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
Date: 2022-01-16T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Folklore -- England; Tales -- England; Folk literature; English

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Legend Land, Vol. 4

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Title: Legend Land, Vol. 4

Author: G. Basil Barham

Release date: January 16, 2022 [eBook #67176]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: The Great Western Railway, 1923

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67176

Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEGEND LAND, VOL. 4 ***

LEGEND LAND

Being a further collection of some of the Old Tales told in those nearer Western Parts of Britain served by the Great Western Railway

Volume Four   Price Sixpence

[Click on the map to see higher resolution version.]

LEGEND LAND

Being a further collection of some of the OLD TALES told in those nearer Western Parts of Britain served by the GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY, now retold by LYONESSE

VOLUME FOUR

Published in 1923 by

THE GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY
[FELIX J. C. POLE, GENERAL MANAGER]
PADDINGTON STATION, LONDON

CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS

Contents and Illustrations | Page 2
Foreword | 3
The Whispering Knights | 4
The Shadow Curse of the Raggedstone | 8
How Bath was Discovered | 12
King Arthur’s Camelot | 16
The Witch of Wookey | 20
Guy of Guy’s Cliff | 24
The Ghostly Bishop of Fingest | 28
Wayland Smith and His Cave | 32
Herne the Hunter | 36
The Ghost of Bisham Abbey | 40
The Evil Wedding of Stanton Drew | 44
The Story of Wild Darrell | 48
Sumer is icumen in (Supplement) | 52

This is a reprint in book form of the fourth series of The Line to Legend Land leaflets, together with a Supplement, “Sumer is icumen in,” the oldest English song.

The Map at the beginning forms a guide to the localities of the first six legends, that at the back to the remainder.

Printed by Kelly & Kelly,
Moor Lane, London, E.C.2

FOREWORD

Volume Four brings Legend Land nearer to the great centres of modern life. It comprises some of the old stories told of districts within easy reach of such busy cities as London, Birmingham and Bristol.

In it you will find historic and pre-historic romance mingled. Some of its tales are as old as any in our land, tales born of the very ancient belief that saw in “Druid” stones a human origin. Other stories are romances of much later date, of events almost within the memory of our great-grandparents’ great-grandparents.

Here you will find two legends that come from Shakespeare’s land, legends that must have been well known to that great lover and teller of old tales. And in the legend of Herne the Hunter you will recognise a story which Shakespeare himself told in “The Merry Wives of Windsor.” And it was probably an old tale when he repeated it.

In “King Arthur’s Camelot” you meet with a very old legend of that great hero of British historical romance; and in the story of “Wayland Smith” you get an echo of the lore of the old Pagan gods which invading Anglo-Saxon tribes brought to England soon after the Romans left it.

Manners and customs change; the old creeds die as the new ones arise, yet—and it is very wonderful to realize it—some of the old stories have survived every phase of the passing centuries’ intolerance of the past, and are told to-day in a form not so very different from that in which they were first narrated by our semi-savage ancestors, over their camp fires in the heart of primeval English forests.

But civilization is “improving” away romance very rapidly. And it is worth while to hang on fast to the last remaining shreds of those other days when life, though ruder, had more time for simple dreams of wonderful things.

LYONESSE

THE WHISPERING KNIGHTS.

High up on an outlying spur of the Cotswold hills, where Warwickshire and Oxfordshire meet, there is a sort of miniature Stonehenge, known as the Rollright Stones; and the Story they tell about them is that they were once a king and his courtiers who, by evil spells, were changed suddenly into Stone.

The Rollrights are scattered about the hill top, seven hundred feet above sea-level, a mile or so from the quiet village of Little Compton. And this is the old Story of how they came there.

Ever so long ago there came marching over the hills a king and his army bent upon the conquest of England. As they neared the summit of the hill the king was met by a witch who told him that he had nearly achieved his desire. She spoke in rhyme, and her words are remembered in the neighbourhood even now.

“If Long Compton you can see,

King of England you shall be,”

she said. The king rushed forward, but, owing to treachery on the part of some of his men, his view of Long Compton, which lies in the valley below, was impeded.

Then the witch turned to him with a croaking laugh, and muttered:

“As Long Compton you can’t see

King of England you shan’t be.

Rise up stick, and stand still stone,

For King of England you shall be none.

You and your men hoar stones shall be

And I myself an elder tree.”

The unfortunate king, although within a few paces of a spot from which he might have viewed Long Compton and so become ruler of this realm, was unable to move a step further. His joints became stiff, his energy left him, and in a few minutes he had turned into stone. And there you may see him to-day as “the King Stone,” a grey weathered monolith standing stark in a field, but in a place from which Long Compton is invisible.

But his treacherous supporters who had hindered him from success did not escape. The old story tells that there were five knights who led the company. Seeing their leader’s strange fate, they tried to escape. But the same doom overtook them. A few hundred yards from the “King Stone” is a group of five large upright slabs. These are the “Whispering Knights,” turned to stone in the very act of conspiring against their king.

Nearer to the silent king is a circle of stones, once his faithless soldiers, and all about grow elder trees, said to be descendants of that witch who was herself transformed into an elder after her magic spell had worked upon the king and his men. They tell you that if you stick a knife into these elders you will sometimes draw blood.

The Rollright Stones form a weird relic of some long forgotten time. Men have written of their strange appearance throughout many centuries. Bede called them the second wonder of the kingdom. Whether the legend of their formation be true or not, it must have been some very important event that caused them to be erected.

You may best reach them from Rollright station on the line between Banbury and Chipping Norton, and if you dare venture up to visit them on a moonlight night, they say you may find the fairies at their revels, dancing all about.

This is a peaceful English country of hill and vale, fine country estates—Compton Winyates with its matchless Tudor mansion is near at hand—and little churches, rich in architecture, that will repay a visit. Here you are on the outskirts of Shakespeare’s land, real generous England, full of history, that has not changed so very much since the spacious days of Elizabeth—the England that the English tourist all too seldom sees.

The King Stone.

THE SHADOW CURSE OF THE RAGGEDSTONE.

Near the middle of England, where the Malvern Hills rise abruptly to a height of nearly 1,400 feet above the sea, is the double-peaked rugged Raggedstone hill about which several strange old legends centre. A restless spirit is said to haunt the bleaker portions of the summit, but a stranger legend is that of the Shadow Curse, called down upon this hill by a monk of Little Malvern in the olden time.

Little Malvern lies in the plain at the foot of these hills, and at the Benedictine monastery there, as the old story tells, there was once a rebellious brother. His offences against the monastic discipline were so serious that the Prior decreed, as his punishment, that he should crawl on hands and knees every day and in all weather, for a certain period, from the monastery to the top of the Raggedstone and back again.

The wretched monk had to obey, and day after day, week after week, he performed his penance. But the pain and degradation of his task embittered him, and they say that before his punishment was completed he died upon the hill of exhaustion and humiliation. Others say that he sold his soul to the devil in order to be free of his hated task, but anyhow before he disappeared from human ken, he put a bitter curse upon the hill that had caused him so much suffering.

He cursed with death or misfortune whomsoever the shadow of the hill should fall upon, having in mind that in those days of sparsely populated land the people who would suffer most would be the Prior and his brethren in the monastery beneath.

Now the shadow of the Raggedstone is very seldom seen. Only at rare times when the sun is shining between the twin peaks does it appear, and those who have seen it describe it as a weird cloud, black and columnar in shape, which rises up between the two summits and moves slowly across the valley.

Many stories were told, in times past, of the misfortunes that happened to those upon whom this uncanny shadow fell; and it is recorded that Cardinal Wolsey was once caught by this weird cloud, and to that the old folk attributed the misfortune that came to the proud man when at the height of his power.

Wolsey in his early days was a tutor to the Nanfan family whose house was at Birts Morton Court, a couple of miles from the foot of Raggedstone. The young tutor fell asleep in the orchard one day, and awoke suddenly, shivering, to find the strange unearthly shadow moving across the trees.

Much of Little Malvern Priory, the home of that miserable monk of long ago, remains to-day. Its domestic buildings are almost intact, with amazing good fortune having escaped the common fate of such edifices. There are, too, the old monkish fish ponds, now lily spangled in spring time, and an old preaching cross. The parish church is part of the old priory church and contains a finely carved rood screen and some most interesting stained glass.

Great Malvern, some three miles away, clinging as it were to the side of the great Worcestershire Beacon, is a place with world-wide fame. It, too, has its great priory church, and all the attractions and conveniences of a favourite inland resort.

But the chiefest charm of the Malverns—there are seven of them—is their hills. These form a glorious range, of varying barren and wooded mountainous country, flung as it were as a far outpost beyond Severn of the wild Welsh mountains many miles to the westward.

The view from these Malvern Hills is, perhaps, unequalled. They say nobody knows exactly how much of England and Wales can be seen from them. Fifteen counties are certain, and in that range is included the Wrekin, the Mendips, and the Welsh mountains as far as Plinlimmon.

On the fine upstanding Herefordshire Beacon is, perhaps, the best specimen of an ancient British camp that we have. Tradition says that here Caractacus defended himself from the Romans.

It was “on a May morning on Malverene Hulles” that Piers Plowman had that vision of which Langland wrote five hundred and more years ago.

Few centres in our country offer such varied scope to the holiday-maker as the Malverns, where nature and history vie with one another in the matter of attractions.

The fresh upland air is tonic and health-giving. That weird dark shadow of the Raggedstone can never have fallen here, or, if it have, its mystical power has become impotent by reason of the many beauties of the place.

The Malvern Hills.

HOW BATH WAS DISCOVERED.

Some people may tell you that the Romans discovered Bath, but the old story gives the honour to a British Prince, Bladud, who is, variously, said to have been the father of King Lear, and the eldest son of King Lud. Like these two illustrious monarchs, Bladud came in time to be king of Britain. But that was after he had passed through a very sad experience.

Prince Bladud, as was becoming the eldest son of a king, spent many years in Athens studying the liberal arts and sciences. But, alas! while in Greece he became a leper, and on his return to Britain he had to be shut away from his fellow-men, for fear that he should infect them with the dreaded disease.

The Prince bore his confinement patiently for a time, but at last it became unendurable, and he escaped in disguise, and went out into the world to forget his royal birth and to earn his living as best he could. His wanderings brought him to the hamlet of Swainswick, a few miles from where Bath now stands, and there he found the only occupation given to one afflicted as he was, that of a swineherd.

Here for some time he carried on his lowly duties, content to be a free man, no matter how humble his station in life. And they say that early one winter’s morning when he was out in the neighbouring woods with his pigs, the animals suddenly became restive. Before he could stop them a large part of the herd had taken panic and rushed furiously down a hill-side into a swamp, at the foot where they began to wallow in the mud.

Bladud pursued them, wondering that pigs should seek to roll in cold muddy water on a winter’s day. But when he reached them, he found, to his surprise, that the water and slime in which they rolled was hot, and that steam arose from the marsh. This explained the problem to the Prince, though he marvelled greatly at the existence of such springs.

But there was another surprise in store for him. He noticed that those pigs that habitually went to the hot swamp were in ill-health and afflicted, somewhat like himself, with skin diseases. After a short time they became fat and well, their coats as clean and glossy as any in the herd.

“If this marvel can come to base animals,” Bladud mused, “why should it not come to me?” So he determined to try the effect of the hot springs upon his own complaint, and after a few weeks’ bathing in them, to his intense joy, he found his leprosy leaving him. By summer he was cured completely of his affliction, and he returned to the king, his father, to announce his good fortune.

King Lud, who had mourned him as dead, was over-joyed to see his eldest son again; more joyful still to find him cured. So Bladud resumed his duties at Court, and in due time, when Lud died, he became King of Britain. Then it was, as a token of gratitude, and that others might benefit from the miraculous waters he had found, that he built a great city on the scene of his cure, and that city we know to-day as Bath.

Of course, when the Romans came, they were delighted to find this wonderful “spa” as we call it. They put up great buildings, and their chief men visited Aquæ Sulis, as they called it, to be cured of gout and rheumatism, and a score of other complaints. And because of the wonderful buildings they left behind them—and many of them remain to this day—people, who do not know the old story, say that they founded the city.

But no matter who really did found it, we know that for nearly 2,000 years people have been visiting Bath and finding a cure there which they have sought elsewhere in vain.

Bath is a wonderful city set in glorious surroundings, and you need not be an invalid to enjoy a visit there. With its memories and relics of Beau Nash, and the spacious days of the eighteenth century; its wonderful old Abbey Church, its Roman remains and its sunny sheltered walks, Bath is an amazingly attractive place in which to spend a holiday. The country round about is full of interest, the town possesses every attraction a holiday resort should possess.

Of its waters, let the doctors speak. They will speak of them as enthusiastically as Bladud must have done, and tell you that, in Bath, you may find all the benefits that so many people travel hundreds of miles to Continental spas to seek.

Roman Remains at Bath.

KING ARTHUR’S CAMELOT.

This is the story the people of the country-side have been telling from time out of memory. Very learned men have disputed their facts and warred and wrangled over great Arthur’s history, and you must please yourself which side you take, but this is a story of Cadbury Castle, which tradition holds was King Arthur’s Camelot, where that famous hero:

“ ... kept his Court Royall
with his fair Queen, Dame Guinevere the gay:

And many bold Barons, sitting in hall

With ladies attired in purple and pall....”

And it was here, too, that was installed the immortal Round Table, with the chivalrous knights that sat about it.

You will find this Camelot a mile or two from Sparkford station, between Castle Cary and Yeovil, on the main line from Paddington to Weymouth. It is a great rounded hill seared with ancient ramparts and ditches, and crowned by a mound which was King Arthur’s palace.

They will tell you that Cadbury Castle is slowly sinking into the earth; that at one time it was vastly bigger. But they will tell you, too, that King Arthur has not forgotten his old home, and that he and his knights may often be seen galloping round the old fortifications on moonlight nights, mounted on gallant chargers shod with silver shoes.

And should you doubt this, antiquarian records will prove you wrong; for on the hill some years ago, a silver horseshoe was dug up.

From Cadbury a faint path may still be distinguished running towards Glastonbury—you can see Glastonbury Tor from the top of Cadbury Castle—and along this track, if you are lucky, you may sometimes see the great King, a sad expression on his face, his knights with their attendant squires in his train, riding back to fabled Avalon, which is Glastonbury, and his tomb in the abbey there beside that of Queen Guinevere.

It was from Cadbury, when Camelot’s towers crowned the hill, that the knights set out on their quest of the Holy Grail.

You will not find it hard to believe these old legends, if you sit for awhile in the silence and peace of the great earth bulwarks of Cadbury Castle and look out across the pleasing country beneath you. You can almost hear the faint jingle of harness in the air, and the soft whisperings of dead and gone men and women who had looked upon Arthur himself.

Apart from its legendary interest, Cadbury Castle is one of the most remarkable places in all Somersetshire. Four high earth walls surround the hill, the innermost faced with stone. Within the lowest rampart you will find King Arthur’s well; on the hill side strange terraces that were once, they will tell you, shady gardens where fair ladies walked in the cool of a summer’s evening.

The little stream, the Cam, flows from the foot of the hill, and close at hand are the villages of Queen Camel and West Camel, again suggesting the old name of Cadbury.

But Somersetshire is steeped in Arthurian legendary lore. In the far north of the county near Clevedon another Cadbury disputes with our hill the honour of having borne upon it Camelot. And Glastonbury, almost midway between the two, is the very centre of Arthurian romance.

Around the history of the great King has arisen so much controversy that you must read the experts for yourself and make your own choice. And what could provide a more glorious holiday amusement than a quiet journey through this, King Arthur’s own, land on a pilgrimage to the many beautiful places it holds that commemorate in name and tradition the life of the greatest hero of romance in Western literature?

Cadbury Castle.

THE WITCH OF WOOKEY.

Nobody knows how long ago it was when the Witch of Wookey was alive, but she was a terribly hideous person, and she did all sorts of horrible things until a monk of Glastonbury Abbey decided that she had wrought quite enough evil, and determined to rid Somersetshire of her baleful presence.

She lived in a grim cavern a mile or so from that wonderful cathedral city of Wells, and to this day you may visit Wookey Hole, her habitation, and see the very rightful fate that overcame this wicked woman. As an old poet wrote of her:

“Deep in the dreary, dismal cell,
Which seemed, and was ycleped hell,
This blear-eyed hag did hide.”

They say that in her youth, she was a very beautiful woman, yet no man fell in love with her, and so, becoming embittered, she made a bargain with the powers of evil, so that she might wreak her vengeance upon all mankind for the slight, she held, they had put upon her.

The devil gave her nine imps to assist her in her wicked work, and she, with her loathly helpers, sat in Wookey Hole, plotting misery for all the country-side. She blighted the crops, sent murrain among the flocks and herds, wove spells that created suspicion in happy homes and turned family love into violent hatred. But particularly the witch delighted to cause lovers’ quarrels. It was a happy day in Wookey Hole in those times, when one of the demons had caused a country lass and her swain to quarrel on the eve of their wedding. Then it was that the sounds of demoniac laughter that issued from the cavern were at their loudest.

But all this sorrow that fell upon the people touched the heart of a young monk of Glastonbury. He had been disappointed in love, and had found consolation in the cloister; but he was determined that others’ lives should not be similarly ruined if he could help it. So he went up to Wookey to beard the hag in her den.

No other possessed such courage, and the young monk went alone. He approached the place chanting a psalm, then, with holy water, he sprinkled the outside of the cavern and began the old service of exorcism. There was tremendous confusion within the cave at this unexpected intrusion. The witch rallied her servants around her and started out to do great violence to this reckless priest; but before she emerged, the monk, singing a “Paternoster,” fearlessly entered the “Hole.”

He sprinkled with holy water all that he encountered—and all that the miraculous liquid touched turned to stone. Never from that moment did any further evil issue from the cave at Wookey.

And, to-day, if you go there, you may see, as they have been these many centuries past, the petrified witch in her kitchen, cut off suddenly by this good brother of Glastonbury in the very midst of her wickedness, with her various household utensils, also turned into stone, all about her. Anyone may enter Wookey Hole now, and emerge unharmed.

Wells is your best centre for visiting Wookey. The city itself with its splendid cathedral, its ancient houses and its moated Episcopal Palace, is one of the most interesting in all England.

Glastonbury is near at hand, with the remains of its great abbey from which the good monk came, and its marvellous thorn tree, as legend has it, sprung from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea, who, having wandered from the Holy Land, decided to end his days in this pleasant place.

This is traditional Avalon, a town, perhaps, richer in history and romance than any other in our land. King Arthur and Guinevere his queen, they say, were buried within the walls of the ancient abbey over which, as the old tale tells, St. Patrick and St. Benedict once presided as Abbots.

And, should you weary of history, there are all the natural beauties of the Mendip hills for you to explore; for both Wells and Glastonbury lie on the slopes of this beautiful range.

Few places in Europe have so much of interest to offer the visitor as Wells and Glastonbury and that pleasing country all around, over which, in the dark ages, the Witch of Wookey wielded her gruesome sway.

Wookey Hole.

GUY, OF GUY’S CLIFF.

Some people may tell you that there never was such a person as the valiant Guy, Earl of Warwick, who slew the terrible Dun Cow that terrorized middle England in the old days, and, single handed, defeated the giant Colbrond, and cut off his head. But if you go to Warwick’s beautiful castle you may see, to-day, the brave Guy’s armour, and some bones of the ferocious cow. And there is the old tale of Guy, handed down for centuries, to prove that this mighty warrior really did live.

This is the old tale. After Guy had slain the Dun Cow, and had been to the Holy Land on a pilgrimage, he returned in disguise, and unrecognised, feeling that he wished to withdraw from the world and live a secluded life as a hermit. But before he did so he undertook the slaying of the giant Colbrond. Having killed this monster and cut off his head, he slipped away quietly and wandered slowly to his home at Warwick.

There his wife, the good Lady Phyllis, awaited his return from Palestine. She had no idea that he was home again, nor did she recognise him in his rough pilgrim’s dress when he, together with other wayfarers, presented himself in the Great Hall and received from her own hands the alms that she gave daily to the poor.

And Guy did not announce his identity. Instead, he passed on and sought out a hermit who lived in a cave near by, seeking spiritual comfort from the holy man.

After Guy had been with the hermit a very short time, that pious man died; and Guy decided to take his place. And so, for two years, this once mighty warrior lived the hard, austere life of a recluse in a bare cell, only a mile or two from his own proud castle.

But death was creeping upon him. And, when he realized that he had but a few hours more to live, he sent, by a trusty messenger, his wedding ring to the Lady Phyllis, begging her to come and take charge of his burial. She came at once, all filled with fear and distress, bringing with her the bishop and high clergy of the diocese. But there they found the great Guy, dead, on the steps of the altar of his little chapel. And there they buried him, and, only a few weeks later, the Lady Phyllis by his side, for she too died swiftly, of a broken heart.

And the old story is still told about the country-side to show how one who had fame, great wealth, high position, and love, sacrificed it all for the lowly yet holy calling of a simple heremite.

All this happened so long ago that nobody knows exactly when it was, but you may still see at Guy’s Cliff, that beautiful old place a short walk from Warwick, the cave in the rock where the hermit and Guy lived. And in the little chapel of St. Mary Magdalene there, you will see carved in the living rock a mighty figure, eight feet high, of the fearless Guy; though time has wrought much damage to this strange effigy.

Warwick and Leamington are both close at hand; Warwick, one of the most picturesque towns in the whole country with Shakespeare’s Avon flowing gently by it, and the grim and wonderful Warwick Castle with its grounds stretching to the river’s edge. And Leamington, that bright clean-streeted spa, with its healing waters, and its quiet atmosphere of other days, when our great-grandfathers posted to it from all parts of the country to drink the waters and to indulge in the gaiety of the latest and most fashionable of inland watering-places.

All round about is the rich leafy England that Shakespeare knew so well. Stratford-on-Avon is but eight miles away. Shottery—the village of Shakespeare’s wife, where Anne Hathaway’s charming little cottage still stands—Henley-in-Arden, Charlecote, and Hampton Lucy; pretty historic names we know so well, are all in the neighbourhood.

This country has a sixteenth century atmosphere even now. It is one that the foreign visitor seldom misses; yet the British tourist knows all too little of it and its peculiar rural beauty and charm.

Guy’s Cliff Caves.

THE GHOSTLY BISHOP OF FINGEST.

Nestling under the Chiltern Hills, at the head of the quiet Hambleden valley, through which a tiny stream runs to join the Thames a couple of miles or so below Henley, is the sleepy little village of Fingest, where, in days gone by, the Bishops of Lincoln had a palace.

One of these prelates, Bishop Burghersh, lies buried here, but they say that he does not rest quietly in the tomb in which they laid him, with pomp and ceremony, these five hundred years and more since. For Burghersh in life was not all that a bishop should be.

Burghersh was more a prince of the Church than a humble shepherd of souls, and his worldly ambition led him to adopt the most unworthy means in order to aggrandize his estate. He played the haughty tyrant over the simple timid villagers, and shamelessly grabbed here a piece and there a piece of the common land to add to his own park, and to provide him with the hunting that he loved more than the services of the Church.

And very stern was Burghersh, too, in upholding the game laws. The wretched peasant caught poaching on land which was justly his was given little mercy. The bishop’s foresters had the strictest orders to keep the villagers in their place—which was the other side of the Episcopal fence.

But at length Burghersh died, and they buried him with all the elaborate ritual of those far away days; and the village folk were not, perhaps, so sorry as they pretended to be, for at last, they thought, they were rid of their tyrant neighbour and looked for better times under his successor. But they were wrong.

Bishop Burghersh, in death, so the story goes, developed the conscience he had never known in life. He could not rest in peace.

Soon the rumour began to spread about the lonely country-side of a ghostly wanderer with the dead bishop’s face and voice, but clad as a keeper or forester, who glided among the trees of the Episcopal park, and put himself in the way of passers by begging them to help him find repose.

Not until all the land that he had stolen from the people, to enlarge his park, was returned to the rightful owners could he cease his nightly wanderings, he said. He appeared to his successors, beseeching them, for his soul’s sake, to dispark the ill-gotten land, but they would not listen to him. Instead they tried to put him to rest with chaunt and prayer; but this was unavailing.

Time went by, and others held the bishop’s land, and held fast to it, despite the ceaseless pleadings of the unhappy wraith, and even to this day they will tell you, sometimes floating along by the hedge of some quiet meadow, or flitting between the trees in a lonely copse, you may see a pale, sad-faced form in Lincoln green, seeking someone who will listen to his weary appeal, and return to the people the common land which he enclosed in the days when Edward III. was King of England.

Fingest to-day, you will find, a very charming little place amid woods and hills. Its fine old church has not changed much since Bishop Burghersh lived his selfish life in this quiet vale. There are traces of Saxon work in the Church, masonry that was three or four hundred years old in the bishop’s time, and an unusual tower of great age and height, ending in twin red gables, rises high above the little church.

Down the valley you come, in a few miles, to Hambleden, with its picturesque old manor house, and a little further on to a beautiful reach of the Thames, midway between Henley and Medmenham, with its old abbey and its memories of the eighteenth century “Hell Fire Club,” and the grim stories told of the wild and extravagant doings of its dissolute members.

Or go north from Fingest up through the beech woods and leafy lanes of the Chilterns, or west, till you rise, in a few miles, to six or seven hundred feet above sea level in a country that is as remote and unspoilt as you can wish.

All this you may reach from London in a summer day’s trip. Strike north from Henley or west from High Wycombe, or West Wycombe, and you will soon find yourself among little forgotten villages set among the woods where the Chilterns slope down to the Thames, amid scenery that is as charming as any England can show.

Ruins of Fingest Palace, and Fingest Church.

WAYLAND SMITH AND HIS CAVE.

It was such a long time ago since Wayland Smith came into this country that even the most learned men are uncertain as to his origin. He came, they think, as Weland, a heathen god, kinsman of Thor, the Scandinavian God of Thunder; and for many years he was a being of great importance in Pagan England. But he fell upon bad times.

Weland seems to have been a hard-working and humble deity, and when men would no longer work for him, he had to work for them. And very good work he did, too, it seems. Perhaps, in his better days, he made Thor’s hammers for him; anyhow, when he came down in the world, he took to the blacksmith’s trade.

You will come across traces of poor Weland in many parts of the country, but nowhere will you find a stranger relic of his working days than in his smithy—Wayland Smith’s cave they call it now—quite close to the side of that ancient track-way that skirts the summit of the Berkshire Downs above the White Horse Vale.

The road, the Ridgeway, was old when the Romans came. And perhaps it was because of its popularity that Wayland Smith started his business near at hand. Anyhow there is his cave to this day, a strange erection of two great upright stones surmounted by a third, and there, the old story tells, he shod the horses of any who would employ him, at less than market rate, so long as they carried out a perfectly simple arrangement.

Naturally enough, since once he had been a god and had had men and horses sacrificed to him, Weland’s pride would not permit him to come out and tout for trade; so it was well understood that should you wish his services you placed a silver penny upon a flat stone near the cave, left your horse by it, then went away and sat down out of sight for ten minutes.

Soon you would hear the sound of hammer and anvil, and presently, when you returned, you would find your horse well shod—and your penny gone. Weland was very particular about that penny; he would take neither more nor less for his work, and unless that actual sum was placed upon the stone you might wait in vain. He would have no dealings with you.

Nowadays silver pennies are out of fashion and a sixpenny piece is the proper fee. And, though few travellers use the old Ridgeway in these times, there are some who believe that, if you have faith, you may still have your horse shod for sixpence, high up there on the lonely downs, if you carry out the proper procedure.

You come to the cave from Shrivenham station, a few miles east of Swindon; thence the Lambourn road will lead you straight up on to the downs. On the summit you will find the soft-turfed Ridgeway, which you must follow to the left and you will come in a short time to Wayland Smith’s lonely abode.

If you continue still further along the old way, you find yourself at mysterious Uffington Castle, the gaunt earthwork from which Alfred the Great routed the Danish invaders over a thousand years ago. Here you are eight hundred odd feet above the sea, and on camp-crowned Whitehorse Hill, on the side of which is the famous White Horse that names both the hill and the vale beneath. Alfred caused this horse to be cut in the close turf, they say, to commemorate his great victory over the invading Danes; for this, historians will tell you, is Aeschendune, the scene of Alfred’s mighty and triumphant battle.

East, south and west, the bare downs stretch, away from you for miles, hiding in their folds little lonely villages, fertile and sheltered, and bearing on their summits a thousand memorials of the early peoples that went to make up our English race.

Here is a holiday country of which few tourists know; a wide open upland district of keen fresh winds, and sweet soft turf, where you may wander for hours with nothing but the grazing sheep, or perhaps a gipsy encampment, to remind you of civilization.

There is a charm about this solitude that makes it easy to realize why poor dethroned Weland chose this land in which to hide his wounded pride.

Wayland Smith’s Cave.

HERNE THE HUNTER.

The story of Herne the Hunter was familiar in Shakespeare’s days, as those who have read “The Merry Wives of Windsor” know; but like all old stories it has many versions, and some say that Herne lived in Plantagenet times, others as recently as Good Queen Bess’ reign; some, that he was a poacher, others, a keeper. But all agree that he haunted Windsor Forest, and some say that he does so to this day.

As the legend is generally told Herne was a royal keeper whose unusual skill at the chase caused him to become a great favourite of his royal master, and at the same time made his fellow foresters mighty jealous of him. So they combined together to try to plot his undoing.

To one of their secret councils, held beneath great oaks in the heart of the forest, there came one day a mysterious dark man of unusual stature and strength, whose face seemed familiar yet whom none could place. To their enquiries he answered gruffly that he lived on the outskirts of the forest, and that he knew their designs and could help them, if they wished it.

The jealous keepers at once accepted his offer. But he bargained with them, asking as the price of his aid that they should each grant one request whenever it was made. This was agreed, and the stranger disappeared, telling the now rather alarmed foresters that they should soon have proof of his powers.

Within a few days it was noticed that Herne’s skill began to fail him. He could no longer shoot straight, nor ride fast; and very swiftly he fell into disfavour. His rivals were delighted, particularly when the day came that he was dismissed from the Royal service.

That same night there was a terrible thunderstorm, and in the morning the body of Herne was found hanging from a lightning-stricken tree in the Little Park. He had killed himself.

For a time nothing unusual happened; then strange stories began to get about of a ghostly huntsman, in figure like the dead Herne, with stag’s horns growing from his head, who rode through the forest at night on a fierce black charger, harrying the King’s deer. This proved to be only too true as the depleted herds of deer soon proved, and the keepers were threatened with dire punishment if the depredations were not stopped.

The keepers, greatly alarmed, went the next night to Herne’s oak to see if the story were true; and there they were met by the dark stranger. But now there was no doubt as to his identity. He appeared in a flash of sulphurous flame, and they knew him to be the Evil One. He told the terrified men that Herne would appear to them soon, and that they must do exactly what he bade them do, otherwise he would seize their souls.

Soon Herne appeared, a ghostly figure with huge antlers, and commanded his fellow-keepers to assemble at the oak the next midnight with horses and hounds equipped for the chase. They had to obey, and night after night, led by the ghostly huntsman, the party swept through the forest.

Their wild doings naturally quickly reached the ears of the King, and he summoned the keepers, demanding an explanation. In terror they confessed how they had plotted Herne’s ruin, and the King, furious at their impious action, caused all of them to be hanged upon Herne’s oak.

But the ghostly chase still went on, they say, and even to this day in the dark midnight hours some people believe you may hear, far away in the Great Park, the distant sound of a huntsman’s horn, and see flashing through the trees the ghostly chase led by an antlered man on a huge black horse.

Herne’s oak has gone now. It stood in the Home Park, a grim withered riven stump near the footpath to Datchet, until some fifty or sixty years ago; and few cared to pass it at midnight.

But Windsor Park in daytime has nothing eerie about it. It, and the wide bracken-covered, sandy forest country that surrounds it, is delightful in Spring, or on a hot summer’s day. Or in autumn, when the leaves and bracken are turning, one must go far to find a more beautiful district. The whole country is steeped in history and romance.

From Windsor, with its magnificent castle—and just across the river, historic Eton—the forest district stretches away south and west for miles. Here, although so close to London, one may find the solitude and rest that many travel far afield to seek—and fail to find.

Windsor Forest.

THE GHOST OF BISHAM ABBEY.

This legend begins with the story of a rather dull little boy who found his lessons very trying—and, perhaps, the glistening Thames, which he could see from his schoolroom window, very attractive—in the days when Tudor sovereigns reigned in England. His name was Hobby, and his home was Bisham Abbey, which still stands by the riverside just opposite Great Marlow. And because the child could not write in his copy-book without making blots, he was whipped so severely that, as the old tale goes, he died. But that is only the beginning of the story.

It was his mother, Lady Hobby, who chastised the child. When you see her portrait, as you still may at Bisham, you cannot believe she meant to be so cruel. She must have been sorry for her harshness; at any rate she has been punished for it, for she can find no rest in death. Though over three hundred years have passed since they placed her in her grave, her ghost still floats through the panelled chambers of Bisham, so they say.

It is a queer apparition this. It is that of a stately woman dressed in coif, weeds and wimple, with grave face and long thin hands, in front of which a basin, suspended by no visible means, always appears. The lady is forever trying to wash her hands in the basin, but it always moves from her before she can achieve her desire. Not until she can cleanse those delicate hands, can she find repose, they will tell you.

And a curious thing about the ghost is that it appears as a “negative,” to use a photographer’s term. What in life was white is in the spirit black; and what was black, now white. The wraith is seen with black face and hands, black coif and wimple; the basin is black. But the sable gown is white, the shoes white. White eyes look mournfully from the dark face.

You may not credit this strange story, for few people living have seen the wandering lady. Yet undeniable records will tell you that eighty odd years since, when they were doing some repairs to the old building, a window shutter was removed in the room in which tradition asserted the unhappy boy was taught. Pushed in between shutter and wall, were a number of children’s copy-books of the Elizabethan time. One of them, yellow and soiled with age, corresponded exactly with the copy-book of the story. There was not a single line which was not blotted.

Bisham Abbey is a wonderful old place; its history starts with the Knights Templars in the reign of King Stephen of turbulent memory. Later it became an Augustine priory, and later still, when it had passed from the monks, poor harassed Princess Elizabeth was there, a prisoner in charge of Sir Thomas Hobby, in those times when no one could guess that she was to become the great and glorious Queen Elizabeth.

The old building has seen the Thames flow by to the sea for eight centuries and more, and still it remains, one of the most attractive of all the famous houses that have arisen upon the banks of the great river. It is a short mile across the bridge from Great Marlow, that restful riverside town on one of the most pleasing reaches of the Thames. Here the river is at its best, bordered by peaceful shady lawns, where you may idle away a hot summer afternoon amid refreshing scenery that only England can show.

Down stream, seven miles past Cookham, you come to busy Maidenhead. Upstream eight miles and you are at Henley Bridge. Cookham lock they call the most beautifully situated of all on the river. Wild flowers grow in profusion on the banks of the tow-path side, and the famous woods of Cliveden look down upon the gently flowing river.

Yet, if you be wise, sometimes you will leave the fascination of the river and wander a mile or two inland and see the queer, quiet little villages that stand away from the river bank; or adventure, perhaps, from Bourne End up the Wye valley towards High Wycombe and find picturesque Penn—not the home of the family of the founder of Pennsylvania, but of one with which it was connected—and see in the church the memorials to some of the grandchildren of the famous William Penn.

To find Penn’s grave you must go a little further afield, through Beaconsfield to Jordans, where in the little Quaker burial ground that one of the greatest of the founders of the United States lies buried in a simple grave.

In all this fascinating country you are seldom more than thirty miles from London, and always within touch of a station from which you can reach Paddington in about an hour’s journey.

Bisham Abbey.

THE EVIL WEDDING OF STANTON DREW.

Under the southern slopes of bold Dundry Hill in North Somersetshire you will find the queerly named little river Chew, on the banks of which is the village of Stanton Drew. Nowadays it is an out-of-the-way little spot, but far back in history it must have been a place of considerable importance, for close to its church are the remains of what was once a gigantic building—some call it a Druid temple—of a very early race of men.

There are the relics of at least three stone circles, and about the smallest of these a strange story is told. It is the story of the Evil Wedding, and it explains why the stones came there.

Long, long ago, as the tale goes, there had been a marriage at Stanton Drew, and the wedding party met on the place where now the stone circle stands to indulge in feasting and dancing. It was on a Saturday, and the festivities were at their height when midnight struck. Then the harpist, a pious old man, who was playing for the dancing merry-makers, refused to continue any longer, saying that he would not profane the Sabbath.

Each member of the party tried to persuade the aged musician to continue, and chief among the suppliants was the bride, who grew very angry at the harpist’s continual refusals. She would go on with the dance for all his obstinate ways, she said, and she would find another musician even if she had to go to the nether world in search of him.

At that moment a venerable old man with a long grey beard wandered out of the night and asked what all the altercations was about.

When they told him, he gave a merry laugh and said that he would play for them; so the pious old harpist departed, and the dance began again.

The new musician, playing on a pipe, started off with rather a doleful air, but he soon livened up, and very quickly the dancers were whirling round and round in the maddest abandon. But to their consternation as they grew tired, and wished to stop, they found they were unable to do so. The more weary they became, the harder the piper played, and when they begged him to cease he merely laughed at them and changed his tune to one yet more lively.

At last dawn began to show in the sky, and the now frenzied and terrified dancers saw their musician remove the pipe from his mouth. But they saw, too, when he got up, that he had a club foot, and that beneath his long gown a tail showed.

The moment he ceased to play, the dancers remained fixed in strange attitudes, quite unable to move. “I will return later and play for you again,” said the Fiend as he walked away, uttering horrible laughter. But he has not yet returned, and later that morning the villagers found the fields, where the wedding party had been held, strewn with huge upright stones, many of which remain to this day. And they say that there they will stand until the devil returns to play his evil tune; then the stones will become men and women again and will take up once more their mad dance.

If you doubt this moral story, go to Stanton Drew and see the strange stones for yourself—and suggest in what other way they could have come there. You may reach Stanton Drew from Pensford station on the line between Bristol and Frome. You will find it in a pleasant little valley in a hilly upland country, and not far away Maensknoll Tump, nearly 700 feet high, the loftiest point of Dundry Hill, surrounded by the grim earthworks of some of our earliest ancestors.

Bristol, that great city of the west, with its centuries of history and romance, its memories of the daring Merchant Adventurers and its fine churches, is a good centre from which to reach this district. Or you may go from Frome, that queer busy little town with its narrow medieval streets straggling up and down hill.

All the country round here is full of interest to the lover of nature or antiquity. It is a country of mild airs, where in the sheltered valleys the flowers bloom amazingly early. Yet the average tourist seldom wanders off the beaten track to enjoy this pleasing stretch of rural England.

The Druid Stones at Stanton Drew.

THE STORY OF WILD DARRELL.

There is a strange story told of Littlecote Manor, a glorious old Tudor mansion that lies not far from the pleasant little Berkshire town of Hungerford. This, in Elizabeth’s time, was the ancestral home of the Darrells; but “Wild Darrell,” the last of them to hold it, had to sacrifice the place to save his wicked life. At least so the old tales tell.

This grim story begins with the awakening at dead of night of the village nurse at Shefford, some seven miles away from Littlecote. Masked messengers bade her come at once to a waiting coach to tend a lady “not far away.” She was to ask no questions, she was told, and she must submit to be blindfolded until she reached her destination. But to compensate her for this strange treatment a heavy purse of gold was offered. The nurse, torn between emotions of fear and greed, accepted; and the coach set off.

After a long drive through the winter night, the lumbering vehicle at last came to a halt. The blindfolded nurse was led up a great staircase and, when her bandages were removed, she found herself in a richly furnished bedroom where lay a masked lady in a huge four-post bed.

The nurse had no idea where she was, but her natural curiosity had caused her to make whatever mental notes she could. For one thing she counted the steps leading to the bedroom; for another she managed, while going about her work, to clip off a small piece of a heavy curtain which screened the window of the room. But of this later.

In due course there came a new born baby into the world. But fearful as the nurse had been at the mystery of the whole affair, she was terrified at what followed, for when the child was but a few hours old there came to the bedroom a man of ferocious manner, whose face, like those of all with whom she had come in contact, was masked, and snatching the child from the mother’s arms, barbarously killed it.

The nurse, in her horror, swooned; and when she regained consciousness she was being carried from a coach at the door of her own cottage. Before she could recover her wits the coach had gone, and she was left unable to decide whether the whole affair was some horrid dream, or whether she had really witnessed the terrible scene which had burnt itself into her memory.

But the discovery in her hand of the promised reward proved to her that it was no dream.

For some months the nurse kept her own counsel, fearful perhaps that should she speak she would lose the big reward which she had received. But at last, falling ill, and thinking herself about to die, she made a full confession. Enquiries were made, and the woman taken at last to Littlecote, where she identified the very room in which the crime had been committed. As final proof the piece of curtain she had taken with her was found to fit a hole in one of the curtains of the room.

“Wild Darrell,” they say, was arrested and brought to trial; but he managed to save his life by bribery, giving his whole estate to the judge who tried him in order to secure acquittal. But he did not live long after the trial. Still remaining in the neighbourhood, he gave himself up to the wildest debauchery in an endeavour to escape from the ghost of the murdered infant. Riding about the downs one night, they tell, the wraith of the child suddenly appeared in his path. His horse reared back in fright and threw its rider. The next morning they found him where he had fallen, with his neck broken.

They say “Wild Darrell” still rides the country-side of nights, and that a baby’s ghost for many years haunted an oak panelled room in Littlecote Manor. But you must please yourself whether to believe this or not.

At any rate Littlecote looks the sort of stately, romantic house that should be haunted. It lies in the peaceful Kennet valley, close by that stream so famous for its trout.

A mile or two away rise the fine open Marlborough Downs with their many relics of ancient civilization. Three or four miles to the westward and you are in glorious Savernake Forest with its silent glades and its world famous avenues. Hungerford itself is a quiet, tidy little market town, little known to the tourist, yet a wonderfully convenient centre for visiting the country that surrounds it. Gallows-crowned Inkpen Beacon is but a few miles off, a hill that misses being a mountain by only forty odd feet.

This is a magnificent country for the fisherman and the pedestrian; its hill tops are as lonely as the Welsh mountain summits, its leafy woods as unfrequented as an Alpine forest. Yet you may reach Hungerford in under a couple of hours from London; see Littlecote, the scene of “Wild Darrell’s” terrible action, wander over the hills, and return to Town between breakfast time and dinner on a summer’s day.

The Haunted Room at Littlecote.

A SONG OF THE XIII CENTURY.

Somewhere about 700 years ago, a monk in famous Reading Abbey composed a song in praise of Spring. Its words and music were written down at the time and you may see them to-day at the British Museum.

That song—they call it our oldest song—was “Sumer is icumen in,” and its author, antiquaries believe to have been, one John of Fornsete. They say this famous ancient “Round” was written some time between 1226 and 1240 when King Henry III was on the throne, and when the signing of Magna Carta was but a few years old in the memory of living men.

This is a wonderful old song, very simple, yet somehow bringing up a picture of the unchanging Spring as it came those centuries ago to the river meadows of the silver Thames, that stretched away from Reading’s mighty Abbey, then a comparatively modern building, little more than a hundred years old. And some young brother, at work in the fields perhaps, overjoyed to see the sun and the green leaves again, finding expression of his joy in song and music.

To-day you may still find many remains of that stately Abbey at Reading, which became one of the richest in the land. Its inner gateway still stands and its guest house, as well as many ivy clad ruins of its other buildings.

And Reading, for all its busy modern life retains much of its old-world atmosphere in its fine churches and queerly named streets. And here, too, you will find, in the Museum, relics of Roman Britain unequalled in England, for to Reading have been brought the treasures excavated at Roman Silchester a few miles away, the buried city sometimes called the British Pompeii.

The neighbourhood of Reading teems with objects of natural beauty and historic interest, which more than repay the examination of the visitor to this, at first sight, rather modest modern red brick country town. Reading has seen in its time a very full share of England’s history and romance.

Original manuscript (six voices).
Click on the image to see it in higher resolution.
See Transcriber's Note for this version in modern notation.

NOTE.—The original composition of “Sumer is icumen in” took six persons to sing it. The modernised version given on the next page is for a solo voice with pianoforte accompaniment. In it the old wording has been slightly modernised, the only archaic word occurring being “sterteth” which means “frisketh,” and “verteth” now an obsolete term indicating to go to the vert or the greenwood. “Sumer is icumen in” means literally: Summer has come in.

The old version with the ancient notation, English and Latin words, and instructions as to singing, shows very much the form of the original 13th century manuscript.

Newer version of song (one voice). Page 1 of 2.
Click on score to see it in higher resolution.

Newer version of song (one voice). Page 2 of 2.
Click on score to see it in higher resolution.

SUMMER IS ICUMEN IN.

Joyously and with a good swing.

Sum-mer is i-cum-en in

Loud-ly sing cuc-koo.

Grow-eth seed and blow-eth mead,

And springs the wood-land new.

Sing cuc-koo.

Ewe now bleat-eth af-ter lamb,

Low-eth af-ter calf the cow.

Bull-ock stert-eth. Buck now vert-eth,

Mer-ri-ly sing, Cuc-koo! Cuc-koo! Cuc-koo!

Thou sing’st well Cuc-koo,

Nor cease thou ne-ver now!

Ruins of Chapter House, Reading Abbey.

[Click on the map to see a higher resolution version.]

Miniature of the front cover Illustration of Volume Three

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Obsolete, archaic and unusual spellings have been maintained as in the original book. Obvious typos have been fixed silently.

All music in this book was transcribed by Linda Cantoni.

The cover page was produced at Distributed Proofreaders from material found in this book. The cover is hereby placed in the public domain.

The author, “Lyonesse” is a pen-name for George Basil Barham.

The following is the original (six voice) version of “Sumer is icumen in” in modern notation.

Original manuscript in modern notation. Page 1 of 5.
Click on score to see it in higher resolution.

Original manuscript in modern notation. Page 2 of 5.
Click on score to see it in higher resolution.

Original manuscript in modern notation. Page 3 of 5.
Click on score to see it in higher resolution.

Original manuscript in modern notation. Page 4 of 5.
Click on score to see it in higher resolution.

Original manuscript in modern notation. Page 5 of 5.
Click on score to see it in higher resolution.

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Table of Contents

- LEGEND LAND

- CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS

- FOREWORD

- THE WHISPERING KNIGHTS.

- THE SHADOW CURSE OF THE RAGGEDSTONE.

- HOW BATH WAS DISCOVERED.

- KING ARTHUR’S CAMELOT.

- THE WITCH OF WOOKEY.

- GUY, OF GUY’S CLIFF.

- THE GHOSTLY BISHOP OF FINGEST.

- WAYLAND SMITH AND HIS CAVE.

- HERNE THE HUNTER.

- THE GHOST OF BISHAM ABBEY.

- THE EVIL WEDDING OF STANTON DREW.

- THE STORY OF WILD DARRELL.

- A SONG OF THE XIII CENTURY.

- TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE