Many a name holds a meaning wrapt up within itself like a nut in its
shell. For instance, "Edinburgh" is a Saxon name--Edwin's burgh--and
the word tells us that this noble city, though now the capital of
Scotland, was originally founded by and belonged to a Saxon king of
Northumbria. The Highlanders, in their own Gaelic language, called it
Dunedin. This has the same signification as Edinburgh, but, like most
Gaelic names, it is arranged in the reverse order to that in which an
English name is generally put together. "Dun" means burgh, "Edin" is
Edwin. This is the same Dun that we have in "Dundee," which means the
burgh on the Tay, and might be translated as "Tayburgh." "Dumbarton"
means the burgh of the Britons, and teaches us another notable lesson,
namely, how far north in the old times the British influence extended.
For "British" in this case means "Welsh." Nowadays we associate the
Welsh with Wales only. Formerly there must have been a numerous colony
of Welsh in Scotland, as the name "Dumbarton" testifies, as also many
Scottish family names. The great name of Wallace itself, for instance,
suggests such an origin, for "Wallace" is merely a corrupt form of the
word "Welsh," and proves that the great national hero was of Welsh
extraction. Then "Cumberland"--Cymry land--means the land of the Welsh,
or Cymry, as they call themselves. The county of Cumberland did not
really belong to the English till the time of William Rufus. The first
syllable of "Carlisle" denotes a Celtic fortified town, and must be
compared with the first syllable of "Carnarvon."
The presence of the Roman wall is shown in many names in Northumberland,
such as "Wallsend," "Walltown," "Wallridge," "Heddon-on-the-Wall,"
"Wallhouses," and "Thirlwall."
For a very interesting instance of what a name tells us we may leave the
Border for a moment and consider why the northernmost part of Scotland
is called "Sutherland." It must have been so named by people living in
the Orkney and Shetland isles, of a different race from the Scotch--that
is, Norse settlers in those islands.
With regard to surnames, how many stop to think that "Oliphant" is
merely a form of "elephant," and was originally an allusion to a big,
burly ancestor? "Grant," which is the same as "grand," must also have
been once applied to one who was a giant in size. The Frazers somehow
got their name from the French word for a strawberry, fraise. The
odd-looking "Scrymgeour" means simply a scrimmager or skirmisher.
"Turnbull" recalls one who turned the bull at a bull-baiting. The
well-known "Gladstains" or "Gladstone" has nothing to do with "glad,"
but is from "glede," an old word for the kite, and commemorates some
stone where these birds frequented. "Buccleuch" is from the killing of
a buck in a cleugh or ravine.
The Christian names of the Borderers are full of life and local colour,
and differ much from those of Southern England. "Barthram" is the
northern form of "Bertram," "Nigel" of "Neil," "Jellon" of "Julian,"
"Ringan" of "Ninian." It was the general custom to abbreviate Christian
names or use them in the diminutive form, as is constantly the practice
in these Border ballads. "Hobbie" stands for "Halbert," a fine old name
which must not be confused with "Albert." "Dandie" or "Dandrie" is
"Andrew," "Eckie" is "Hector," "Lammie" is "Lambert," "Lennie" is
"Leonard." "Adam" becomes, in the familiar form, "Aicky," "Christian"
becomes "Christy," "Gilbert" becomes "Gibby."
Another peculiarity of the ballads is the regular recurrence of such
phrases as "the Laird's Jock," "the Laird's Wat," "Ringan's Wat," etc.
These expressions mean, "John the son of the Laird," "Walter the son of
the Laird," "Walter the son of Ringan or Ninian."
*Chapter I*
*Bamburgh and its Coast*
The little town of Bamburgh has two striking features--the great castle
upon its stern rock, and the wild coast-line at its feet where dash the
storms of the North Sea.
To-day it is not important enough to have a railway station of its own;
yet once it was the capital of the great Saxon kingdom of Northumbria.
Its original name was Bebbanburgh, so called after Queen Bebba; of its
Saxon fortress hardly a trace remains, the present building being partly
the old Norman castle, with repairs and additions of a later date. The
ancient pile has a strength, dignity, and grandeur which accords well
with its truly noble situation.
The North Saxons in choosing such a spot for their capital showed a very
evident desire to keep in touch with the sea. Over the sea they had
come; and over the sea would come both friends and enemies. Many a
meeting of both friend and foe has taken place at Bamburgh!
Perhaps the fiercest of the enemies was Ragnar of the hairy-breeches, a
famous viking who plundered, ravaged, and burnt without mercy. These
vikings, powerful men and fearless sea-rovers, were a standing terror to
Northumbria. Men with frames and muscles strong as iron; at home both
on the sea and on the battle-field; fair-haired, blue-eyed men, guarded
by helmet, breast-plate, and shield, armed with heavy weapons, because
at that date the art of the smith was not equal to making them sharp,
light, and strong at once. So these mighty warriors hewed their way
through the field of battle with great strokes, and when their foes fled
in terror, the vikings took back to their ships all the treasure they
could find, and away they went across the sea again. But with all their
fierceness they loved poetry (wild war-poetry, most of it) and they
loved their strong, brave women.
Ragnar was a thorough viking. He loved fighting, and his handsome wife,
and the battle songs he made. But the Saxons had no cause to love him,
and when his ship ran aground near Jarrow, they bound him and cast him
into a pit of snakes, and watched him slowly die. The viking had no fear
of death. He sang as he lay there, of his life and his deeds--of the
great banquets he had given to the wolves and the vultures and the
fierce battles he had won, spreading the terrors of his name from the
Orkneys to the Mediterranean; of his beautiful wife and strong sons, and
of how they would avenge him; and of how Woden, the lord of all
warriors, was calling him to his Hall.
Many a battle has been fought on that wild coast since Ragnar died; much
history has been made thereabouts, and many legends have attached
themselves to Bamburgh. Like most famous places, it had its own special
dragon, the "Laidly Worm" or loathsome serpent of the ancient ballad.
"For seven miles east, and seven miles west,
And seven miles north and south,
No blade of grass or corn would grow,
So venomous was her mouth!"
And yet, when the gallant knight gave her "kisses three," she changed at
once into a beautiful lady!
But despite its castle, its battles, and its legends, Bamburgh slowly
declined in importance. As the capital of Northumbria it had been one
of the chief towns in England. But the gallant Northumbria of the
Saxons was more open to enemies than any other part of the country;
Cumbrians were on the west and Scots on the north, and this was of all
Saxon kingdoms the most exposed to the ravages of the Danes. From the
capital of a kingdom it became the capital of a county (Bamburghshire),
returning two members to Parliament in the reign of Edward I.; but it
grew of less and still less importance, till at last it was known only
to the student of history. It shared this fate with Lindisfarne, called
Holy Island, once the Canterbury of the North, on whose rocky shores
still stand the ruins of the fine Norman cathedral which took the place
of the old Saxon one. Lindisfarne and Bamburgh--neighbours, divided
only by a narrow belt of sea--two names that conjure up vivid pictures
of romantic history. Yet suddenly, early in the nineteenth century, the
great deed of a splendid heroine lent new glory to the wild, sea-girt
town.
Grace Darling was born at Bamburgh in 1817, in a cottage on the south
side of the village street, which can still be seen to-day. Her father
became keeper of the lighthouse on the Langstone, a rocky islet five
miles from the coast, guarding ships from the dangerous Farne Islands, a
group of iron-bound rocks where seabirds dwell. In the early morning of
September 7, 1838, during the raging of a most terrible storm, she heard
the crash of a ship dashed upon the rocks, and anguished cries; as soon
as dawn enabled them to see, the girl and her father made out the dark
outline of the wreck, and the miserable forms of the mariners crouching
on rocks from which the rising tide would sweep them inevitably to
death. With superb heroism Grace and her father pushed their small boat
into the furious waters, and after strenuous and dauntless efforts,
always at the peril of their own lives, they saved the whole ship's
company, nine souls in all. So fierce was the storm that it was three
days before a boat dared take them from the Langstone to the mainland.
The roar of approbation which greeted her from the whole country found
her as modest as she was brave. But for all her courage, this noble girl
was not strong. She died four years later, and lies buried at Bamburgh,
within sound of the sea. And the Langstone is known to-day as "Grace
Darling's Island," and the tomb of the brave girl rouses sweeter
memories than the frowning fortress of Bamburgh.
*Chapter II*
*Athelstan at Vinheath*
Famous among the old Norse sea-rovers was Egil, son of Skallagrim. In
the course of his many voyages, he visited all the lands between the
White Sea and the Bay of Biscay, and when at last he settled down in his
Iceland home, where he lived on till well past the age of eighty, he
loved to gather his children and grandchildren around him by the
fireside during the long Icelandic winter, and to tell the story of his
adventures. He was a true Norseman, fond of the sea and the fight, fond
of his wife and children, fond of song, at which he was highly skilled.
His songs and his stories of adventure were listened to with eagerness,
and they were repeated after him, and were at last written down,
probably between one hundred and fifty and two hundred years after his
death. Books were scarce in those days, and stories were treasured and
faithfully re-told. So this story of Egil was probably written out very
much in the simple, vigorous style in which the old warrior would have
told it to his grandchildren, as they listened to him with wide-open,
wondering eyes. And as the old man had taken part in an early battle
between Saxon-English and Scots, upon the Border, we have here a fine
picture of how fights were fought in the reign of King Athelstan.
Egil was speaking to Icelandic children who knew little about England,
so he began by telling how in the days when Harold Fairhair was king of
Norway, Alfred the Great was the first supreme king over all England.
When Alfred died he was succeeded by his son Edward, who was followed by
Athelstan the Victorious. In Egil's day Athelstan was young and had but
just been made king, and many chieftains, who had kept quiet before, now
thought that the time had come when they could do as they pleased again.
But Athelstan meant to show them that he too could rule England strongly
and wisely.
These were the days of brute force, and the king had first to get an
army together. Besides his own English folk, many roving Norsemen came
to take his pay, and among the number were Egil and his elder brother
Thorolf, with their men. They saw the king himself, who received them
well. Athelstan was a good Christian, known as the Faithful, and he
desired that Thorolf and Egil should submit to be marked with the Cross,
that they might take their place by his Christian soldiers without
quarrel. This they agreed to, and the king gave them command over three
hundred men. Now Olaf the Red was king in Scotland. His father was a
Scot, but his mother was a Dane of the family of Ragnar
with-the-hairy-breeches, that savage old viking. Northumberland, which
in those days extended to the Humber, and included York as its chief
city, was half-full of Danes, and King Olaf wished to claim it for his
own, and add it to Scotland.
Athelstan had set Earl Alfgeir and Earl Gudrek to rule Northumberland
and defend it from the Scots. But Olaf of Scotland came south with his
mighty host; there was a fierce battle; Earl Gudrek was slain and Earl
Alfgeir fled. When Athelstan heard of the triumph of Olaf, he began at
once to march northward with all the men he could get together; but he
was yet young, and some of the treacherous earls, hearing that Olaf had
so far been victor, deserted King Athelstan. Chief among these traitors
were Earl Hring and Earl Adils, who should have been in the very front
of the English army, but who basely went over to the Scots. Thus Olaf's
host became exceeding great, greater by far than the English army.
Then Athelstan called together his captains and his counsellors; Egil
was there, and heard all the grave talk as to what should be done. At
last a plan was made that all thought good, and this is what followed.
First, messengers were sent to King Olaf, saying that King Athelstan
would meet him in fair fight at Vinheath by Vinwood, in Northumberland,
where he would mark out the field of battle with rods of hazel. He who
won the battle should be king over all England. The armies should meet
a week hence, and whichever was first on the ground should wait a week
for the other. King Olaf should bide quiet, and not harry the land till
the battle was ended. North of the heath was a town; there King Olaf
stayed, for there he could best get provisions for his army. But some
of his men he sent to the heath, to view it.
The hazel-poles were already set up on the large level plain. A river
was on one side, and a wood was on the other. And where river and wood
were nearest to one another, there King Athelstan's tents were pitched.
Many tents there were, but the front line of tents stood high, so that
the Scots could not see how many were behind. Every third tent was
empty, but many men were sleeping on the grass in the open, so that the
Scots might think that the English had a large army there. Every day
more English troops came in, and when the time was come that was fixed
for the battle, English envoys went to the King of the Scots asking if
there need be the great fight and bloodshed that threatened; if Olaf
would go peaceably home, Athelstan would give him a shilling of silver
for every plough that ploughed in England. The Scots took counsel
together and said they must have more than this. Then the messengers
begged a three days' truce to consider this. On the third day they came
again, saying that King Athelstan would give what he offered before and
also to the Scottish army a silver shilling for every freeman soldier, a
silver mark for every lesser officer, a gold mark for every captain, and
five gold marks for every earl. But the Scots asked not only for this,
but also for Northumberland to be yielded to them. Then the English
messengers answered that Scottish messengers must ride back with them,
to take the answer from Athelstan himself.
Now the truth is this: that the Scottish king had taken Athelstan by
such surprise that he needed time to get his men together; all these
messages were but a trick to gain time till the king should come up
himself with all the men he could gather. When, therefore, the
messengers rode up to King Athelstan, he had but just arrived on the
scene of battle. And when he heard the message he said: "Tell King Olaf
this, that I will give him leave to return to Scotland safely if only he
give back all he has unjustly taken from this land, and if he own
himself my under-king, holding Scotland for me and at my behest."
This proud answer made the Scottish messengers at once see what had been
going on. So they hastened back to their king to tell him how they had
been received and what the meaning of it was.
When the Scots found that the English had thus outwitted them, they took
counsel together in some anger. Earl Adils, he who had deserted the
English, said that he and his brother, Earl Hring, would that very night
make a surprise attack; if it succeeded, well and good; if not, then
they could easily withdraw, and the main battle could begin in the
morning. This the King of Scots held to be good advice.
So the two traitor earls and their men moved southward under cover of
the darkness. But Thorolf the Norseman was used to the ways of war, and
his sentries were alert and blew a great war-blast on their horns. And
thus the fight began.
Thorolf was armed with a massy halberd that stood taller than a man;
broad was its blade and thick its socket, and it ended in a four-edged
spike. He had a strong sword by his side and a big, heavy shield on his
left arm; he had a helmet but no shirt of mail. His brother Egil was
armed in much the same way. The Norsemen's standard was borne by Thorfid
the strong.
Next to the Norsemen, in the first rank also, was the division led by
Earl Alfgeir, he who had once before fled from the Scots. King
Athelstan gave him this chance to redeem himself. Now when the first
onslaught of the Scots took place, Earl Adils came against Earl Alfgeir,
while Earl Hring came against the Norsemen.
And now the battle began. The two traitor earls urged on their men, who
charged with spirit. The fight was fierce, and soon Alfgeir gave
ground; this made the foe press on the fiercer, and before long Alfgeir
was in full flight. He avoided the town where Athelstan was, and fled
night and day to the coast, where he took ship out of the country he had
served so ill.
Adils did not dare to pursue him far, for fear of being himself cut off
from his friends. So he returned to help his brother Hring against the
Norsemen. Thorolf, like a true general, saw the danger of this, and at
once told Egil to turn aside with half their force to prevent Adils from
joining his brother. The Norsemen fought a grand fight, but were badly
outnumbered, and the battle seemed to be going against them. Then
Thorolf became furious. Disdainful of life, he cast his shield behind
his back, grasped his great halberd with both hands, and sprang forward,
hacking down all who opposed him. Straight for Hring's standard he went,
nothing could stop him. He slew the standard-bearer, cut through the
standard-pole, and with a mighty stroke thrust his halberd right through
the body of Hring, the traitor earl, and lifted him up in the air that
all might see that he was slain. Then Adils and the rest of the men
fled to the wood, and thus ended the first part of the fight. More was
to come on the morrow.
At dawn next day King Athelstan came forward with his main army. He had
heard of the great deeds of the brothers Thorolf and Egil; most
courteously he thanked them, and said that he would always reckon them
as his friends. Then with his captains he made his plans for the
battle. Egil he put in command of the front ranks of his men, and
Thorolf he set aside to face those of the Scots who might charge the
English in loose array.
[Illustration: Egil at Vinheath]
"For this is the way of the Scots," he said; "they dash to and fro, rush
forward and hither and thither, and are dangerous except to a commander
who is both wary and bold."
Egil said, "I would rather that Thorolf and I were near together"; but
Thorolf answered, "As the king commands, so will we do."
The battle began, and soon waged furiously. Thorolf and his men pressed
forward along the woodside, hoping to take the enemy on the flank. Now,
unknown to him, Adils and his followers were hiding among the trees, and
of a sudden Adils sprang out and smote him down. Thorfid, too, the brave
standard-bearer, was pressed back, but rallied the men, who fought
desperately.
The Scots had raised a great shout at the fall of Thorolf, and this was
heard by Egil, who, when he saw the standard forced back, feared that
his brother was dead, for Thorolf had never drawn back from any foe. So
with a fierce cry Egil hacked his way through to that part of the field,
and when he learnt the truth from his men, he never rested till he had
slain Adils with his own hand.
The followers of Adils then fled, and Egil and the Norsemen hewed their
way through the flank of the Scottish force towards the place where King
Olaf's standard was. Noting this, King Athelstan, that wary general,
caused his own standard to be set forward and all his army to attack at
once. Fierce and furious was the fight, and great was the slaughter.
King Olaf was slain, with great numbers of his men, and the rest fled in
confusion. The English victory was complete.
As soon as Athelstan saw that victory was his, he left the pursuit to
his captains and hastened to the town to make his arrangements. Egil
pursued far and fiercely, and when at last he came back to the
battlefield his first thought was for his dead brother. Worn out though
he was, he would take no rest until he had buried the warrior with full
honours, with his arms and his raiment; and before the sad farewell was
said Egil clasped a gold bracelet on both of Thorolf's wrists to show
his deep love. Then they buried the hero deep and put a high cairn of
stones over him.
Then one last tribute Egil paid to his brother, the greatest of them
all. Among these old Norse warriors there existed a great love of song;
the great fighters strove also to be great song-makers, and Egil was
famous above most for this power. The Norsemen's poems had not rhymes
like ours; they had short vigorous lines, and in each pair of lines
three of the important words had to begin with the same letter. Wild
strong chants they were. This is the song that Egil sang at the burial
of his brother, Thorolf Skallagrimsson:--
"The halberd of the hero
Hewed down the foe before him;
Then in the brunt of battle
Was spilt brave Thorolf's blood.
The grass is green on Vinheath
Where sleeps my great-souled brother;
But death, in doubled sorrow,
Our doleful hearts must bear."
When Egil got to the town he found the king and his army making merry
over their victory at a huge feast. The courteous king saw Egil and bade
him come and sit near to him. The king watched the burly Norseman, who
was tall, with broad shoulders, a powerful head and mighty strength; but
now his head was bent forward, and he kept his sword across his knees,
and now and again half drew it and then clashed it back into its
scabbard like a man who fights with heavy thoughts. He ate little and
drank less. Then King Athelstan, watchful and courteous, took a gold
ring from his arm, and placing it on his sword-point, handed it thus to
where Egil sat. At this mark of honour the Norseman's face grew
brighter. Then the king sent round his own horn for Egil to drink; so
he drank to the king and sang a verse of wild poetry in his praise, made
on the spur of the moment; and with this the king was much pleased.
Then the king sent also for two chests full of silver, and said to
Egil:--
"These chests carry to thy father; it is fitting that King Athelstan
make him some gift for the loss of his son. And do thou stay with me
long, and I will give thee honour and dignity."
Thus the great king in kindness and courtesy did what he could to soothe
the grief of the warrior; and Egil stayed the winter with Athelstan, but
when the summer came he wished to go back to his own people. But he had
much respect for King Athelstan, and ere he bade him farewell he made a
long poem to his glory.
_From the Song of Egil Skallagrimsson, to the Glory of King Athelstan._
"See how the kingly warrior,
Land-warder, battle-wakener,
Smites even to the earth
The earls who rise against him!
Glad is now Northumberland,
This the king she needed,
Wise and bold of race and blood,
Dauntless in the battle-field!"
Many were the verses of this stirring song; and after each came the
refrain:--
"Scottish hills where reindeer roam
Own the rule of Athelstan!"
The king gave Egil two heavy gold rings and a handsome cloak that he
himself had worn; then the Norseman sailed away, for always near to his
heart was the welfare of his dead brother's wife and child. Yea, for
the rest of his long life he loved this child even as he loved his own.
*Chapter III*
*Monks and Minstrels*
The wild Borderland was the scene of the labours of many ol the first
great Christian leaders. Where the arts of war were so much practised,
it was needful that the arts of peace should flourish also. Great was
the influence, even in the wildest times, of these able, serious,
devoted leaders of early religious thought, men like Ninian and
Kentigern.
Christianity first came into Britain in Roman times, and some of the
Britons were converted. After the Romans quitted the country, King
Arthur was the leader of the Christian Britons, and he is said to have
fought with the pagan Britons, the pagan Picts, the pagan Saxons, who
had begun their invasions, and the disorderly soldiers of various races,
probably pagans whom the Romans left behind along the wall.
In due time the fight developed into a struggle between Christian
Britons and pagan Saxons, and then the Saxons themselves began to accept
the new religion. Oswald, a Northumbrian prince, had in a time of peril
hidden in the island of Iona, to where the great Irishman Columba had
come from Ireland as a missionary. When Oswald returned to power he
summoned to his kingdom Aidan, a high-minded Christian teacher, whom he
made first bishop of Lindisfarne (Holy Island). Aidan being a Celt, had
to do his work through interpreters, but he did it well, and laid the
foundations of Christianity and learning in Northumbria. Cuthbert was
another famous missionary. Rising from shepherd-boy to bishop, he
impressed both king and peasant by the dignified simplicity and
sincerity of his life. His place of meditation was a sea-girt rock by
Lindisfarne, lonely and picturesque, and still called after his name. A
curious fossil, with the mark of a cross, is plentiful there, and goes
by the name of St Cuthbert's beads. Other famous teachers were Wilfrid
of York, who founded the churches of Hexham and Ripon; Boisil, who
founded Melrose, and Biscop, who founded Jarrow.
But perhaps the most celebrated of all was Bede, the "Venerable Bede,"
who lived at Jarrow and wrote forty-five learned books on all subjects,
including music, astronomy, and medicine. All the scholars in England
flocked to hear his teachings, and he was justly called "the father of
English learning." He it was who first introduced into England the art
of making glass.
His last work was to translate the Gospel of St John into Northumbrian
English. This was in the year 735. Being too ill to hold a pen, he
dictated to his favourite pupil. "Write quickly," he said, for he felt
that he was dying. "It is finished," answered the lad, and the old
man's heart was satisfied. In a faint, brave voice he chanted the
_Gloria_, and so died singing.
In those days there was, of course, no such thing as printing. Every
manuscript was written and rewritten, carefully, by hand, and treasured
as a sacred possession in the seats of learning. So proud were they of
their manuscripts that they beautified them with illustrations in
colour. Many of these manuscripts have, of course, been destroyed; for
instance, the Danes in 875 burnt the priceless library of Bishop Acca at
Hexham, destroying in one day the treasured collection of a lifetime;
but many remain to show the love of learning which existed even then.
Bishop Edfrid, who lived in the little rocky island of Lindisfarne, made
a copy of the Gospels, which is looked upon with wonder even to-day.
Strings of beautiful birds and quaint animals are drawn upon his pages;
evangelists with mantles of purple and tunics of blue, pink, or green.
With the writing clear and beautiful, the decorations showing the
greatest care and devotion, this manuscript of one thousand two hundred
years ago has been the delight of thousands, and comes down to us to
witness to the loving care of the scholars of old in the days before
printing was known.
Great as was their love of beautiful manuscripts, they had an equally
noble passion for grand buildings. A superb monument of simple dignity
and religious grandeur is the Norman Cathedral at Durham, commenced by
Bishop Carilef in 1093, and finished by Bishop Flambard in 1128.
Occupying a wonderful position at the top of a wooded hill, around which
flows the beautiful river Wear, Durham Cathedral is in itself one of the
noblest buildings in the world. While the Church in those troublous
times kept thus a storehouse of learning for serious scholars, other
methods kept the people informed of the more stirring events of their
day.
In the old days, when no newspapers existed to tell people the news,
when books were scarce and history was not taught to every lad as a part
of his training, the ballad-writer and the wandering minstrel played a
very important part. Ballads, sometimes really fine pieces of poetry,
sometimes a mere halting troop of lame lines, were made upon every
occasion of local or general interest. They were sung to simple and
often beautiful tunes or chants. The best of the minstrels were welcome
to the halls of the nobles, and even to the king himself; the poorest of
them sang on the village green. The ballads were learnt and repeated by
the folk of the country-side; some were in later times printed on loose
sheets, but at first they were handed on from mouth to mouth.
Alterations and errors often crept in; mistakes due to a sameness of
sound. For instance, in the old ballad of _Mary Ambree_, a soldier is
referred to as "Sir John Major," probably meaning Sergeant-major. In
one of the versions of the battle of Chevy Chase, Henry Percy was said
to have been killed there, whereas he really lived on to be slain at
Shrewsbury. But, despite such occasional blunders, the ballads on the
whole throw a vivid light on the manners and customs of the old days, as
well as being usually stirring and sometimes strikingly noble and
pathetic pieces of poetry. They deal as a rule rather with the side
currents than with the main stream of history; but they express
themselves with such homely force and directness that they bring home to
us with wonderful clearness the character of the vigorous manly men with
whose doings they are chiefly concerned.
During the last one hundred and fifty years many able men have laboured
to collect old ballads, writing them down from the mouths of the
country-folk and printing them in books with notes of explanation. One
of the earliest thus to collect ballads seriously was Bishop Percy; the
best known is Sir Walter Scott, of whose interest in the subject
Lockhart, his biographer, writes very pleasantly.
Prefaced to many of the stirring tales in this present book are lines
from the old Border ballads from which they are taken. It is to be
hoped that readers will be tempted sooner or later to read the rest of
these fine ballads for themselves.
*Chapter IV*
*Sir Patrick Spens*
"The king sits in Dunfermline town
Drinking the blood-red wine;
'O where shall I get a well-skilled skipper
To sail this new ship of mine?'"
Almost every collection of Scottish songs contains this picturesque old
ballad, which refers to a very remote time in Scottish history, probably
the end of the thirteenth century. King Alexander III. of Scotland died
in 1285; he had the bitter grief of seeing all his children die before
him. His daughter Margaret had been married to Eric, King of Norway,
and she left a daughter also called Margaret, and known as the "Maid of
Norway." This maid was now heiress to the Scottish throne, and it is
natural to suppose that the lonely king should wish her to return to
Scotland, and should send a richly appointed ship to fetch her back.
And although there is no strictly historical record of such an
expedition, the truth of the ballad is made more probable by the fact
that it opens in the fine old town of Dunfermline.
Dunfermline was a favourite residence of Alexander, who was killed in
its neighbourhood by a fall from his horse, and was buried in the abbey
there, the ruins of which beautiful structure still remain.
In this ballad the king is feasting at Dunfermline town, and calls for a
skilful mariner to sail his new ship. An old knight at the king's right
hand answers that the best sailor who ever sailed the sea is Sir Patrick
Spens. So the king writes a letter, sealing it with his own hand, and
sends it to Sir Patrick, commanding him to sail away to Norway over the
white sea-foam and bring home the maid.
Now every good sailor dreaded the rough Northern seas in winter, so
though the brave Sir Patrick laughed aloud when he began to read, he
wept blinding tears before he had ended. "Who has done this deed?" he
cried; "who has told the king of me and urged him to send us out at this
time of the year to sail on the stormy sea? Yet, wind, wet, hail, or
sleet, we must set out, for 'tis we who must fetch home the maid."
So they set sail on a Monday morning, and reached Norway on a Wednesday.
History tells us that Eric of Norway was very unwilling to part with his
daughter. This probably accounts for the fact that the old ballad tells
us that the Scotsmen had only been there a fortnight when the lords of
Norway began to say that Sir Patrick and his men were spending the gold
of their king and queen. "Ye lie," cried Sir Patrick, "loudly I hear ye
lie, for I brought with me over the sea enough red gold and white money
to supply the wants of my men. Make ready, make ready, my merry men; we
will sail at daybreak." "Alack," quoth the men, "a deadly storm is
brewing. Yesterday evening the new moon was seen carrying the old moon
in her arms; we shall certainly come to harm if we go to sea."
Barely had they sailed three leagues when the sky darkened, the wind
blew loudly, and the sea grew boisterous. Soon they were in the midst
of a terrible storm. The anger of the sea was far more dreadful than
the anger of the lords of Norway. The anchors broke away, the topmasts
snapped, and the waves came over the broken ship, tearing her sides
asunder. "O where shall I get a good sailor to take the helm while I
climb the tall topmast to see if I can espy land?" "That I fear ye
never will," cried a sailor as he took the helm, and scarcely had Sir
Patrick gone a step when a plank started in the ship's side and the
water came pouring in.
"Fetch a web of silken cloth, and fetch a web of twine," cried Sir
Patrick, "and cast them down to our ship's side!" For it was the custom
in those days, when a leak could not be reached from inside the vessel,
to cast down some closely woven stuff in the hope that the suction of
the water would drag it across the leak and stop thus the fatal inrush
of water. Alas! all their efforts failed. Then the ballad-writer says
somewhat grimly of the dandies among the Scottish lords that whereas at
first they grumbled to see the water spoil their fine cork-heeled shoes,
when the storm had done its fatal work the sea was "above their hats"!
"And many was the feather bed
That fluttered on the foam;
And many was the gude lord's son
That never mair came home!
The ladyes wrang their fingers white;
The maidens tore their hair,
A' for the sake of their true loves;
For them they'll see nae mair.
O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
With their goud kaims[#] in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see nae mair.
[#] Golden combs.
O forty miles off Aberdeen,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep,
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet."
*Chapter V*
*Auld Maitland*
"'Wha holds this house?' young Edward cried,
'Or wha gives it o'er to me?'
''Tis I will keep my good old house,
While my house will keep me!'"
The story of Auld Maitland is said to be taken from a very old ballad,
and known chiefly to the people who lived in the neighbourhood of
Ettrick Forest. The old folks there would while away the long winter
evenings by singing of the deeds of their ancestors, and the ballad of
_Auld Maitland_, as thus chanted, was written down by the mother of
James Hogg, the "Ettrick Shepherd."
The castle of Thirlestane stood on the river Leader, and still, in its
restored form, deserves its name of "the darksome house." It may have
often withstood the English during the Baliol wars, and hatred of the
English and of Edward I. is expressed with extreme virulence throughout
the poem. Here is the story:--
There lived in the south country a king named Edward, who wore the crown
unworthily for fifty years. This king had a nephew, strong in blood and
bone, who bore the same hateful name. One day the young man came before
the king, and kneeling low, he said, "A boon, a boon I crave of thee, my
good uncle. Oft have I wished to take part in our long wars in fair
Scotland. Grant me fifteen hundred chosen strong men to ride there with
me."
"Certainly thou shalt have them, and more, and I myself, though old and
grey, will see thy host arrayed for battle."
King Edward sent hither and thither, and assembled fifteen hundred men
on Tyne side, and three times as many at North Berwick, all bound for
battle. They marched up the banks of Tweed, burning the Merse and
Teviotdale, and up and down the Lammermoor Hills, until they came to the
darksome house called, by some, "Leader-Town."
"Who holds this house?" cried young Edward, "or who gives it over to
me?" He was answered, as proudly, by a grey-haired knight: "I hold my
house of Scotland's king, who pays me in meat and fee, and I will hold
it as long as it will stand together."
Thereupon the English brought up their sows[#] to the wall with many a
heavy sound, but the soldiers on the wall cast down blazing pitch and
tar barrels, to consume the formidable machine. They also threw down
stones and beams and darts from their springalds,[#] and slew many of
the English.
[#] A military engine framed of wood, covered with hides and mounted on
wheels, so that, being rolled forward to the foot of the wall, it served
as a shed to defend the miners underneath it and their battering-rams
from the stones and arrows of the soldiers above.
[#] Large crossbows worked by machinery.
Fifteen days they besieged the castle of Auld Maitland, but left him at
the end of that time unhurt within his stone stronghold.
[Illustration: _The Siege of Maitland Castle_]
They loaded fifteen ships with as much spoil as they could carry away
from the district around, and claimed that now they had conquered
Scotland with buckler, bow, and brand. So they sailed away to France to
meet the old King Edward, who was burning every castle, tower, and town
that he met with. They came at last to the town of Billop-Grace, where
Auld Maitland's three sons were at school.
Edward had quartered the arms of Scotland with his own. "See'st thou
what I see?" said the eldest son to the youngest; "if that be true that
yonder standard says, then are we all three fatherless, and Scotland
conquered up and down. Never will we bow to the conquerer. Let us go,
my two brothers, and try our chance in an adventure?" Thereupon they
saddled two black horses and a grey, and rode before day-dawn to King
Edward's army. Arrived there, they hovered round, and Maitland begged
to be allowed to carry the king's standard, the Golden Dragon.
"Where wast thou born and bred, and in what country?" demanded the
knight who bore the banner. "I was born in the north of England,"
answered Maitland; "my father was a knight and my mother a lady, and I
myself am a squire of high renown, and may well carry the banner of a
king." "Never had the son of an Englishmen such an eye or brow,"
answered the knight; "thou art more like Auld Maitland than any man I
have ever seen; yet God grant that such a gloomy brow I never see again;
he slew and wounded many of our men."
At the mention of his father's name Maitland's anger burst out, and
lifting up a gilded dagger that hung low by his knee, he struck fiercely
at the standard-bearer, and, catching hold of the corner of the
standard, rode swiftly away with it, crying to his brothers, "Is it not
time to flee?" "Ay, by my sooth," they both shouted, "we will bear you
company." So they rode off at hot speed, the pursuers following. The
youngest Maitland, turning round in the path, drew his brand and killed
fifteen of the foremost, and the rest fell back. Then he dug his spurs
into the sides of his faithful grey, until both the sides ran blood.
"Thou must carry me away, or my life lies in pledge," he cried.
About daybreak the brothers arrived at their uncle's castle, who, seeing
the three Scottish lads with pursuers riding hard at their heels,
ordered the portcullis to be drawn up and the drawbridge let down, for
that they should lodge with him that night in spite of all England.
When the three came inside the gate, they leapt down from their horses,
and taking three long spears in their hands, they fought till it was
full daylight, killing and wounding many of the Englishmen round the
drawbridge. Some of the dead were carted away in waggons, and stones
were heaped upon the rest as they lay in the gutter.
King Edward proclaimed at his pavilion door that three lads of France,
disguised, and with false words, had come and stolen away the standard,
and had slain his men in their lawful attempt to regain it.
"It ill befits a crowned king to lie," said the youngest Maitland, "and
he shall be reproved for it before I taste meat or drink."
Straightway he went before King Edward, and, kneeling low, begged leave
to speak a word with him. "Man, thou shalt have leave to speak, even
though thou shouldst speak all day," answered the king.
"Ye said," spoke the youngest Maitland, "that three young lads of France
had stolen away the standard with a false tale, and slain many men. But
we are not lads of France, and never have pretended to be; we are three
lads of fair Scotland, and the sons of Auld Maitland, nor are there men
in all your host dare fight us three to three."
"Now, by my sooth," said the young Edward, who stood by, "Ye shall be
well fitted, for Percy shall fight with the eldest, and Egbert Lunn with
thee, and William of Lancaster with the other, and the surviving brother
shall fight with me. Remember, Percy, how oft the Scot has cowered
before thee; I will give thee a rig of land for every drop of Maitland
blood."
So they set to, and the eldest Maitland clanked Percy over the head and
wounded him so deeply that the best blood of his body ran down his hair.
"I have slain one," shouted Maitland to his brothers; "slay ye the other
two, and that will be good company, and if the two shall slay ye both,
ye shall get no help from me."[#]
[#] According to the laws of chivalry, having slain his own man, he
could, if he pleased, come to the assistance of the others.
But Egbert Lunn was like a baited bear and had seen many battles, and
when Maitland saw that his youngest brother was having the worst of it,
he could not restrain himself longer, and shouting, "I am no king; my
word shall not stand," he struck Egbert over the head and slew him.
"Now I have slain two; slay ye one for good company," he cried; "neither
shall ye get any help from me even if the one shall slay ye both." So
the two brothers slew the third, and hung him over the drawbridge for
all the host to see.
Then they rode and ran, but still got not away, but hovered round,
boasting: "We be three lads of fair Scotland that fain would see some
fighting."
When young Edward heard this, he cried wrathfully, "I'll take yon lad
and bind him, and bring him bound to thee."
"Now God forbid that ever thou shouldst try that," said the king; "we
have lost three worthy leaders; wouldst thou be the fourth? Never again
would I be happy if thou wert to hang on yonder drawbridge."
But Edward struck fiercely at Maitland, cleaving his stout helmet and
biting right near his brain. When Maitland saw his own blood flowing he
threw away his weapon, and springing angrily at young Edward's throat,
he swung him thrice about and flung him on the ground, holding him there
though he was of great strength.
"Now let him up," cried King Edward, "let him come to me, and for thy
deed thou shalt have three earldoms."
"Nay," replied Maitland, "never shall it be said in France or in
Scotland that Edward once lay under me and got up again," and with that
he pierced him through the heart and hung him over the drawbridge with
the other three.
"Now take from me my bed of feathers," said the king, "make me a bed of
straw. Would that I had not lived to see the day that makes my heart so
sad."
*Chapter VI*
*The Mystery of the Eildons*
"Before their eyes the Wizard lay
As if he had not been dead a day.
His hoary beard in silver roll'd,
He seemed some seventy winters old.
High and majestic was his look,
At which the fellest friends had shook,
And all unruffled was his face;
They trusted his soul had gotten grace."
SCOTT: _Lay of the Last Minstrel._
Just above Melrose, the ruined abbey of which is one of the beauties of
Scotland, there rises a striking mass of three hills known as "the
triple Eildons." They rise very high above the surrounding land, and
are steep enough to need a very hard scramble to mount to the very
summit; but once at the top the view is wonderful indeed. On a fine day
the Tweed can be seen winding in and out most picturesquely, till it
loses itself in the low distant haze of the North Sea, thirty miles
away. But even grander is the view of the entire line of the Cheviots,
like a huge wall, fifty miles long, seen to immense advantage from
Eildon, which towers over the rich valleys of Tweed and Teviot that lie
between. One of the legends of the triple Eildons is that King Arthur
lies sleeping beneath them, some day to awaken. Tradition says that he
fought a great battle near here, by Gala Water, in the Vale of Woe.
However that may be, it is certain that at the foot of Eildon lie many
famous dead. In Melrose Abbey lies the heart of Robert Bruce, and also
the body of the strong King Alexander II., he who first subdued and made
obedient the wild tribes of Argyle. Here, too, is buried the brave
Douglas who died so gallantly on the field of Otterbourne; and also of
another brave Douglas who got his death wound at Poictiers.
Sir Walter Scott, who did more than any other man to spread all over the
world the knowledge of Scotland, Scottish history, Scottish romance, and
Scottish character, lies buried on the southern side of Eildon, in the
rival abbey of Dryburgh. But Melrose can claim a man who in his day was
an object of the deepest wonder and terror--Michael Scott, the famous
wizard of the thirteenth century, he who brought the learning of
Aristotle to expound to Western Europe, he whom Dante described as
learned in every deep spell of the magic arts. Perhaps he was only a
scientist, born before his time; yet even to-day old folk in the country
remember that it was he who is said to have cleft the head of Eildon
Hill into three!