OVER SANDS BY THE CARTMEL SHORE—WRAYSHOLME TOWER—THE LEGEND OF THE
LAST WOLF.
In that sequestered tract of country that stretches away from the
mountain to the main—from the mouth of the Kent to where the Duddon
flows down to join the sea, and extending from the majestic barrier
of the Lake country to the silvery shores of Morecambe Bay—the
wide estuary that divides the Hundred of Lonsdale and separates
the districts of Cartmel and Furness from the other parts of
Lancashire—there is a wealth of natural beauty and many an interesting
nook undreamt of by the ordinary tourist, who, following in the steps
of imitative sight-seers, rushes along the great iron highway to the
North, forgetting that the fairest spots in the world are reserved
for those who have the wisdom to seek out and earn their pleasures
for themselves. In that pleasant corner of Lancashire, mountain and
valley, moor and fell, blend together in happy relationship, presenting
a panorama of swelling hills, wood-clad knolls, and quiet secluded
hamlets within the bright setting of the shimmering sea. It is, as poor
John Critchley Prince was wont to sing:—
A realm of mountain, forest-haunt, and fell,
And fertile valleys beautifully lone,
Where fresh and far romantic waters roam,
Singing a song of peace by many a cottage home.
And where—
Only the sound of the distant sea,
As a far-off voice in a dream may be,
Mingles its tale with the woodland tones,
As the sea waves wash o’er the tidal stones.
[Illustration]
But it is not for the lover of the picturesque alone that the district
offers more than ordinary attractions. There are few localities so
rich in records of the past, or surrounded by so many traditional
associations. In addition to the magnificent ruins of Furness, there is
the scarcely less interesting pile of Cartmel, one of the few priory
churches that England now possesses, and which only escaped destruction
in the stormy times of the Reformation by the inhabitants literally
buying off the King’s Commissioners. On Swarthmoor, “the German baron,
bold Martin Swart,” mustered “his merry men” when Lambert Simnel, the
pretender to the Crown, landed at Piel, in 1486, an escapade in which
we fear “Our Lady of Furness” was not altogether free from implication.
Here, too, is Swarthmoor Hall, once the home of Judge Fell; and close
by is the modest Quakers’ Chapel, the first built by George Fox, the
founder of the Society of Friends. Holker Hall has been for a century
and more the home of the Cavendishes, as it was previously of the
Lowthers and the Prestons. The little hamlet of Lindale has been made
the scene of one of the most charming of Mrs. Gaskell’s stories, and
almost within bow-shot is Buck Crag, sheltering beneath which is the
humble dwelling that for many a long year was the abode of Edmund Law,
the curate and schoolmaster of Staveley, the spot where the younger
Edmund Law, Bishop of Carlisle, and father of Lord Ellenborough, first
saw the light.
Before the enterprise and skill of Brogden and Brunlees had bridged
the estuaries of the Kent and the Leven, and carried the railway from
Carnforth to Ulverston, the journey to Whitehaven and the western
lakes had to be made across the broad expanse of sand left by each
receding tide, and a perilous journey it was. In bygone days the
monks of Cartmel maintained a guide, paid him out of “Peter’s Pence,”
and, in addition, gave him the benefit of their prayers, which in
truth he often needed; and when their house was dissolved, “Bluff
King Hal” charged the expenses of the office upon the revenues of the
Duchy of Lancaster, so that the “Carter,” as he is now called, is an
old-established institution. There is no beaten pathway “Over Sands,”
for every tide removes the traces of those who have gone before, and
the channels are so constantly shifting that what yesterday might be
firm and solid to the tread, to-day may be only soft and treacherous
pulp. The locality has been oftentimes the scene of mourning and
sorrow, and many are the tales that are told of the “hair-breadth
’scapes” of those who have been overtaken by the “cruel crawling tide”
while journeying over the perilous waste. The old adage tells us that
The Kent and the Keer
Have parted many a good man and his meear (mare).
[Illustration: GRANGE-OVER-SANDS.]
And the registers of Cartmel bear testimony to the fact that, of those
who now sleep peacefully in its “God’s Acre,” a hundred and twenty or
more have met their fate while crossing the shifty channels of this
treacherous shore. The poet Gray, writing in 1767 to Dr. Wharton,
relates a pathetic story of a family who were overtaken by a mist when
half way across and lost their way; and Edwin Waugh, in his pleasant,
gossiping way, tells how an ancient mariner, when asked if the guides
were ever lost on the sands, answered with grim _naïveté_: “I never
knew any lost. There’s one or two drowned now and then, but they’re
generally found somewhere i’th bed when th’ tide goes out.” When the
subjects of the Cæsars had established themselves here, the old Roman
General Agricola made a journey “Over Sands,” and the difficulties he
encountered are related by Tacitus the historian. Mrs. Hemans braved
the dangers, for in one of her letters she says: “I must not omit to
tell you that Mr. Wordsworth not only admired our exploit in crossing
the Ulverston Sands as a deed of ‘derring do,’ but as a decided proof
of taste. The Lake scenery, he says, is never seen to such advantage
as after the passage of what he calls its ‘majestic barrier.’” In the
old coaching days the journey began at Hest Bank, about three miles
from Lancaster, where the guide was usually in waiting to conduct the
travellers across, when a mixed cavalcade of horsemen, pedestrians, and
vehicles of various kinds was formed, which, following the coach, and
headed by the browned and weather-beaten “Carter,” slowly traversed
the trackless waste, the incongruous grouping suggesting the idea
of an Eastern caravan on its passage across the desert. If nothing
else, the journey had the charm of novelty and adventure, which in
some degree compensated for the hazard incurred; and the scenes of
danger and disaster witnessed have furnished the theme for more than
one exciting story, as “Carlyon’s Year” and the “Sexton’s Hero” bear
witness. But the romance of the sands is fast passing away. The guides
have now comparatively little to do, the perilous path is traversed
less and less frequently every year, so that ere long we shall probably
only hear of it as a traditional feature of the times when the name of
Stephenson was unknown and railways were only in the womb of time.
On the western side of the Milnthorpe Sands, nestling at the foot of
the green slopes of Yewbarrow, with its whitened dwellings peeping
from their garniture of leaves, and its rock-strewn beach lipped by the
capricious sea, is the slowly-rising village of Grange, with its sands
and its sea, its pleasant walks and cheerful drives, all sheltered from
the north winds by the great Cartmel fells clustering at its back. A
place that lures you by the peaceful quietude that prevails, for here
Ethiopian serenaders and blind bag-pipers are unknown, and youthful
lazzaroni with white mice and pink-eyed guinea pigs are beings the
people wot not of. It is not “dressy,” nor is it fashionable in the
sense that Scarborough is, so that you can take your ease in your
inn without risk of being chilled by the freezing presence of Lord
Shingleton or my Lady Marina. The wandering creature who calls himself
a tourist, and is always in search of some new sensation, passes it by
as slow and unexciting, and the herd of holiday-makers who delight to
perform aquatic _poses plastiques_ once a year prefer to do so in such
over-crammed places as Southport, or that marine Babylon—Blackpool.
Nevertheless, it is a pleasant place to stay at when you have nothing
to do, and all the day to do it in; a retreat where you can shake off
those fancies associated with everyday life that cloud the brow and
spoil the digestion, and get rid of that
Army of phantoms vast and wan
That beleaguer the human soul.
But our present purpose is not to write a description of Grange, for
though it is a pleasant place to stay at it is also a pleasant place
to go away from—a convenient spot from whence little excursions can
be made to neighbouring places of interest and attraction, and this
time it is Wraysholme Tower, the ruined home of the once powerful
Harringtons, and the rocky promontory of Humphrey Head, where tradition
says the last wolf “in England’s spacious realm” was hunted down, that
attracts our wandering steps.
As we slowly wend our way towards the upper end of the village, pausing
now and then to gaze across the broad expanse of Morecambe Bay to the
wooded shores on the Lancaster side, and the great fells that stretch
away in rear to join the pale blue hills of Yorkshire, we get sight of
an antiquated building with mullioned windows, now half buried in the
ground, which in former times served as a granary for the storage of
the rich harvests gathered by the fraternity of Cartmel, and hence the
name of “Grange” which has been given to the place. At an angle of the
road, near the higher end, is the church, erected some twenty years
ago through the persevering efforts of a lady resident. Keeping along
the level way, we come presently to a cross-road, and, turning sharply
to the left, pass the farmhouse where, for generations, the “Carters”
have resided. A few minutes’ walk along the railway line brings us to a
pleasant indentation in the shore, where Kent’s Bank, a tiny watering
place, with a trim hotel and cosy-looking villas, bright with flowers
and creeping plants, is striving to rival its more famous neighbour. In
a green nook by the sea is a pleasant mansion that occupies the site
of a more ancient structure, Abbot Hall, once the abode, as tradition
affirms, of the abbots of Cartmel, but, as there were no “abbots” of
that house, it is more likely to have belonged to the fraternity of
Furness, who, as we know, had lands here granted to them as far back as
1135. Mr. Stockdale, in his _Annales Caermoelensis_, suggests that it
was built for the convenience of the abbot when journeying from Furness
to his possessions in Yorkshire. He says:—
No doubt the puisne monarch (the abbot) and his cavalcade would
travel, in making these journeys, in a stately, lordly, and
ostentatious way, and would pass along the narrow tracks from
the (Furness) Abbey to the Red Lane end, at Conishead Bank, with
more or less difficulty, and then, entering upon the sea sands,
would, in a short time, reach “the Chapel Island,” where, in the
little homely chapel, prayers would be earnestly offered up for
the safe passage of the remainder of the dangerous, though much
the smaller, Morecambe estuary. This needful duty having been
performed, the long cavalcade would slowly wend its way over the
creeks, gullies, and quicksands, till the opposite bank of the
estuary was gained, and then by the old Roman road called now
the Back Lane, to the town of Flookborough, and from thence to
Allithwaite, and by the very old road up and over the precipitous
hill to the abbot’s own comfortable and well-sheltered residence,
Abbot Hall.... As there has always been a tradition that there
was a chapel near Kirkhead and Abbot Hall—some remains of which,
even graves, it is said, existed in the last century—there can but
be little doubt that the abbot and his numerous suite would, after
their night’s rest at Abbot Hall, resort to this chapel and again
pray for a safe passage over the wild and dangerous Lancaster
estuary, eight or nine miles in width, not passed at this day,
even in the presence of a guide, with entire safety.[15]
[Note 15: Upon the Abbot Hall estate are some lands which still bear the
name of Chapel Fields, in which, at three feet from the surface,
human skeletons have been exhumed. The spot may therefore with much
probability be assumed to have been the site of an oratory, where a
monk of the abbey officiated in offering up prayers for the safety of
such as crossed the sands, Kent’s Bank being the point from which they
would start upon their journey towards Lancaster.]
A pleasant rural lane leads up from the station at Kent’s Bank to
Allithwaite, a little straggling village, the inhabitants of which
contrive to earn a scanty livelihood by fishing and “cockling” upon
the sands. Steep banks rise on each side, festooned with plumy
ferns and wild flowers, crested with spiked thorn-bushes, scrubby
hazels, and spreading ash-trees, that wave their shadowy branches
overhead. The honeysuckle spreads its delicious perfume around, and
as we saunter leisurely along the sunlight glints through the leafy
openings, shooting down long arrowy rays, that here brighten with
golden touches the gnarled and knotted stem of a sturdy oak, and there
light up a churlish bramble, like a woman’s radiant smile reflecting
its cheeriness upon some worthless Caliban. On the left is Kirkhead, a
lofty knoll, crowned with a prospect tower—Barrow’s summer-house, as
it is called—from the summit of which there is a view that well repays
the labour of ascent. Wraysholme’s ruined tower, whither we are wending
our way, is but a short mile distant, and as we have a long summer
afternoon before us, we may wander at our will. Having mounted the
breezy hill, we lie down on a cushion of soft grass at the foot of the
building to gaze upon the scene, listening the while to the wild bird’s
song and the hoarse melody of the fitful sea.
The wide expanse of Morecambe Bay lies before us like an out-stretched
panorama, in which every jutting headland, every indentation, and every
crease in the green hills can be distinctly traced. Far below us a long
stretch of shore runs out; an old boat lies upon its side, chained to
a miniature anchor; children are disporting themselves round it, and a
few bare-legged fishermen are busy arranging their long nets, for the
tide is not yet in, though we can see where the crafty silent sea comes
stealing up from the south, each delicate wavelet, as it breaks upon
the yellow sand in a white line of surge, creeping nearer and nearer
to the beach. The softest of summer breezes plays upon the water,
breaking it into innumerable ripples that dance and glitter in the
mellow light. Here and there a few cloud shadows fleck the surface. A
soft summer haze, like an ocean of white mist, hangs in mid distance,
and where it lifts, shows little patches of the blue of heaven beyond.
A broad streak of light marks the line of the horizon where sea and sky
blend together. A solitary white sail glints in the blaze of sunlight,
one or two fishing boats with red-brown sails spot the sea with
colour, and far away a long line of black smoke shows where a steamer
is rapidly ploughing its way towards the Irish coast. Sheltering in
quiet beauty in the little cove below is Kent’s Bank, its buildings,
dwarfed by the intervening space, looking like a group of children’s
toys. Grange is hidden behind the projecting ridge of rock; but Holme
Island, with its pretty little marine temple, stands well out from the
shore, like an emerald gem in the flashing waters. Sheltering it from
the northern blasts, a range of rugged limestone rocks, all channelled
and weather-worn, and fringed with over-lapping trees, is seen; and
there, where a few puffs of white smoke gleam brightly against the deep
blue of space, a train is bearing its living freight across the broad
Milnthorpe Sands. Arnside Knott, with its shady background of wood,
thrusts up its huge form as a foil to quiet Silverdale, reposing by its
side; then, sweeping round in an irregular circle towards the east, we
have an ever-varying shore and an amphitheatre of intersecting hills,
now dark with shadow and now gay with the tints of the many-hued
vegetation, with Ingleborough and the great Dent Fells far, far beyond,
yet, in the pure atmosphere, seeming so near and so clear that we may
almost fancy we can see the purple heather blooming upon their sides.
Further south, bathed in a flood of sunshine, the battlemented keep of
Lancaster Castle comes full in sight, with its frowning gate-tower,
through which many an ill-starred wretch has doubtless trembled as he
passed, and where, upon its threshold, may be said yet to linger the
solemn footprints of mingled innocence and guilt—a stony relic that
calls to remembrance “Old John o’ Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,”
and turns back the pages of the Book of Time to the turbulent days
which witnessed the fierce forays of the Northern hordes and the still
fiercer struggles of the rival Roses; and beyond the Castle, the green
knolls rising above the water-line in the direction of Heysham and
Sunderland—Cape Famine, as the people call it—looking like so many
islands in a sea of silver.
Carrying the eye round to the west, a picture scarcely less beautiful
meets the gaze. The low-lying plain on the right—the Wyke,[16] as it
is called—has, within living memory, been reclaimed from the hungry
sea; and where was once old ocean’s bed there are now lush pastures,
and fields of waving grain that give promise of an abundant harvest.
Below us, peeping up from a clump of trees, are seen the ruined walls
of Wraysholme Tower, where the lordly Harringtons held sway, and
with which we shall make more intimate acquaintance by-and-by; and
near thereto Humphrey Head, looking like a monster couchant, thrusts
its huge form far out from the shore. The little village beyond is
Flookborough, and within half a mile is Cark, contiguous to which,
half hidden among the umbraged woods, is Holker, the favourite seat of
the Duke of Devonshire. Across the Leven sands we get a glimpse of
Chapel Island, a little sea-girt solitude, with the crumbling ruins of
its ancient sanctuary peeping through the gloom of the overshadowing
trees, where, in days of yore, the monks of Furness “their orisons and
vespers sung,” and offered prayers “for the safety of the souls of such
as crossed the sands with the morning tide.” Almost within bow-shot are
the rich woods and glades of Conishead; and further on, the old town of
Ulverston can be discerned, with the great rounded hill—the Hoad—in the
rear, on which the monument to the memory of its distinguished son, the
late Sir John Barrow, stands—
On the gusty down,
Far seen across the sea-paths which he loved,
A beacon to the steersman.
[Note 16: “Wyke” signifies a bay with a low shore; and the now fertile
plain, which includes some hundreds of acres, protected with deep
embankments and valve gates for the land streams, was reclaimed many
years ago through the enterprise of Mr. Towers, of Dudden Grove, and
the late Mr. Stockdale, of Cark.]
At the extreme corner of the Furness shore, where the tall chimneys
shoot up and the thick smoke hangs like a pall, is Barrow, which
by the magic power of iron has been suddenly transformed from an
obscure fishing village into a busy and populous town, and the seat
of industrial and commercial activity. Reaching far out into the
sea is lonely wave-girt Walney, with its ruined castle—the pile of
Fouldrey—built on the foundation of the Vikings’ stronghold by the
monks of Furness as a defence against the marauding Scots—looming
darkly against the flashing waters. Black Comb, stern, bleak, and wild,
its gleaming summit breaking through the clouds, lifts its huge form
with frowning majesty above the dreary moors and storm-worn hills;
and, rearward, the eye wanders over the Coniston range to the Old Man,
and thence to Bowfell, the twin pikes of Langdale, and round towards
Skiddaw, where a succession of mighty headlands—the silent companions
of the mist and cloud—crowd one upon another until the dim outlines of
their giant peaks are lost in the blue infinity of space.
Apart from its natural beauty and the pleasant prospect it commands,
Kirkhead is not without attractions for those who delight in
investigating the memorials of prehistoric times. On the steep
acclivities on the south side of the hill, mantled with ferns and
coarse weeds, and well-nigh hidden with trees and brushwood, is the
entrance to a natural opening or cavern in the limestone rock, 40 or
50 feet in length and about 20 feet high, which in the dim and shadowy
past has evidently been the abode of some primeval Briton. You can get
down to it by an inconvenient track from the top, but the better way
is by a path that winds round the base of the hill, through the scrub,
and along the edge of the meadow until you reach a heap of soil and
_débris_ left from previous explorations, when the entrance is seen
just above. In the excavations that have been made a skull and other
human remains have been discovered, with fragments of rude pottery,
implements of stone, and the bones of the red deer, wild boar, fox, and
other animals. Near the surface was also found a coin of the reign of
the Emperor Domitian (A.D. 84)—strong presumptive evidence that there
have been a succession of tenants, and some of them during the period
of Roman occupation. Repeated examinations have been made of this
primitive abode, and an account of its hidden mysteries will be found
in Dr. Barber’s “Prehistoric Remains.”
Descending from our lofty eyrie, we pass through the little village of
Allithwaite, and then strike into a pleasant leafy lane on the left,
bordered with tall trees—oak, and ash, and beech—that look as green and
luxurious as if they were buried in some inland combe instead of having
had the sea breezes sweeping over them for many a long winter past. A
little rindle keeps us in pleasant companionship, sparkling here and
there in the deep shadow, and now and then we get glimpses of the level
waste of silver sand and the sea beyond, shining through the summer
haze. A few minutes’ walking and we come in sight of the crumbling
remains of Wraysholme Tower, the object of our present pilgrimage,
standing a little way back on the left of the road. A bright-eyed
youngster holds the gate open for us, with expectant glances, as we
pass through into the farmyard, in which the old weather-worn relic
stands, and the gladsome looks with which our modest _largesse_ is
received assure us that it is not unworthily bestowed.
[Illustration: WRAYSHOLME TOWER.]
The embattled tower or peel is all that now remains, and whatever of
other buildings there may have been have long since disappeared. Built
for defence, and as a place of refuge for men and cattle against the
incursions of Scottish marauders and enemies approaching from the Irish
Sea, it formed the strongest and most important feature of the original
structure; and even now, though dismantled and forlorn, and applied to
“base uses” its founders little dreamt of, with its thick walls, its
small jealous windows, and its gloomy apartments, it gives evidence of
purposed resistance to sudden intrusion, and shows that security rather
than convenience was the object of its builders—a lingering memorial
of those grim and stern old times ere order had spread and law had
superseded might, when even power could only feel secure when protected
by strongly-fortified walls, a
Monument of rudest times,
When science slept entombed, and o’er the waste,
The heath-grown crag, and quivering moss of old
Stalk’d unremitted war.
The tower in general form is a parallelogram, measuring about
forty-five feet by thirty; the strongly-grouted walls are surmounted
by an overhanging parapet, with a watch-turret projecting from each
angle, giving it the character of a fortalice—as, indeed, it was in the
troublous times when watch and ward and beacon lights were necessary
safeguards against sudden assaults. In an angle of the thick walls
is a spiral stone staircase, communicating with the upper chambers
and the roof—the latter, in its original state, having been flat and
covered with lead. The masonry, though of great strength, is plain
and of the simplest character, the only carved work being the small
square-headed windows in the upper stories, which have foliated lights,
divided by a mullion, and are apparently of later date than the main
structure, having probably been inserted about the close of the long
reign of Edward III. In one of these windows the arms and crests of the
Harringtons and Stanleys were formerly to be seen, but they were some
years ago removed for safety, and are now placed in a window of the
adjacent farmhouse. One of the small diamond panes has the well-known
Stanley crest—an eagle, with wings endorsed, preying upon an infant
in its cradle, with the addition of the fret or Harrington knot—_nodo
firmo_—at each angle. On another pane are the letters Q (the equivalent
of W) H, with the fret above and below—the initials being probably
those of Sir William Harrington, who, according to Dr. Whitaker,
fell mortally wounded on the plains of Agincourt, on that memorable
St. Crispin’s Day in 1415[17]. A third pane has depicted upon it an
eagle’s claw, a cognizance of the Stanleys, with a fleur de lis on each
side.
[Note 17: This is an error on the part of the learned historian, for Sir
William Harrington’s death did not occur until 1450.]
It is not known with certainty when Wraysholme was erected; but
probably it was not long after William Mareschal, Earl of Pembroke,
founded the Priory of Cartmel (1188); and it may have been intended
as a protection for the fraternity of that house, in the same way
that Piel Castle was for the security of the monks of Furness; but,
if so, the brotherhood did not enjoy a very lengthened tenure, for a
little more than a century after, it is found in the possession of the
great feudal family of the Harringtons of Aldingham, descended from
the Haveringtons or Harringtons of Haverington, near Whitehaven. Sir
Robert Harrington, the first of the name settled at Aldingham, which he
had acquired in right of his wife, had two sons, the younger of whom,
Michael Harrington had—8 Edward II. (1314-15)—a grant of free-warren in
Alinthwaite (Allithwaite), in which township Wraysholme is situated,
but the property eventually passed to the descendants of the elder
brother, Sir John, a great-grandson of whom, Sir William Harrington,
Knight of the Garter, was standard-bearer at the battle of Agincourt,
where he is erroneously said to have lost his life. This Sir William
married Margaret, daughter and heir of Sir Robert Neville, of Hornby
Castle, and by her had a son, Sir Thomas Harrington.
[Illustration]
In the fierce struggles of the Red and White Roses the Harringtons
ranged themselves on the side of the Yorkists, and suffered severely
in that internecine conflict Sir Thomas Harrington, who married a
daughter of the house of Dacre, and succeeded to the Hornby estates in
right of his mother, fell fighting under the standard of the White Rose
at Wakefield Green, and his only son, Sir John Harrington, received his
death-blow while fighting by his side on that memorable day (December
31, 1460), a day fatal to the House of York, and scarcely less fatal
to the victorious Lancastrians; for the cruelties there perpetrated
by the Black-faced Clifford were repaid with ten-fold vengeance at
Towton a few months later. Drayton, in his “Queen Margaret,” recounts
the butcher-work that Clifford did at Wakefield when the brave Richard
Plantagenet, Duke of York, and his son, the Earl of Rutland, fell
together—when
York himself before his castle gate,
Mangled with wounds, on his own earth lay dead;
Upon whose body Clifford down him sate,
Stabbing the corpse, and cutting off the head,
Crowned it with paper, and to wreak his teene,
Presents it so to his victorious queene,
and the “victorious queene,” the haughty Margaret of Anjou, in the
insolence of her short-lived triumph, gave the order,—
Off with his head, and set it on York gates,
So York may overlook the town of York,
Dr. Whitaker tells us that when the news reached Hornby that Sir Thomas
and Sir John Harrington, father and son, with their kinsman, Sir
William Harrington, Lord Bonville of Aldingham, were slain, the widow
of Sir Thomas withdrew to her daughter for consolation, but her son’s
widow, Matilda, a sister of the Black-faced Clifford, partaking, as it
would seem, of her brother’s hard nature, remained, and “was at leisure
to attend to business.”
With Sir John’s death the male line of this branch of the Harringtons
terminated. He left two daughters, Anne and Elizabeth, his co-heirs,
then aged respectively nine and eight years. Their paternal uncle,
Sir James Harrington, took forcible possession of the estates and
claimed them as his own, but on an appeal to the Court of Chancery, he
was dispossessed and committed to the Fleet, when the wardship of the
two young heiresses and the custody of their inheritance were granted
to Thomas Lord Stanley, who considerately married the eldest, Anne,
to his third son, Sir Edward Stanley, the hero of Flodden Field, and
the youngest to his nephew, John Stanley, of Melling, the son of his
brother, the first Sir John Stanley[18] of Alderley, in Cheshire.
[Note 18: By a curious error, which has been repeated in many of the
published pedigrees, this Sir John Stanley is represented as a base
son of James Stanley, Warden of Manchester, and afterwards Bishop of
Ely. Bishop Stanley’s son, who was also distinguished for his valour on
the field of Flodden, was Sir John Stanley, of Honford (Handforth), in
Cheadle parish. Cheshire.]
Sir Edward Stanley, who eventually became the possessor of both
Wraysholme and Hornby, the former, as it would seem, having been
forfeited to the Crown by the attainder of his wife’s uncle, Sir James
Harrington, who, with his brother, Sir Robert, fought on the side of
Richard III. at Bosworth Field, had been a soldier from his youth up.
“The camp,” it is said, “was his school, and his learning the pike and
sword.” The lords of Wraysholme, with their retainers, had many a time
and oft set out to repel the Scots in their plundering raids across
the Border, but now they were called upon to meet the Scottish King
himself, who had entered England with a powerful army, and laid waste
some of the Border strongholds. Summoning his followers, the valiant
Stanley prepared himself for the field, when, as the old ballad tells
us,—
Sir Edward Stanley, stiff in stour,[19]
He is the man on whom I mean,
With him did pass a mighty pow’r,
Of soldiers seemly to be seen.
Most lively lads in Lonsdale bred,
With weapons of unwieldy weight,
All such as Tatham Fells had fed,
Went under Stanley’s streamer bright.
* * * * *
From Silverdale to Kent sand side,
Whose soil is sown with cockle shells,
From Cartmel eke and Connyside,
With fellows fierce from Furness Fells.
[Note 19: Stour, _i.e_., fight.]
He and his brave men marched forward until they came to “Flodden’s
fatal field,” when Stanley was entrusted with the command of the rear
of the English army, which he led so valiantly, and made such a sudden
and unexpected onslaught with his bowmen, that the Scots were put to
flight, leaving their King dead upon the field. Scott has enshrined
Stanley’s deeds at Flodden in imperishable verse, and few couplets are
more frequently quoted than that which tells us—
“Victory!—
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!”
Were the last words of Marmion.
Doubtless it was a gay day at Wraysholme when the stout Lancashire
lads, with their brave leader, returned to tell the tale of victory.
Henry VIII., keeping his Christmas at Eltham, the following year
(1514), commanded that Sir Edward Stanley, as a reward for his services
in having won the hill and vanquished those opposed to him, as also
that his ancestors bore the eagle as their crest, should there be
proclaimed Lord Monteagle, which was accordingly done, and by that
title he had summons to Parliament, and was made a Knight of the Garter.
Sir Edward Stanley, Lord Monteagle, died in 1584, and about this time
the old peel of Wraysholme passed to the Dicconsons, a branch of the
family of that name seated at Wrightington, in Eccleston parish, for
in the following year “Richd. Dicconson, of Raisholme,” appears among
the _liberi tenentes_ in Cartmel parish, and the place continued in
the possession of this family for a century or more. In 1756 it was
purchased by John Carter, of Cart Lane, and given by him, in 1790,
to his daughter Dorothy, the wife of John Harrison, from whom it has
descended through the female line to the present possessor—Thomas Newby
Wilson, of Landing, Newby Bridge.
The gloomy-looking old tower, in which the chivalrous and intrepid
Harringtons so long held sway, now only exhibits the melancholy
aspects of desertion and decay. It is used as an outbuilding to the
neighbouring farmhouse, and, though much dilapidated, tells more of
time, and time’s slow wasting hand, than of the ruinous havoc of
ruthless war.
The glory has long passed away, for two centuries and more have rolled
by since it was in the heyday of its prosperity. It is now tenantless
and forlorn, its battlements are broken, its rooms are desolated, and
the wind whistles through the narrow casements that once were storied
with the heraldic achievements of its knightly owners. Old time has
pressed heavily upon it—may no ruder hand hasten its destruction!
A little more than half a mile from Wraysholme Tower is Humphrey
Head, a huge mass of carboniferous limestone that thrusts its gaunt
form far out into the bay, dividing the Milnthorpe from the Ulverston
Sands. To the north it rises abruptly from the plain, here grim and
grey and lifeless-looking, and there decked with a rich embroidery
of lichens, moss, and trailing ivy, while the ledges of the rock are
covered with a thick vegetation of ash and hazel, the bright greenery
of which is in places relieved by the darker foliage of the yew that
here thrives luxuriously. Round towards the sea the steep acclivities
are all broken, channelled, and weather-worn, with scarcely a sign of
vegetation to relieve their general sterility; and huge heaps that
have been brought down by successive storms lie strewn about the shore
in picturesque confusion. The rocky cliff which rears its naked front
almost perpendicularly to a considerable elevation is not without its
tale of sorrow, as we gather from the following warning, inscribed upon
a block of limestone:—
Beware how you these rocks ascend,
Here William Pedder met his end,
August 22nd, 1857. Aged 10 years.
Near the top of the cliff is the Fairies’ Cave—a large cavernous
opening or recess formed by the shrinkage of the limestone; and at
the base is the Holy Well, a mineral spring famed for its curative
properties in Camden’s time, and which even within memory was resorted
to by the Cumberland miners, who came in large numbers to drink its
health-inspiring waters. The spring issues through a fissure in the
rock within a few feet of the ground, the flow being at the rate
of about a gallon a minute, continuing without variation through
the different seasons of the year. The water is perfectly clear and
colourless, and effervesces slightly on agitation—an indication of the
presence of free carbonic acid. Dr. Barber, who has written an account
of the spa, tells us the principal ingredients are the chlorides of
sodium and magnesium, and the sulphates of lime and soda; and that in
its chief characteristics it most resembles the waters at Wiesbaden
and the Ragoczy spring at Kissingen. Its celebrity would seem to have
arisen as much from its diluent powers as from its medicinal virtues;
and probably recent analyses, which have disclosed the fact that it
contains but a small proportion of solid ingredients, have broken
the charm with which traditional piety had surrounded it, and caused
the health-seeking pilgrims who formerly believed in its virtues to
seek elsewhere the refreshing and restorative draughts which nature
provides. The spring is now virtually abandoned; the cottage close by,
in which the high-priestess formerly resided, is tenantless and falling
to decay; but the key of the spring can be had from the neighbouring
farmhouse.
Tradition gathers round this little corner of Lancashire, and the
shaping power of imagination has clothed it with the weird drapery of
romance—that
Dubious light
That hovers ’twixt the day and night,
Dazzling alternately and dim.
When the Harringtons established themselves here the wolf and the
wild boar roamed at large through the thick forests of Cartmel, and
among the legends and scraps of family history that have floated down
through successive generations is the story that on the eminence to
the north of Wraysholme the last wild boar was hunted down; from which
circumstance the hill has ever since borne the name of Boar Bank. It is
said, too, that, far back in the mist of ages, it was from Wraysholme
Tower a gallant company rode forth to hunt the last wolf “in England’s
spacious realm;” and that, after a long and weary chase, the savage
beast was tracked to its lair on the wooded heights of Humphrey Head,
and there transfixed by the spear of a Harrington. Tradition has been
well described as the nursing-mother of the Muses, and these bits of
legendary lore, which have been deeply rooted in the memories, and
for many a generation have delighted the firesides, of the Cartmel
cottagers, have inspired the pen of a local poet, who has told the
story of “The Last Wolf” in spirit-stirring verse. This interesting
ballad, though varying considerably from the current tradition, is
yet a valuable contribution to our Palatine anthology. Its great
length—seventy-five verses—prevents our giving it entire, but the
following passages will give an idea of the salient features of the
story:—
The sun hath set on Wraysholme’s Tower,
And o’er broad Morecambe Bay;
The moon from out her eastern bower
Pursues the track of day.
On Wraysholme’s grey and massive walls,
On rocky Humphrey Head,
On wood and field her silver falls,
Her silent charms are shed.
No sound through all yon sleeping plain
Now breaks upon the ear,
Save murmurs from the distant main,
Or evening breezes near.
* * * * *
Within those walls may now be seen
The festive board displayed,
And round it many a knight, I ween,
And many a comely maid.
For know that on the morrow’s dawn,
With all who list to ride,
Sir Edgar Harrington hath sworn
To hunt the country-side.
A wolf, the last, as rumour saith,
In England’s spacious realm,
Is doomed that day to meet its death,
And grace the conqueror’s helm.
And he hath sworn an oath beside,
Whoe’er that wolf shall quell
Shall have his fair niece for a bride,
And half his land as well.
The “fair niece” is the orphan Lady Adela—
For beauty famous far and wide,
whose heart has previously been given to Sir Edgar’s son; but the
course of true love has been characterised by the proverbial absence
of smoothness, and the young knight, to escape his father’s wrath, has
betaken himself to the wars in Eastern lands.
The night’s carousal draws to a close, and at break of day the
huntsman’s horn wakes the sleepers to a glorious chase, when
Full threescore riders mount with speed,
chief among whom, and the competitors for the fair Adela’s hand, are
the two knights, Laybourne and Delisle—the latter the long-lost son of
Sir Edgar, who has returned from the Crusades, and appears in disguise
and under an assumed name, though the old retainers, as they view the
stranger knight, know that
The long-lost wanderer meets their sight,
Whate’er his name be now.
The wolf, scared from his covert on Humphrey Head, leads the hunters
a long and exciting chase over Kirkhead, past Holker and Newby, and
across “the Leven’s brawling flood,” to the Old Man of Coniston. The
dogs are again upon the track, and the grisly beast is away through
“Easthwaite’s lonely deep,” through woodland, brake, and forest hoar,
“through Sawrey’s pass,” and on to the shores of Windermere, where,
With one bold plunge, the mere he takes,
And, favoured by the wind,
The flabbing scent abruptly breaks,
And leaves his foes behind.
But the “tireless bloodhounds” are once more upon the scent, the rival
knights follow in hot pursuit, and
Away along the wooded shore
The chase betakes him now,
Beneath the friendly shade of Tower
And craggy Gummerhow.
Then turn aside to Witherslack,
Where Winster’s waters range,
And thence to shingly Eggerslack,
And sand-surveying Grange.
Then, with the instinct of despair, the brute makes for his old haunt
on Humphrey Head, as “evening shades appear.” Reaching a deep chasm
in the rock, wolf and hounds rush headlong to their destruction.
Laybourne’s horse rears at the “giddy brink,” but the “bold Delisle”
rushes madly on, crying—
Adela! I’ll win thee now!
Or ne’er wend forth again.
Delisle and his “Arab white” pursue their headlong course down the
rocky gulf—
Awhile from side to side it leapt,
That steed of mettle true,
Then swiftly to destruction swept,
Like flashing lightning flew.
The shingle in its headlong course,
With rattling din gave way;
The hazels snap beneath its force,
The mountain savins sway.
By chance the Lady Adela happens to be riding by at the moment, upon
her “palfrey white”—
When, lo! the wild wolf bursts in sight,
And bares his glistening teeth!
Her eyes are closed in mortal dread,
And ere a look they steal,
The wolf and Arab both lie dead,
And scatheless stands Delisle!
The Red Cross knight now reveals himself as the lost son of Sir Edgar.
The father welcomes the wanderer, and in fulfilment of his promise,
bestows “his fair niece for a bride.” The result may be anticipated.
The Prior of Cartmel, happening opportunely to be passing, “to drink
the Holy Well”—
Sir Edgar straight the priest besought
To tarry for awhile;
Who, when the lady’s eye he caught,
Assented with a smile.
The “Fairies’ Cave,” on Humphrey Head, served for the nonce as a
chapel, for
The monk he had a mellow heart,
And, scrambling to the spot,
Full blithely there he played his part,
And tied the nuptial knot.
And hence that cave on Humphrey Hill,
Where these fair deeds befel,
Is called Sir Edgar’s chapel still,
As hunters wot full well.
And still the holy fount is there
To which the prior came;
And still it boasts its virtues rare,
And bears its ancient name.
And long on Wraysholme’s lattice light,
A wolf’s head might be traced,
In record of the Red Cross Knight,
Who bore it for his crest.
In Cartmel church his grave is shown,
And o’er it, side by side,
All graved in stone, lies brave Sir John
And Adela his bride.
Such is “The Legend of the Last Wolf.” The supposed monument, “all
graved in stone,” still adorns the choir of Cartmel church. Beneath
the ponderous canopy the recumbent figures of the knight and his lady,
lying side by side, may still be seen, looking the very types of
chivalrous honour and conjugal felicity; and there for certainty is
the sculptured figure of the veritable wolf, reposing quietly at their
feet—confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ, although prosaic
antiquaries, disdaining the faint glimmerings of truth that only steal
through the haze of tradition, tell us, with irreverent disregard for
the poetry of romance, that the story is apocryphal; and further try to
shake our faith by affirming that the figures are those of the valiant
Harrington, who fell fighting for the White Rose at Wakefield, and his
wife, a daughter of the lordly house of Dacre. But we will not discuss
the identity of the departed knights, or the merits of their respective
claims to the battered effigies that have failed to perpetuate their
names—monuments that
Themselves memorials need.
High up on Humphrey Head the cave in which the nuptial knot was tied
still remains; and there, at the foot, is the Holy Well, the waters
of which flow as freely as they did in days of yore, though now only
imbibed when a chance wayfarer finds his way to this lonely seaside
nook, and quaffs a goblet to the memories of the
Brave Sir John,
And Adela his bride,
and the holy friar who made them one.
[Illustration]