It happened between March and May-day,
When wood-buds wake which slumbered late,
When hill and valley grow green and gayly,
And every wight longs for a mate;
When lovers sleep with an open eyelid,
Like nightingales on the orchard tree,
And sorely wish they had wings for flying,
So they might with their true love be;
A knight all worthy, in this sweet season,
Went out to Cardiff with bow and gun,
Not to chase the roebuck, nor shoot the pheasant,
But hunt the fierce fox so wild and dun.
And by his side was a young maid riding,
With laughing blue eyes and sunny hair;
And who was it but young Dora Vernon,
Young Rutland’s true love, and Haddon’s heir.
Her gentle hand was a good bow bearing;
The deer at speed or the fowl on wing
Stayed in their flight, when the bearded arrow
Her white hand loosed from the sounding string.
Old men made bare their locks, and blest her,
As blithe she rode down the Durwood side,
Her steed rejoiced in his lovely rider,
Arched his neck proudly, and pranced in pride.
“This unexpected minstrelsy was soon interrupted by dame Foljambe, whose
total devotion to the family of Rutland rendered her averse to hear the
story of Dora Vernon’s elopement profaned in the familiar ballad strain
of a forgotten minstrel. ‘I wonder at the presumption of that rude
minion,’ said the offended portress, ‘in chanting such ungentle strains
in my ear. Home to thy milk-pails, idle hussy,——home to thy distaff,
foolish maiden; or, if thou wilt sing, come over to my lodge when the sun
is down, and I will teach thee a strain of a higher sort, made by a great
court lord, on the marriage of her late Grace. It is none of your rustic
chants, but full of fine words, both long and lordly; it begins:
“Come burn your incense, ye godlike graces,
Come, Cupid, dip your darts in light;
Unloose her starry zone, chaste Venus,
And trim the bride for the bridal night.”
“‘None of your vulgar chants, minion, I tell thee; but stuffed with
spiced words, and shining with gods and garters and stars and precious
stones, and odors thickly dropping; a noble strain indeed.’ The maiden
smiled, nodded acquiescence, and, tripping homeward, renewed her homely
and interrupted song, till the riverbank and the ancient towers
acknowledged, with their sweetest echoes, the native charms of her voice.
“‘I marvel much,’ said the hoary portress, ‘at the idle love for strange
and incredible stories which possesses as with a demon the peasants
of this district. Not only have they given a saint, with a shirt of
haircloth and a scourge, to every cavern, and a druid with his golden
sickle and his mistletoe to every circle of shapeless stones, but they
have made the Vernons, the Cavendishes, the Cockaynes, and the Foljambes
erect on every wild place crosses or altars of atonement for crimes
which they never committed; unless fighting ankle-deep in heathen
blood, for the recovery of Jerusalem and the holy sepulchre, required
such outlandish penance. They cast, too, a supernatural light round the
commonest story; if you credit them, the ancient chapel bell of Haddon,
safely lodged on the floor for a century, is carried to the top of the
turret, and, touched by some invisible hand, is made to toll forth
midnight notes of dolor and woe, when any misfortune is about to befall
the noble family of Rutland. They tell you, too, that wailings of no
earthly voice are heard around the decayed towers and along the garden
terraces, on the festival night of the saint who presided of old over
the fortunes of the name of Vernon. And no longer agone than yesterday,
old Edgar Ferrars assured me that he had nearly as good as seen the
apparition of the King of the Peak himself, mounted on his visionary
steed, and with imaginary horn and hound and halloo pursuing a spectre
stag over the wild chase of Haddon. Nay, so far has vulgar credulity and
assurance gone, that the great garden entrance, called the Knight’s
porch, through which Dora Vernon descended step by step among her twenty
attendant maidens, all rustling in embroidered silks, and shining
and sparkling like a winter sky, in diamonds, and such-like costly
stones,——to welcome her noble bridegroom, Lord John Manners, who came cap
in hand with his company of gallant gentlemen——’
“‘Nay, now, dame Foljambe,’ interrupted the husbandman, ‘all this is fine
enough, and lordly too, I’ll warrant; but thou must not apparel a plain
old tale in the embroidered raiment of thy own brain, nor adorn it in
the precious stones of thy own fancy. Dora Vernon was a lovely lass, and
as proud as she was lovely: she bore her head high, dame; and well she
might, for she was a gallant knight’s daughter; and lords and dukes, and
what not, have descended from her. But, for all that, I cannot forget
that she ran away in the middle of a moonlight night with young Lord
John Manners, and no other attendant than her own sweet self. Ay, dame,
and for the diamonds, and what not, which thy story showers on her locks
and her garments, she tied up her berry brown locks in a menial’s cap,
and ran away in a mantle of Bakewell brown, three yards for a groat. Ay,
dame, and instead of going out regularly by the door, she leapt out of a
window; more by token she left one of her silver-heeled slippers fastened
in the grating, and the place has ever since been called the Lady’s Leap.’
“Dame Foljambe, like an inexperienced rider, whose steed refuses
obedience to voice and hand, resigned the contest in despair, and allowed
her rustic companion to enter full career into the debatable land, where
she had so often fought and vanquished in defence of the decorum of the
mode of alliance between the houses of Haddon and Rutland.
“‘And now, dame,’ said the husbandman, ‘I will tell thee the story in
my own and my father’s way. The last of the name of Vernon was renowned
far and wide for the hospitality and magnificence of his house, for
the splendor of his retinue, and more for the beauty of his daughters,
Margaret and Dorothy. This is speaking in thy own manner, dame Foljambe;
but truth’s truth. He was much given to hunting and hawking, and
jousting, with lances either blunt or sharp; and though a harquebuss
generally was found in the hand of the gallant hunters of that time,
the year of grace 1560, Sir George Vernon despised that foreign weapon;
and well he might, for he bent the strongest bow, and shot the surest
shaft, of any man in England. His chase-dogs, too, were all of the most
expert and famous kinds, his falcons had the fairest and most certain
flight; and though he had seen foreign lands, he chiefly prided himself
in maintaining unimpaired the old baronial grandeur of his house. I
have heard my grandsire say, how his great-grandsire told him, that the
like of the Knight of Haddon, for a stately form and a noble, free, and
natural grace of manner, was not to be seen in court or camp. He was
hailed, in common tale and in minstrel song, by the name of the KING
OF THE PEAK; and it is said his handsome person and witchery of tongue
chiefly prevented his mistress, good Queen Bess, from abridging his
provincial designation with the headsman’s axe.
“‘It happened in the fifth year of the reign of his young and sovereign
mistress, that a great hunting festival was held at Haddon, where all the
beauty and high blood of Derbyshire assembled. Lords of distant counties
came; for to bend a bow or brittle the deer, under the eye of Sir George
Vernon, was an honor sought for by many. Over the chase of Haddon,
over the Hill of Stanton, over Bakewell-Edge, over Chatsworth Hill and
Hardwicke Plain, and beneath the ancient Castle of Bolsover, as far as
the edge of the forest of old Sherwood, were the sounds of harquebuss
and bowstring heard, and the cry of dogs and the cheering of men. The
brown-mouthed and white-footed dogs of Derbyshire were there among the
foremost; the snow-white hound and the coal-black, from the Scottish
border and bonny Westmoreland, preserved or augmented their ancient fame;
nor were the dappled hounds of old Godfrey Foljambe, of Bakewell bank,
far from the throat of the red deer when they turned at bay, and gored
horses and riders. The great hall floor of Haddon was soon covered with
the produce of wood and wild.
“‘Nor were the preparations for feasting this noble hunting-party
unworthy the reputation for solid hospitality which characterized the
ancient King of the Peak. Minstrels had come from distant parts, as far
even as the Scottish border; bold, free-spoken, rude, rough-witted men;
“for the selvage of the web,” says the northern proverb, “is aye the
coarsest cloth.” But in the larder the skill of man was chiefly employed,
and a thousand rarities were prepared for pleasing the eye and appeasing
the appetite. In the kitchen, with its huge chimneys and prodigious
spits, the menial maidens were flooded nigh ankle-deep in the richness
of roasted oxen and deer; and along the passage, communicating with the
hall of state, men might have slided along, because of the fat droppings
of that prodigious feast, like a slider on the frozen Wye. The kitchen
tables, of solid plank, groaned and yielded beneath the roasted beeves
and the spitted deer; while a stream of rich smoke, massy and slow and
savory, sallied out at the grated windows, and sailed round the mansion,
like a mist exhaled by the influence of the moon. I tell thee, dame
Foljambe, I call those the golden days of old England.
“‘But I wish you had seen the hall prepared for this princely feast. The
floor, of hard and solid stone, was strewn deep with rushes and fern; and
there lay the dogs of the chase in couples, their mouths still red with
the blood of stags, and panting yet from the fervor and length of their
pursuit. At the lower end of the hall, where the floor subsided a step,
was spread a table for the stewards and other chiefs over the menials.
There sat the keeper of the bows, the warder of the chase, and the head
falconer, together with many others of lower degree, but mighty men among
the retainers of the noble name of Vernon. Over their heads were hung the
horns of stags, the jaws of boars, the skulls of the enormous bisons,
and the foreheads of foxes. Nor were there wanting trophies, where the
contest had been more bloody and obstinate,——banners and shields and
helmets, won in the Civil and Scottish and Crusading wars, together with
many strange weapons of annoyance or defence, borne in the Norwegian and
Saxon broils. Beside them were hung rude paintings of the most renowned
of these rustic heroes, all in the picturesque habiliments of the times.
Horns and harquebusses and swords and bows and buff coats and caps were
thrown in negligent groups all about the floor; while their owners sat
in expectation of an immediate and ample feast, which they hoped to wash
down with floods of that salutary beverage, the brown blood of barley.
“‘At the upper end of the hall, where the floor was elevated exactly
as much in respect as it was lowered in submission at the other, there
the table for feasting the nobles stood; and well was it worthy of its
station. It was one solid plank of white sycamore, shaped from the
entire shaft of an enormous tree, and supported on squat columns of oak,
ornamented with the arms of the Vernons, and grooved into the stone
floor, beyond all chance of being upset by human powers. Benches of wood,
curiously carved, and covered, in times of more than ordinary ceremony,
with cushions of embroidered velvet, surrounded this ample table; while
in the recess behind appeared a curious work in arras, consisting of
festivals and processions and bridals, executed from the ancient poets;
and for the more staid and grave, a more devout hand had wrought some
scenes from the controversial fathers and the monkish legends of the
ancient church. The former employed the white hands of Dora Vernon
herself; while the latter were the labors of her sister Margaret, who was
of a serious turn, and never happened to be so far in love as to leap
from a window.’
“‘And now,’ said dame Foljambe, ‘I will describe the Knight of Haddon,
with his fair daughters and principal guests, myself.’ ‘A task that will
last thee to doomsday, dame,’ muttered the husbandman. The portress
heeded not this ejaculation, but with a particular stateliness of
delivery proceeded. ‘The silver dinner-bell rung on the summit of Haddon
Hall, the warder thrice wound his horn, and straightway the sound of
silver spurs was heard in the passage, the folding-door opened, and
in marched my own ancestor, Ferrars Foljambe by name. I have heard
his dress too often described not to remember it. A buff jerkin, with
slashed and ornamented sleeves, a mantle of fine Lincoln green, fastened
round his neck with wolf-claws of pure gold, a pair of gilt spurs on
the heels of his brown hunting-boots, garnished above with taslets of
silver, and at the square and turned-up toes, with links of the same
metal connected with the taslets. On his head was a boar-skin cap, on
which the white teeth of the boar were set, tipt with gold. At his side
was a hunting-horn, called the white hunting-horn of Tutbury, banded
with silver in the middle, belted with black silk at the ends, set with
buckles of silver, and bearing the arms of Edmund, the warlike brother of
Edward Longshanks. This fair horn descended by marriage to Stanhope, of
Elvaston, who sold it to Foxlowe, of Staveley. The gift of a king and the
property of heroes was sold for some paltry pieces of gold.’
“‘Dame Foljambe,’ said the old man, ‘the march of thy tale is like the
course of the Wye, seventeen miles of links and windings down a fair
valley five miles long. A man might carve thy ancestor’s figure in
alabaster in the time thou describest him. I must resume my story, dame;
so let thy description of old Ferrars Foljambe stand; and suppose the
table filled about with the gallants of the chase and many fair ladies,
while at the head sat the King of the Peak himself, his beard descending
to his broad girdle, his own natural hair of dark brown——blessings on
the head that keeps God’s own covering on it, and scorns the curled
inventions of man!——falling in thick masses on his broad, manly
shoulders. Nor silver nor gold wore he; the natural nobleness of his
looks maintained his rank and pre-eminence among men; the step of Sir
George Vernon was one that many imitated, but few could attain,——at once
manly and graceful. I have heard it said that he carried privately in his
bosom a small rosary of precious metal, in which his favorite daughter
Dora had entwined one of her mother’s tresses. The ewer-bearers entered
with silver basins full of water; the element came pure and returned red;
for the hands of the guests were stained with the blood of the chase. The
attendant minstrels vowed that no hands so shapely, nor fingers so taper
and long and white and round, as those of the Knight of Haddon, were that
day dipped in water.
“‘There is wondrous little pleasure in describing a feast of which we
have not partaken: so pass we on to the time when the fair dames retired,
and the red wine in cups of gold, and the ale in silver flagons, shone
and sparkled as they passed from hand to lip beneath the blaze of seven
massy lamps. The knights toasted their mistresses, the retainers told
their exploits, and the minstrels with harp and tongue made music and
song abound. The gentles struck their drinking-vessels on the table till
they rang again; the menials stamped with the heels of their ponderous
boots on the solid floor; while the hounds, imagining they heard the call
to the chase, leaped up, and bayed in hoarse but appropriate chorus.
“‘The ladies now reappeared in the side galleries, and overlooked the
scene of festivity below. The loveliest of many counties were there; but
the fairest was a young maid of middle size, in a dress disencumbered of
ornament, and possessed of one of those free and graceful forms which may
be met with in other counties, but for which our own Derbyshire alone is
famous. Those who admired the grace of her person were no less charmed
with her simplicity and natural meekness of deportment. Nature did much
for her, and art strove in vain to rival her with others; while health,
that handmaid of beauty, supplied her eye and her cheek with the purest
light and the freshest roses. Her short and rosy upper lip was slightly
curled, with as much of maiden sanctity, perhaps, as pride; her white
high forehead was shaded with locks of sunny brown, while her large
and dark hazel eyes beamed with free and unaffected modesty. Those who
observed her close might see her eyes, as she glanced about, sparkling
for a moment with other lights, but scarce less holy, than those of
devotion and awe. Of all the knights present, it was impossible to say
who inspired her with those love-fits of flushing joy and delicious
agitation; each hoped himself the happy person; for none could look on
Dora Vernon without awe and love. She leaned her white bosom, shining
through the veil which shaded it, near one of the minstrel’s harps; and
looking round on the presence, her eyes grew brighter as she looked; at
least so vowed the knights and so sang the minstrels.
“‘All the knights arose when Dora Vernon appeared. “Fill all your
wine-cups, knights,” said Sir Lucas Peverel. “Fill them to the brim,”
said Sir Henry Avenel. “And drain them out, were they deeper than the
Wye,” said Sir Godfrey Gernon. “To the health of the Princess of the
Peak,” said Sir Ralph Cavendish. “To the health of Dora Vernon,” said
Sir Hugh de Wodensley; “beauty is above titles, she is the loveliest
maiden a knight ever looked on, with the sweetest name too.” “And yet,
Sir Knight,” said Peverel, filling his cup, “I know one who thinks so
humbly of the fair name of Vernon, as to wish it charmed into that of De
Wodensley.” “He is not master of a spell so profound,” said Avenel. “And
yet he is master of his sword,” answered De Wodensley, with a darkening
brow. “I counsel him to keep it in his sheath,” said Cavendish, “lest it
prove a wayward servant.” “I will prove its service on thy bosom where
and when thou wilt, Lord of Chatsworth,” said De Wodensley. “Lord of
Darley,” answered Cavendish, “it is a tempting moonlight, but there is
a charm over Haddon to-night it would be unseemly to dispel. To-morrow,
I meet Lord John Manners to try whose hawk has the fairer flight and
whose love the whiter hand. That can be soon seen; for who has so fair a
hand as the love of young Rutland? I shall be found by Durwood-Tor when
the sun is three hours up, with my sword drawn,——there’s my hand on ’t,
De Wodensley.” And he wrung the knight’s hand till the blood seemed
starting from beneath his finger-nails.
“‘“By the saints, Sir Knights,” said Sir Godfrey Gernon, “you may as well
beard one another about the love of ‘some bright particular star and
think to wed it,’ as the wild wizard of Warwick says, as quarrel about
this unattainable love. Hearken, minstrels: while we drain our cups to
this beauteous lass, sing some of you a kindly love-strain, wondrously
mirthful and melancholy. Here’s a cup of Rhenish, and a good gold Harry
in the bottom on’t, for the minstrel who pleases me.” The minstrels laid
their hands on the strings, and a sound was heard like the swarming of
bees before summer thunder. “Sir Knight,” said one, “I will sing ye
Cannie Johnnie Armstrong with all the seventeen variations.” “He was
hanged for cattle stealing,” answered the knight; “I’ll have none of
him.” “What say you to Dick of the Cow, or the Harper of Lochmaben?” said
another, with something of a tone of diffidence. “What! you northern
knaves, can you sing of nothing but thievery and jail-breaking?” “Perhaps
your knightship,” humbly suggested a third, “may have a turn for the
supernatural, and I’m thinking the Fairy Legend of young Tamlane is just
the thing that suits your fancy.” “I like the naïveté of the young lady
very much,” answered the knight, “but the fair dames of Derbyshire prize
the charms of lovers with flesh and blood, before the gayest Elfin-knight
that ever ran a course from Carlisle to Caerlaverock.” “What would your
worship say to William of Cloudesley?” said a Cumberland minstrel. “Or to
the Friar of Orders Grey?” said a harper from the halls of the Percys.
“‘“Minstrels,” said Sir Ralph Cavendish, “the invention of sweet and
gentle poesy is dead among you. Every churl in the Peak can chant
us these beautiful but common ditties. Have you nothing new for the
honor of the sacred calling of verse and the beauty of Dora Vernon?
Fellow,——harper,——what’s your name?——you with the long hair and the
green mantle,” said the knight, beckoning to a young minstrel who sat
with his harp held before him, and his face half buried in his mantle’s
fold; “come, touch your strings and sing; I’ll wager my gold-hilted sword
against that pheasant feather in thy cap, that thou hast a new and a
gallant strain; for I have seen thee measure more than once the form of
fair Dora Vernon with a ballad-maker’s eye. Sing, man, sing.”
“‘The young minstrel, as he bowed his head to this singular mode of
request, blushed from brow to bosom; nor were the face and neck of Dora
Vernon without an acknowledgment of how deeply she sympathized in his
embarrassment. A finer instrument, a truer hand, or a more sweet and
manly voice hardly ever united to lend grace to rhyme.