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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