LEGEND LAND

[Illustration: Antlered man on horseback silhouetted against the moon.]

 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

[Illustration: Map of central England and Wales showing the routes of
the Great Western Railway and highlighting some of the locations in
this book: Malvern Hills (page 8), Cadbury Castle (page 16), Wayland
Smith’s Cave (page 32), Rollright Stones (page 4), Fingest (page 28)
and Bath (Page 12).]




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_

[Illustration: The shield of the Great Western Railway]

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

[Illustration: ** Decorative divider **]

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.

[Illustration: ** Decorative divider **]


                    _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




[Illustration: Haggard witch viewing some knights approaching.]

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.

[Illustration: _The King Stone._]




[Illustration: Man in monk’s robes crawling up a hill-side on a blustery
day.]

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.

[Illustration: _The Malvern Hills._]




[Illustration: Shepherd in ragged clothes watching his sheep.]

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.

[Illustration: _Roman Remains at Bath._]




[Illustration: King Arthur at the Round Table conversing with knights.]

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?

[Illustration: _Cadbury Castle._]




[Illustration: A monk sprinkling holy water on hideous creatures in a
cave.]

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.

[Illustration: _Wookey Hole._]




[Illustration: Lady Phyllis giving alms to the poor, including Sir Guy
in pilgrim attire.]

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.

[Illustration: _Guy’s Cliff Caves._]




[Illustration: A traveler in a wood being surprised by a ghostly
gamekeeper.]

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.

[Illustration: _Ruins of Fingest Palace, and Fingest Church._]




[Illustration: Man shoeing a horse in his workshop, perhaps a cave.]

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.

[Illustration: _Wayland Smith’s Cave._]




[Illustration: Antlered man on horseback silhouetted against the moon.]

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.

[Illustration: _Windsor Forest._]




[Illustration: Ghost of a lady reaching for a floating basin, in a
paneled chamber.]

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.

[Illustration: _Bisham Abbey._]




[Illustration: Old and bearded man playing a pipe on a dark but moonlit
night, with revelers dancing in the background.]

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.

[Illustration: _The Druid Stones at Stanton Drew._]




[Illustration: Masked man leading blindfolded nurse up a staircase.]

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.

[Illustration: _The Haunted Room at Littlecote._]




[Illustration: Several monks gathered outdoors, one singing and the
others singing other parts or listening.]

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.

[Illustration: Original manuscript (six voices) of “Sumer is icumen in”.]

    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.

[Illustration: _Newer version of song (one voice). Page 1 of 2._]
[Illustration: _Newer version of song (one voice). Page 2 of 2._]

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!

[Illustration: _Ruins of Chapter House, Reading Abbey._]


[Illustration: Map of central England and Wales showing the routes of
the Great Western Railway and highlighting some of the locations in
this book: Bisham Abbey (page 40), Littlecote Manor (page 48), Windsor
Forest (page 36), Guy’s Cliff (page 24), Stanton Drew (page 44), Wookey
Hole (page 20), Reading (page 52).]

[Illustration: Miniature of the front cover Illustration of Volume
Three: fairies tending a garden]




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE


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

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.