so much occupied at Court and in the quest of adventures as a
knight-errant, only going there occasionally to regulate matters
relating to his household and estates, look after his vassals and
retainers, and make arrangements for the well-being of the villagers.
He had now been absent about three years, having, at the instance of
his ladye-love at Caerleon, donned his armour, taken his lance in
hand, and gone for that space of time to protect the impotent, redress
the injured and oppressed, and slay giants and sorcerers, as a test
of his valour, at the end of which said period, if he had acquitted
himself as a preux-chevalier, she might possibly consent to become the
mistress of Ryedale Castle. The period was now drawing to a close, and
he had performed many a valorous deed; he had slain a gigantic Saxon in
single combat; he had recovered the standard of King Arthur from some
half-dozen Picts, who had seized it after killing the bearer of it; he
had rescued a damsel from the hands of an enchanter; another from the
fangs and claws of a lion, and a third from a giant who was dragging
her along by the hair of her head; he had killed a dragon, a griffin,
and a hippogriff, had done many another wondrous and valorous deed,
and was now going back to Caerleon to claim the hand of the lady at
whose behest he had performed all these marvellous achievements, little
dreaming all the time that his own people in Ryedale were in sore need
of his stalwart arm and trusty sword.
As the knight had been northward, it was necessary to pass through
what is now Yorkshire on his way to Caerleon, and he deemed it
expedient to call at his Ryedale Castle to see how matters had been
going on there during his long absence. It was about a month after
the first appearance of the "worm," when the villagers were beginning
to experience the truth of the saying that "hope deferred maketh the
heart sick," having lost many members of their community through the
propensity of the serpent for human flesh, and no Sir Peter coming
to deliver them from the ravages of the monster, when the figure of
a horseman, with a nodding black plume, was seen "pricking o'er the
plain," who was immediately recognised as the veritable Sir Peter
Loschi, which gave rise to an exhilarating shout of welcome from the
villagers, who cried, "Now shall we be delivered from the ravenous
worm." Sir Peter rode on to his castle, where the first being to
welcome him was a favourite mastiff, who came gambolling about him
with the most affectionate demonstrations of rejoicing at seeing his
master once more. The following morning a deputation of the villagers
waited upon him, explained their troubles in respect to the worm, and
prayed for his assistance in ridding them of the monster. He inquired
into the particulars, and having been accustomed in his travels to
several encounters with noxious animals of this character, he readily
understood what he would have to deal with, and promised his aid, but
added that as some preparations would be necessary, the enemy being
of an exceptional description, he would not be able to undertake it
within a month, and that they must endure it the best they could in the
interval.
Sir Peter got a sight of the serpent, and a formidable monster he
appeared to be, more terrible than any he had previously met with;
and he saw that it behoved him to make special provision for the
combat. He pondered the matter over for a few days, and then mounted
his steed and rode to Sheffield, where he employed certain cunning
artificers to make him a complete suit of armour studded with razor
blades. Although razors are alluded to by Homer, and have been used
by the Chinese for unknown centuries, it is doubtful whether they
were a staple manufacture on the banks of the Sheaf and the Rivelin
in the sixth century. It is true that Chaucer speaks of a "Sheffield
whittle," but this was eight centuries afterwards, and it is equally to
be doubted whether Sheffield, even as a village, existed at that time;
but anachronisms are of small moment in legends, and we are required
to accept it as a fact, that the knight had his novel suit of armour
fabricated in the valley of the Sheaf.
When it was completed, he returned with it to Ryedale, and gladly was
he welcomed by the villagers, as the serpent had been committing more
ravages amongst the population. He had a sword, a Damascus blade of
wonderful keenness, which possessed certain magical properties, similar
to those of King Arthur's famous Excaliber; and one morning, after
donning his armour, he took the sword in his hand and went forth to the
combat. His dog accompanied him, and it was with difficulty that he was
prevented from leaping up in caressing gambols against the sharp razor
blades.
The serpent had its den in the side of a wooded eminence near East
Newton, by Stonegrave, which has since then gone by the name of Loschy
Hill, in memory of the great fight between the Knight and the Dragon.
Sir Peter, who was on foot, strode along boldly towards the hill,
followed by his dog, which seemed to be perfectly aware that some
exciting sport was before them, as he rushed about hither and thither,
sniffing the air, as if his keen scent gave him intimation that game of
an unusual character was not far off, and he barked and growled, as
if in defiance of the foe; whilst the villagers stood afar off, with
eager countenances, to watch the progress of the combat. As the knight
came nearer, he became aware of a pestiferous odour that seemed to
contaminate the air; and the dog scented and sniffed, and gave vent to
more prolonged growlings and louder barking, and seemed to tremble with
excitement in anticipation of the coming fray.
The serpent had not yet breakfasted, and seeing the man and dog
approach, darted from his den and made for the dog, with which he
thought to stay his appetite as a first mouthful, but the dog was too
nimble and eluded his attack, leaping upon one of the curves of its
body and biting it with mad excitement; whilst the knight struck it a
blow with his sword which almost cut off its head, but the wound healed
up instantly, and the serpent coiled itself round his body, in order
to crush the life out of him, and then devour him at its leisure. It
had not, in doing so, taken into account the razor blades, which cut
its body in a multitude of gashes, and caused the blood to stream down
on the earth; but this was not of much consequence, as it immediately
uncoiled and rolled itself on the earth, when all the wounds closed
up. Foiled in this attack, the monster then began to vomit out a
poisonous vapour, so horrible and overcoming that the knight seemed
ready to sink under its influence, but rallying his energies, he aimed
a blow which cut the serpent in two, but the severed parts joined
again immediately. All this time the monster was hissing in a fearful
manner, and breathing out poison, and the knight began to fear he must
succumb and become its prey; but determined not to give in so long as
he could continue the fight, he aimed another blow with his sword and
severed a portion of the tail end, although feeling persuaded that it
would become reunited as before; but his dog, evidently a sagacious
animal, having witnessed the former reunion, seized it in its teeth
and ran off with it to a neighbouring hill, then returned and carried
away other portions as they were cut off successively. The serpent
writhed with pain, but afraid, or seeing the uselessness of attacking
the razor-armed man, made many attempts to seize the dog, but in vain,
as he was too agile to be caught; therefore he depended more on the
venom of his breath at this juncture, which he continued to pour forth,
and which he knew must eventually overpower his enemy. The dog had
returned from his third or fourth journey and came up to his master,
wagging his tail in seeming congratulation of the cleverness with which
they were gradually accomplishing the destruction of the foe, when the
serpent made a spring upon him, but at the same instant the knight's
magic sword descended upon his neck and severed the head from the body,
which the dog at once seized and carried off to a distance, placing it
on a hill near where Nunnington Church now stands.
The monster was now dead which had caused so much terror and
desolation, and the villagers shouted with joy as they saw the head
carried past by the dog. Meanwhile the knight stood by the remaining
portion of the body as it lay prone on the earth, quivering with the
remains of its vitality. He was exhausted with his exertions, but more
by the poisonous exhalation which the body still gave forth, but in
rapidly diminishing volume. He was recovering from its effects and
was waiting awhile to gain sufficient energy to leave the scene of
his triumph, when the dog returned, but apparently in a very languid
condition; still, however, evincing marks of satisfaction and pleasure
at the conquest he and his master had achieved. The knight stooped down
to pat caressingly his faithful companion, who, in return, reached up
and licked his face. Unfortunately, in carrying away the head, the
seat of the venom, the dog had imbibed the poison, and in licking his
master's face had imparted the virus to him, and a few minutes were
sufficient to produce its fatal effects, the knight and his dog falling
to the earth together, and when the villagers came up they found both
dead.
Although the villagers were rejoiced at the death of the serpent, their
lamentations were equally great over the fate of the knight, who had
sacrificed his life for their deliverance; and for many a month and
year did they cherish his memory and mourn his death.
In Nunnington Church there is a monument of a knight, a recumbent
effigy, with a dog crouching at his feet; and this, tradition says, is
the tomb of the valorous Sir Peter Loschi and his equally valorous dog,
who were buried together, and the monument erected in grateful memory
of their achievement.
The Devil's Arrows.
One of the most interesting localities in broad Yorkshire, rich in
historic lore and fruitful in legend, is that which comprehends within
its limits the twin towns of Aldborough and Boroughbridge, on the river
Ure. Their history extends back to the Celtic and Roman times, when
Aldborough or Iseur, the Isurium of the Romans, was the capital of the
Brigantian Celts, and near by ran northward from York a great Roman
road, which crossed the Ure by a ford, which was supplanted after the
Conquest by a wooden bridge, which gave rise to a great convergence of
roads at this point, and the growth of a town, which obtained the name
of Boroughbridge, _i.e._, the borough by the bridge.
This spot, says Dr. Stukeley, was in the British time "the scene of
the great Panegyre of the Druids, the midsummer meeting of all the
country round, to celebrate the great quarterly sacrifice, accompanied
with sports, games, races, and all kinds of exercises, with universal
festivity. This was like the Olympian and Nemean meetings and games
among the Grecians."
Between the two towns there stands protruding from the earth three
rough-hewn and weather-worn obelisks of rag-stone or mill-stone grit,
which could not have been brought from a distance of less than seven
miles, and gave rise to a sense of wonder how such stupendous masses
could have been brought hither and placed upright in position by the
Celts with their utter lack of mechanical appliances. The northernmost
rises eighteen feet, the southernmost twenty-two and a half feet,
and the centre one also twenty-two and a half feet above the ground,
and from an excavation made under the latter, it was found to have
an entire length of thirty feet six inches. The estimated weight of
the northernmost is thirty-six tons, and of the other two thirty tons
each. Originally there were four stones, which were seen by Leland in
Henry VIII.'s time; but one of them fell or was removed for the sake of
the materials--useful for road repairing--in the seventeenth century.
Camden imagined them to be factitious compositions of sand, lime,
and small pebbles cemented together; but there is no doubt they were
quarried at Plumpton, the rock there corresponding exactly with their
grit. The Romans made use of them as metæ, the turning point in their
chariot races. There have been varying and differing conjectures by
antiquaries as to their origin and purpose, but all agree as to their
remote antiquity, dating back certainly 1800 years, the most probable
conjecture as to their purpose being that they were connected in
some way with Druidical worship. They go by the name of "The Devil's
Arrows," and tradition gives an account of their origin altogether
different from antiquarian conjectures, and much more in accordance
with their popular designation. Thus runs the legend:--
It was soon after the Crucifixion that certain Apostles of the
Cross, headed by Joseph of Arimathea, found their way from Palestine
to the remote and benighted isle of Britain, in obedience to the
Divine command to go forth and preach the Gospel to every creature.
After their disembarkation they proceeded inland until they came to
Glastonbury; and ascending the hill there, Joseph struck his walking
staff in the earth and proclaimed that there should be established
the first Christian church of Britain, and in confirmation thereof his
staff miraculously took root, put forth branches, and although it was
midwinter--Christmas Day--budded and blossomed into a rose, as its
successors here continued to do on every successive Christmas Day.
The Apostles preached to the barbarian people, made some converts,
and erected a temporary wooden church for the performance of divine
service, which was the precursor of the magnificent Abbey that
afterwards rose on the site, and flourished in great prosperity until
its extinction under the sacrilegious hand of Henry the Eighth.
When the new faith had taken root at Glastonbury, the Apostles divided
themselves into bands of two or three, and departed north, south, east,
and west, to proclaim the glad tidings in other parts of the island.
One of these bands, going northwards, preached to the Cornabii and the
Coritani of Mid-Britain, and then passed onward to the Brigantes, the
greatest and most warlike of the kingdoms of Britain. They travelled
on foot, staff in hand, and subsisted on the charity of the people;
but had often to endure great hardships, having often to pass through
scantily peopled districts, where wild fruits were their only food, the
water of the wayside brooks their drink, and their sleeping couches the
heather of the moor or the turf under the canopy of a forest tree. But
all these discomforts they endured with cheerfulness, besides perils
from wolves, wild boars, and other denizens of the woodlands, feeling
assured that their Master would reward them a thousand-fold for their
sufferings in His service.
On entering the Brigantian kingdom they learned that the capital city
was Iseur, some considerable distance northward, and thither they bent
their way in the hope of enlightening the King in spiritual matters
as a means of facilitating the conversion of his people. With wearied
steps they passed from village to village, through forests and swamps,
and over black moorlands, fording the rivers where practicable, or
where they were too deep for so doing going along the bank until they
met with a fisherman or villager to ferry them across in his coracle;
and in due course, after many days of toilsome journeying, came to the
city of Iseur.
The city stood in a forest clearing, surrounded by a stockade of
felled trees, with an entrenchment for protection against enemies,
and for the security of their flocks and herds against the attacks
of wild beasts. In the centre stood the King's Palace, a tolerably
spacious edifice built of unhewn blocks of stone, placed in cyclopean
fashion without mortar; and scattered around were the mud-built and
straw-thatched dwellings of the people. There was no temple of their
deity, the gods of the Britons disdaining mortal-built places of
worship. But adjacent was a separate forest clearing, with a circling
of huge forest oaks, on which grew the sacred mistletoe, which
constituted a temple not built with hands; and in which was a pool of
water, indispensable in the ceremonials of their religion, where the
beaver abounded, and was used as an emblem of the flood, of which the
Britons had a tradition; and here were constructed the wickerwork forms
of gigantic human beings, which at certain seasons were filled with
men, women, and children, and burnt to propitiate the wrath of their
god.
They proceeded to the palace of the King and asked for an audience,
which was granted them after some demur; the King feeling uncertain,
from the description his attendants gave of their foreign aspect,
outlandish dresses, and imperfect utterance of the British language,
whether they might not be enemies, assassins, or sorcerers come hither
to take his life or subject him to some other evil. He received them
seated on a sort of throne, clad in a white, coarsely woven tunic of
wool reaching half way down his thighs, and leaving the lower limbs
altogether uncovered, and over his shoulders a wolf-skin mantle,
whilst he supported his dignity by holding in his right hand a long
bronze-headed spear, with a richly-carved shaft. By his side sat his
Queen, and at his feet gambolled three or four children, whilst around
him stood representatives of the Druidical hierarchy--the Druids proper
or high priests, the Eubates or soothsayers, and the Bards who chanted
anthems to the glory of their god and recited odes in praise of the
warriors and great men of their race.
The King inquired of the strangers who they were and what was their
purpose in thus coming to his court. The Apostles replied that they
were people of a far distant land, near the sunrising, and had come
hither to show them their errors in worshipping false gods, and point
out to them the true object of worship, the one only God, the Maker
of heaven and earth, and the awarder of happiness or misery in the
future life beyond the grave. A murmur of dissatisfaction arose at this
announcement amongst the Druids, who whispered amongst themselves that
it was fitting such blasphemers should be offered up as sacrifices to
their god.
"Truly," said the King, "you have come on a strange errand; we are
firm believers in and devout worshippers of the one Supreme God, as
you pretend to be. Do we not yearly offer up on His altars hundreds of
human victims to propitiate His good-will? What more would you have?
We believe what you do, and a great deal more, for we have a host of
minor deities whom we pay adoration to. Methinks you had better return
to your own country and not trouble us with your hallucinations, so as
to cause a schism in the faith. We are content with our own belief,
which teaches us that when we die the souls of those who have done
justly will pass gradually into a higher and higher sphere, until at
length, when perfectly purified, it will become absorbed in the essence
of the Deity, or become an inferior god; whilst those of the wicked
will be transformed to the bodies of inferior and unclean animals, and
eventually be annihilated."
The Apostles upon this explained briefly the principles of the
Christian religion, the fall of man and his loss of the divine favour,
his necessary condemnation to temporal and eternal death, and the
redemptorial scheme, in which God himself, or rather his Son, who
was identical with himself, suffered death on the cross, taking upon
himself, in lieu of man, the threatened penalty.
"Is your God dead, then?" inquired the King; "or is it possible for God
to die. If so, our faith is better than yours, for our God is immortal."
The Apostles then entered into an elaborate disquisition on the
subtleties of the necessity and nature of the Divine scheme for the
salvation of the human race, but the reasonings were too abstruse
for the King's comprehension, as, indeed, were they for the more
cultured minds of the Druids; therefore the King declined any further
discourse on the subject, adding that he was perfectly willing that
they should be courteously treated and have fair play, as they had
come so far with the intent, as it seemed to them, of doing him and
his people a service; therefore he would appoint a day on which they
should have a full and fair discussion with the Druids on the merits of
the respective faiths, and in the meantime they should be hospitably
entertained at his cost, and with this the audience terminated.
It happened that at this time the Father of Evil was prowling about
Britain, with the object of thwarting the efforts of St. Joseph and his
band of missionaries for the evangelisation of the land. He employed
himself chiefly about Glastonbury and its neighbourhood, the primitive
and central seat of British Christianity, and centuries elapsed before
he relaxed his persistent attempt to eradicate the faith, hostile to
himself, which had taken root there. Nine hundred years afterwards we
find that he was a perpetual annoyance to the holy St. Dunstan in his
Glastonbury cell, continually intruding upon him when engaged in his
studies, and offering to him the most seductive temptations, until, on
one occasion, he made his appearance before him when he was engaged on
some blacksmith work, and commenced tempting him to sell his soul to
him for unbounded wealth and the highest temporal distinction. The
saint, however, was proof against his temptations, and resolved to free
himself once for all from his importunities, took his red-hot tongs
from the fire, and seized him by the nose. The devil roared out lustily
with the pain, although one would fancy, from fire being his natural
element, that it would not incommode him greatly; nevertheless, he
prayed abjectly to be released from the tongs, but the saint would not
release him until he promised to give him no further annoyance.
He had followed in the footsteps of the three Apostles on the northern
mission, and was present, although invisible, at the interview with the
King of the Brigantes; and when the conference between the Apostles
and the Druids was arranged by the King, he determined upon presenting
himself at the meeting in a more tangible and palpable form, to
overthrow the arguments of the former by the power of his eloquence and
logical force of reasoning, feeling exceedingly loth to run the risk
of losing so cherished a section of his dominions, which would ensue
in case the King should be convinced by the preaching and the powerful
arguments of the Apostles.