Some people may tell you that there never was such a person as the
valiant Guy, Earl of Warwick, who slew the terrible Dun Cow that
terrorized middle England in the old days, and, single handed, defeated
the giant Colbrond, and cut off his head. But if you go to Warwick’s
beautiful castle you may see, to-day, the brave Guy’s armour, and some
bones of the ferocious cow. And there is the old tale of Guy, handed
down for centuries, to prove that this mighty warrior really did live.
This is the old tale. After Guy had slain the Dun Cow, and had been
to the Holy Land on a pilgrimage, he returned in disguise, and
unrecognised, feeling that he wished to withdraw from the world and
live a secluded life as a hermit. But before he did so he undertook the
slaying of the giant Colbrond. Having killed this monster and cut off
his head, he slipped away quietly and wandered slowly to his home at
Warwick.
There his wife, the good Lady Phyllis, awaited his return from
Palestine. She had no idea that he was home again, nor did she
recognise him in his rough pilgrim’s dress when he, together with other
wayfarers, presented himself in the Great Hall and received from her
own hands the alms that she gave daily to the poor.
And Guy did not announce his identity. Instead, he passed on and sought
out a hermit who lived in a cave near by, seeking spiritual comfort
from the holy man.
After Guy had been with the hermit a very short time, that pious man
died; and Guy decided to take his place. And so, for two years, this
once mighty warrior lived the hard, austere life of a recluse in a bare
cell, only a mile or two from his own proud castle.
But death was creeping upon him. And, when he realized that he had but
a few hours more to live, he sent, by a trusty messenger, his wedding
ring to the Lady Phyllis, begging her to come and take charge of his
burial. She came at once, all filled with fear and distress, bringing
with her the bishop and high clergy of the diocese. But there they
found the great Guy, dead, on the steps of the altar of his little
chapel. And there they buried him, and, only a few weeks later, the
Lady Phyllis by his side, for she too died swiftly, of a broken heart.
And the old story is still told about the country-side to show how one
who had fame, great wealth, high position, and love, sacrificed it all
for the lowly yet holy calling of a simple heremite.
All this happened so long ago that nobody knows exactly when it was,
but you may still see at Guy’s Cliff, that beautiful old place a short
walk from Warwick, the cave in the rock where the hermit and Guy
lived. And in the little chapel of St. Mary Magdalene there, you will
see carved in the living rock a mighty figure, eight feet high, of
the fearless Guy; though time has wrought much damage to this strange
effigy.
Warwick and Leamington are both close at hand; Warwick, one of the
most picturesque towns in the whole country with Shakespeare’s Avon
flowing gently by it, and the grim and wonderful Warwick Castle with
its grounds stretching to the river’s edge. And Leamington, that bright
clean-streeted spa, with its healing waters, and its quiet atmosphere
of other days, when our great-grandfathers posted to it from all parts
of the country to drink the waters and to indulge in the gaiety of the
latest and most fashionable of inland watering-places.
All round about is the rich leafy England that Shakespeare knew so
well. Stratford-on-Avon is but eight miles away. Shottery--the village
of Shakespeare’s wife, where Anne Hathaway’s charming little cottage
still stands--Henley-in-Arden, Charlecote, and Hampton Lucy; pretty
historic names we know so well, are all in the neighbourhood.
This country has a sixteenth century atmosphere even now. It is one
that the foreign visitor seldom misses; yet the British tourist knows
all too little of it and its peculiar rural beauty and charm.
[Illustration: _Guy’s Cliff Caves._]
[Illustration: A traveler in a wood being surprised by a ghostly
gamekeeper.]