Immemorial tradition has asserted that King Arthur, his queen
Guinevere, court of lords and ladies, and his hounds, were enchanted in
some cave of the crags, or in a hall below the castle of Sewingshields,
and would continue entranced there till some one should first blow a
bugle–horn that lay on a table near the entrance into the hall, and
then “with the sword of stone” cut a garter, also placed there beside
it. But none had ever heard where the entrance to this enchanted hall
was, till a farmer at Sewingshields, about fifty years since, was
sitting knitting on the ruins of the castle, and his clew fell and ran
downwards through a bush of briars and nettles, as he supposed, into
a deep subterranean passage. Full in the faith that the entrance into
King Arthur’s hall was now discovered, he cleared the briary portal of
its weeds and rubbish, and entering a vaulted passage, followed, in his
darkling way, the web of his clew. The floor was infested with toads
and lizards, and the dark wings of bats, disturbed by his unhallowed
intrusion, flitted fearfully around him. At length his sinking faith
was strengthened by a dim, distant light, which, as he advanced, grew
gradually lighter, till, all at once, he entered a vast and vaulted
hall, in the centre of which a fire without fuel, from a broad crevice
in the floor, blazed with a high and lambent flame, that showed all the
carved walls and fretted roof, and the monarch and his queen and court
reposing around in a theatre of thrones and costly couches. On the
floor, beyond the fire, lay the faithful and deep–toned pack of thirty
couple of hounds, and on the table, before it, the spell–dissolving
horn, sword, and garter. The farmer reverently but firmly grasped the
sword, and as he drew it leisurely from its rusty scabbard, the eyes of
the monarch and his courtiers began to open, and they rose till they
sat upright. He cut the garter, and, as the sword was being slowly
sheathed, the spell assumed its ancient power, and they all gradually
sank to rest, but not before the monarch lifted up his eyes and hands,
and exclaimed—
“O woe betide that evil day
On which this witless wight was born
Who drew the sword—the garter cut,
But never blew the bugle–horn.”
Of this favourite tradition, the most remarkable variation is
respecting the place where the farmer descended. Some say that after
the king’s denunciation, terror brought on loss of memory, and the
farmer was unable to give any correct account of his adventure, or
the place where it occurred. All agree that Mrs. Spearman, the wife
of another and more recent occupier of the estate, had a dream in
which she saw a rich hoard of treasure among the ruins of the castle,
and that for many days together she stood over workmen employed in
searching for it, but without success.
Another version of the story has less of “the pomp of sceptred state”
than the preceding, and has evidently sprung from a baser original, but
its verity is not the less to be depended upon.
A shepherd one day, in quest of a strayed sheep on the crags, had his
attention aroused by the scene around him assuming an appearance he
had never before witnessed. There seemed to be about it a more than
wonted vividness, and such a deep solemnity hung over its aspect, that
its features became, as it were, palpably impressed upon his mind.
While he was musing upon this unexpected occurrence, his steps were
arrested by a ball of thread. This he laid hold of, and, pursuing the
path it pointed out, found it led into a cavern, in the recesses of
which, as the guiding line used by miners in their explorations of
devious passages, it appeared to lose itself. As he approached, he
felt perforce constrained to follow the strange conductor, that had
so marvellously come into his hands. After passing through a long and
dreary vestibule, he entered into an apartment in the interior. An
immense fire blazed on the hearth, and cast its broad flashes with
a wild, unearthly glare, to the remotest corner of the chamber. Over
it was placed a huge caldron, as if preparations were being made for
a feast on an extensive scale. Two hounds lay couchant on either side
of the fire–place, in the stillness of unbroken slumber. The only
remarkable piece of furniture in the apartment was a table covered
with green cloth. At the head of the table, a being, considerably
advanced in years, of a dignified mien, and clad in the habiliments
of war, sat, as it were, fast asleep, in an arm–chair. At the other
end of the table lay a horn and a sword. Notwithstanding these signs
of life, there prevailed a dead silence throughout the chamber, the
very feeling of which made the shepherd reflect that he had advanced
far beyond the limits of human experience, and that he was now in the
presence of objects that belonged more to death than to life. The very
idea made his flesh creep. He, however, had sufficient fortitude to
advance to the table and lift the horn. The hounds pricked up their
ears most fearfully, and the grisly veteran started up on his elbow,
and raising his half–unwilling eyes, told the staggered hind that if he
would blow the horn and draw the sword, he would confer upon him the
honours of knighthood to last through time. Such unheard–of dignities,
from a source so ghastly, either met with no appreciation from the
awe–stricken swain, or the terror of finding himself alone in the
company, it might be of malignant phantoms, who were only tempting
him to his ruin, became too urgent to be resisted, and, therefore,
proposing to divide the peril with a comrade, he groped his darkling
way, as best his quaking limbs could support him, back to the blessed
daylight. On his return, with a reinforcement of strength and courage,
all traces of the former scene had disappeared. The crags presented
their usual cheerful and quiet aspect, and every vestige of the opening
of a cavern was obliterated. Thus failed another of the repeated
opportunities for releasing the spell–bound king of Britain from the
“charmed sleep of ages.” Within his rocky chamber he still sleeps on,
as tradition tells, till the appointed hour; or if invited by his
enchantress to participate in the illusions of the fairy festival,
it has charms for him no longer. “Wasted with care,” he sits beside
her—the banquet untasted—the pageantry unmasked—
“... By constraint
Her guest, and from his native land withheld
By sad necessity.”