamber up, when he heard a hollow
sepulchral voice exclaim from the cave:--

    "Potter, Potter Thompson,
       If thou had'st either drawn
       The sword or blown the horn,
     Thoud'st been the luckiest man
       That ever yet was born."

With teeth chattering, hair on end, and a cold perspiration suffusing
his forehead, he made a desperate effort, scrambled somehow or other
over the stone, and running with fleet footstep, regardless of the
rough roadway, gained the open air without any other damage than a few
bruises and a terrible fright. He went home, and had to encounter a
fearful scolding for remaining out so long and neglecting his work.
He told his wife the tale of his adventures, but she only laughed it
to scorn, saying, "You old fool! and so you have fallen asleep on the
hillside and want to persuade me that your dream was a