Tales and Legends of the English Lakes Part 16

She seemed to borrow from the wind its wings, When from its southern portal first it springs-- Flying, as borne upon the billowy air, Urged by distraction on, and blank despair.

Her base pursuer spurr'd by dire intent, Kept closely in the track the fair one went; Nor hurried much, but thought her failing feet Would soon r.e.t.a.r.d a course so wondrous fleet-- He thought aright, and in his felon arms, Pressed Henry's beauteous wife, half wild with dread alarms.

Scarce had he dared to grasp her sinking frame, When with the quickness of devouring flame, A furious wolf from out the bordering wood With eyes all glaring near Edwina stood-- The brindled hair rose stiff upon his chine, Of ghastly, deathful joy, the horrid sign; His clinging sides confessed his famished state, And his deep howl proclaimed a victim's fate.

The coward fled!--O! now my pen forbear, Nor with the shrieks of terror rend the air!-- The wolf's fell teeth--but O! I check the song, Nor can the horrid, agonizing chord prolong.

The savage, starting from his bleeding prey, Rush'd to his haunt, and briefly fled away; Approaching steps declared swift danger nigh, And forc'd--too late! the unglutted beast to fly.

Those steps were Henry's!--he first reached the spot, For him to reach it, was the dreadful lot!

He saw her marble bosom torn--her mangled head; He saw--mysterious fate! Edwina dead!

Those eyes were closed, whose rich and beamy light, Would shed a l.u.s.tre on pale Sorrow's night-- Dumb was that honied mouth, whose graceful speech, Beyond the schoolman's eloquence would reach!

The snowy arms which lately clasped her lord, Now streaked with flowing blood--O! thought abhorred!

Before his starting eyes, all lifeless hang, And give him more than death's last, rending pang.

His cries of agony spread o'er the plain, And reached the distant undulating main; His screams of anguish struck with terror more Than the lank wolf's most desolating roar.

Vain his attendants sooth--in vain they pray, In stormy grief he wearied down the day.

A furious maniac now he raged around, And tore the bushes from the embracing ground, Then spent, all p.r.o.ne upon the earth he fell, And from his eyes the gushing torrents swell; When sorrow could articulate its grief, When words allowed a transient short relief, "Woe to thee, Bank!" were the first sounds that burst, "And be thy soil with bitter offspring curst!

"Woe to thee, Bank, for thou art drunk with gore, "The purest heart of woman ever bore!"

"Woe to thee, Bank!" the attendants echoed round, And pitying shepherds caught the grief-fraught sound.

Thus, to this hour, through every changing age, Through ev'ry year's still ever-varying stage, The name remains; and Wo-to-Bank is seen, From ev'ry mountain bleak, and valley green-- Dim Skiddaw views it from his monstrous height, And eagles mark it in their dizzy flight; The Ba.s.senthwaite's soft murmurs sorrow round, And rocks of b.u.t.termere protect the ground, Rills of Helvellyn raging in their fall, Seem on Lodore's rough sympathy to call-- From peak to peak they wildly burst away, And form, with rushing tone, a hollow, dirge-like lay.

Not rocks, and cataracts and alps alone, Paint out the spot, and make its horrors known.

For faithful lads ne'er pa.s.s, nor tender maid, But the soft rite of tears is duly paid; Each can the story to the traveller tell, And on the sad disaster, pitying dwell-- Thus Wo-to-Bank, thou'rt known thy swains among, And now thou liv'st within an humble stranger's song!"

LADY EVA AND THE GIANT.

A LEGEND OF YEWDALE.

As you enter the romantic vale of Yewdale, about a quarter of a mile above the saw-mills, by looking over the hedge to your right, you may perceive, near to the verge of the precipitous bank of Yewdale Beck, and a few yards from the roadside, a long narrow mound which seems to be formed of solid stone covered with moss, but which a nearer inspection would show to be composed of several blocks fitted so closely together as to prove the mound to have had an artificial, and not a natural origin. You observe it is somewhere between three and four yards long.

That singular acc.u.mulation of lichen-clad rock has been known for centuries amongst the natives of Yewdale and the adjacent valleys, by the romance-suggesting designation of Girt Will's Grave. How it came by that name, and how Cauldron Dub and Yewdale Bridge came to be haunted, my task is now to tell.

Some few hundred years ago, the inhabitants of these contiguous dales were startled from their propriety, if they had any, by a report that one of the Troutbeck giants had built himself a hut, and taken up his abode in the lonely dell of the Tarns, above Yewdale Head. Of course you have read the history and exploits of the famous Tom Hickathrift, and remembering that he was raised at Troutbeck, you will not be much surprised when I tell you that it was always famous for a race of extraordinary size and strength; for even in these our own puny days, the biggest man in Westmoreland is to be found in that beautiful vale.

The excitement consequent upon the settlement of one of that gigantic race in this vicinity soon died away, and the object of it, who stood somewhere about nine feet six out of his clogs, if they were in fashion then, and was broad in fair proportion, became known to the neighbours as a capital labourer, ready for any such work as was required in the rude and limited agricultural operations of the period and locality--answered to the cognomen of "Girt (great) Will o' t' Tarns,"

and, once or twice, did good service as a billman under the Knight of Conistone, when he was called upon to muster his powers to a.s.sist in repelling certain roving bands of Scots or Irish, who were wont, now and again, to invade the wealthy plains of low Furness.

The particular Knight who was chief of the Flemings of Conistone, at the period of the giant's location at the Tarns, was far advanced in years, and, in addition to some six or eight gallant and stately sons, had

"One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved pa.s.sing well."

And Eva le Fleming, called by the country people "the Lady Eva," was famed throughout the broad north for her beauty and gentleness, her high-bred dignity and her humble virtues; but it is not with her that my story has to do. She, like the mother of "the gentle lady married to the Moor," had a maid called Barbara, an especial favourite with her mistress, and, in her own sphere, deemed quite as beautiful. In fact, it was hinted that, when she happened to be in attendance upon her lady on festive or devotional occasions, the eyes of even knights and well-born squires were as often directed to the maid as to the mistress, and seemed to express as much admiration in one direction as the other.

And when mounted on the Lady Eva's own palfrey, bedecked in its gayest trappings, she rode, as she oftentimes did, to visit her parents at Skelwith, old and young were struck with her beauty, and would turn, as she ambled past, to gaze after her, and to wonder at the elegance of her figure, the ease of her deportment, and the all-surpa.s.sing loveliness of her features. Her lady, notwithstanding the disparity of their rank, loved her as a sister, and it was whispered amongst her envious fellow-servants, that her mistress's fondness made her a.s.sume airs unbecoming her station. True enough it was that she seemed sufficiently haughty and scornful in her reception of the homage paid to her charms by the young men of her own rank, and by many above it. The only one to whom she showed the slightest courtesy on these occasions was wild d.i.c.k Hawksley, the Knight's falconer, and he was also the only one who appeared to care no more for her favours than for her frowns.

The Lady Eva, as well befits high-born dames, was somewhat romantic in her tastes, and would often row for hours upon the lake, and wander for miles through the woods, or even upon the mountains, unattended, save by her favourite bower-maiden. And one evening in autumn, after having been confined for two whole days to the hall, by heavy and incessant rain, tired of playing chess with her father, and battledore with her younger brothers, or superintending the needlework of her maids, and tempted by the brilliant moonlight and now un.o.bscured skies, she summoned Barbara, and set out upon a stroll by the lake side.

The pair were sauntering along a path cut through the dense coppice, the lady leaning in condescending affection upon the shoulder of her maiden, and listening to a recital of how, on her return from some of her visits to her parents, she had been waylaid by Great Will of the Tarns, and how on a recent evening he had attempted to seize her rein, and would have stopped her, had she not whipped the palfrey and bounded past him.

The lady was expressing her indignation at this insolence, when a gigantic figure sprang upon the pathway, and, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the screaming Barbara with the same ease with which she herself would have lifted an infant, vanished on the instant amongst the thick hazels.

The Lady Eva stood for a minute struck powerless with terror and astonishment at this audacious outrage; but the sound of the monster crashing his headlong course through the coppice, and the half-stifled screams of his captive, soon recalled her suspended faculties, and then

"Fair" Eva "through the hazel-grove Flew, like a startled cushat dove,"

back to the hall, where, breathless with terror and exertion, she gave the alarm that Barbara had been carried off by the giant. There was noisy and instantaneous commotion amongst the carousing gentles at the upper, and the loitering lacqueys at the lower end of the hall. d.i.c.k Hawksley, and a few more, darted off in immediate pursuit on foot, while several rushed to the stables, in obedience to the call of their young masters, who were, one and all, loudly vociferating for their horses.

Scarce a minute pa.s.sed, ere half a dozen Flemings, attended by as many mounted followers, were spurring like lightning through the wood in the direction of Yewdale. They came in sight of the giant and his burthen as he neared Cauldron Dub, with the light-heeled falconer close behind, calling loudly upon him to stay his flight; but he held on with tremendous strides, till he reached the brow over the pool, when, finding that the hors.e.m.e.n were close upon him, and that it was hopeless to try to carry his prize farther, he stopped--uttered one terrible shout of rage and disappointment--and whirled his shrieking victim into the flooded beck, resuming his now unenc.u.mbered flight with increased speed.

d.i.c.k Hawksley rushed over the bank a little lower down, and the hors.e.m.e.n, abandoning the chase, galloped to the brink of the stream, which was high with the recent rains. They saw the falconer plunge into the torrent, as the bower maiden, yet buoyant with her light garments, was borne rapidly down. They saw him seize her with one hand, and strike out gallantly for the bank with the other, but the current was too strong for him, enc.u.mbered as he was with the girl in his grasp. The devoted pair were swept down the stream, at a rate that made the spectators put their horses to a gallop to keep them in sight, even while the exertions of the brave falconer sufficed to sustain their heads above water, which was only till they came under the bridge, where the water, pent in by the narrow arch, acquired four-fold force, and there they heard him utter a hoa.r.s.e cry of despair, and the gallant Hawksley and the Lady Eva's beauteous favourite were seen no more, till their bodies were found, days after, on the sh.o.r.e far down the lake.

One or two of the hors.e.m.e.n continued to gallop down the side of the beck, in the bootless hope of being able even yet to render them some aid, but the most of them turned their horses' heads, and went off once more at their utmost speed in pursuit of the murderous giant. He, considering the chase at an end, had slackened his pace, and they were not long in overtaking him. Great Will struck out manfully with his club (time out of mind the giant's favourite weapon) as they rushed upon him, but they speedily surrounded him, and, amid a storm of vengeful yells and bitter execrations, the Giant of the Tarns was stretched upon the sward, "with the blood running like a little brook" from a hundred wounds; for he was so frightfully slashed and mangled by their swords, that, as my informant naively averred, there was not so much whole skin left upon his huge body as would have made a tobacco-pouch.

It will be apparent enough to the most obtuse intellect, that, after such events as these, the localities where they occurred must, of necessity, be haunted; and, as the ghosts of murderers, as well as of murderees, if they be right orthodox apparitions, always appear to be re-enacting the closing scene of their earthly career, it is scarcely required of me to dilate farther upon the manner of their appearance. Of course I do not expect, and certainly do not wish to be called upon to prove the even-down truth of every particular of the story, with which I have been doing my little best to amuse you; but the a.s.sured fact of the Dub and the bridge being haunted, and that by sundry most pertinacious spirits, I am ready to maintain against all comers.

KIRKBY LONSDALE BRIDGE.

A LEGEND.

Near to the bridge which crosses the Lune, not far from Kirkby Lonsdale, the scenery is truly romantic. The river, which is here of considerable width, winds through the bottom of the valley, and is overshadowed by the trees that grow upon its banks. Its current is roughened by the rocks which form its bed, some of which stand up in huge moss-grown blocks in the midst of the stream. The water is clear to a great depth, and the steep gra.s.sy banks, and abundance of trees which close in the prospect, give it an air of seclusion. This stream is plentifully stocked with trout and salmon, and here the angler may sit and watch the gilded fly with a devotion worthy of a Davy or a Walton.

The singular construction of the bridge renders it an object of curiosity; and when viewed in connection with the river and valley of the Lune, it forms one of the most romantic prospects on which the eye can dwell. It is composed of three beautifully ribbed arches, the centre one rising to the height of thirty-six feet above the stream. It is a lofty, firm and handsome structure, but so narrow as almost to deserve the taunt cast upon the "auld brig of Ayr:"--

"Where twa wheelbarrows trembled when they met:" at least no two carriages of a larger size can pa.s.s each other; but, for the security of the foot pa.s.sengers, there are angular recesses in the battlements, corresponding with the projecting piers.

Antiquity has cast her veil over this erection, and a consequent obscurity envelopes its history. If, however, we may rely on popular tradition, the building is to be ascribed to an unmentionable personage; of whom it is said, "that he built the bridge one windy night, and that in fetching the stones from a distance, he let fall the last ap.r.o.nfull as he flew over a fell hard by." This gentleman has been "a bridge-builder," "time out of mind," notwithstanding the improbability of his employing "himself in works of so much real utility to men." Such an historical fact may, however, account for the huge blocks of stone found in various parts of the neighbouring moors.

"Still grand, and beautiful, and good, Has Lonsdale bridge unshaken stood, And scorned the swollen, raging flood, For many ages; Though antiquaries, who have tried Some date to find, in vain have pryed In ancient pages.

Then hear what old tradition says:-- Close by the Lune in former days Lived an old maid, queer all her ways, In Yorkshire bred; Though now forgot what she was named, For cheating she was always famed, 'Tis truly said.

She had a cow, a pony too; When o'er the Lune, upon the brow, Had pa.s.sed one night these fav'rites two, 'Twas dark and rainy; Her cow was o'er, she knew her bellow, Her pony too, poor little fellow, She heard him whinny.

Alack, alack a day! she cries, As overflowed her streaming eyes, When lo! with her to sympathise, Old Nick appears; 'Pray, now, good woman, don't despair, But lay aside all anxious care, And wipe your tears.

'To raise a bridge I will agree, That in the morning you shall see, But mine for e'er the first must be That pa.s.ses over; So by these means you'll soon be able To bring the pony to his stable, The cow her clover.'

In vain were sighs and wailings vented, So she at last appeared contented, It was a bargain, she consented, For she was Yorkshire; Now home she goes in mighty glee, Old Satan, too, well pleased he, Went to his work, Sir.

When Ilus' son surrounded Troy With walls that nothing might destroy, Two G.o.ds some time he did employ, But never paid 'em; Here Satan, certain of his prize, With building made a desp'rate noise, So fast he laid on.

In short, the morning streaks appear, The bridge is built and Satan there, When this old lady now drew near, Her lap-dog with her; 'Behold the bridge,' the tempter cries, 'Your cattle, too, before your eyes, So hie you thither.'

But mark! she well the bargain knew, A bun then from her pocket drew, And showed it first to little Cue, Then overthrew it; Now flew the bun, now ran the dog, For eager was the mangy rogue, Nor stood to view it.

'Now, crafty Sir, the bargain was, That you should have what first did pa.s.s Across the bridge, so now, alas!

The dog's your right,'

The cheater cheated, struck with shame, Squinted and grinned, then in a flame He vanished quite."