Part 10

On inquiring of the boatman who it was that had expended so much labour, he pointed out another stone, on which were the words, "John Longmire, Engraver," and informed us that it was a person of that name, who had spent about six years of his prime in this work--labouring here alone, and in all weathers--and both by night and by day. He took great pleasure in the task; and was, as the boatman took pains to impress upon us, rather "dull" at the time. This phrase, as he afterwards explained, implies, in this part of the country, that he was deranged; and I thought, when looking with renewed interest upon these mementos of his ingenuity and perseverance, misapplied though they were, that it was a happy circumstance that an afflicted creature could have found solace under calamity, in a manner so harmless. There was a method in the work, and a sense, too, in the poor man's ideas, which showed that his sympathies were in favour of the moral and intellectual advancement of mankind; and that, amid the last feeble glimmerings of his own reason, he could do honour to those whose intellect had benefited and adorned our age. I could learn no further particulars of him; our friend, the boatman, not being able to say whether he were dead or alive, or whether his "dullness" had ever manifested itself in a more disorderly manner than in these inscriptions.

EDGAR, THE LORD OF ENNERDALE.

A TRADITION OF WOTOBANK, NEAR EGREMONT.

In the neighbourhood of Egremont, there is a romantic hill called Wotobank, with which a traditionary story is connected, and from which its name is said to have originated. The tale relates that "a lord of Egremont, with his lady Edwina and servants, was hunting the wolf; during the chase, the lady was missing, and after a long and painful search, her body was found lying on this romantic acclivity, or bank, mangled by a wolf, which was in the very act of ravenously tearing it to pieces. The sorrow of the husband, in the first transports of his grief, was expressed by the words--"Wo to this bank!"--whence the hill obtained the name of "Wotobank." Mrs. Cowley has adopted this legend for the subject of her beautiful poem "Edwina." After ascending Skiddaw, and casting a glance around:--

"Here--across the tangley dells; There--on the misty distant fells,"

the poetess thus proceeds:--

--"But chiefly, Ennerdale, to thee I turn, And o'er thy healthful vales heart-rended mourn! --For ah! those plains, those vales, those sheltering woods, Nourish'd by Bassenthwaite's contiguous floods, Once witness'd such a sad and heavy deed As makes the aching memory recede."

Then introducing the Lord of Ennerdale, she continues:--

"He, the sole heir of Atheling was known, Whose blood, stern Scotland! 'midst thy heaths has flown. Not five and twenty summers o'er his head Had led their orbs, when he preferr'd to wed The sweet Edwina. Blooming were the charms Which her fond father gave to Henry's arms. Long had he woo'd the charming, bashful maid, Who, yet to listen to Love's tales afraid, By many modest arts--(so Love ordains) Increas'd his passion, though increas'd his pains. At length the nuptial morn burst from the sky, Bidding prismatic light before her fly; Soft purple radiance streamed around her car, Absorbing all the beams of every star;-- Roses awaken'd as she pass'd along, And the high lark perform'd his soaring song, Whilst pinks, their fragrance shaking on the air, The proud carnation's glories seem'd to share; The breezes snatch'd their odours as they flew, And gave them in their turn pellucid dew, Which fed their colours to a higher tone, Till all the earth a vegetative rainbow shone.

Beneath her husband's roof the matchless fair Graced each delight, and each domestic care. Her plastic needle bade fresh flow'rets grow; And, hung in rich festoons, around her glow; In cooling grots her shellwork seized the eye, With skill arrang'd, to show each melting dye; Her taste the garden everywhere sustain'd, In each parterre her vivid fancy reign'd. Submissive yews in solid walls she form'd, Or bade them rise a castle, yet unstorm'd; In love the eagle hover'd o'er its nest, Or seem'd a couchant lion sunk to rest. Her husband's sports his lov'd Edwina shar'd, For her the hawking party was prepar'd; She roused the wolf--the foaming boar she chased, And Danger's self was in her presence graced.

Thus roll'd two years on flowery wheels along, Midst calm domestic bliss, and sport, and song. O, Edgar! from pernicious Gallia's shore, Hadst thou, immoral youth! return'd no more, Such years tho' lengthen'd time had sweetly run, Down to the faintest beams of life's last sun. But thou returnd'st! and thy voluptuous heart, Which from temptation never knew to start, Seized on Edwina as a lawful prize-- All dead to Honour's voice, and Conscience' secret cries.

Edgar to Ennerdale oft bent his way, His form was courtly, and his manners gay; To Henry he would speak of wars he'd seen, Of tournaments, and gaudes, 'midst peace serene. When for Edwina's ear the tale was fram'd The beauties of bright Gallia's court were nam'd, Their lives, their loves, all past before her view, And many things were feign'd he never knew. At length the prudent fair remark'd the style, And saw beneath his ease distorted guile;-- For virtue in his tales ne'er found a place, Nor maiden vigilance, nor matron grace, But wild and loose his glowing stories ran, And thus betray'd the black designing man. As when, in eastern climes, 'midst hours of play, A sweet boy (wand'ring at the close of day, Along the margin of a gadding stream, Whilst Hope around him throws her fairy dream) Sudden beholds the panther's deadly eye, And turns, by impulse strong, his step to fly-- So turn'd Edwina, when she saw, reveal'd, The net th' ensnaring youth had hop'd conceal'd: Whenever he appear'd her air grew cold, And awed to mute despair this baron bold; He by degrees forbore to seek her gate, Who sat enshrin'd within, in Virtue's state. But his wild wishes did not cease to rage, Nor did he strive their fever to assuage-- For sinful love is ever dear to sin, Its victims self-correction ne'er begin; But, hurried on by hell, pursue their road, Nor heed surrounding woes, nor tremble at their God!

The huntsman blew his horn, ere listless day Had from his shoulder thrown his robe of gray, Ere he had shaken from his shining hair The rosy mists which irrigate the air. Lord Henry heard--and from his pillow sprung, And bold responsive notes he cheerily sung; Then, "Wake my love!" the happy husband cried, To her, who, sweetly slumbering at his side, Wish'd still, thus slumbering, to wear the morn, And almost chid the tyrant horn-- Yet quick she rose, and quick her busy maids, Folding her yellow locks in careless braids, Equipp'd her for the field--sweeping she flew, Like a slim arrow from the graceful yew. Her jet-black steed more lively seem'd to bound, When the light burden on his back he found-- The jet-black steed her husband had bestow'd, When first, a huntress, at his side she rode; Long was his streaming main, his eye of fire, Proved his descent from no ignoble sire; He sprung 'midst Araby's far distant plains, Whose sands the bleeding violet never stains. And now the day in all his glories drest, Seem'd at the bugle's call to shake off rest. He pour'd his beams around in ample floods-- Rivers of light descended on the woods; The plains, the valleys drank the radiant shower, Each plant received it, and each gentle flower. The Hunt inspir'd, the ambient æther rent With varied sounds, as their keen course they bent: The dogs, deep-mouth'd, in chorus form'd the cry, And sent their forest greetings to the sky; The horn's full tone swell'd each pervading note, And harmony and joy around the country float.

At length a boar, thro' a dark coppice side, Amidst the rustling bushes seem'd to glide; Cautious he moved, like a fell thief of night, Strung by his fears to unintended flight. Close to the earth he softly crept along, And shrubs, and underwood around him throng; But ah! in vain he creeps, the air so thin, Catches th' effluvia from his reeking skin, The titillations to the hounds' keen nostrils fly, Who instantly the brown recesses try. When turn'd before them into open view, Quick transports from each bosom flew; The huntsman's law the churning savage found, They suffer'd his escape twelve roods of ground, Ere loose was let the eager mad'ning pack, To follow in the bristly monster's track; At length in close pursuit they pour along, Urged or retarded by their Leader's thong. O'er hills, through brakes, he led them many an hour, Straining each nerve--exhausting ev'ry power: Now hears the dogs' faint mouthings far behind, Then scents them as around a beck they wind-- With dread and joy alternately is fill'd Now high with hope, and now with terror chill'd; Then in despair he turns to meet the foe, And rage and madness in his eyeballs glow-- When Henry, darting on before the rest, Fix'd the bright lance within his heaving breast, His struggling breast convulsive motions strain, His spouting veins the foaming coursers stain: The death-notes issue from the brazen horn, And from th' enormous trunk the head is torn. Straight with the tusk-arm'd head upon his spear, Lord Henry turn'd to Her--for ever dear! To lay the bleeding trophy at her feet, And make his triumph more sincerely sweet-- But horror! no Edwina could be seen, Nor on the hill's soft slope, or pasture green; Not shelter'd, near the torrent's fall she lay, Nor on the forest's edge, escaped the day, Nor was she on the plain--the valleys too, Gave no Edwina to the aching view. Wonder and dread compress her husband's heart, O'er the surrounding scene his eye-beams dart; He moves--stands still--terror lifts up his hair, He seems the pale-cheek'd spectre of despair. And now was heard her steed's sonorous neigh, Whose voice the rocks' firm echoes would obey; Bounding, he comes towards them from the plain, But his sweet mistress held no guiding rein-- The reins float loosely, as he cleft the air, No mistress sweet, with guiding hand, was there! From all but Henry burst terrific cries, Silent his dread--and quite suppress'd his sighs. His manly features sink, his eyelids close, And all his lineaments express his woes. Speech! O, how weak, when mighty sorrows spring, When fears excessive to the bosom cling! Words may to lighter troubles give a show, But find no place where griefs transcendent grow. At length they each a different way diverge, Some to the mountain's haughty brow emerge, Others pursue the plain--the wood--the dell, Appointing where to meet, their fortune dear, to tell.

And now, O Lady! Empress of the day, My pensive pen pursues thee on thy way! Amidst the heat and fury of the chace, When the fleet horsemen scarce the eye could trace. A road succinct Edwina meant to take, And push'd her steed across an ancient brake; But in the thicket tangled and dismayed, And of the thorny solitude afraid, Again she turn'd her horse--ah! turn'd in vain, She miss'd the op'ning to the neighb'ring plain. At length dismounting, tremblingly she strove, To force a path, through briars thickly wove; The horse releas'd, straight vanish'd from her eye, And o'er opposing brambles seem'd to fly-- The distant hounds his prick'd-up ears invade, And quick he skims o'er ev'ry glen and glade. His mistress, thus forsook, with prickles torn, And weeping oft with pain, and all forlorn, At length achiev'd a path, and saw a rill, To which she mov'd, her ruby mouth to fill;-- Her taper'd hand immers'd beneath the stream, Flash'd through the glassy wave with pearly gleam, It bore the living moisture to her lips, And eagerly the panting beauty sips, The shining freshness o'er her brow she threw, And bless'd the current as it sparkling flew; Then on its borders sought a short repose, Whilst round her, doddergrass, and pansies rose. Sleep soon, unbidden, caught her in his snare, And folded in his arms the weary fair, Two aspen trees in one smooth bark were bound, And threw a thin and trembling shadow round, The waters gently tinkled as they fell, And a near sheep sustained a silvery bell, Whilst breezes o'er her temples softly stray'd, And 'midst her floating ringlets, leaping, played, Who would not wish to linger in such rest, Where waters, shades, and sounds, make sleeping blest? But, Powers Sublime! who tread the burning air, And give to sainted charity your care, Where roved ye now?--Where waved your filmy wings, Where struck your harps their million-bearing strings? If on Light's rays, swift shot from pole to pole, Your essences supine you chose to roll, Or the rich glowing tapestry to weave, Which must the sun's retiring orb receive, Yet still you should have left each task undone, Fled from the glowing west--forsook the sun, Rush'd in whole troops, nor left one sylph behind, And all your cares to Ennerdale confined: Clung round the aspens where Edwina slept, And o'er her form your anxious vigils kept-- Whose slumbers long spun out their rosy dreams, And still consoled her 'midst the noontide beams. When a hard grasp which seized her listless hands, Rude, snapt asunder their narcotic bands, She started, and she found,--O! hated sight, Close at her side the am'rous villain knight, Who tried in specious terms his hopes to paint-- Inspir'd by ev'ry fiend, he call'd on every saint!

Surprise, at first, held mute Edwina's tongue, And many changes on his theme he rung, Ere she could pour her chaste, her proud disdain, Or check with cold contempt his odious strain. At length she spoke. So once, Judean Fair! Thou turn'd'st upon the sober, hoary pair Who slunk, with wanton thoughts and aspect grave, To watch thee, rising from the gelid wave. Insulted Virtue thunder'd from thy tongue, And o'er thy eye indignant lightnings hung, Swift came the vollied speech;--grand was thy tone, And Chastity in bright effulgence shone. Around the ivory form dark myrtles grew, To snatch thee from the gazing monster's view; Through their deep foliage came thy pointed words, Thy glance was fire--thy sentences were swords!

Such were Edwina's tones, her look, her air, Striking the young seducer with despair! Yes, young he was, in beauty's fullest prime, Untarnish'd yet, untouch'd by withering time! O'er his red cheek soft dimples playful ran, Whilst grace and sinewy strength proclaimed The man! His charms, his passion, sweet Edwina spurned, And with unfeigned abhorrence, stately turned; Then walk'd with mien composed across the moor, Though tremblings seized her heart, and doubtings sore. But Edgar soon she heard, step quick behind, And then to mad'ning fears her soul resigned. She seemed to borrow from the wind its wings, When from its southern portal first it springs-- Flying, as borne upon the billowy air, Urged by distraction on, and blank despair. Her base pursuer spurr'd by dire intent, Kept closely in the track the fair one went; Nor hurried much, but thought her failing feet Would soon retard a course so wondrous fleet-- He thought aright, and in his felon arms, Pressed Henry's beauteous wife, half wild with dread alarms.

Scarce had he dared to grasp her sinking frame, When with the quickness of devouring flame, A furious wolf from out the bordering wood With eyes all glaring near Edwina stood-- The brindled hair rose stiff upon his chine, Of ghastly, deathful joy, the horrid sign; His clinging sides confessed his famished state, And his deep howl proclaimed a victim's fate. The coward fled!--O! now my pen forbear, Nor with the shrieks of terror rend the air!-- The wolf's fell teeth--but O! I check the song, Nor can the horrid, agonizing chord prolong.

The savage, starting from his bleeding prey, Rush'd to his haunt, and briefly fled away; Approaching steps declared swift danger nigh, And forc'd--too late! the unglutted beast to fly. Those steps were Henry's!--he first reached the spot, For him to reach it, was the dreadful lot! He saw her marble bosom torn--her mangled head; He saw--mysterious fate! Edwina dead! Those eyes were closed, whose rich and beamy light, Would shed a lustre on pale Sorrow's night-- Dumb was that honied mouth, whose graceful speech, Beyond the schoolman's eloquence would reach! The snowy arms which lately clasped her lord, Now streaked with flowing blood--O! thought abhorred! Before his starting eyes, all lifeless hang, And give him more than death's last, rending pang. His cries of agony spread o'er the plain, And reached the distant undulating main; His screams of anguish struck with terror more Than the lank wolf's most desolating roar. Vain his attendants sooth--in vain they pray, In stormy grief he wearied down the day. A furious maniac now he raged around, And tore the bushes from the embracing ground, Then spent, all prone upon the earth he fell, And from his eyes the gushing torrents swell; When sorrow could articulate its grief, When words allowed a transient short relief, "Woe to thee, Bank!" were the first sounds that burst, "And be thy soil with bitter offspring curst! "Woe to thee, Bank, for thou art drunk with gore, "The purest heart of woman ever bore!" "Woe to thee, Bank!" the attendants echoed round, And pitying shepherds caught the grief-fraught sound. Thus, to this hour, through every changing age, Through ev'ry year's still ever-varying stage, The name remains; and Wo-to-Bank is seen, From ev'ry mountain bleak, and valley green-- Dim Skiddaw views it from his monstrous height, And eagles mark it in their dizzy flight; The Bassenthwaite's soft murmurs sorrow round, And rocks of Buttermere protect the ground, Rills of Helvellyn raging in their fall, Seem on Lodore's rough sympathy to call-- From peak to peak they wildly burst away, And form, with rushing tone, a hollow, dirge-like lay. Not rocks, and cataracts and alps alone, Paint out the spot, and make its horrors known. For faithful lads ne'er pass, nor tender maid, But the soft rite of tears is duly paid; Each can the story to the traveller tell, And on the sad disaster, pitying dwell-- Thus Wo-to-Bank, thou'rt known thy swains among, And now thou liv'st within an humble stranger's song!"

LADY EVA AND THE GIANT.

A LEGEND OF YEWDALE.

As you enter the romantic vale of Yewdale, about a quarter of a mile above the saw-mills, by looking over the hedge to your right, you may perceive, near to the verge of the precipitous bank of Yewdale Beck, and a few yards from the roadside, a long narrow mound which seems to be formed of solid stone covered with moss, but which a nearer inspection would show to be composed of several blocks fitted so closely together as to prove the mound to have had an artificial, and not a natural origin. You observe it is somewhere between three and four yards long. That singular accumulation of lichen-clad rock has been known for centuries amongst the natives of Yewdale and the adjacent valleys, by the romance-suggesting designation of Girt Will's Grave. How it came by that name, and how Cauldron Dub and Yewdale Bridge came to be haunted, my task is now to tell.

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

The excitement consequent upon the settlement of one of that gigantic race in this vicinity soon died away, and the object of it, who stood somewhere about nine feet six out of his clogs, if they were in fashion then, and was broad in fair proportion, became known to the neighbours as a capital labourer, ready for any such work as was required in the rude and limited agricultural operations of the period and locality--answered to the cognomen of "Girt (great) Will o' t' Tarns," and, once or twice, did good service as a billman under the Knight of Conistone, when he was called upon to muster his powers to assist in repelling certain roving bands of Scots or Irish, who were wont, now and again, to invade the wealthy plains of low Furness.

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

"One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well."

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

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