“I am doomed to disappointment in Arden. For many miles, I could not
discover any thing like a forest-shade, that might have sheltered a
banished court, or favourite; and here not a wave of the lake, that
delighted a festive one, and which might have supplied me with a
floating island, moving to the sound of invisible music, or to the
shells of surrounding tritons and sea-nymphs. Nay, I cannot even catch a
gleam of the torches, which, on such an occasion, might have thrown
their light on the woods and towers of the castle, and have quivered on
the waters over which they passed.”
“No, sir,” said the old man, “it would be a hard matter to find any
thing of all that now. Cromwell’s people would have knocked all that o’
the head, when they drained off the water, if such things had been there
then.”
“Cromwell’s people again! However it is as well to remember them. What
had the venerable scenes of Kenilworth to do with politics, or freedom?
But thus it is; if even the leaders in political agitations have a
better taste themselves than to destroy, for the mere sake of
destruction, they let the envy and malice of their followers rage away
against whatsoever is beautiful, or grand.”
So said Willoughton to his friend, who smiled, as he perceived that the
indignant admirer of antiquity had allowed himself to speak of a
military operation, as though it had been a popular commotion.
“Where went the line of the lake, my man of Kenilworth?” asked Simpson.
“Why, Sir, it flowed round two sides of the castle, as I have heard say;
it went from the tilt-yard, all along the valley here, for half a mile,
and spread out at the foot of these banks,—as wide as to the woods
yonder, on the hill side.”
“What a noble sheet of water,” exclaimed Willoughton, “with lawns and
woods sloping to its margin and reflected on its surface!”
“Yes, Sir, all that on the opposite side was a deer-park then, as I’ve
heard from the account of some book, except that low ground further on,
and that was pasture for cattle.”
“For cattle!” exclaimed Mr. Simpson,—“how they would poach such ground
as that!”
“But what a beautiful picture they helped to make from the castle
windows here,” said Willoughton; “when, on a summer’s noon, they lay
under those shades, or stood in the cool waters of the lake.”
“Ay,” said Mr. Simpson, “to such as did not value the land.”
“It was just opposite the Pleasant, yonder,” said the aged historian.
“The _Pleasant_!”
“Yes, Sir; if you look this way, I will tell you where it stood:—it was
a banqueting-house on the lake.”
“O! the _Plaisance_!”
“It stood on the walls there, down in the valley, to the right of John
O’Gaunt’s tower here, and not far from the Swan Tower; but it is so dusk
now you can hardly see where I mean.”
Willoughton inquired where the Swan Tower stood.
“Further off, a good way, Sir; but there is nothing of it to be seen
now. It stood at the corner of the garden-wall, just where the lake came
up; but there is nothing to be seen of that garden either now, Sir,
though we know the place where it was. Queen Elizabeth used to take
great delight in the banqueting-house, as I’ve heard.”
“It was pleasantly seated;” observed Willoughton.
“Yes, Sir; but there was rare feasting and music too, I reckon. She used
to be fond of sitting in this very window, too!”
“How do you know all this, my friend?”
“Why, Sir, the place is called Queen Elizabeth’s turret, to this day,
because she took such a fancy to it; and it was pleasant enough to be
sure, for it overlooked the widest part of the lake;—this bench had
velvet trappings enough then, I warrant.”
“I have no pleasure in remembering Elizabeth;” said Willoughton, as he
turned to look for his friend.
“No!—not in remembering the wisest princess that ever reigned?” said Mr.
Simpson.
“No: her wisdom partook too much of craft, and her policy of treachery;
and her cruelty to poor Mary is a bloody hand in her escutcheon, that
will for ever haunt the memory of her.”
“You are too ardent,” observed Mr. Simpson; “much may be said on her
conduct on that head.”
“She inspires me only with aversion and horror,” replied Willoughton.
“She gives other people the horrors, too,” said the villager.
“How do you mean, friend?”
“There are strange stories told, Sir, if one could but believe
them;—there are old men now in the parish, who say they have seen her
about the castle here, dressed in a great ruff about her neck, just as
she is in her picture; they knew her by that.”
Here Mr. Simpson, giving Willoughton a look of sly congratulation, on
his having met with a person of taste seemingly so congenial with his
own, burst forth into a laugh, or rather a shout, that made every echo
of the ruin vocal, his friend smile, and the old man stare; who,
somewhat gravely, proceeded——
“They say, too, she has been seen sitting there, in that very window,
when there was but just light enough to see her by.”
“A ghost in a ruff and farthingale!” exclaimed Mr. Simpson, in
exultation;—“that is, surely, the very perfection of propriety in the
ghost-costume;” and again the roar of laughter rolled round every turret
of the castle.
“Why does that strike you as so absurd?” asked Willoughton; “this is
only a ghost representing the familiar image of the person when alive.
Can it be more ridiculous than the Scotch plaid for the supernatural
being, whom we call a witch? And yet, when you and I used to discuss the
taste of ghost-dresses, you did not object to that appearance; but
justified it, as one with which popular superstition was familiar.”
“Yes,” replied Simpson; “but though the ruff and farthingale accompany
our idea of Queen Elizabeth, it is of her, as a living character, not in
that of her apparition.”
“And yet,” rejoined Willoughton; “if you remain in this ruin, half an
hour longer, till you can scarcely distinguish the walls, you will feel
less inclined to laugh at Queen Elizabeth’s ghost in a ruff and
farthingale.”
“Perhaps I might,” said Mr. Simpson, “if you had not let me so much into
the secret of effect in these cases. Yet I question whether it would
have been possible for Elizabeth’s picture, arrayed in that ridiculous
court-dress, supposing it actually to appear, to extort from me any
thing but laughter.”
“They say, Sir,” said the aged man, “that she looked solemn and stern
enough as she sat in that window, just where you do now, leaning her
head upon her hand, or something that looked like one. She sat quite
still, for some time, and old Taylor sat quite still looking at her, for
he could not move;—but when she rose up and turned round, and made a
motion with her hand—thus—as much as to say, ‘Go about your business!’
he thought he should have dropped, and would have gone fast enough if he
could.”
“Ay,” said Mr. Simpson; “there was the characteristical in manner, as
well as in dress. This must be a true history!”
“Well, friend,” said Willoughton, “and what followed?”
“Why, Sir, then she went down this steep place you now stand upon, into
the hall there, where _he_ could not have gone, in broad day-light,
without risk of his neck; she sank down, as it were, and he lost her
awhile, it was so dark; but presently he saw her, all on a sudden,
standing in that door-way there,—and I can almost guess I see her there
now.”
“You are a silly old man,” said Mr. Simpson; and he looked immediately
to the door.
“You would not like,” said Willoughton, smiling, “to inquire minutely
into the difference between purposely avoiding to look, and purposely
looking in the midst of this story;” but—turning to the old man—“what
next?”
“Why, Sir, she stood in the arch some time with a very stern look; but I
never rightly understood what became of her. Old Taylor said she passed
away like a cloud; but then afterwards he was not sure but he saw her
again, in a minute or two, in this very window.”
“And have you never been fortunate enough,” said Mr. Simpson, “to see
any of those sights?”
“No, Sir, no; I hope I have no need of them; though, if I was that way
given, I might have thought _I_ saw things too sometimes. Once by
Mortimer’s tower, down in the tilt-yard, I as good as thought I saw a
man standing with a mask on his face, in a moonlight night, with a drawn
sword in his hand.”
“That tower,” remarked Willoughton, “was doubtless named after Mortimer,
the paramour of the infamous Isabel?”
“They say, Sir, some king was once shut up there.”
“Ay, Edward the Second, for a short time.”
“And they will tell you a power of stories of what was to be seen about
that tower, before it was pulled down, and after too; but I don’t
believe a word of them. People are always conjuring up strange tales
when they have nothing better to do. I have got an old book at home full
of them, enough to make one’s hair stand on end, if one could but make
it all thoroughly out. I showed it to Mr. Timothy, the school-master,
and he could hardly make it out neither; but he said it was no matter,
for it was full of nothing but nonsense. He read me some of it, and I
could not get it out of my head again for a week.”
“Ay, it met with a thriving soil,” said Mr. Simpson, “it’s well you got
the nonsense out of your head at all. But how happened you to buy a book
in a language you could not read?”
“I did not buy it, Sir; and, as to the language, I could understand that
well enough, but I could not read the letters; and Timothy himself
bungled at the spelling.”
Willoughton inquired where this book was met with; and whether he could
have a sight of it?
“Why, Sir, it was dug out of the ground, where an old chapel once stood,
belonging to the Priory hard by.”
“O! I remember,” said Willoughton; “there was formerly a monastery of
Black Canons at Kenilworth, founded by Geoffry de Clinton, lord
chamberlain to the first King Henry, and the founder of this same castle
too: but go on.”
“The place is used for a burial-ground still,” resumed the old villager;
“and it happened, that as Guy, our sexton, was one day going to dig a
grave there, he lighted upon a coffin, or the chest, or whatever it was,
that held a many things besides this strange book.”
“Indeed!” said Willoughton, eagerly; “let us hear a little about this.”
“We shall not get to Warwick to-night,” said Mr. Simpson, gravely.
“Why, Sir, it was one day last autumn,—no, I believe it was as late as
November; I remember it had rained hard all morning; but whether it was
October or November, I cannot be sure.”
“That, I should suppose, does not much signify,” said Mr. Simpson.
“Come, now,” said Willoughton, “do let him be as circumstantial as he
pleases.”
“Willingly, willingly, only remember, we are not to sleep at
Kenilworth.”
“Well, Sir, I cannot be sure exactly of the time, only it had been a
dismal day; but the rain was over, when old Guy came running to me in as
great a fright as ever I saw a man, and said he had found something in
the ground, he could not tell what, but he never felt any thing so heavy
in his life; he could not move it, and desired I would go and help him
to raise it; and he stared, as if he was out of his wits. When I heard
it was so heavy, I thought we might as well have my son to help us, for
he was a stout lad. Guy did not much like this, I saw, for he was
thinking he should find a treasure, and Guy was always a close one, and
for getting as much as he could; it was only two years before he got his
money raised for tolling; and there is not one in the parish has liked
him since. However, I got my son to go with me, and we set to work,
without saying a word to any one; and it was so near dark that nobody
was likely to see us in that lonely place.”
“Well! but if it had been treasure, it would have belonged to the Lord
of the Manor,” said Mr. Simpson.
“Yes, Sir, I know that well enough; but you shall hear. We raised it out
of the ground at last, and what should it be but an old oak chest. It
was so large, a man might have lain down in it at full length; but what
helped to make it so heavy was the iron bands that held it together, and
three great iron locks, that fastened it. Now, as the place where it was
dug up was the east end of the church, Guy took it into his head it
contained church plate, that had been put there, in troublesome times,
by the monks of the priory. If you had but seen him! he thought his
fortune was made; he threw away his spade, and cut a caper as high as a
wall. I thought myself there must be something worth looking at o’the
inside, but by this time it was so dark we could hardly see what we were
about; so I sent my son home for the lantern, and then we tried with old
Guy’s crow to get the lid open. We got it off at last; and what do you
think, Sir, we found? Why, nothing but old parchments; some with seals
dangling to them, and some old books, dropping to pieces with the worms,
though the leaves were thick enough, too: at the bottom of the chest was
a great heap of dust.”
“Did you find nothing else?” asked Mr. Simpson, fixing his eyes on him.
“No, Sir, nothing else,” said the old man, with a little hesitation;
“nothing else, except an old staff, with a large head; and there was a
little silver on that and on a book I have at home.”
Mr. Simpson inquired what had made the chest so weighty.
“Why, Sir, it was made of solid oak, six inches thick, I warrant, and
had a great deal of iron about it. I took a fancy to that book, though I
could not read it, for I could not make out the letters; but there is
some pretty pictures on the leaves, and the colours are as fresh as if
they were just painted; and some of the great letters are done all over
with gold as bright as the sun.”
“A manuscript, illuminated probably by some monk of the priory,” said
Willoughton; “can I see it?”
“Yes, Sir,” replied the old man, “I have it at home; but what made me
wonder most was to see it look so fresh, after it had lain all that time
in the ground; to be sure it was well wrapped up in parchment, and the
trunk was thick enough, for that matter; but some of the other books
dropped to pieces as soon as the air came to them.”
Willoughton asked what had been done with the parchments; adding, to his
companion, that they were probably the leigerbook and some other
muniments of the Priory, hidden when the terrors of Henry the Eighth
first prevailed in the monasteries, and afterwards pretended to be lost,
first from some hope of their future utility, and then from a fear of
avowing their concealment.
“When Guy,” resumed the old man, “found what sort of treasure he had
gotten, he was ready to throw himself into the old chest, to be put
under ground with it again; but I said there was no need of that; so we
took out some of the best of the books, but none of the others had
pictures; and Guy took the old staff, and then we did lay the trunk in
the earth again.”
Willoughton made many inquiries concerning the parchments with the
seals, and the seals themselves, and whether his informant could find
again the spot where they were deposited.
“Come, come,” said Mr. Simpson; “let us leave this place; it is almost
dark.”
The old man said he thought he could find the spot; but that would be of
no use; for it had lain so deep in the ground, that there had been depth
over it for graves, and it was now beneath them.
Willoughton, shocked at this circumstance, said no more on the subject;
but the old man proceeded.
“Among other things in the book, Sir, is a view of this old hall. I
should never have found it out myself; for it was no more like what it
is now than nothing: but Timothy Crabb, our school-master, knew it at
once by this very window—and he read something about this window,
too,—and by a door-way in the wall, yonder.”
“How does it appear in the drawing?” asked Willoughton.
“Why, Sir,—but you shall see the book, if you like. The hall had a high
roof, like a church there, and a gallery ran all along the bottom of it,
and such a chimney!”—
“Ay! like the remains of what we see here now, I suppose,” said Mr.
Simpson.
“No, Sir, as different as can be.”
“O! perhaps,” turning to Willoughton, “it was such an one as we saw at
Penshurst; a raised hearth, with irons to hold wood, in the middle of
the hall.”
“No; that style,” observed Willoughton, “was of later date than chimneys
in English halls. It came in, I apprehend, with the castellated mansion,
of which style is Penshurst, the more ancient part of the building at
least. In the hall of the older castle, a chimney sloped back from the
line of the wall into the thickness of it, and let out the smoke through
a loop above. Thus, the raised hearth, on which the wood fire blazed,
projected into the chamber, and was sometimes overhung by a canopy of
stone-work supported by pillars, that gave it a resemblance to a gothic
porch, such as adorn some of our finest cathedrals.”
“Yes, Sir, this in the book looks like something like a church porch
without the sides, the top comes so far over the hearth. Then all down
the hall are rows of tables, with gentle-folk and ladies sitting at
them, and—”
“I must see this manuscript,” interrupted Willoughton; “it appears to be
a curious one.”
“Come,” said Mr. Simpson, “it is already so dark, we can hardly see our
way hence. There is scarce a gleam of light left on the horizon.”
“No, Sir, but the moon is rising yonder, and some gentry have a fancy to
see this place by moonlight.”
“O! we have seen enough of it.”
“I recommend you,” said Willoughton, “to avoid looking, just at this
moment, towards the door at the bottom of the hall, lest you should see
the stately form of Elizabeth in the archway; I had a glimpse of
something like her just now; nay, I am not quite sure that I did not see
the grave physiognomy of Leicester, under his small black velvet cap and
feather.”
“We shall not get to Warwick to-night,” said Mr. Simpson, fretfully.
“They talk of the patience of a painful antiquary; think what the
patience of his friend must be.”
“I have not the honour to deserve the former title,” said Willoughton.
“Between us, we approach to it; the painful part of it, you will allow,
belongs to me.”
“In the old sense of the word,” said Willoughton, “you do not claim it;
and, as to the new one, your jests recompense you for your pain: I have
all possible inclination to deserve the title, in its best sense; at
least by cherishing those inquiries, which make us intimate with the
characters and habits of our fellow creatures in past ages, which show
them to us in their halls, their ceremonies, their tournaments, their
banquets, their domestic usages and even in their monastic retirement.
These picturesque visions, in which the imagination so much delights,
and every discovery, however remote, awaken a peculiar kind of interest
and of sentiment no less delightful, which render antiquity, of all
studies, the least liable to the epithet of dry, though dull and dry
people so liberally bestow it. Antiquity is one of the favourite regions
of poetry.”
“Nay,” said Mr. Simpson, “your woods and your meadows are the region for
that. Who ever thought of looking for a muse in an old castle? But come,
let us remember, that we are on the road for Warwick.”
“Before we go, my friend here must show me his old manuscript; and I
must see this fine ruin by moonlight.”
“By moonlight!” exclaimed Simpson; “would you really stay for so
romantic a purpose? We have seen it already by sun-light, and almost by
no light at all?”
“The moon is rising, now, Sir,” said the old man, “and by the time the
gentleman has seen the book it will be risen high enough to give you
light on your journey.”
“Meanwhile, the horses will have no objection to a little corn,”
remarked Willoughton; “nor the postilion to a little ale, if this good
man will direct him where to get it.”
Mr. Simpson having added, that he too should like a little Warwickshire
ale, the old man replied, “The ale they sell is not much to brag on;
but, if you please, gentlemen, I will direct the lad where he and the
horses may rest themselves, and, if you will step with me, you can taste
some of my home-brewed, and see the book at the same time.”
The travellers assented, and their conductor, after having directed the
postilion to a house, accompanied them to his cottage, where he produced
the desired manuscript. It was written on vellum, and richly
illuminated, and purported to be an account of what passed at
Kenilworth, when Henry the Third there kept the feast of Saint Michael,
and of some wonderful accident that there befel.
“There is a title-page written almost in the form of a triangle,” said
Willoughton, “and that about as closely as if it were printed. The date,
which forms the apex of the reversed triangle, I cannot wholly make out,
but it is twelve hundred and something.”
At the heads of chapters and sometimes on the broad margins, there were
made drawings of parts of Kenilworth Castle, as it had appeared in the
time of Henry probably, with some of the scenes which had there passed,
and sometimes with single portraits of the chief persons engaged in
them. These gave vivid ideas of the customs and manners of that period,
and were traced, with more knowledge of perspective and more attention
to proportion, than Willoughton expected. Among them was a procession of
knights and ladies, led by numerous harpers, returning from the
tilt-yard to the great hall, which showed a high sloping roof, while the
windows below, at a considerable elevation from the ground, had
round-headed arches, instead of pointed ones. The door-way, leading into
it, accorded with the place where one still appears; but the arch was
differently constructed, and the receding mouldings seemed to have been
ornamented with chevron work, or zigzag, instead of the elegant vine now
sculptured there, which latter he had no hesitation in assigning to the
time of Leicester.
Another drawing gave an inside view of the hall, as mentioned by the old
man. The roof was of great height, open to the rafters, and with pendent
beams below, formed into arches, ornamented with inverted pinnacles,
nicely carved. Another drawing gave the inside of a chapel, of which
there are no longer any remains at Kenilworth.
The original style of the building appeared very ancient, but this was
mixed with one more light and elegant, like that of the pointed arches
of the windows; and Willoughton conjectured this improvement to have
been made by Henry the Third, who is known to have repaired the chapel
of the castle for his own use, during his occasional residence there.
There was a representation of a marriage ceremony in celebration at the
altar, where a numerous assemblage of dignified persons were arranged in
state. A king was giving the hand of the bride to a young man, who was
decorated with many military insignia, but who was so far from receiving
the gift with joy, that he appeared to be struck with consternation,
while the lady, by her attitude, seemed to be fainting.
In the margin was a portrait of a king robed and wearing a crown of
gold, which seemed intended for Henry the Third, to whose statue in
brass, in his monument in Westminster Abbey, it bore a considerable
resemblance.
At the head of another chapter was an inside view of a tower, where a
man was sitting alone near a lamp. In the background a face appeared at
the grate. The same chamber was represented afterwards, with a man
stretched upon a low pallet, but whether asleep, or dead, was not
expressed by the drawing. The lamp had gone out, and, instead of a face
at the grate, the moon appeared through a window beyond, and threw a
pale light on the couch.
Another drawing gave a view of a chapel, or hall; Willoughton was not
certain which: there was, however, something like an altar at the
farthest end, near which stood a figure alone, the face concealed in a
vizor, the left arm, uplifted, held a shield, the right a lance, but the
feet were in a position of rest, though another figure near a door was
departing, as if with the fear of being pursued, his hands outstretched,
and his face turned back over his shoulder. There, too, the moon
appeared through a window, and the light fell upon the lifted shield.
While Willoughton was musing what this could mean, the old man, looking
upon the leaf, said, “Timothy Crabb, Sir, maintains this is a picture of
the Priory-Chapel, he is sure, as it stood formerly. I should never have
found it out myself, there is so little left of the chapel; but Tim
makes it all out fine enough.”
“Does he tell you what that figure means?”
“Not as I remember, Sir; but the book tells that, I reckon.”
Willoughton turned over the leaves near the drawing; the language, the
orthography and the characters were all so ancient, that he hesitated
much. What he did make out, however, fixed his attention so deeply, that
his friend lost the small remains of his patience, and declared he would
set off without him. Willoughton then told his humble host, that, if he
was willing to part with the manuscript, he was disposed to give him his
own price for it.
“Why, Sir, I like to look at the pictures sometimes, and the gold is so
bright it is a pleasure to see it; but the book for other matters is not
of much value to me, though it may be to other people, seeing as I can’t
make it out; and, for that matter, if I could, I do not know any good it
would do; for, what Tim did read made me as foolish almost as old John,
and afraid to go near the castle, for some time, after dark, though I
was always counted a little more sensible than some. But I see no good
in such things, not I.”
“You are a sensible fellow,” said Mr. Simpson, “and I wish my friend
here had a little less curiosity, and a little more such wit as yours.
And now, Harry, do leave the book and come away.”
“No, I shall first console myself for the mortification of your
compliments. What shall I give you for the book, my friend?”
“Why, Sir, I don’t know, I am sure; I don’t know the value of such
things. Tim Crabb said it might be worth its weight in gold for aught he
knew; but I leave it, Sir, to your generosity.”
“It is well you do not leave it to mine,” said Mr. Simpson, “for I
should make a low reckoning of it.”
The sum Willoughton offered accorded with his own estimation of so
curious a relick, rather than with the expectation of his host, who
heard it with exclamations of thankfulness; while Mr. Simpson expressed
not merely surprise but reprehension, and the vulgar proverb of “Fools
and their money—” was nearly audible on his lips.
“What other books did you find in the same place?” asked Willoughton.
“Ah! bless you, Sir,” replied the ancient villager, “I wish I had a
score of them.”
“Well you may, my friend, if they would fetch you such a price as this!”
was the ready remark of Mr. Simpson.
“It is his honour’s own generosity, Sir, and I suppose he thinks the
book worth the money, or he would not give it.”
“Come, Harry,” continued Simpson, “here has been folly enough for once;
let us be gone.”
“You are sure you have no other book like this?” inquired Willoughton.
“There is another or two, that do still hold together, I think,” said
the old man; “They have got no pictures; but then they have the same
kind of letters, that cannot be understood.”—He went for them.
“You will tempt the man to steal the parish-register, and offer it to
you as a curious relick,” said Mr. Simpson; “and indeed it will deserve
your money better than this.”
The old man returned with a small quarto, printed in black letter and
bound in real boards, which had been guarded at the corners with brass;
the marks of clasps remained on it and those of a lozenge in the centre
of each board.
“Though this is of later date, much later date, than the manuscript,”
said Willoughton, “I see it is one of the earliest books that came from
the press in England. It appears also by its contents, to have been
intended to assist the purposes of the monks of that dark age.”
“A Boke of Sprites!” exclaimed Simpson, with a shout of exultation: “a
boke of sprites, with the signs they may be known by, and divers rules
to keep you from harm: the like was never known before!”
“Excellent! excellent!” said Willoughton; “and here is another
black-letter volume. Well, friend, without looking further, what shall I
give you for them?”
“This is past endurance!” said Mr. Simpson; “my patience is out!”
“O Sir! I will give you these into the bargain,” said the old man,
smiling; an offer which Willoughton would not accept, who paid the old
man what he thought they were worth. Mr. Simpson, then taking his friend
by the arm, desired his host to direct them to the chaise.
“I must see the ruin by moonlight,” said Willoughton; “but I will not
detain you many minutes.”
“No, no; you will see the towers of Warwick by moonlight; which will be
much finer.”
“My good friend here,” said Willoughton, “will order the chaise round to
the gate where it set us down; and, by the time it arrives, I shall have
seen what I wish to see.”
“Be it so,” said Mr. Simpson, with an air of resignation; “one is sure
of you when a journey is to be begun; but never when one would end, or
hasten it. I have not forgotten our midnight rambles about Stonehenge!
Doubtless we were the first human beings, who had appeared there, at
such an hour, for many centuries; and what astonished me afterwards,
more than any thing I saw, was, that I myself should have been conjured
there at such an unseasonable hour; I, whose brain never hatched any of
those ‘high and unimaginable fantasies,’ as your poet Gray calls them,
‘which distract the heads of some of his readers.’”
“Ay! those shadows of the moon at full,” said Willoughton laughing, as
they walked towards the ruin, his friend remonstrating with him on the
imprudence of this passion for antiquities and on his credulity. “And
can you really hold,” said he, “that these books were found in the
manner related; and that any of them, especially the ‘Boke of Sprites,’
ever belonged to the library of the priory?”
“It does not seem probable,” replied Willoughton, “that the old man
should have invented the story he has related of the discovery of them;
but, be that as it may, the books themselves announce their own genuine
antiquity. The manuscript is laboriously illuminated, and it is well
known, that such works were chiefly performed by the inhabitants of
monasteries. The Boke of Sprites even was likely to have served the
purposes of the monks. We know that the libraries of monasteries
contained a most heterogeneous assemblage: Ovid, the Romance of
Charlemagne, Guy of Warwick, and the Rimes of Robin Hood, have been
found on the shelf with Homilies, and other books; which, although they
might be tinged with the corruptions of the Papal school, ought not to
have had such companions. You may recollect, that Warton, in the
interesting sketches of ancient manners which he gives in his History of
English Poetry, mentions this very fully; and that, among others, the
library of Peterborough contained ‘Amys and Amdion,’ ‘Sir Tristram
Merlin’s Prophecies,’ and the ‘Destruction of Troy:’ and books of this
sort were not only copied, but often invented by the monks, sometimes
for their amusement, sometimes for worse purposes.”
“One of the old books you have relates to their castle, I think,” said
Mr. Simpson, looking up at the shadowy masses; which, shown thus faintly
by the rising moon, seemed more majestic than before.
“Yes, and I perceive,” continued Willoughton, “that even you feel a
curiosity to know what may have passed so many ages back, on the spot we
now stand upon.”
“Why,” acknowledged Simpson, “when one looks up at the very walls now
crumbling into ruin, that were once so magnificent, and that inclosed
beings with passions as warm as our own—beings, who have so long since
vanished from the earth, one cannot help wishing to know a little of
their history and of the scenes they witnessed; but, for your legend, I
fear to trust it.”
“It speaks of the times of Henry the Third,” said Willoughton, “those
were lawless enough to permit many adventures; and, if the citizens of
London were then robbed in the streets even at noon-day, what could
travellers in the forest of Arden expect? But this Manuscript seems to
tell of princely feasts given in the castle, and of adventures passing
in the presence of the Court.”
“Ay, if one could but believe them.”
“A great part of the castle,” pursued Willoughton, “which then existed,
is now gone; and much that we look at, stands in its place; but that
noble hall, and Cæsar’s tower and several other towers, such as those
where the moonlight falls, beheld the very court of Henry the Third, ay,
and Montfort, on whom he had bestowed Kenilworth, and who added
ingratitude to treason, by holding the fortress against his benefactor
and liege lord.”
They stood for some minutes in silence, looking up at the ruin and
listening, as the breeze rushed by, to the shivering of the ivy, that
overhung it,—all the shining leaves trembling in the moonlight. The
pauses of solemn stillness, that followed these sighings of the air
among the old branches, were very solemn, and the sound itself—so still,
uncertain, and sudden, Willoughton could have fancied to have been the
warning murmurs of one, who, in his mortal state, had lived within these
walls, and now haunted the scene where it had once revelled, or,
perhaps, suffered. It seemed like a voice imperfectly uttering forth
some dark prophecy, and telling of the illusion of life and the
certainty of death. To Willoughton’s recollection this spectacle of the
remains of ages past, now glimmering under the soft shadows of
moonlight, brought those touching lines of Beattie—
“Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose,
Can passion’s wildest uproar lull to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes.”
Willoughton stood so wrapt, that he heard not his friend’s inquiry,
whether he meant to pass a night at Kenilworth, as a sequel to a former
one at Stonehenge; nor was he immediately aware of the nearer approach
of his aged conductor, who said, in a tone somewhat tremulous, “You are
now on the very spot, Sir, where Mortimer’s tower stood; it was the main
entrance to the castle, when there was a lake, and it opened from the
tilt-yard, that ran along the end of the water into the lower court: you
see, Sir, it was quite on the opposite side of the castle from Lord
Leicester’s great gate.”
Willoughton surveyed the place, but not a vestige of the building
remained. “Here then,” said he, “the unhappy Edward the Second was, for
a while, imprisoned, before he was removed to Corfe and Berkeley
Castles, his last abodes.”
“If you please, Sir,” said the man, “the chaise is at the gate; and, if
you will take my advice, you will not stay here long, for I cannot say I
like it myself; I shall begin to think I see that strange figure again,
and I had rather not.”
“Well, let us go,” said Mr. Simpson, “or I shall begin to fancy
something of the same sort, too. What did you say, it had a mask on its
face?”
“Yes, Sir, and a drawn sword in its hand; but I don’t like the place,
Sir, let us go.”
“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Simpson, “let us go; we—we—we shall not get to
Warwick to-night.”
A laugh from his friend, which he too well understood, both vexed and
ashamed him. “I did not think it possible,” said he, “that I could have
yielded to the contagion of this folly thus; remember, however, it is
not Elizabeth in her ruff and farthingale, that I fear, nor any thing
else distinctly.”
Willoughton laughed again triumphantly. “Better and better; your
feelings are true to my arguments, in spite of your own. I desire no
farther proof of the effects of time and circumstances—of solitude and
obscurity on the imagination.”
As they passed by Cæsar’s tower, and inquired where the line of the
castle-ditch had been traced, he observed, that probably the chief
entrance had at first been over a draw-bridge to that tower, though now
no sign of it could be distinguished.
When the travellers were once more seated in the chaise, Mr. Simpson
betook himself to sleep; while, on their journey of four miles through
the checkered moonlight of woody lanes to Warwick, Willoughton did not
lament the silence of his friend, which left him to the quiet musings of
his own mind, and to the peace of nature, reposing under this soft and
beautiful shade. The air was so still that scarcely a leaf trembled of
the lofty boughs that overshadowed the road; and when the postilion
stopped to make some alteration of the harness, the breathing of the
horses alone was heard through all this scene of night.
There is a peace of the spirits, which has surely somewhat holy in it.
Such is the calmness which the view of a midsummer-dawn communicates, or
that of moonlight on woods and green plains; and such Willoughton
experienced during this short ride, till he drew near Warwick, when the
beautiful towers of Saint Mary’s appeared on the right, and the more
lofty and distant ones of the castle on the left of the perspective; and
these awakened the stronger interest of expectation.
Having reached the inn, and Mr. Simpson, late as it was, having ordered
a good supper, they walked out to take a view of the castle. Finding
that, at this hour, they could not gain admittance by the porter’s gate,
they went to the bridge over the Avon, on the outside of the town, and
thence had a fine retrospect of the castle, with all its towers crowning
the high, woody bank of that peaceful and classic stream. One vast,
round tower of most warlike air, looking down upon the precipice,
delighted Willoughton more than any other. A part of the edifice,
repaired and adorned in the time of James the First, containing the
state rooms, which run in a long line upon the steep, was not in harmony
with this tower, and gave very different ideas of the character and
manners of the respective ages to which they belonged. The moonlight
touched this tower with a fine solemnity, and fell on the tops of the
dark cedars and other trees, that clothe the precipice, as it glanced to
Shakspeare’s stream below, where it rested in all its silver radiance,
as if pleased to claim it for its home.
Willoughton leaned over the bridge, and looked upon the scene in
silence. The brightness of the river, the dark, clear shade of the
woods, reflected on its margin and rising with majesty up the steep,
with the grey towers, in softened light, crowning all, formed a harmony
of tints and of objects such as he had not often seen, and which
recalled to him that state of holy peace he had so lately experienced.
Amidst the stillness of this scene, there arose a strain, as if
commanded by Shakspeare’s wand, and to which his words might have been
applied. “O! it came o’er mine ear, like the sweet south, that breathes
upon a bank of violets.” It was the music of French horns, sweetened by
distance and by the water, over which it passed, accompanied by a few
voices addressing the river and celebrating the bard in the well-known
song of Garrick and Arne,—“Thou soft-flowing Avon!”
Nothing could exceed the beauty of some of the cadences, prolonged by
the deep, mellow tones of the horns, or of the chorus, and of the close,
that gave these words:—
“The fairies by moonlight dance round the green bed,
For, hallow’d the turf is, that pillows his head.”
They brought tears into the eyes of Willoughton, and drew from him a
deep sigh long after silence had returned.
Mr. Simpson looked about to discover whence this charming tribute to the
memory of the loved poet came, and perceived two little boats stealing
along the margin of the stream, under shadow of the bank that rose to
the castle. The white awning of the first betrayed it to his eye, before
it emerged on the moonlight; and now the measured trampling of the oars
told its departing course upon the waters, till once again that chorus
died along the air, and then the steps of the oars were heard no more.
The travellers remained for some moments, as if spell-bound, in
thoughtful silence; and they left this enchanting scene, and returned to
their inn, without having uttered a word. This was an unusual mood with
Mr. Simpson; he had caught it from his companion, rather than from the
scene; and now, on the entrance of supper, he rejoiced to get rid of it,
and to return to the more substantial pleasures of this world.
Willoughton, when he had retired to his chamber, and had, as was his
custom, looked out upon the night, now overcast with gloomy clouds, sat
down to examine his manuscripts, instead of seeking repose. Bound up
with that of the “Trew Chronique,” was another, entitled “A Trew
Historie of two Mynstrells, that came by night to the Priory of Saint
Margaret, and what they disclosed, and what one in the convent by his
art, proved them to bee.” This “Trew Historie” was more difficult to be
deciphered than the “Trew Chronique,” and Willoughton left it for the
present, and took the “Boke of Sprites.”
As he turned over the leaves, curious to see the thraldom of
superstition to which the people of a remote age were liable, he often
smiled at the artless absurdities he discovered, the clumsy inventions
practised upon the fears of the ignorant by the venality of the monks.
Yet he sometimes found his attention seized, in spite of himself, by the
marvellous narratives before him; till, at length, he began to feel that
he was alone, to recollect that it was past midnight, to observe that
all around him was still as death; and gradually to think he might as
well lay aside the “Boke of Sprites” till day-light should return and
the world again sound busily around him.
He did so, and again took the “Trew Chronique,” desirous of ending his
long day, with some new traits of an age so distant from his own and of
the style, in which they might be shadowed forth. The mere spelling did
not render this so difficult, as the character in which it was written,
with its abundance of abbreviations and contractions.
The following is a modernized copy, which he afterwards wrote out for
the amusement of a friend, who was fond of the subjects it touched upon,
but had not industry enough to work his way through the obstructions of
the original. In this copy, while Willoughton endeavoured to preserve
somewhat of the air of the old style, without its dryness, he was often
compelled to regret, that much of the effect of the story was lost, with
the simplicity, brevity and quaintness of the ancient manner. However,
he often retained the old words, where they did not seem to form too
glaring a contrast with the modern style, and, now and then, somewhat of
the quaintness of the original, the title of which ran thus:—
=A Boke,=
=Contenynge a trew chronique of what passed at
Killingworth, in Ardenn, when Our Soveren
Lord, the Kynge, kept ther his fest of
Senzt Michel; with ye marveylous
accident, that ther befel, at the solempnissazion
of the marriage
of Gaston de Blondeville.
With divers things, curious
to be known,
thereunto purtayning.
With an
account of the
grete Turney,
ther held
in the
yere
MCCLVI.=
=Changed out of the Norman tongue
By Grymbald, Monk of Senzt Marie
Priori in Killingworth.=