hands of Woden. He will not turn it against a descendant of his race. I
will return to thee in triumph. I will throw a crown at thy father's
feet, and rush to the arms of Agitha. Thou wilt greet me again with thy
smile of love--with thy voice that is sweeter than the music of spring.
Thy heart, which is dearer than life, shall be my kingdom; and thy
bosom, that is whiter than the breast of the wild swan, my throne. I
will fly to thee as the hunted deer to its covert--as a bird to its nest
where its young await it."
Thus departed the warrior, and Agitha returned to her maidens; she sat
down amongst them and mourned.
Gormack, the weird, a thane of the Pictish race, had his dwelling near
the giddy cliffs where the young eagles scream to the roar of the dark
waters of the Forth. He had a daughter whose beauty was the theme of all
tongues. Her fame went over the land like the sound of shells--yea, like
the sound of shells when the wind is hushed, and the moon is bright in
the heavens. Fair was the daughter of Gormack as the lily that groweth
by the brook. Her hair was as the finest fleece when it is purified. It
fell down her back in ringlets. It was bright as the golden clouds that
encircle the throne of the rising sun--as the golden clouds when they
are dipped in silver. Her father held counsel with spirits of evil. They
were obedient to his will. He invoked them to endue his daughter with
more than mortal beauty, that she might inflame the soul of princes, and
sit upon their throne. Such was the tale of men. Her beauty was the
burden of the song of bards. In their chorus to swell the praise of
others, they said that they were "lovely as the fair daughter of
Gormack."
The tale of her charms was heard by Ethelfrith. It was heard by the
fierce in war--the impetuous in love--the victor in battle--yea, even
by Ethelfrith, king of Bernicia. "I will see the fair daughter of the
thane," said the proud king, to whose will even war and the mighty in
war did homage. Moreover, Gormack the thane was his vassal. He had sworn
to his obedience.
The king went forth to the dwelling of Gormack, among the cliffs.
Ealdormen,[N] comites,[O] and thanes,[P] attended him. The weird thane
came forth to meet him; he bowed his head and made obeisance.
[N] Earls.
[O] Companions.
[P] Thanes signified men high in power, of various degrees of rank.
Ethelfrith beheld Bethoc the Beautiful; and the songs that he had heard
in her praise were as an idle tale, for her loveliness exceeded the
power of song. The soul of the fierce king melted within him. It was
subdued by the sorcery of her charms.
"Give me," said he unto her father--and commandments ever fell from his
lips--"give me Bethoc to be my wife; for she is more lovely than the
morning star. She is fit for a warrior's bride; she shall be THE LADY[Q]
of Bernicia."
[Q] THE LADY was the appellation given to a queen amongst the
Anglo-Saxons.
Again the weird bowed his head. He knelt upon his knee. He presented his
daughter to the king. Then did Ethelfrith take her by the hand. He led
her forth to his chariot of war, through the midst of his ealdormen, his
comites, and his thanes, who were in great power and resistless in war,
and they made obeisance to her as she passed through the midst of them.
They saluted her as their queen. Her breast swelled with exultation.
Pride flashed from her eyes, as the sun bursting from a cloud dazzleth
the eye of the gazer. The king gazed upon her beauty as a dreamer upon a
fair vision.
Now, the beauty of Bethoc was sin made lovely. Her bosom was as a hill
where the vine and the cedar grew, and where flowers shed forth perfume;
but beneath which a volcano slept. To the eye was beauty, beyond were
desolation and death. Pride, hatred, and envy, encircled her soul. She
was sold unto evil, even as her father was. The spirit of destruction,
in answer to her father's prayer, had formed her a beautiful destroyer.
Whatsoever was lovely that she looked upon in envy, withered as though
an east wind passed over it--the destroying wind which blighteth the
hopes of the husbandman.
At the going down of the sun, the king, and his fair queen, Bethoc, with
his mighty men, drew near to the tower which Ida had built on the
mountain-rock, and all the people of the city came forth to meet him,
and to greet their queen.
The bards lifted up their voice; they styled her the fairest of women.
"Fair is the wife of the king," replied an aged thane, "but fairer is
Agitha, his daughter! Bethoc, the queen, is a bright star, but Agitha is
the star of the morning--fairest of the heavens!"
Queen Bethoc heard the words of the aged thane, and she hated Agitha
because of them. The spirit of evil spread his darkness over her soul.
He filled her breast with the poison of asps, her eyes with the venom of
the adder that lures to destruction.
At the entrance of the tower of kings stood Agitha, lovely as the
spirits that dwell among the stars, and give beauty to the beings of
earth. She knelt before the queen. She offered her a daughter's homage.
"Rise, beautiful one! inspirer of song!" said the queen; "kneel not to
me, for I am but a star--thou art the star of the morning. Hide not thy
face from before men. Let them serve and worship thee."
Cold were her words as water which droppeth from the everlasting
icicles in the caves of the north. As is the mercy of the tears of the
crocodile, so was the kindness of her looks. Envy and hatred gleamed in
her eyes, like lightnings round the sides of a dark cloud.
The countenance of Agitha fell; for she knew that her father in his
wrath was fiercer than the wild boar of the forest when at bay; and she
feared to reply to the sneer of the wife in whom his eyes delighted.
Queen Bethoc, the daughter of Gormack, knew that men said she was less
beautiful than Agitha, the daughter of the king. When they walked by the
clear fountains or the crystal brooks together, the fountains and the
brooks whispered to her the words which men spoke--"Agitha is the most
lovely." Therefore did the queen hate Agitha with a great and deadly
hatred. As the sleuth-hound seeketh its prey, so did she seek her
destruction. As the fowler lureth the bird into his net, so did she lie
in wait for her. Yet she feared to destroy her openly, because that she
was afraid of the fierce anger of her husband Ethelfrith, and his love
for his daughter was great.
Sleep fled from her eyes, and colour forsook her cheeks, because of her
envy of the beauty of Agitha, and the hatred which she bore her. She
spoke unto her father Gormack, the weird thane, that he would aid her
with his sorceries against her. Then did they practise their unclean
spells, and perform their dark incantations to destroy her; but their
spells and incantations prevailed not, for the spirit of Woden protected
Agitha.
Now, there resided at that time in a dark cave, in the heugh which is
called Spindleston, an enchantress of great power, named Elgiva--the
worker of wonders. Men said that she could weave ropes of sand, and
threads from the motes of the sunbeams. She could call down fire from
the clouds, and transform all things by the waving of her magic wand.
Around her hung a loose robe, composed of the skins of many beasts. Her
feet and her arms were bare, and they were painted with strange figures.
On her face, also, was the likeness of the spirits that ministered to
her will. She was fearful to look upon. Men fled at her approach. The
beasts of the field were scared by her shadow. Round her head was
wreathed a crown of fantastic hemlock--round her neck a corslet of
deadly nightshade. On her left arm coiled a living snake, and it rested
its head upon her bosom. In her right hand she held a wand dipped in the
poison of all things venomous. Whatsoever it touched died--whatsoever it
waved over was transformed. No human foot approached her cave--no mortal
dared. The warrior, who feared not a hundred foes, quailed at the sight
of Elgiva, the enchantress, the worker of wonders. Unclean reptiles
crawled around her cave--the asp, the loathsome toad, and the hissing
adder. Two owls sat in the farthest corner of the cave, and their eyes
were as lamps in its darkness. They sat upon skulls of the dead. A tame
raven croaked in the midst of it. It was told that the reptiles, the
owls, and the raven, were objects of her enchantment--warriors, and the
daughters of warriors, transformed by the waving of her wand.
Now, when Bethoc could find no rest because of the greatness of her
hatred for Agitha, and, moreover, as she herself had communed with
impure spirits, she overcame the terror which the name of Elgiva spread.
She sought her aid. In the dead of night, when the moon had gone to
rest, yea, when clouds and darkness had blotted out the stars that were
left to watch in the heavens, she went forth from the tower of kings.
She stood before the cave of the enchantress. She lifted up her voice
and cried--"Elgiva--worker of wonders! the feared of mortals--come
forth!"
The owls clapped their wings and screamed; the ravens croaked, and
the adders hissed. From the darkness of her cave the voice of the
enchantress came forth--it came forth as a voice from the grave,
saying--"Who amongst the children of mortals dareth to call upon the
name of Elgiva?--or, what deed of sin bringeth thee hither?"
"The queen," answered Bethoc, "the wife of the mighty Ethelfrith, she
calleth thee, she invoketh thine aid. The strongest spirits obey
thee--the spirits of the earth, of the air, and of the sea. Then help
me, thou that art more powerful than the kings of the earth, that art
stronger than the fate of the stars; help--rid me of mine enemy whom I
hate, even of Agitha, the daughter of the king. Make her as one of the
poisoned worms that crawl within thy cave. Or, if thou wilt not do this
thing to serve me, when my right hand hath shed her blood, turn from me
the fierce wrath of her father the king."
Again the voice of the enchantress came forth from the cave, saying--"In
seven days come unto me again--bring with thee the Princess Agitha; and
Elgiva, the enchantress, will do towards her as Bethoc, the daughter of
the weird thane, hath requested."
Thus did the queen, while Ethelfrith, her lord, was making war against a
strange king in a far country.
Darkness lay heavy on the hills, it concealed the objects on the plains.
The seven days, of which the enchantress had spoken, were expired.
"Maiden," said the queen unto Agitha, "rise and follow me."
Agitha obeyed; for the fear and the commandment of her father were upon
her. Two servants, men of the Pictish race, also followed the queen. She
went towards the cave of the enchantress. Agitha would have shrunk back,
but the queen grasped her hand. The swords of the men of the Pictish
race waved over her. They dragged her forward. They stood before the
cave of the potent Elgiva.
"Elgiva! worker of wonders!" exclaimed the queen; "Bethoc, thy servant,
is come. The victim also is here--Agitha, the morning-star. By thy
power, which is stronger than the lightning, and invisible as the wind,
render loathsome her beauty; yea, make her as a vile worm which crawleth
on the ground, with venom in its mouth."
Again was heard the deep voice of the enchantress, mingled with the
croaking of the raven, and the screeching of the owls, as she rushed
from her cave, crying--"It shall be as thou hast said."
Terror had entranced the soul of the fair Agitha--it had brought a sleep
over her senses. The enchantress grasped her hand. She threw her arm
around her.
"Away, accursed!" she exclaimed unto Bethoc the queen; "fly! lest the
power of the enchantment fall upon thee also. Fly! lest it overtake thee
as darkness overtaketh the benighted traveller. Fly! ere the wand of the
worker of wonders is uplifted, and destruction come upon thee."
The followers of Bethoc quaked with dismay. They turned with her and
fled to the tower of Ida. Of their outgoing and their incoming none
knew.
The maidens of Bernicia wept when the loss of Agitha was known.
"Beauty," said they, "hath perished. Agitha, whose face was as the face
of heaven when its glories appear--as the face of the earth when its
flowers give forth their fragrance--Agitha is not!" And because she was
not, the people mourned. Queen Bethoc alone rejoiced, and was silent.
Dismay and wonder spread over the land--for a tale was told of a
serpent-worm, fearful in magnitude and of monstrous form, which was seen
at Spindleston, by the cave of Elgiva--the worker of wonders--the woman
of power.
The people trembled. They said of the monster--"It is Agitha, the
beloved!--the daughter of our king, of conquering Ethelfrith. Elgiva,
the daughter of destruction, who communeth with the spirits of the air,
and defeateth armies by the waving of her wand, hath done this. She hath
cast her enchantments over Agitha, the fairest of women--the meekest
among the daughters of princes."
The bards raised songs of lamentation for her fate. "Surely," said
they, "when the Chylde Wynde cometh, his sword, which maketh the brave
to fall and bringeth down the mighty, will break the enchantment." And
the burden of the songs was--"Return, O valiant Chylde, conqueror of
nations--thou who makest kings captives, return! Free the enchanted!
Deliver the beautiful!"
Now, the people of the land where the Chylde and his warriors landed,
were stricken with terror at their approach. They fled before them, as
sheep fly upon the hills when the howl of the hungry wolf is heard. He
overthrew their king, he took possession of his kingdom. He took his
crown, and he brought it to Ethelfrith, whose ambition was boundless as
the sea. He brought it as the price of Agitha's hand.
It was morn. The sun rose with his robes of glory over the sea. Bethoc,
the daughter of Gormack the weird, stood upon the turrets of Ida's
tower. She was performing incantations to the four winds of heaven. She
called upon them to lift up the sea on their invisible wings, to raise
its waves as mountains, and whelm the ships upon its bosom. But the
winds obeyed not her voice, and the sea was still. In the bay of Budle
lay the vessels of the Chylde Wynde, and the weapons of his warriors
flashed in the sunbeams and upon the sea. Therefore was the spirit of
Queen Bethoc troubled. It was troubled lest the enchantment should be
broken--Agitha delivered from the spell, and her wrongs avenged.
As a great wave rolleth in majesty to the shore, so advanced the warrior
ships of Chylde Wynde, the subduer of heroes. The people came forth to
meet him with a shout of joy. "He is come," they cried; "the favoured of
the stars, the Chylde of the sharp sword, is come to deliver Agitha the
beautiful, to break the spell of her enchantment."
He heard the dark tale. His bosom heaved. He rent the robe that covered
him. His grief was as the howling of the winter wind, in a deep glen
between great mountains. He threw himself upon the earth and wept.
But again the spirit of Woden came upon him. It burned within his bosom
as a fierce flame. He started to his feet. To his lips he pressed the
sword of his father. He vowed to break the enchantment that entombed his
betrothed.
He rushed towards the cave of Elgiva, the worker of wonders. His
warriors feared to follow him. The people stood back in dismay. For by
the waving of Elgiva's wand she turned the swords of warriors upon
themselves, she caused them to melt in their hands.
At the mouth of her cave stood the enchantress. By her side lay the
serpent-worm.
"Daughter of wickedness!" shouted the Chylde, "break thy accursed spell;
restore the fair form of my Agitha, else the blood of thy heart shall
dissolve the charm."
"Hearken, O Chylde," cried the enchantress; "thou subduer of kings, thou
vanquisher of the strong--sharp is thy sword, but against me it hath no
power. Would it pierce the breast that suckled thee?--the breast of her
that bore thee?"
From the hand of the warrior dropped his uplifted sword. "Mother!" he
exclaimed. He fell on his knees before her.
"Yea, thy mother," answered the enchantress; "who, when her warrior
husband fell, fled to the desert, to the cave, and to the forest, for
protection--even for protection from the love and from the wrath of
Ethelfrith the fierce, the brother of thy warrior father, whose eyes
were as the eagle's, and his arm great of strength. Uncouth is the
habit, wild is the figure, and idle the art of thy mother. Broken is her
wand which the vulgar feared. That mine eyes might behold my son, this
cave became my abode. Superstition walled it round with fire."
"And Agitha?" gasped the warrior.
"Behold!" answered she, "the loathly worm at the feet of thy mother."
The skins of fish of the deep sea were sewed together with cords--they
were fashioned into the form of a great serpent.
"Come forth, my daughter!" cried the enchantress. Agitha sprang from her
disguise of skins. She sank on the breast of her hero.
The people beheld her from afar. Their shout of joy rang across the
sea. It was echoed among the hills. A scream rose from the tower of
Ida. From the highest turret Bethoc the queen had sprung. In pieces
was her body scattered at the foot of the great cliff. They were gathered
together--they were buried in the cave of Elgiva. From her grave crawled
an unclean beast, and it crawleth around it for ever.
Ethelfrith died in battle. Woden shut his eyes and saw him not, and he
fell. And Elgiva, the enchantress, the worker of wonders, was hailed as
Rowena, the mother of Wynde, the subduer of princes; yea, even of Chylde
Wynde, the beloved, and the lord of Agitha the Beautiful.
Such was the tale of the Saxon bard.
THE SABBATH WRECKS.
A LEGEND OF DUNBAR.
It was a beautiful Sabbath morning in the autumn of 1577: a few small
clouds, tinged with red, sailed slowly through the blue heavens; the sun
shone brightly, as if conscious of the glory and goodness of its Maker,
diffusing around a holy stillness and tranquillity, characteristic of
the day of rest; the majestic Frith flashed back the sunbeams, while, on
its bosom, slowly glided the winged granaries of commerce; there, too,
lay its islands, glorying in their strength--the May, shrouded in light,
appeared as a leviathan sunning in its rays--and the giant Bass, covered
with sea-fowl, rose as a proud mountain of alabaster in the midst of the
waters. A thousand boats lay along the shores of Dunbar. It was the
herring season--and there were many boats from the south and from the
north, and also from the coast of Holland.
Now, tidings were brought to the fishermen that an immense shoal was
upon the coast; and, regardless of its being Sabbath morning, they began
to prepare their thousand boats, and to go out to set their nets. The
Rev. Andrew Simpson, a man possessed of the piety and boldness of an
apostle, was then minister of Dunbar; and, as he went forth to the kirk
to preach to his people, he beheld the unhallowed preparations of the
fishermen on the beach; and he turned and went amongst them, and
reproved them sternly for their great wickedness. But the men were
obdurate--the prospect of great gain was before them, and they mocked
the words of the preacher. Yea, some of them said unto him, in the words
of the children to the prophet--"Go up, thou bald head." He went from
boat to boat, counselling, entreating, expostulating with them, and
praying for them.
"Surely," said he, "the Lord of the Sabbath will not hold ye guiltless
for this profanation of his holy day." But, at that period, vital
religion was but little felt or understood upon the Borders, and they
regarded not his words.
He went to one boat, which was the property of members of his own
congregation, and there he found Agnes Crawford, the daughter of one
of his elders, hanging upon the neck of her husband, and their three
children also clung around him, and they entreated him not to be guilty
of breaking the Sabbath for the sake of perishing gain. But he regarded
not their voice; and he kissed his wife and his children, while he
laughed at their idle fears. Mr. Simpson beheld the scene with emotion,
and approaching the group--"John Crawford," he exclaimed, addressing the
husband, "you may profess to mock, to laugh to scorn the words of a
feeble woman; but see that they return not like a consuming fire into
your bosom when hope has departed. Is not the Lord of the Sabbath the
Creator of the sea as well as of the dry land? Know ye not that ye are
now braving the wrath of him before whom the mighty ocean is a drop, and
all space but a span? Will ye, then, glory in insulting his ordinances,
and delight in profaning the day of holiness? Will ye draw down
everlasting darkness on the Sabbath of your soul? When ye were but a
youth, ye have listened to the words of John Knox--the great apostle of
our country--ye have trembled beneath their power, and the conviction
that they carried with them; and when ye think of those convictions, and
contrast them with your conduct this day, does not the word _apostate_
burn in your heart? John Crawford, some of your blood have embraced the
stake for the sake of the truth, and will ye profane the Sabbath which
they sanctified? The Scotsman who openly glories in such a sin,
forfeits his claim to the name of one, and publishes to the world that
he has no part nor communion with the land that gave him birth. John
Crawford, hearken unto my voice, to the voice of your wife, and that of
your bairns (whose bringing up is a credit to their mother), and be not
guilty of this gross sin." But the fisherman, while he regarded not the
supplications of his wife, became sullen at the words of the preacher;
and, springing into the boat, seized an oar, and, with his comrades,
began to pull from the shore.
The thousand boats put to sea, and Mr. Simpson returned sorrowful from
the beach to the kirk, while Agnes Crawford and her children followed
him. That day he took for his text, "Remember the Sabbath day to keep
it holy;" and, as he fearlessly and fervidly denounced the crime of
Sabbath-breaking, and alluded to the impious proceedings of the day, his
hearers trembled, but poor Agnes wept aloud, and her children clung
around her, and they wept also, because she wept. But, ere the service
had concluded, the heavens began to lower. Darkness fell over the
congregation--and first came the murmur of the storm, which suddenly
burst into the wild howl of the tempest. They gazed upon each other in
silent terror, like guilty spirits stricken in their first rebellion by
the searching glance of the Omniscient. The loud voice of psalms was
abruptly hushed, and its echo mingled with the dreadful music of the
elements, like the bleating of a tender lamb, in the wind that sweepeth
howling on the mountains. For a moment, their features, convulsed and
immovable, were still distended with the song of praise; but every
tongue was silent, every eye fixed. There was no voice, save heaven's.
The church seemed to rock to its foundations, but none fled--none moved.
Pale, powerless as marble statues, horror transfixed them in the house
of prayer. The steeple rocked in the blast, and, as it bent, a knell,
untolled by human hands, pealed on the ears of the breathless multitude.
A crash followed. The spire that glittered in the morning sun lay
scattered in fragments, and the full voice of the whirlwind roared
through the aisles. The trees crouched, and were stripped leafless; and
the sturdy oak, whose roots had embraced the earth for centuries, torn
from the deep darkness of its foundations, was uplifted on the wings of
the tempest. Darkness was spread over the earth. Lightnings gathered
together their terrors, and, clothed in the fury of their fearful
majesty, flashed through the air. The fierce hail was poured down as
clouds of ice. At the awful voice of the deep thunder, the whirlwind
quailed, and the rage of the tempest seemed spent.
Nothing was now heard save the rage of the troubled sea, which, lashed
into foam by the angry storm, still bellowed forth its white billows to
the clouds, and shouted its defiance loud as the war-cry of embattled
worlds. The congregation still sat mute, horrified, death-like, as if
waiting for the preacher to break the spell of the elements. He rose to
return thanks for their preservation, and he had given out the lines--
"Lord, in thy wrath rebuke me not,
Nor in thy hot rage chasten me,"