{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_67176/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_67176","id":"gutenberg_67176","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67176","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Folk literature, English","Folklore -- England","Tales -- England"],"text":"LEGEND LAND\n\n[Illustration: Antlered man on horseback silhouetted against the moon.]\n\n Being a further collection of some of the Old Tales told in those\n nearer Western Parts of Britain served by the Great Western Railway\n\nVolume Four      Price Sixpence\n\n[Illustration: Map of central England and Wales showing the routes of\nthe Great Western Railway and highlighting some of the locations in\nthis book: Malvern Hills (page 8), Cadbury Castle (page 16), Wayland\nSmith\u2019s Cave (page 32), Rollright Stones (page 4), Fingest (page 28)\nand Bath (Page 12).]\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND LAND\n\n Being a further collection of some of the _OLD TALES_ told in\n those nearer Western Parts of Britain served by the _GREAT WESTERN\n RAILWAY_, now retold by _LYONESSE_\n\n[Illustration: The shield of the Great Western Railway]\n\nVOLUME FOUR\n\n_Published in 1923 by_\nTHE GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY\n[FELIX J. C. POLE, GENERAL MANAGER]\nPADDINGTON STATION, LONDON\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n          Contents and Illustrations   _Page_ 2\n          Foreword                            3\n          The Whispering Knights              4\n          The Shadow Curse of the Raggedstone 8\n          How Bath was Discovered            12\n          King Arthur\u2019s Camelot              16\n          The Witch of Wookey                20\n          Guy of Guy\u2019s Cliff                 24\n          The Ghostly Bishop of Fingest      28\n          Wayland Smith and His Cave         32\n          Herne the Hunter                   36\n          The Ghost of Bisham Abbey          40\n          The Evil Wedding of Stanton Drew   44\n          The Story of Wild Darrell          48\n          Sumer is icumen in (_Supplement_)  52\n\n[Illustration: ** Decorative divider **]\n\nThis is a reprint in book form of the fourth series of _The Line to\nLegend Land_ leaflets, together with a Supplement, \u201cSumer is icumen\nin,\u201d the oldest English song.\n\nThe Map at the beginning forms a guide to the localities of the first\nsix legends, that at the back to the remainder.\n\n[Illustration: ** Decorative divider **]\n\n\n                    _Printed by_ KELLY & KELLY,\n                    _Moor Lane, London, E.C.2_\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\n\nVolume Four brings Legend Land nearer to the great centres of modern\nlife. It comprises some of the old stories told of districts within\neasy reach of such busy cities as London, Birmingham and Bristol.\n\nIn it you will find historic and pre-historic romance mingled. Some of\nits tales are as old as any in our land, tales born of the very ancient\nbelief that saw in \u201cDruid\u201d stones a human origin. Other stories are\nromances of much later date, of events almost within the memory of our\ngreat-grandparents\u2019 great-grandparents.\n\nHere you will find two legends that come from Shakespeare\u2019s land,\nlegends that must have been well known to that great lover and teller\nof old tales. And in the legend of Herne the Hunter you will recognise\na story which Shakespeare himself told in \u201cThe Merry Wives of Windsor.\u201d\nAnd it was probably an old tale when he repeated it.\n\nIn \u201cKing Arthur\u2019s Camelot\u201d you meet with a very old legend of that\ngreat hero of British historical romance; and in the story of \u201cWayland\nSmith\u201d you get an echo of the lore of the old Pagan gods which invading\nAnglo-Saxon tribes brought to England soon after the Romans left it.\n\nManners and customs change; the old creeds die as the new ones arise,\nyet--and it is very wonderful to realize it--some of the old stories\nhave survived every phase of the passing centuries\u2019 intolerance of the\npast, and are told to-day in a form not so very different from that in\nwhich they were first narrated by our semi-savage ancestors, over their\ncamp fires in the heart of primeval English forests.\n\nBut civilization is \u201cimproving\u201d away romance very rapidly. And it is\nworth while to hang on fast to the last remaining shreds of those\nother days when life, though ruder, had more time for simple dreams of\nwonderful things.\n\n                                                               LYONESSE\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Haggard witch viewing some knights approaching.]\n\nTHE WHISPERING KNIGHTS.\n\n\nHigh up on an outlying spur of the Cotswold hills, where Warwickshire\nand Oxfordshire meet, there is a sort of miniature Stonehenge, known as\nthe Rollright Stones; and the Story they tell about them is that they\nwere once a king and his courtiers who, by evil spells, were changed\nsuddenly into Stone.\n\nThe Rollrights are scattered about the hill top, seven hundred feet\nabove sea-level, a mile or so from the quiet village of Little Compton.\nAnd this is the old Story of how they came there.\n\nEver so long ago there came marching over the hills a king and his\narmy bent upon the conquest of England. As they neared the summit of\nthe hill the king was met by a witch who told him that he had nearly\nachieved his desire. She spoke in rhyme, and her words are remembered\nin the neighbourhood even now.\n\n    \u201cIf Long Compton you can see,\n    King of England you shall be,\u201d\n\nshe said. The king rushed forward, but, owing to treachery on the part\nof some of his men, his view of Long Compton, which lies in the valley\nbelow, was impeded.\n\nThen the witch turned to him with a croaking laugh, and muttered:\n\n    \u201cAs Long Compton you can\u2019t see\n    King of England you shan\u2019t be.\n    Rise up stick, and stand still stone,\n    For King of England you shall be none.\n    You and your men hoar stones shall be\n    And I myself an elder tree.\u201d\n\nThe unfortunate king, although within a few paces of a spot from which\nhe might have viewed Long Compton and so become ruler of this realm,\nwas unable to move a step further. His joints became stiff, his energy\nleft him, and in a few minutes he had turned into stone. And there\nyou may see him to-day as \u201cthe King Stone,\u201d a grey weathered monolith\nstanding stark in a field, but in a place from which Long Compton is\ninvisible.\n\nBut his treacherous supporters who had hindered him from success did\nnot escape. The old story tells that there were five knights who\nled the company. Seeing their leader\u2019s strange fate, they tried to\nescape. But the same doom overtook them. A few hundred yards from the\n\u201cKing Stone\u201d is a group of five large upright slabs. These are the\n\u201cWhispering Knights,\u201d turned to stone in the very act of conspiring\nagainst their king.\n\nNearer to the silent king is a circle of stones, once his faithless\nsoldiers, and all about grow elder trees, said to be descendants of\nthat witch who was herself transformed into an elder after her magic\nspell had worked upon the king and his men. They tell you that if you\nstick a knife into these elders you will sometimes draw blood.\n\nThe Rollright Stones form a weird relic of some long forgotten time.\nMen have written of their strange appearance throughout many centuries.\nBede called them the second wonder of the kingdom. Whether the legend\nof their formation be true or not, it must have been some very\nimportant event that caused them to be erected.\n\nYou may best reach them from Rollright station on the line between\nBanbury and Chipping Norton, and if you dare venture up to visit them\non a moonlight night, they say you may find the fairies at their\nrevels, dancing all about.\n\nThis is a peaceful English country of hill and vale, fine country\nestates--Compton Winyates with its matchless Tudor mansion is near\nat hand--and little churches, rich in architecture, that will repay\na visit. Here you are on the outskirts of Shakespeare\u2019s land, real\ngenerous England, full of history, that has not changed so very much\nsince the spacious days of Elizabeth--the England that the English\ntourist all too seldom sees.\n\n[Illustration: _The King Stone._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Man in monk\u2019s robes crawling up a hill-side on a blustery\nday.]\n\nTHE SHADOW CURSE OF THE RAGGEDSTONE.\n\n\nNear the middle of England, where the Malvern Hills rise abruptly to a\nheight of nearly 1,400 feet above the sea, is the double-peaked rugged\nRaggedstone hill about which several strange old legends centre. A\nrestless spirit is said to haunt the bleaker portions of the summit,\nbut a stranger legend is that of the Shadow Curse, called down upon\nthis hill by a monk of Little Malvern in the olden time.\n\nLittle Malvern lies in the plain at the foot of these hills, and at the\nBenedictine monastery there, as the old story tells, there was once a\nrebellious brother. His offences against the monastic discipline were\nso serious that the Prior decreed, as his punishment, that he should\ncrawl on hands and knees every day and in all weather, for a certain\nperiod, from the monastery to the top of the Raggedstone and back again.\n\nThe wretched monk had to obey, and day after day, week after week,\nhe performed his penance. But the pain and degradation of his task\nembittered him, and they say that before his punishment was completed\nhe died upon the hill of exhaustion and humiliation. Others say that he\nsold his soul to the devil in order to be free of his hated task, but\nanyhow before he disappeared from human ken, he put a bitter curse upon\nthe hill that had caused him so much suffering.\n\nHe cursed with death or misfortune whomsoever the shadow of the hill\nshould fall upon, having in mind that in those days of sparsely\npopulated land the people who would suffer most would be the Prior and\nhis brethren in the monastery beneath.\n\nNow the shadow of the Raggedstone is very seldom seen. Only at rare\ntimes when the sun is shining between the twin peaks does it appear,\nand those who have seen it describe it as a weird cloud, black and\ncolumnar in shape, which rises up between the two summits and moves\nslowly across the valley.\n\nMany stories were told, in times past, of the misfortunes that happened\nto those upon whom this uncanny shadow fell; and it is recorded that\nCardinal Wolsey was once caught by this weird cloud, and to that the\nold folk attributed the misfortune that came to the proud man when at\nthe height of his power.\n\nWolsey in his early days was a tutor to the Nanfan family whose\nhouse was at Birts Morton Court, a couple of miles from the foot of\nRaggedstone. The young tutor fell asleep in the orchard one day, and\nawoke suddenly, shivering, to find the strange unearthly shadow moving\nacross the trees.\n\nMuch of Little Malvern Priory, the home of that miserable monk of long\nago, remains to-day. Its domestic buildings are almost intact, with\namazing good fortune having escaped the common fate of such edifices.\nThere are, too, the old monkish fish ponds, now lily spangled in spring\ntime, and an old preaching cross. The parish church is part of the old\npriory church and contains a finely carved rood screen and some most\ninteresting stained glass.\n\nGreat Malvern, some three miles away, clinging as it were to the side\nof the great Worcestershire Beacon, is a place with world-wide fame.\nIt, too, has its great priory church, and all the attractions and\nconveniences of a favourite inland resort.\n\nBut the chiefest charm of the Malverns--there are seven of them--is\ntheir hills. These form a glorious range, of varying barren and wooded\nmountainous country, flung as it were as a far outpost beyond Severn of\nthe wild Welsh mountains many miles to the westward.\n\nThe view from these Malvern Hills is, perhaps, unequalled. They say\nnobody knows exactly how much of England and Wales can be seen from\nthem. Fifteen counties are certain, and in that range is included the\nWrekin, the Mendips, and the Welsh mountains as far as Plinlimmon.\n\nOn the fine upstanding Herefordshire Beacon is, perhaps, the best\nspecimen of an ancient British camp that we have. Tradition says that\nhere Caractacus defended himself from the Romans.\n\nIt was \u201con a May morning on Malverene Hulles\u201d that Piers Plowman had\nthat vision of which Langland wrote five hundred and more years ago.\n\nFew centres in our country offer such varied scope to the holiday-maker\nas the Malverns, where nature and history vie with one another in the\nmatter of attractions.\n\nThe fresh upland air is tonic and health-giving. That weird dark shadow\nof the Raggedstone can never have fallen here, or, if it have, its\nmystical power has become impotent by reason of the many beauties of\nthe place.\n\n[Illustration: _The Malvern Hills._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Shepherd in ragged clothes watching his sheep.]\n\nHOW BATH WAS DISCOVERED.\n\n\nSome people may tell you that the Romans discovered Bath, but the old\nstory gives the honour to a British Prince, Bladud, who is, variously,\nsaid to have been the father of King Lear, and the eldest son of King\nLud. Like these two illustrious monarchs, Bladud came in time to be\nking of Britain. But that was after he had passed through a very sad\nexperience.\n\nPrince Bladud, as was becoming the eldest son of a king, spent many\nyears in Athens studying the liberal arts and sciences. But, alas!\nwhile in Greece he became a leper, and on his return to Britain he had\nto be shut away from his fellow-men, for fear that he should infect\nthem with the dreaded disease.\n\nThe Prince bore his confinement patiently for a time, but at last it\nbecame unendurable, and he escaped in disguise, and went out into\nthe world to forget his royal birth and to earn his living as best\nhe could. His wanderings brought him to the hamlet of Swainswick, a\nfew miles from where Bath now stands, and there he found the only\noccupation given to one afflicted as he was, that of a swineherd.\n\nHere for some time he carried on his lowly duties, content to be a free\nman, no matter how humble his station in life. And they say that early\none winter\u2019s morning when he was out in the neighbouring woods with his\npigs, the animals suddenly became restive. Before he could stop them\na large part of the herd had taken panic and rushed furiously down a\nhill-side into a swamp, at the foot where they began to wallow in the\nmud.\n\nBladud pursued them, wondering that pigs should seek to roll in cold\nmuddy water on a winter\u2019s day. But when he reached them, he found, to\nhis surprise, that the water and slime in which they rolled was hot,\nand that steam arose from the marsh. This explained the problem to the\nPrince, though he marvelled greatly at the existence of such springs.\n\nBut there was another surprise in store for him. He noticed that those\npigs that habitually went to the hot swamp were in ill-health and\nafflicted, somewhat like himself, with skin diseases. After a short\ntime they became fat and well, their coats as clean and glossy as any\nin the herd.\n\n\u201cIf this marvel can come to base animals,\u201d Bladud mused, \u201cwhy should it\nnot come to me?\u201d So he determined to try the effect of the hot springs\nupon his own complaint, and after a few weeks\u2019 bathing in them, to his\nintense joy, he found his leprosy leaving him. By summer he was cured\ncompletely of his affliction, and he returned to the king, his father,\nto announce his good fortune.\n\nKing Lud, who had mourned him as dead, was over-joyed to see his eldest\nson again; more joyful still to find him cured. So Bladud resumed his\nduties at Court, and in due time, when Lud died, he became King of\nBritain. Then it was, as a token of gratitude, and that others might\nbenefit from the miraculous waters he had found, that he built a great\ncity on the scene of his cure, and that city we know to-day as Bath.\n\nOf course, when the Romans came, they were delighted to find this\nwonderful \u201cspa\u201d as we call it. They put up great buildings, and their\nchief men visited Aqu\u00e6 Sulis, as they called it, to be cured of gout\nand rheumatism, and a score of other complaints. And because of the\nwonderful buildings they left behind them--and many of them remain to\nthis day--people, who do not know the old story, say that they founded\nthe city.\n\nBut no matter who really did found it, we know that for nearly 2,000\nyears people have been visiting Bath and finding a cure there which\nthey have sought elsewhere in vain.\n\nBath is a wonderful city set in glorious surroundings, and you need\nnot be an invalid to enjoy a visit there. With its memories and\nrelics of Beau Nash, and the spacious days of the eighteenth century;\nits wonderful old Abbey Church, its Roman remains and its sunny\nsheltered walks, Bath is an amazingly attractive place in which to\nspend a holiday. The country round about is full of interest, the town\npossesses every attraction a holiday resort should possess.\n\nOf its waters, let the doctors speak. They will speak of them as\nenthusiastically as Bladud must have done, and tell you that, in Bath,\nyou may find all the benefits that so many people travel hundreds of\nmiles to Continental spas to seek.\n\n[Illustration: _Roman Remains at Bath._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: King Arthur at the Round Table conversing with knights.]\n\nKING ARTHUR\u2019S CAMELOT.\n\n\nThis is the story the people of the country-side have been telling from\ntime out of memory. Very learned men have disputed their facts and\nwarred and wrangled over great Arthur\u2019s history, and you must please\nyourself which side you take, but this is a story of Cadbury Castle,\nwhich tradition holds was King Arthur\u2019s Camelot, where that famous\nhero:\n\n    \u201c ... kept his Court Royall\n    with his fair Queen, Dame Guinevere the gay:\n    And many bold Barons, sitting in hall\n    With ladies attired in purple and pall....\u201d\n\nAnd it was here, too, that was installed the immortal Round Table, with\nthe chivalrous knights that sat about it.\n\nYou will find this Camelot a mile or two from Sparkford station,\nbetween Castle Cary and Yeovil, on the main line from Paddington to\nWeymouth. It is a great rounded hill seared with ancient ramparts and\nditches, and crowned by a mound which was King Arthur\u2019s palace.\n\nThey will tell you that Cadbury Castle is slowly sinking into the\nearth; that at one time it was vastly bigger. But they will tell you,\ntoo, that King Arthur has not forgotten his old home, and that he and\nhis knights may often be seen galloping round the old fortifications on\nmoonlight nights, mounted on gallant chargers shod with silver shoes.\n\nAnd should you doubt this, antiquarian records will prove you wrong;\nfor on the hill some years ago, a silver horseshoe was dug up.\n\nFrom Cadbury a faint path may still be distinguished running towards\nGlastonbury--you can see Glastonbury Tor from the top of Cadbury\nCastle--and along this track, if you are lucky, you may sometimes see\nthe great King, a sad expression on his face, his knights with their\nattendant squires in his train, riding back to fabled Avalon, which\nis Glastonbury, and his tomb in the abbey there beside that of Queen\nGuinevere.\n\nIt was from Cadbury, when Camelot\u2019s towers crowned the hill, that the\nknights set out on their quest of the Holy Grail.\n\nYou will not find it hard to believe these old legends, if you sit for\nawhile in the silence and peace of the great earth bulwarks of Cadbury\nCastle and look out across the pleasing country beneath you. You can\nalmost hear the faint jingle of harness in the air, and the soft\nwhisperings of dead and gone men and women who had looked upon Arthur\nhimself.\n\nApart from its legendary interest, Cadbury Castle is one of the most\nremarkable places in all Somersetshire. Four high earth walls surround\nthe hill, the innermost faced with stone. Within the lowest rampart you\nwill find King Arthur\u2019s well; on the hill side strange terraces that\nwere once, they will tell you, shady gardens where fair ladies walked\nin the cool of a summer\u2019s evening.\n\nThe little stream, the Cam, flows from the foot of the hill, and\nclose at hand are the villages of Queen Camel and West Camel, again\nsuggesting the old name of Cadbury.\n\nBut Somersetshire is steeped in Arthurian legendary lore. In the far\nnorth of the county near Clevedon another Cadbury disputes with our\nhill the honour of having borne upon it Camelot. And Glastonbury,\nalmost midway between the two, is the very centre of Arthurian romance.\n\nAround the history of the great King has arisen so much controversy\nthat you must read the experts for yourself and make your own choice.\nAnd what could provide a more glorious holiday amusement than a quiet\njourney through this, King Arthur\u2019s own, land on a pilgrimage to the\nmany beautiful places it holds that commemorate in name and tradition\nthe life of the greatest hero of romance in Western literature?\n\n[Illustration: _Cadbury Castle._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: A monk sprinkling holy water on hideous creatures in a\ncave.]\n\nTHE WITCH OF WOOKEY.\n\n\nNobody knows how long ago it was when the Witch of Wookey was alive,\nbut she was a terribly hideous person, and she did all sorts of\nhorrible things until a monk of Glastonbury Abbey decided that she had\nwrought quite enough evil, and determined to rid Somersetshire of her\nbaleful presence.\n\nShe lived in a grim cavern a mile or so from that wonderful cathedral\ncity of Wells, and to this day you may visit Wookey Hole, her\nhabitation, and see the very rightful fate that overcame this wicked\nwoman. As an old poet wrote of her:\n\n    \u201cDeep in the dreary, dismal cell,\n    Which seemed, and was ycleped hell,\n    This blear-eyed hag did hide.\u201d\n\nThey say that in her youth, she was a very beautiful woman, yet no man\nfell in love with her, and so, becoming embittered, she made a bargain\nwith the powers of evil, so that she might wreak her vengeance upon all\nmankind for the slight, she held, they had put upon her.\n\nThe devil gave her nine imps to assist her in her wicked work, and she,\nwith her loathly helpers, sat in Wookey Hole, plotting misery for all\nthe country-side. She blighted the crops, sent murrain among the flocks\nand herds, wove spells that created suspicion in happy homes and turned\nfamily love into violent hatred. But particularly the witch delighted\nto cause lovers\u2019 quarrels. It was a happy day in Wookey Hole in those\ntimes, when one of the demons had caused a country lass and her swain\nto quarrel on the eve of their wedding. Then it was that the sounds of\ndemoniac laughter that issued from the cavern were at their loudest.\n\nBut all this sorrow that fell upon the people touched the heart of a\nyoung monk of Glastonbury. He had been disappointed in love, and had\nfound consolation in the cloister; but he was determined that others\u2019\nlives should not be similarly ruined if he could help it. So he went up\nto Wookey to beard the hag in her den.\n\nNo other possessed such courage, and the young monk went alone. He\napproached the place chanting a psalm, then, with holy water, he\nsprinkled the outside of the cavern and began the old service of\nexorcism. There was tremendous confusion within the cave at this\nunexpected intrusion. The witch rallied her servants around her and\nstarted out to do great violence to this reckless priest; but before\nshe emerged, the monk, singing a \u201cPaternoster,\u201d fearlessly entered the\n\u201cHole.\u201d\n\nHe sprinkled with holy water all that he encountered--and all that the\nmiraculous liquid touched turned to stone. Never from that moment did\nany further evil issue from the cave at Wookey.\n\nAnd, to-day, if you go there, you may see, as they have been these many\ncenturies past, the petrified witch in her kitchen, cut off suddenly by\nthis good brother of Glastonbury in the very midst of her wickedness,\nwith her various household utensils, also turned into stone, all about\nher. Anyone may enter Wookey Hole now, and emerge unharmed.\n\nWells is your best centre for visiting Wookey. The city itself with its\nsplendid cathedral, its ancient houses and its moated Episcopal Palace,\nis one of the most interesting in all England.\n\nGlastonbury is near at hand, with the remains of its great abbey from\nwhich the good monk came, and its marvellous thorn tree, as legend has\nit, sprung from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea, who, having wandered\nfrom the Holy Land, decided to end his days in this pleasant place.\n\nThis is traditional Avalon, a town, perhaps, richer in history and\nromance than any other in our land. King Arthur and Guinevere his\nqueen, they say, were buried within the walls of the ancient abbey\nover which, as the old tale tells, St. Patrick and St. Benedict once\npresided as Abbots.\n\nAnd, should you weary of history, there are all the natural beauties of\nthe Mendip hills for you to explore; for both Wells and Glastonbury lie\non the slopes of this beautiful range.\n\nFew places in Europe have so much of interest to offer the visitor as\nWells and Glastonbury and that pleasing country all around, over which,\nin the dark ages, the Witch of Wookey wielded her gruesome sway.\n\n[Illustration: _Wookey Hole._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Lady Phyllis giving alms to the poor, including Sir Guy\nin pilgrim attire.]\n\nGUY, OF GUY\u2019S CLIFF.\n\n\nSome people may tell you that there never was such a person as the\nvaliant Guy, Earl of Warwick, who slew the terrible Dun Cow that\nterrorized middle England in the old days, and, single handed, defeated\nthe giant Colbrond, and cut off his head. But if you go to Warwick\u2019s\nbeautiful castle you may see, to-day, the brave Guy\u2019s armour, and some\nbones of the ferocious cow. And there is the old tale of Guy, handed\ndown for centuries, to prove that this mighty warrior really did live.\n\nThis is the old tale. After Guy had slain the Dun Cow, and had been\nto the Holy Land on a pilgrimage, he returned in disguise, and\nunrecognised, feeling that he wished to withdraw from the world and\nlive a secluded life as a hermit. But before he did so he undertook the\nslaying of the giant Colbrond. Having killed this monster and cut off\nhis head, he slipped away quietly and wandered slowly to his home at\nWarwick.\n\nThere his wife, the good Lady Phyllis, awaited his return from\nPalestine. She had no idea that he was home again, nor did she\nrecognise him in his rough pilgrim\u2019s dress when he, together with other\nwayfarers, presented himself in the Great Hall and received from her\nown hands the alms that she gave daily to the poor.\n\nAnd Guy did not announce his identity. Instead, he passed on and sought\nout a hermit who lived in a cave near by, seeking spiritual comfort\nfrom the holy man.\n\nAfter Guy had been with the hermit a very short time, that pious man\ndied; and Guy decided to take his place. And so, for two years, this\nonce mighty warrior lived the hard, austere life of a recluse in a bare\ncell, only a mile or two from his own proud castle.\n\nBut death was creeping upon him. And, when he realized that he had but\na few hours more to live, he sent, by a trusty messenger, his wedding\nring to the Lady Phyllis, begging her to come and take charge of his\nburial. She came at once, all filled with fear and distress, bringing\nwith her the bishop and high clergy of the diocese. But there they\nfound the great Guy, dead, on the steps of the altar of his little\nchapel. And there they buried him, and, only a few weeks later, the\nLady Phyllis by his side, for she too died swiftly, of a broken heart.\n\nAnd the old story is still told about the country-side to show how one\nwho had fame, great wealth, high position, and love, sacrificed it all\nfor the lowly yet holy calling of a simple heremite.\n\nAll this happened so long ago that nobody knows exactly when it was,\nbut you may still see at Guy\u2019s Cliff, that beautiful old place a short\nwalk from Warwick, the cave in the rock where the hermit and Guy\nlived. And in the little chapel of St. Mary Magdalene there, you will\nsee carved in the living rock a mighty figure, eight feet high, of\nthe fearless Guy; though time has wrought much damage to this strange\neffigy.\n\nWarwick and Leamington are both close at hand; Warwick, one of the\nmost picturesque towns in the whole country with Shakespeare\u2019s Avon\nflowing gently by it, and the grim and wonderful Warwick Castle with\nits grounds stretching to the river\u2019s edge. And Leamington, that bright\nclean-streeted spa, with its healing waters, and its quiet atmosphere\nof other days, when our great-grandfathers posted to it from all parts\nof the country to drink the waters and to indulge in the gaiety of the\nlatest and most fashionable of inland watering-places.\n\nAll round about is the rich leafy England that Shakespeare knew so\nwell. Stratford-on-Avon is but eight miles away. Shottery--the village\nof Shakespeare\u2019s wife, where Anne Hathaway\u2019s charming little cottage\nstill stands--Henley-in-Arden, Charlecote, and Hampton Lucy; pretty\nhistoric names we know so well, are all in the neighbourhood.\n\nThis country has a sixteenth century atmosphere even now. It is one\nthat the foreign visitor seldom misses; yet the British tourist knows\nall too little of it and its peculiar rural beauty and charm.\n\n[Illustration: _Guy\u2019s Cliff Caves._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: A traveler in a wood being surprised by a ghostly\ngamekeeper.]\n\nTHE GHOSTLY BISHOP OF FINGEST.\n\n\nNestling under the Chiltern Hills, at the head of the quiet Hambleden\nvalley, through which a tiny stream runs to join the Thames a couple\nof miles or so below Henley, is the sleepy little village of Fingest,\nwhere, in days gone by, the Bishops of Lincoln had a palace.\n\nOne of these prelates, Bishop Burghersh, lies buried here, but they\nsay that he does not rest quietly in the tomb in which they laid him,\nwith pomp and ceremony, these five hundred years and more since. For\nBurghersh in life was not all that a bishop should be.\n\nBurghersh was more a prince of the Church than a humble shepherd of\nsouls, and his worldly ambition led him to adopt the most unworthy\nmeans in order to aggrandize his estate. He played the haughty tyrant\nover the simple timid villagers, and shamelessly grabbed here a piece\nand there a piece of the common land to add to his own park, and to\nprovide him with the hunting that he loved more than the services of\nthe Church.\n\nAnd very stern was Burghersh, too, in upholding the game laws. The\nwretched peasant caught poaching on land which was justly his was given\nlittle mercy. The bishop\u2019s foresters had the strictest orders to keep\nthe villagers in their place--which was the other side of the Episcopal\nfence.\n\nBut at length Burghersh died, and they buried him with all the\nelaborate ritual of those far away days; and the village folk were not,\nperhaps, so sorry as they pretended to be, for at last, they thought,\nthey were rid of their tyrant neighbour and looked for better times\nunder his successor. But they were wrong.\n\nBishop Burghersh, in death, so the story goes, developed the conscience\nhe had never known in life. He could not rest in peace.\n\nSoon the rumour began to spread about the lonely country-side of a\nghostly wanderer with the dead bishop\u2019s face and voice, but clad as a\nkeeper or forester, who glided among the trees of the Episcopal park,\nand put himself in the way of passers by begging them to help him find\nrepose.\n\nNot until all the land that he had stolen from the people, to enlarge\nhis park, was returned to the rightful owners could he cease his\nnightly wanderings, he said. He appeared to his successors, beseeching\nthem, for his soul\u2019s sake, to dispark the ill-gotten land, but they\nwould not listen to him. Instead they tried to put him to rest with\nchaunt and prayer; but this was unavailing.\n\nTime went by, and others held the bishop\u2019s land, and held fast to it,\ndespite the ceaseless pleadings of the unhappy wraith, and even to this\nday they will tell you, sometimes floating along by the hedge of some\nquiet meadow, or flitting between the trees in a lonely copse, you may\nsee a pale, sad-faced form in Lincoln green, seeking someone who will\nlisten to his weary appeal, and return to the people the common land\nwhich he enclosed in the days when Edward III. was King of England.\n\nFingest to-day, you will find, a very charming little place amid woods\nand hills. Its fine old church has not changed much since Bishop\nBurghersh lived his selfish life in this quiet vale. There are traces\nof Saxon work in the Church, masonry that was three or four hundred\nyears old in the bishop\u2019s time, and an unusual tower of great age and\nheight, ending in twin red gables, rises high above the little church.\n\nDown the valley you come, in a few miles, to Hambleden, with its\npicturesque old manor house, and a little further on to a beautiful\nreach of the Thames, midway between Henley and Medmenham, with its\nold abbey and its memories of the eighteenth century \u201cHell Fire Club,\u201d\nand the grim stories told of the wild and extravagant doings of its\ndissolute members.\n\nOr go north from Fingest up through the beech woods and leafy lanes\nof the Chilterns, or west, till you rise, in a few miles, to six or\nseven hundred feet above sea level in a country that is as remote and\nunspoilt as you can wish.\n\nAll this you may reach from London in a summer day\u2019s trip. Strike north\nfrom Henley or west from High Wycombe, or West Wycombe, and you will\nsoon find yourself among little forgotten villages set among the woods\nwhere the Chilterns slope down to the Thames, amid scenery that is as\ncharming as any England can show.\n\n[Illustration: _Ruins of Fingest Palace, and Fingest Church._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Man shoeing a horse in his workshop, perhaps a cave.]\n\nWAYLAND SMITH AND HIS CAVE.\n\n\nIt was such a long time ago since Wayland Smith came into this country\nthat even the most learned men are uncertain as to his origin. He came,\nthey think, as Weland, a heathen god, kinsman of Thor, the Scandinavian\nGod of Thunder; and for many years he was a being of great importance\nin Pagan England. But he fell upon bad times.\n\nWeland seems to have been a hard-working and humble deity, and when men\nwould no longer work for him, he had to work for them. And very good\nwork he did, too, it seems. Perhaps, in his better days, he made Thor\u2019s\nhammers for him; anyhow, when he came down in the world, he took to the\nblacksmith\u2019s trade.\n\nYou will come across traces of poor Weland in many parts of the\ncountry, but nowhere will you find a stranger relic of his working days\nthan in his smithy--Wayland Smith\u2019s cave they call it now--quite close\nto the side of that ancient track-way that skirts the summit of the\nBerkshire Downs above the White Horse Vale.\n\nThe road, the Ridgeway, was old when the Romans came. And perhaps it\nwas because of its popularity that Wayland Smith started his business\nnear at hand. Anyhow there is his cave to this day, a strange erection\nof two great upright stones surmounted by a third, and there, the\nold story tells, he shod the horses of any who would employ him, at\nless than market rate, so long as they carried out a perfectly simple\narrangement.\n\nNaturally enough, since once he had been a god and had had men and\nhorses sacrificed to him, Weland\u2019s pride would not permit him to come\nout and tout for trade; so it was well understood that should you wish\nhis services you placed a silver penny upon a flat stone near the cave,\nleft your horse by it, then went away and sat down out of sight for ten\nminutes.\n\nSoon you would hear the sound of hammer and anvil, and presently, when\nyou returned, you would find your horse well shod--and your penny\ngone. Weland was very particular about that penny; he would take\nneither more nor less for his work, and unless that actual sum was\nplaced upon the stone you might wait in vain. He would have no dealings\nwith you.\n\nNowadays silver pennies are out of fashion and a sixpenny piece is the\nproper fee. And, though few travellers use the old Ridgeway in these\ntimes, there are some who believe that, if you have faith, you may\nstill have your horse shod for sixpence, high up there on the lonely\ndowns, if you carry out the proper procedure.\n\nYou come to the cave from Shrivenham station, a few miles east of\nSwindon; thence the Lambourn road will lead you straight up on to the\ndowns. On the summit you will find the soft-turfed Ridgeway, which you\nmust follow to the left and you will come in a short time to Wayland\nSmith\u2019s lonely abode.\n\nIf you continue still further along the old way, you find yourself at\nmysterious Uffington Castle, the gaunt earthwork from which Alfred\nthe Great routed the Danish invaders over a thousand years ago. Here\nyou are eight hundred odd feet above the sea, and on camp-crowned\nWhitehorse Hill, on the side of which is the famous White Horse that\nnames both the hill and the vale beneath. Alfred caused this horse to\nbe cut in the close turf, they say, to commemorate his great victory\nover the invading Danes; for this, historians will tell you, is\nAeschendune, the scene of Alfred\u2019s mighty and triumphant battle.\n\nEast, south and west, the bare downs stretch, away from you for miles,\nhiding in their folds little lonely villages, fertile and sheltered,\nand bearing on their summits a thousand memorials of the early peoples\nthat went to make up our English race.\n\nHere is a holiday country of which few tourists know; a wide open\nupland district of keen fresh winds, and sweet soft turf, where you may\nwander for hours with nothing but the grazing sheep, or perhaps a gipsy\nencampment, to remind you of civilization.\n\nThere is a charm about this solitude that makes it easy to realize why\npoor dethroned Weland chose this land in which to hide his wounded\npride.\n\n[Illustration: _Wayland Smith\u2019s Cave._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Antlered man on horseback silhouetted against the moon.]\n\nHERNE THE HUNTER.\n\n\nThe story of Herne the Hunter was familiar in Shakespeare\u2019s days, as\nthose who have read \u201cThe Merry Wives of Windsor\u201d know; but like all\nold stories it has many versions, and some say that Herne lived in\nPlantagenet times, others as recently as Good Queen Bess\u2019 reign; some,\nthat he was a poacher, others, a keeper. But all agree that he haunted\nWindsor Forest, and some say that he does so to this day.\n\nAs the legend is generally told Herne was a royal keeper whose unusual\nskill at the chase caused him to become a great favourite of his royal\nmaster, and at the same time made his fellow foresters mighty jealous\nof him. So they combined together to try to plot his undoing.\n\nTo one of their secret councils, held beneath great oaks in the heart\nof the forest, there came one day a mysterious dark man of unusual\nstature and strength, whose face seemed familiar yet whom none could\nplace. To their enquiries he answered gruffly that he lived on the\noutskirts of the forest, and that he knew their designs and could help\nthem, if they wished it.\n\nThe jealous keepers at once accepted his offer. But he bargained with\nthem, asking as the price of his aid that they should each grant\none request whenever it was made. This was agreed, and the stranger\ndisappeared, telling the now rather alarmed foresters that they should\nsoon have proof of his powers.\n\nWithin a few days it was noticed that Herne\u2019s skill began to fail him.\nHe could no longer shoot straight, nor ride fast; and very swiftly he\nfell into disfavour. His rivals were delighted, particularly when the\nday came that he was dismissed from the Royal service.\n\nThat same night there was a terrible thunderstorm, and in the morning\nthe body of Herne was found hanging from a lightning-stricken tree in\nthe Little Park. He had killed himself.\n\nFor a time nothing unusual happened; then strange stories began to get\nabout of a ghostly huntsman, in figure like the dead Herne, with stag\u2019s\nhorns growing from his head, who rode through the forest at night on a\nfierce black charger, harrying the King\u2019s deer. This proved to be only\ntoo true as the depleted herds of deer soon proved, and the keepers\nwere threatened with dire punishment if the depredations were not\nstopped.\n\nThe keepers, greatly alarmed, went the next night to Herne\u2019s oak to see\nif the story were true; and there they were met by the dark stranger.\nBut now there was no doubt as to his identity. He appeared in a flash\nof sulphurous flame, and they knew him to be the Evil One. He told the\nterrified men that Herne would appear to them soon, and that they must\ndo exactly what he bade them do, otherwise he would seize their souls.\n\nSoon Herne appeared, a ghostly figure with huge antlers, and commanded\nhis fellow-keepers to assemble at the oak the next midnight with horses\nand hounds equipped for the chase. They had to obey, and night after\nnight, led by the ghostly huntsman, the party swept through the forest.\n\nTheir wild doings naturally quickly reached the ears of the King, and\nhe summoned the keepers, demanding an explanation. In terror they\nconfessed how they had plotted Herne\u2019s ruin, and the King, furious at\ntheir impious action, caused all of them to be hanged upon Herne\u2019s oak.\n\nBut the ghostly chase still went on, they say, and even to this day in\nthe dark midnight hours some people believe you may hear, far away\nin the Great Park, the distant sound of a huntsman\u2019s horn, and see\nflashing through the trees the ghostly chase led by an antlered man on\na huge black horse.\n\nHerne\u2019s oak has gone now. It stood in the Home Park, a grim withered\nriven stump near the footpath to Datchet, until some fifty or sixty\nyears ago; and few cared to pass it at midnight.\n\nBut Windsor Park in daytime has nothing eerie about it. It, and the\nwide bracken-covered, sandy forest country that surrounds it, is\ndelightful in Spring, or on a hot summer\u2019s day. Or in autumn, when\nthe leaves and bracken are turning, one must go far to find a more\nbeautiful district. The whole country is steeped in history and romance.\n\nFrom Windsor, with its magnificent castle--and just across the river,\nhistoric Eton--the forest district stretches away south and west for\nmiles. Here, although so close to London, one may find the solitude and\nrest that many travel far afield to seek--and fail to find.\n\n[Illustration: _Windsor Forest._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Ghost of a lady reaching for a floating basin, in a\npaneled chamber.]\n\nTHE GHOST OF BISHAM ABBEY.\n\n\nThis legend begins with the story of a rather dull little boy who found\nhis lessons very trying--and, perhaps, the glistening Thames, which he\ncould see from his schoolroom window, very attractive--in the days when\nTudor sovereigns reigned in England. His name was Hobby, and his home\nwas Bisham Abbey, which still stands by the riverside just opposite\nGreat Marlow. And because the child could not write in his copy-book\nwithout making blots, he was whipped so severely that, as the old tale\ngoes, he died. But that is only the beginning of the story.\n\nIt was his mother, Lady Hobby, who chastised the child. When you see\nher portrait, as you still may at Bisham, you cannot believe she meant\nto be so cruel. She must have been sorry for her harshness; at any rate\nshe has been punished for it, for she can find no rest in death. Though\nover three hundred years have passed since they placed her in her\ngrave, her ghost still floats through the panelled chambers of Bisham,\nso they say.\n\nIt is a queer apparition this. It is that of a stately woman dressed in\ncoif, weeds and wimple, with grave face and long thin hands, in front\nof which a basin, suspended by no visible means, always appears. The\nlady is forever trying to wash her hands in the basin, but it always\nmoves from her before she can achieve her desire. Not until she can\ncleanse those delicate hands, can she find repose, they will tell you.\n\nAnd a curious thing about the ghost is that it appears as a \u201cnegative,\u201d\nto use a photographer\u2019s term. What in life was white is in the spirit\nblack; and what was black, now white. The wraith is seen with black\nface and hands, black coif and wimple; the basin is black. But the\nsable gown is white, the shoes white. White eyes look mournfully from\nthe dark face.\n\nYou may not credit this strange story, for few people living have\nseen the wandering lady. Yet undeniable records will tell you that\neighty odd years since, when they were doing some repairs to the old\nbuilding, a window shutter was removed in the room in which tradition\nasserted the unhappy boy was taught. Pushed in between shutter and\nwall, were a number of children\u2019s copy-books of the Elizabethan time.\nOne of them, yellow and soiled with age, corresponded exactly with\nthe copy-book of the story. There was not a single line which was not\nblotted.\n\nBisham Abbey is a wonderful old place; its history starts with the\nKnights Templars in the reign of King Stephen of turbulent memory.\nLater it became an Augustine priory, and later still, when it had\npassed from the monks, poor harassed Princess Elizabeth was there,\na prisoner in charge of Sir Thomas Hobby, in those times when no\none could guess that she was to become the great and glorious Queen\nElizabeth.\n\nThe old building has seen the Thames flow by to the sea for eight\ncenturies and more, and still it remains, one of the most attractive\nof all the famous houses that have arisen upon the banks of the great\nriver. It is a short mile across the bridge from Great Marlow, that\nrestful riverside town on one of the most pleasing reaches of the\nThames. Here the river is at its best, bordered by peaceful shady\nlawns, where you may idle away a hot summer afternoon amid refreshing\nscenery that only England can show.\n\nDown stream, seven miles past Cookham, you come to busy Maidenhead.\nUpstream eight miles and you are at Henley Bridge. Cookham lock they\ncall the most beautifully situated of all on the river. Wild flowers\ngrow in profusion on the banks of the tow-path side, and the famous\nwoods of Cliveden look down upon the gently flowing river.\n\nYet, if you be wise, sometimes you will leave the fascination of\nthe river and wander a mile or two inland and see the queer, quiet\nlittle villages that stand away from the river bank; or adventure,\nperhaps, from Bourne End up the Wye valley towards High Wycombe and\nfind picturesque Penn--not the home of the family of the founder of\nPennsylvania, but of one with which it was connected--and see in the\nchurch the memorials to some of the grandchildren of the famous William\nPenn.\n\nTo find Penn\u2019s grave you must go a little further afield, through\nBeaconsfield to Jordans, where in the little Quaker burial ground that\none of the greatest of the founders of the United States lies buried in\na simple grave.\n\nIn all this fascinating country you are seldom more than thirty miles\nfrom London, and always within touch of a station from which you can\nreach Paddington in about an hour\u2019s journey.\n\n[Illustration: _Bisham Abbey._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Old and bearded man playing a pipe on a dark but moonlit\nnight, with revelers dancing in the background.]\n\nTHE EVIL WEDDING OF STANTON DREW.\n\n\nUnder the southern slopes of bold Dundry Hill in North Somersetshire\nyou will find the queerly named little river Chew, on the banks of\nwhich is the village of Stanton Drew. Nowadays it is an out-of-the-way\nlittle spot, but far back in history it must have been a place of\nconsiderable importance, for close to its church are the remains of\nwhat was once a gigantic building--some call it a Druid temple--of a\nvery early race of men.\n\nThere are the relics of at least three stone circles, and about the\nsmallest of these a strange story is told. It is the story of the Evil\nWedding, and it explains why the stones came there.\n\nLong, long ago, as the tale goes, there had been a marriage at Stanton\nDrew, and the wedding party met on the place where now the stone circle\nstands to indulge in feasting and dancing. It was on a Saturday, and\nthe festivities were at their height when midnight struck. Then the\nharpist, a pious old man, who was playing for the dancing merry-makers,\nrefused to continue any longer, saying that he would not profane the\nSabbath.\n\nEach member of the party tried to persuade the aged musician to\ncontinue, and chief among the suppliants was the bride, who grew very\nangry at the harpist\u2019s continual refusals. She would go on with the\ndance for all his obstinate ways, she said, and she would find another\nmusician even if she had to go to the nether world in search of him.\n\nAt that moment a venerable old man with a long grey beard wandered out\nof the night and asked what all the altercations was about.\n\nWhen they told him, he gave a merry laugh and said that he would play\nfor them; so the pious old harpist departed, and the dance began again.\n\nThe new musician, playing on a pipe, started off with rather a doleful\nair, but he soon livened up, and very quickly the dancers were whirling\nround and round in the maddest abandon. But to their consternation as\nthey grew tired, and wished to stop, they found they were unable to do\nso. The more weary they became, the harder the piper played, and when\nthey begged him to cease he merely laughed at them and changed his tune\nto one yet more lively.\n\nAt last dawn began to show in the sky, and the now frenzied and\nterrified dancers saw their musician remove the pipe from his mouth.\nBut they saw, too, when he got up, that he had a club foot, and that\nbeneath his long gown a tail showed.\n\nThe moment he ceased to play, the dancers remained fixed in strange\nattitudes, quite unable to move. \u201cI will return later and play for you\nagain,\u201d said the Fiend as he walked away, uttering horrible laughter.\nBut he has not yet returned, and later that morning the villagers found\nthe fields, where the wedding party had been held, strewn with huge\nupright stones, many of which remain to this day. And they say that\nthere they will stand until the devil returns to play his evil tune;\nthen the stones will become men and women again and will take up once\nmore their mad dance.\n\nIf you doubt this moral story, go to Stanton Drew and see the strange\nstones for yourself--and suggest in what other way they could have come\nthere. You may reach Stanton Drew from Pensford station on the line\nbetween Bristol and Frome. You will find it in a pleasant little valley\nin a hilly upland country, and not far away Maensknoll Tump, nearly 700\nfeet high, the loftiest point of Dundry Hill, surrounded by the grim\nearthworks of some of our earliest ancestors.\n\nBristol, that great city of the west, with its centuries of history and\nromance, its memories of the daring Merchant Adventurers and its fine\nchurches, is a good centre from which to reach this district. Or you\nmay go from Frome, that queer busy little town with its narrow medieval\nstreets straggling up and down hill.\n\nAll the country round here is full of interest to the lover of nature\nor antiquity. It is a country of mild airs, where in the sheltered\nvalleys the flowers bloom amazingly early. Yet the average tourist\nseldom wanders off the beaten track to enjoy this pleasing stretch of\nrural England.\n\n[Illustration: _The Druid Stones at Stanton Drew._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Masked man leading blindfolded nurse up a staircase.]\n\nTHE STORY OF WILD DARRELL.\n\n\nThere is a strange story told of Littlecote Manor, a glorious old Tudor\nmansion that lies not far from the pleasant little Berkshire town of\nHungerford. This, in Elizabeth\u2019s time, was the ancestral home of the\nDarrells; but \u201cWild Darrell,\u201d the last of them to hold it, had to\nsacrifice the place to save his wicked life. At least so the old tales\ntell.\n\nThis grim story begins with the awakening at dead of night of the\nvillage nurse at Shefford, some seven miles away from Littlecote.\nMasked messengers bade her come at once to a waiting coach to tend a\nlady \u201cnot far away.\u201d She was to ask no questions, she was told, and she\nmust submit to be blindfolded until she reached her destination. But\nto compensate her for this strange treatment a heavy purse of gold was\noffered. The nurse, torn between emotions of fear and greed, accepted;\nand the coach set off.\n\nAfter a long drive through the winter night, the lumbering vehicle at\nlast came to a halt. The blindfolded nurse was led up a great staircase\nand, when her bandages were removed, she found herself in a richly\nfurnished bedroom where lay a masked lady in a huge four-post bed.\n\nThe nurse had no idea where she was, but her natural curiosity had\ncaused her to make whatever mental notes she could. For one thing she\ncounted the steps leading to the bedroom; for another she managed,\nwhile going about her work, to clip off a small piece of a heavy\ncurtain which screened the window of the room. But of this later.\n\nIn due course there came a new born baby into the world. But fearful\nas the nurse had been at the mystery of the whole affair, she was\nterrified at what followed, for when the child was but a few hours\nold there came to the bedroom a man of ferocious manner, whose face,\nlike those of all with whom she had come in contact, was masked, and\nsnatching the child from the mother\u2019s arms, barbarously killed it.\n\nThe nurse, in her horror, swooned; and when she regained consciousness\nshe was being carried from a coach at the door of her own cottage.\nBefore she could recover her wits the coach had gone, and she was left\nunable to decide whether the whole affair was some horrid dream, or\nwhether she had really witnessed the terrible scene which had burnt\nitself into her memory.\n\nBut the discovery in her hand of the promised reward proved to her that\nit was no dream.\n\nFor some months the nurse kept her own counsel, fearful perhaps that\nshould she speak she would lose the big reward which she had received.\nBut at last, falling ill, and thinking herself about to die, she made\na full confession. Enquiries were made, and the woman taken at last to\nLittlecote, where she identified the very room in which the crime had\nbeen committed. As final proof the piece of curtain she had taken with\nher was found to fit a hole in one of the curtains of the room.\n\n\u201cWild Darrell,\u201d they say, was arrested and brought to trial; but he\nmanaged to save his life by bribery, giving his whole estate to the\njudge who tried him in order to secure acquittal. But he did not live\nlong after the trial. Still remaining in the neighbourhood, he gave\nhimself up to the wildest debauchery in an endeavour to escape from the\nghost of the murdered infant. Riding about the downs one night, they\ntell, the wraith of the child suddenly appeared in his path. His horse\nreared back in fright and threw its rider. The next morning they found\nhim where he had fallen, with his neck broken.\n\nThey say \u201cWild Darrell\u201d still rides the country-side of nights, and\nthat a baby\u2019s ghost for many years haunted an oak panelled room in\nLittlecote Manor. But you must please yourself whether to believe this\nor not.\n\nAt any rate Littlecote looks the sort of stately, romantic house that\nshould be haunted. It lies in the peaceful Kennet valley, close by that\nstream so famous for its trout.\n\nA mile or two away rise the fine open Marlborough Downs with their many\nrelics of ancient civilization. Three or four miles to the westward and\nyou are in glorious Savernake Forest with its silent glades and its\nworld famous avenues. Hungerford itself is a quiet, tidy little market\ntown, little known to the tourist, yet a wonderfully convenient centre\nfor visiting the country that surrounds it. Gallows-crowned Inkpen\nBeacon is but a few miles off, a hill that misses being a mountain by\nonly forty odd feet.\n\nThis is a magnificent country for the fisherman and the pedestrian; its\nhill tops are as lonely as the Welsh mountain summits, its leafy woods\nas unfrequented as an Alpine forest. Yet you may reach Hungerford in\nunder a couple of hours from London; see Littlecote, the scene of \u201cWild\nDarrell\u2019s\u201d terrible action, wander over the hills, and return to Town\nbetween breakfast time and dinner on a summer\u2019s day.\n\n[Illustration: _The Haunted Room at Littlecote._]\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: Several monks gathered outdoors, one singing and the\nothers singing other parts or listening.]\n\nA SONG OF THE XIII CENTURY.\n\n\nSomewhere about 700 years ago, a monk in famous Reading Abbey composed\na song in praise of Spring. Its words and music were written down at\nthe time and you may see them to-day at the British Museum.\n\nThat song--they call it our oldest song--was \u201cSumer is icumen in,\u201d and\nits author, antiquaries believe to have been, one John of Fornsete.\nThey say this famous ancient \u201cRound\u201d was written some time between 1226\nand 1240 when King Henry III was on the throne, and when the signing of\nMagna Carta was but a few years old in the memory of living men.\n\nThis is a wonderful old song, very simple, yet somehow bringing up a\npicture of the unchanging Spring as it came those centuries ago to the\nriver meadows of the silver Thames, that stretched away from Reading\u2019s\nmighty Abbey, then a comparatively modern building, little more than\na hundred years old. And some young brother, at work in the fields\nperhaps, overjoyed to see the sun and the green leaves again, finding\nexpression of his joy in song and music.\n\nTo-day you may still find many remains of that stately Abbey at\nReading, which became one of the richest in the land. Its inner gateway\nstill stands and its guest house, as well as many ivy clad ruins of its\nother buildings.\n\nAnd Reading, for all its busy modern life retains much of its old-world\natmosphere in its fine churches and queerly named streets. And here,\ntoo, you will find, in the Museum, relics of Roman Britain unequalled\nin England, for to Reading have been brought the treasures excavated at\nRoman Silchester a few miles away, the buried city sometimes called the\nBritish Pompeii.\n\nThe neighbourhood of Reading teems with objects of natural beauty and\nhistoric interest, which more than repay the examination of the visitor\nto this, at first sight, rather modest modern red brick country town.\nReading has seen in its time a very full share of England\u2019s history and\nromance.\n\n[Illustration: Original manuscript (six voices) of \u201cSumer is icumen in\u201d.]\n\n    NOTE.--The original composition of \u201cSumer is icumen in\u201d took six\n      persons to sing it. The modernised version given on the next\n      page is for a solo voice with pianoforte accompaniment. In it\n      the old wording has been slightly modernised, the only archaic\n      word occurring being \u201csterteth\u201d which means \u201cfrisketh,\u201d and\n      \u201cverteth\u201d now an obsolete term indicating to go to the vert or\n      the greenwood. \u201cSumer is icumen in\u201d means literally: Summer has\n      come in.\n\n    The old version with the ancient notation, English and Latin words,\n      and instructions as to singing, shows very much the form of the\n      original 13th century manuscript.\n\n[Illustration: _Newer version of song (one voice). Page 1 of 2._]\n[Illustration: _Newer version of song (one voice). Page 2 of 2._]\n\nSUMMER IS ICUMEN IN.\n\n    Joyously and with a good swing.\n\n    Sum-mer is i-cum-en in\n    Loud-ly sing cuc-koo.\n    Grow-eth seed and blow-eth mead,\n    And springs the wood-land new.\n    Sing cuc-koo.\n    Ewe now bleat-eth af-ter lamb,\n    Low-eth af-ter calf the cow.\n    Bull-ock stert-eth. Buck now vert-eth,\n    Mer-ri-ly sing, Cuc-koo! Cuc-koo! Cuc-koo!\n    Thou sing\u2019st well Cuc-koo,\n    Nor cease thou ne-ver now!\n\n[Illustration: _Ruins of Chapter House, Reading Abbey._]\n\n\n[Illustration: Map of central England and Wales showing the routes of\nthe Great Western Railway and highlighting some of the locations in\nthis book: Bisham Abbey (page 40), Littlecote Manor (page 48), Windsor\nForest (page 36), Guy\u2019s Cliff (page 24), Stanton Drew (page 44), Wookey\nHole (page 20), Reading (page 52).]\n\n[Illustration: Miniature of the front cover Illustration of Volume\nThree: fairies tending a garden]\n\n\n\n\nTRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTE\n\n\nObsolete, archaic and unusual spellings have been maintained as in the\noriginal book. Obvious typos have been fixed silently.\n\nThe cover page was produced at Distributed Proofreaders from material\nfound in this book. The cover is hereby placed in the public domain.\n\nThe author, \u201cLyonesse\u201d is a pen-name for George Basil Barham.","title":"Legend Land, Vol. 4: Being a Further Collection of Some of the Old Tales Told in Those Nearer Western Parts of Britain Served by the Great Western Railway","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":10408}