The Tales of the Crusaders was determined upon as the title of the
following series of the Novels, rather by the advice of the few
friends whom, death has now rendered still fewer, than by the
author's own taste. Not but that he saw plainly enough the
interest which might be excited by the very name of the Crusaders,
but he was conscious at the same time that that interest was of a
character which it might be more easy to create than to satisfy,
and that by the mention of so magnificent a subject each reader
might be induced to call up to his imagination a sketch so
extensive and so grand that it might not be in the power of the
author to fill it up, who would thus stand in the predicament of
the dwarf bringing with him a standard to measure his own stature,
and showing himself, therefore, says Sterne, "a dwarf more ways
than one."
It is a fact, if it were worth while to examine it, that the
publisher and author, however much their general interests are the
same, may be said to differ so far as title pages are concerned;
and it is a secret of the tale-telling art, if it could be termed
a secret worth knowing, that a taking-title, as it is called, best
answers the purpose of the bookseller, since it often goes far to
cover his risk, and sells an edition not unfrequently before the
public have well seen it. But the author ought to seek more
permanent fame, and wish that his work, when its leaves are first
cut open, should be at least fairly judged of. Thus many of the
best novelists have been anxious to give their works such titles
as render it out of the reader's power to conjecture their
contents, until they should have an opportunity of reading them.
All this did not prevent the Tales of the Crusaders from being the
title fixed on; and the celebrated year of projects (eighteen
hundred and twenty-five) being the time of publication, an
introduction was prefixed according to the humour of the day.
The first tale of the series was influenced in its structure,
rather by the wish to avoid the general expectations which might
be formed from the title, than to comply with any one of them, and
so disappoint the rest. The story was, therefore, less an incident
belonging to the Crusades, than one which was occasioned by the
singular cast of mind introduced and spread wide by those
memorable undertakings. The confusion among families was not the
least concomitant evil of the extraordinary preponderance of this
superstition. It was no unusual thing for a Crusader, returning
from his long toils of war and pilgrimage, to find his family
augmented by some young off-shoot, of whom the deserted matron
could give no very accurate account, or perhaps to find his
marriage-bed filled, and that, instead of becoming nurse to an old
man, his household dame had preferred being the lady-love of a
young one. Numerous are the stories of this kind told in different
parts of Europe; and the returned knight or baron, according to
his temper, sat down good naturedly contented with the account
which his lady gave of a doubtful matter, or called in blood and
fire to vindicate his honour, which, after all, had been
endangered chiefly by his forsaking his household gods to seek
adventures in Palestine.
Scottish tradition, quoted, I think, in some part of the Border
Minstrelsy, ascribes to the clan of Tweedie, a family once stout
and warlike, a descent which would not have misbecome a hero of
antiquity. A baron, somewhat elderly we may suppose, had wedded a
buxom young lady, and some months after their union he left her to
ply the distaff alone in his old tower, among the mountains of the
county of Peebles, near the sources of the Tweed. He returned
after seven or eight years, no uncommon space for a pilgrimage to
Palestine, and found his family had not been lonely in his
absence, the lady having; been cheered by the arrival of a
stranger, (of whose approach she could give the best account of
any one,) who hung on her skirts, and called her mammy, and was
just such as the baron would have longed to call his son, but that
he could by no means make his age correspond, according to the
doctrine of civilians, with his own departure for Palestine. He
applied to his wife, therefore, for the solution of this dilemma.
The lady, after many floods of tears, which she had reserved for
the occasion, informed the honest gentleman, that, walking one day
alone by the banks of the infant river, a human form arose from a
deep eddy, still known and termed Tweed-pool, who deigned to
inform her that he was the tutelar genius of the stream, and,
_bongre malgre_, became the father of the sturdy fellow,
whose appearance had so much surprised her husband. This story,
however suitable to Pagan times, would have met with full credence
from few of the baron's contemporaries, but the wife was young and
beautiful, the husband old and in his dotage; her family (the
Frazers, it is believed) were powerful and warlike, and the baron
had had fighting enough in the holy wars. The event was, that he
believed, or seemed to believe, the tale, and remained contented
with the child with whom his wife and the Tweed had generously
presented him. The only circumstance which preserved the memory of
the incident was, that the youth retained the name of Tweed, or
Tweedie. The baron, meanwhile, could not, as the old Scotch song
says, "Keep the cradle rowing," and the Tweed apparently thought
one natural son was family enough for a decent Presbyterian lover;
and so little gall had the baron in his composition, that having
bred up the young Tweed as his heir while he lived, he left him in
that capacity when he died, and the son of the river-god founded
the family of Drummelzier and others, from whom have flowed, in
the phrase of the Ettrick Shepherd, "many a brave fellow, and many
a bauld feat."
The tale of the Noble Moringer is somewhat of the same nature--it
exists in a collection of German popular songs, entitled, Sammlung
Deutschen Volkslieder, Berlin, 1807; published by Messrs. Busching
and Von der Hagen. The song is supposed to be extracted from a
manuscript chronicle of Nicholas Thomann, chaplain to St. Leonard
in Wissenhorn, and dated 1533. The ballad, which is popular in
Germany, is supposed from the language, to have been composed in
the fifteenth century. The Noble Moringer, a powerful baron of
Germany, about to set out on a pilgrimage to the land of St.
Thomas, with the geography of which we are not made acquainted,
resolves to commit his castle, dominions, and lady, to the vassal
who should pledge him to keep watch over them till the seven years
of his pilgrimage were accomplished. His chamberlain, an elderly
and a cautious man, declines the trust, observing, that seven
days, instead of seven years, would be the utmost space to which
he would consent to pledge himself for the fidelity of any woman.
The esquire of the Noble Moringer confidently accepts the trust
refused by the chamberlain, and the baron departs on his
pilgrimage. The seven years are now elapsed, all save a single day
and night, when, behold, a vision descends on the noble pilgrim as
he sleeps in the land of the stranger.
"It was the noble Moringer, within an orchard slept,
When on the Baron's slumbering sense a boding vision crept,
And whispered in his ear a voice,'
'Tis time. Sir Knight, to wake--
Thy lady and thy heritage another master take.
"'Thy tower another banner knows, thy steeds another rein,
And stoop them to another's will, thy gallant vassal train;
And she, the lady of thy love, so faithful once and fair,
This night, within thy father's hall, she weds Marstetten's heir.'"
The Moringer starts up and prays to his patron St. Thomas, to
rescue him from the impending shame, which his devotion to his
patron had placed him in danger of incurring. St. Thomas, who must
have felt the justice of the imputation, performs a miracle. The
Moringer's senses were drenched in oblivion, and when he waked he
lay in a well-known spot of his own domain; on his right the
Castle of his fathers, and on his left the mill, which, as usual,
was built not far distant from the Castle.
"He leaned upon his pilgrim's staff, and to the mill he drew--
So altered was his goodly form that none their master knew.
The baron to the miller said, 'Good friend, for charity,
Tell a poor pilgrim, in your land, what tidings may there be?'
"The miller answered him again--'He knew of little news,
Save that the lady of the land did a new bridegroom choose;
Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant word,
His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy lord.
"'Of him I held the little mill, which wins me living free--
God rest the baron in his grave, he aye was kind to me!
And when St. Martin's tide comes round, and millers take their toll,
The priest that prays for Moringer shall have both cope and stole.'"
The baron proceeds to the Castle gate, which is bolted to prevent
intrusion, while the inside of the mansion rung with preparations
for the marriage of the lady. The pilgrim prayed the porter for
entrance, conjuring him by his own sufferings, and for the sake of
the late Moringer; by the orders of his lady, the warder gave him
admittance.
"Then up the hall paced Moringer, his step was sad and slow;
It sat full heavy on his heart, none seemed their lord to know.
He sat him on a lowly bench, oppressed with wo and wrong;
Short while he sat, but ne'er to him seemed little space so long.
"Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come was evening hour,
The time was nigh when new made brides retire to nuptial bower,
'Our Castle's wont,' a bride's man said, 'hath been both firm and long--
No guest to harbour in our halls till he shall chant a song.'"
When thus called upon, the disguised baron sung the following
melancholy ditty:--
"'Chill flows the lay of frozen age,' 'twas thus the pilgrim sung,
'Nor golden mead, nor garment gay, unlocks his heavy tongue.
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at board as rich as thine,
And by my side as fair a bride, with all her charms, was mine.
"'But time traced furrows on my face, and I grew silver hair'd,
For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, she left this brow and beard;
Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread life's latest stage,
And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay of frozen age.'"
The lady, moved at the doleful recollections which the palmer's
song recalled, sent to him a cup of wine. The palmer, having
exhausted the goblet, returned it, and having first dropped in the
cup his nuptial ring, requested the lady to pledge her venerable
guest.
"The ring hath caught the lady's eye, she views it close and near,
Then might you hear her shriek aloud, 'The Moringer is here!'
Then might you see her start from seat, while tears in torrents fell,
But if she wept for joy or wo, the ladies best can tell.
"Full loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, and every saintly power,
That had restored the Moringer before the midnight hour;
And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that never was there bride,
That had like her preserved her troth, or been so sorely tried.
"'Yes, here I claim the praise,' she said, 'to constant matrons due,
Who keep the troth, that they have plight, so stedfastly and true;
For count the term howe'er you will, so that you count aright,
Seven twelvemonths and a day are out when bells toll twelve to-night.'
"It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion there he drew,
He kneeled before The Moringer, and down his weapon threw;
'My oath and knightly faith are broke,' these were the words he said;
'Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, and take thy vassal's head.
"The noble Moringer, he smiled, and then aloud did say,
'He gathers wisdom that hath roamed seven twelvemonths and a day,
My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame speaks her sweet and fair;
I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for my heir.
"'The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, the old bridegroom the old,
Whose faith were kept till term and tide so punctually were told.
But blessings on the warder kind that oped my castle gate,
For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too late.'"
There is also, in the rich field of German romance, another
edition of this story, which has been converted by M. Tieck (whose
labours of that kind have been so remarkable) into the subject of
one of his romantic dramas. It is, however, unnecessary to detail
it, as the present author adopted his idea of the tale chiefly
from the edition preserved in the mansion of Haighhall, of old the
mansion-house of the family of Braidshaigh, now possessed by their
descendants on the female side, the Earls of Balcarras. The story
greatly resembles that of the Noble Moringer, only there is no
miracle of St. Thomas to shock the belief of good Protestants. I
am permitted, by my noble friends, the lord and lady of Haighhall,
to print the following extract from the family genealogy.
Sir William Bradshaghe 2d
Sone to Sr John was a
great traveller and a
Souldyer and married
To
Mabell daughter and
Sole heire of Hugh
Noris de Haghe and
Blackrode and had issue
EN. 8. E 2.
of this Mabel is a story by tradition of undouted
verity that in Sr William Bradshage's absence
(being 10 yeares away in the wares) she
married a welsh kt. Sr William retorninge
from the wars came in a Palmers habit amongst
the Poore to haghe. Who when she saw &
congetringe that that he favoured her former
husband wept, for which the kt chasticed her
at wich Sr William went and made him selfe
Knawne to his Tennants in wch space the kt
fled, but neare to Newton Parke Sr William overtooke
him and slue him. The said Dame
Mabell was enjoyned by her confessor to
doe Pennances by going onest every week
barefout and bare legg'd to a Crosse ner Wigan
from the haghe wilest she lived & is called
Mabb to this day; & ther monument Lyes
in wigan Church as you see ther Portrd.
An: Dom: 1315.
There were many vestiges around Haighhall, both of the Catholic
penances of the Lady Mabel, and the history of this unfortunate
transaction in particular; the whole history was within the memory
of man portrayed upon a glass window in the hall, where
unfortunately it has not been preserved. Mab's Cross is still
extant. An old ruinous building is said to have been the place
where the Lady Mabel was condemned to render penance, by walking
hither from Haighhall barefooted and barelegged for the
performance of her devotions. This relic, to which an anecdote so
curious is annexed, is now unfortunately ruinous. Time and
whitewash, says Mr. Roby, have altogether defaced the effigies of
the knight and lady on the tomb. The particulars are preserved in
Mr. Roby's Traditions of Lancashire, [Footnote: A very elegant
work, 2 vols. 1829. By J. Roby, M.R.S.L.] to which the reader is
referred for further particulars. It does not appear that Sir
William Braidshaigh was irreparably offended against the too hasty
Lady Mabel, although he certainly showed himself of a more fiery
mould than the Scottish and German barons who were heroes of the
former tales. The tradition, which the author knew very early in
life, was told to him by the late Lady Balcarras. He was so much
struck with it, that being at that time profuse of legendary lore,
he inserted it in the shape of a note to Waverley, the first of
his romantic offences. Had he then known, as he now does, the
value of such a story, it is likely that, as directed in the
inimitable receipt for making an epic poem, preserved in the
Guardian, he would have kept it for some future opportunity.
As, however, the tale had not been completely told, and was a very
interesting one, and as it was sufficiently interwoven with the
Crusades, the wars between the Welsh and the Norman lords of the
Marches was selected as a period when all freedoms might be taken
with the strict truth of history without encountering any well
known fact which might render the narrative improbable. Perhaps,
however, the period which vindicates the probability of the tale,
will, with its wars and murders, be best found described in the
following passage of Gryffyth Ap Edwin's wars.
"This prince in conjunction with Algar, Earl of Chester, who had
been banished from England as a traitor, in the reign of Edward
the Confessor, marched into Herefordshire and wasted all that
fertile country with fire and sword, to revenge the death of his
brother Rhees, whose head had been brought to Edward in pursuance
of an order sent by the King on account of the depredations which
he had committed against the English on the borders. To stop these
ravages the Earl of Hereford, who was nephew to Edward, advanced
with an army, not of English alone, but of mercenary Normans and
French, whom he had entertained in his service, against Gryffyth
and Algar. He met them near Hereford, and offered them battle,
which the Welsh monarch, who had won five pitched battles before,
and never had fought without conquering, joyfully accepted. The
earl had commanded his English forces to fight on horseback, in
imitation of the Normans, against their usual custom; but the
Welsh making a furious and desperate charge, that nobleman
himself, and the foreign cavalry led by him, were so daunted at
the view of them, that they shamefully fled without fighting;
which being seen by the English, they also turned their backs on
the enemy, who, having killed or wounded as many of them as they
could come up with in their flight, entered triumphantly into
Hereford, spoiled and fired the city, razed the walls to the
ground, slaughtered some of the citizens, led many of them
captive, and (to use the words of the Welsh Chronicle) left
nothing in the town but blood and ashes. After this exploit they
immediately returned into Wales, undoubtedly from a desire of
securing their prisoners, and the rich plunder they had gained.
The King of England hereupon commanded Earl Harold to collect a
great army from all parts of the kingdom, and assembling them at
Gloucester, advanced from thence to invade the dominions of
Gryffyth in North Wales. He performed his orders, and penetrated
into that country without resistance from the Welsh; Gryffyth and
Algar returning into some parts of South Wales. What were their
reasons for this conduct we are not well informed; nor why Harold
did not pursue his advantage against them; but it appears that he
thought it more advisable at this time to treat with, than subdue,
them; for he left North Wales, and employed himself in rebuilding
the walls of Hereford, while negotiations were carrying on with
Gryffyth which soon after produced the restoration of Algar, and a
peace with that king, not very honourable to England, as he made
no satisfaction for the mischief he had done in the war, nor any
submissions to Edward. Harold must doubtless have had some private
and forcible motives to conclude such a treaty. The very next year the
Welsh monarch, upon what quarrel we, know not, made a new incursion
into England, and killed the Bishop of Hereford, the Sheriff of the county,
and many more of the English, both ecclesiastics and laymen. Edward
was counselled by Harold, and Leofrick, Earl of Mercia, to make
peace with him again; which he again broke; nor could he be
restrained by any means, from these barbarous inroads, before the
year one, thousand and sixty-three; when Edward, whose patience
and pacific disposition had been too much abused, commissioned
Harold to assemble the whole strength of the kingdom, and make war
upon him in his own country till he had subdued or destroyed him.
That general acted so vigorously, and with so much celerity, that
he had like to have surprised him in his palace: but just before
the English forces arrived at his gate, having notice of the
danger that threatened him, and seeing no other means of safety,
he threw himself with a few of his household into one of his ships
which happened at the instant to be ready to sail and put to
sea."--LYTTLETON'S _Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 338.
This passage will be found to bear a general resemblance to the
fictitious tale told, in the Romance.
ABBOTSFORD, 1_st June_, 1832.