Stories and Legends of Travel and History, for Children Part 5

One fresh May morning, when James had been a captive in Windsor Castle nearly eighteen years, as he was looking down from his window, he saw a beautiful young lady walking in the garden. She was dressed all in white; a net of pearls and sapphires confined her golden hair, and a rich chain of gold was about her delicate throat. By her side sported a pretty little Italian greyhound, with a string of tinkling silver bells around his neck.

As she moved among the flowers, the violet looked up into her eyes, and thought their tender blue was her own reflection. The rose said to herself, "What a rich bloom I must have, if even my shadow makes her cheeks so red!" The lily had similar thoughts about her neck; while the golden laburnum thought it and the sunbeams had been the making of her hair.

This lovely dame was the Lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset. Of course, King James, having little else to do, fell in love with her without delay, and in a very short time told her so, by means of tender rhymes, which he sent fluttering down into her path.

The Lady Jane was charmed with his verses, and found it easy to go from admiring the poetry into loving the poet. To be frank, and tell him so, she wrote a little billet, and tied it under the wing of a white dove, directing him to carry it straight to the captive's window,--and he did so. But if he had suspected what was to have come of it, I don't believe he would have gone; for it was little rest the poor bird got after that, between the two lovers, who kept him flying back and forth a dozen times a day with their fond messages under his wing.

At last, King Henry got wind of this romantic affair, and, instead of being angry; he was very glad, for he wanted King James to have an English wife. So he took him from prison, gave him Lady Jane in marriage, and restored him to his throne.

The poet-king and his n.o.ble queen were very kindly received in Scotland, and lived for some time very happily and peacefully, always dearly loving one another. But James found the kingdom in great confusion from misgovernment, and the common people very much oppressed. He bravely set himself to reform matters, trying to relieve and protect the poor, and restrain and humble the rich and powerful.

His most difficult labor was to lessen the power of the great n.o.bles, who were in fact almost kings themselves, on their own estates, and fought against each other, and even against the king, upon the slightest provocation, and often without any. They rebelled against this as being a spiteful action, and not, as it really was, a n.o.ble, kingly effort to benefit the _whole_ kingdom. They took further offence at the levying of some taxes for the support of the throne and to carry on the government. The people being poor, and not used to paying such taxes, were easily led to believe that it was King James's avarice, and not the necessities of the government, which caused them to be exacted. So, although he was so wise and good, and had the welfare of his people so much at heart, he came to be looked upon as unjust and tyrannical, by both the n.o.bles and the common people; and this led to a conspiracy to bring about his death.

The leader in this conspiracy was one Sir Robert Graham, a bold, ambitious man, who was greatly embittered by having suffered an imprisonment at the command of the King. He also enticed into the plot the old Earl of Athole, by promising that his son, Sir Robert Stewart, should be made king in James's place. Many others joined the plot, upon various grounds, bringing with them their followers, to whom they pretended that their object was to carry off a lady from the court.

Graham went off into the far Highlands, to complete his plan, and from thence he formally recalled his allegiance to the king, bidding him defiance, and threatening to put him to death with his own hand. In reply to this, King James set a price upon the head of Graham, to be paid to any one who should capture and deliver him up to justice; but he managed to keep himself safely concealed in the mountains.

For the Christmas following this, the poor, doomed king had appointed a feast to be held at Perth. As he was about to cross a ferry on his way to attend this feast, he was stopped by a Highland woman, who professed to be a prophetess. She called out to him in a loud voice, "My lord, the king, if you pa.s.s this water, you will never return alive." The king had read in some book of prophecy, that a king would be killed in Scotland during that year, and was much struck by this speech of the old woman.

Better would it have been for both himself and Scotland had he given heed to this warning, which the old woman doubtless had better authority than her claim to prophecy for making; but he turned jestingly to a knight of the court, to whom he had given the t.i.tle of "the King of Love," saying, "Sir Alexander, there is a prophecy that a king shall be killed in Scotland this year; now this must mean either you or me, since we are the only kings in Scotland." Several other things occurred which, if attended to, might have saved the king; but they were all suffered to pa.s.s unheeded.

When the king arrived at Perth, there being no castle or palace convenient, he selected for his residence an abbey of Black Friars, which made it necessary, unfortunately, to distribute his guards among the citizens, and thus make comparatively easy the execution of the design of the conspirators.

On the night of the 20th of February, 1437, after some of the conspirators, selected for that purpose, had knocked to pieces the locks of the doors of the king's apartment, carried away the bars which fastened the gates, and provided planks with which the ditch surrounding the monastery was to be crossed, Sir Robert Graham left his hiding-place in the mountains and entered the convent gardens, with about three hundred men.

The king had spent the evening with the ladies and gentlemen of the court, in singing, dancing, playing chess, and reading romances aloud.

All the court had retired, and James was standing before the fire, in night-gown and slippers, talking with the queen and her ladies, when the same Highland prophetess that had warned him at the ferry, begged to speak with him, but was refused, because it was so late.

Suddenly there was heard without the clash of men in armor, and the glare of torches was seen in the gardens. The king at once thought of Sir Robert Graham and his threat, and called to the ladies who were still in the room to keep the doors fast, so as to give him time to make his escape. After vainly trying to break the bars of the windows, he suddenly remembered that there was a vault running beneath the apartment, which was used as a common sewer; whereupon he seized the tongs, raised a plank in the floor, and let himself down. This vault had formerly led out into the court of the convent; but, most unfortunately, he had only a few days before ordered this opening to be walled up, because, when playing ball, the ball had several times rolled into it.

In the mean time, the conspirators were hunting for him from room to room, and at last they reached the one beneath which he was hidden.

The queen and her ladies kept the door shut as long as they could, but you will remember that the cowardly conspirators had broken the locks and carried off the bars; and this brings us to one of the most devoted and heroic acts in Scottish history. Catherine Douglas, one of the n.o.blest (both by rank and nature) and loveliest of the queen's ladies, when she found that the bar was gone, with that high spirit which has made her race wellnigh the most famous of Scotland, thrust her beautiful, naked arm through the staples, in the place of the bar, and thus kept the door closed till her arm was crushed and broken by the pressure of the brutal traitors on the other side. When this heroic defence was overcome, they burst headlong into the room, with swords and daggers drawn, beating down and trampling on the brave ladies who did their best to keep them back. One of them was in the act of killing the queen, but a son of Graham prevented it, by exclaiming, "What would you do with the queen? She is but a woman! Let us seek the king!"

After a careful, but unsuccessful search, they went away to look in other parts of the building. The king having heard their departure, and being very cold and uncomfortable, asked the ladies to help him out of the vault. But some of the conspirators had remembered this vault, and just at this moment they returned to search it. They tore up the plank, and there stood the poor, doomed king in his night-gown, and entirely unarmed; at which, one of them said, "Sirs, I have found the bride for whom we have been seeking all night."

First, two brothers, named Hall, jumped into the vault, with drawn daggers; but the king was a very powerful and active man, and he at once threw them both down, and was trying to get a dagger from them, when Graham himself leaped down. Then James, finding that defence was useless, asked him for mercy, and for a little time to confess his sins. But Graham replied, "Thou never hadst mercy on any one, therefore thou shall receive no mercy; and thy confessor shall be only this good sword." Whereupon he ran the king through the body. Then, possibly overcome with remorse, or fearing the consequences of the deed, he was for leaving the king to the chances of life and death; but the others fiercely called out that if he did not kill the king, he himself should die. At this, he and the two Halls dispatched the poor monarch with their daggers. After his death, sixteen wounds were found upon his breast alone.

And this was the end of the great and good James I. of Scotland, who, king though he was, died a martyr for the rights of the people.

The Journal from England to Ireland.

THE FISHERMAN'S RETURN.

On a bright morning, early in August, I left London, with my dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. B., for a visit to Ireland, by the way of Wales and Holyhead. The first remarkable place we came to was the town of Chester, which stands just outside the Princ.i.p.ality of Wales, and is so very ancient that antiquarians, who are often rather quarrelsome old gentlemen, have had many a hot dispute about its founder. Some say it was Leon Gaur, "a mighty strong giant," who first built caves and dungeons here, in which he confined all the poor stragglers he could catch, and fatted them for his table. Others affirm that it was old King Lear, whom you will sometime read about in Shakspeare, as being afflicted with a very testy temper and two wicked daughters, who were quite too sharp for him.

When the Romans had possession of Great Britain, they made Chester an important military station, under the name of Dova. There are many Roman remains shown here, to this day. Afterwards some of the Saxon kings held their court here. It is related that the proud Edgar once took a grand pleasure trip on the Dee, when his boat was rowed by eight tributary kings.

Under the Normans, the town grew fast in strength and importance, and, at last, took the name of Chester. Lupus, the first Earl of Chester, built a castle, rebuilt the walls, and made it the head-quarters of an army, maintained on the frontiers, to keep down the Welsh. That brave, half savage people kept attacking the town and setting fire to the suburbs; but were always beaten back with great slaughter and left so many of their dead behind them, that the cold-blooded English actually made a wall of Welshmen's skulls. So, in years after, when the young Welsh soldiers undertook to take the town; they were obliged, it may be said, to climb up over their fathers' and grandfathers' heads.

Chester is now a very interesting place, full of quaint, old-fas.h.i.+oned houses, with high pointed roofs and carved gables turned toward the streets, which are wide and straight. The walls remain nearly perfect--not preserved for defence, but as relics of the old fighting times.

The Dee is a strange looking river when the tide is low, for the sands stretch far out on each side. Mr. Kingsley, an English author, in a beautiful song, tells a sad story of a poor girl, who was sent one evening to call the cattle home across these wide sands. A blinding mist came up and the tide came in, but Mary never came home--only as she floated ash.o.r.e the next morning, drowned.

A little way off the railway track, lies Maes Garmon, the scene of a great victory gained by the Britons over the Scots and Picts, in 429.

It was in the season of Lent;--the Britons had a.s.sembled in great numbers, in a valley amid the mountains, to listen to the preaching of St. Germa.n.u.s and Bishop Lupus. These holy men preached with such extraordinary power, that thousands of rude warriors came forward, vociferously professing religion, and eager to be baptized. The enemy, hearing of this by their scouts, thought that here would be a fine opportunity to take them by surprise, and hastened to the spot to make the attack. But St. Germa.n.u.s somehow got wind of their coming, and, taking the pick of the warriors; conducted them to a pa.s.s through which the heathen army must enter the valley. As soon as the enemy appeared, the Saint, lifting the rood in his hands, shouted three times at the top of his voice, "Hallelujah!" All his warriors repeated the cry, and the mountains echoed and reechoed it, till their caves and forests seemed to be alive with lurking Britons. The b.l.o.o.d.y-minded heathens were so astonished and frightened by this strange Christian uproar, that they flung down their aims and ran for their lives! The Britons, instead of going on with their Hallelujahs, as I think they should have done, took after them with great fury--slew thousands and drove thousands into the river, where they were drowned. It was a queer way to win a battle that--scaring the enemy out of their wits by shouting holy words at them. I doubt whether the plan would succeed as well in our enlightened Christian times.

The next object of interest is Flint Castle, to which King Richard II.

was carried as a prisoner, and where he met the banished Bolingbroke, who was soon to step into his royal shoes and dub himself King Henry IV.

Next was the town of Holywell--so called for the famous, and, it is said, miraculous well of St. Winifred, which it contains. If you inquire for this, you are conducted to a beautiful Gothic building, erected by the good Margaret, Countess of Richmond. Within this edifice is a large bath; and in and out of this, the maimed, palsied, and rheumatic, are constantly hobbling, crawling, or being carried.

Over head, fixed in the roof, are hosts of old canes and crutches, placed there by cripples who say they have been cured by the waters.

Doubtless this spring has medicinal properties, like many in our own country, and very likely many a poor creature is cured by simply bathing repeatedly in pure cold water--a treatment tried here for the first time in all their lives.

But who was St. Winifred?

All I know of her I get from a Roman Catholic legend, which I, being a Protestant, and because it seems to me absurd, cannot credit; but which many good, simple-hearted people find no difficulty in believing--especially such as have had a lame leg cured by the well, and have hung up a crutch in the shrine.

There was once, (says the legend,) a great lord, whose name was Thewith, and a n.o.ble lady, whose name was Wenlo, and they had one only daughter, whose name was Winifred. Now Winifred grew up to be a marvellously beautiful maiden, and her hand was sought in marriage by lords and princes far and near. But strangely enough, she would have nothing to say to any of them, and seemed to care nothing for the pomps and pleasures of the world. She was pious and charitable, and loved better to nurse and pray with the sick than to wear fine dresses, or dance with handsome young gentlemen. Perhaps she had visions, in which she saw and heard all the palsied old men and women, and all the miserable cripples that were, or ever would be in the world, shaking their heads and thumping with their crutches at her. At any rate, she resolved to live a single, devout, and charitable life, and for that purpose, placed herself under the care and instruction of her uncle, Breno, a very holy priest.

But it happened that Prince Caradoc, the son of King Alen--who _he_ was I don't know--saw her, and instantly fell desperately in love with her, and in the authoritative way which princes have, asked her to be his wife. Winifred said "no" very decidedly, and then he undertook to carry her off by force. But she escaped, and ran down the hill toward her uncle's cell. Caradoc followed, foaming with rage, and with his drawn sword in his hand. She ran very fast, but he soon overtook her, and with one blow of his sword cut off her head! The body dropped on the spot, but the head bounded forward and fell at the feet of Father Breno, who stood at the door of his cell. The good priest caught it up, and running to the body, put it on again--being very careful not to have it twisted toward one shoulder, or what would have been more awkward still, facing backward.

Immediately Winifred arose, as well as ever, only a little weak from loss of blood--and with nothing to remember her decapitation by, but a red line around her neck, which looked like a small string of coral beads, and was rather pretty than otherwise.

From that day it was settled that Winifred was a Saint, for on the spot where her head had rested, there bubbled up a spring of pure water, for the healing of the sick--particularly the crippled and rheumatic.

Believers say that, in the Saint's time, the waters were more powerful than they are now. Then, after one dip, the palsied stopped shaking, the paralytic began talking, and cripples flung away their crutches while the maimed had only to thrust the stumps of arms and legs into the spring, to have beautiful new hands and feet sprout out before their eyes!

The part of North Wales through which we pa.s.sed, is not so mountainous and picturesque as some other portions of the Princ.i.p.ality; but it is very beautiful, even as seen in flying glimpses, from the railway carriage. We were very sorry that we could not stop to explore the lovely vales of Clwyd and Llangollen, and visit the little city of St.

Asaph, where Mrs. Hemans once resided.

I longed to go and pay my respects to some of those grand, old mountains, that stood afar off, in their stern majesty, clothed with purple-blossomed heather, flecked with golden suns.h.i.+ne and crowned with gorgeous clouds, or silvery mists. The dark-waving foliage of many a shadowy glen and rocky gorge seemed beckoning to us to search into their lovely, lonely places, and many a glad rill and wild cascade seemed to call to us to come and look upon its unsunned beauty. But the swift locomotive remorselessly whirled us away from glen and gorge, and its rush and clang soon drowned those pleasant mountain voices of dancing rivulet and laughing waterfall.

We hardly caught a breath of the free, fresh air of the hills, in exchange for the long, brown train of heavy, hot smoke we left behind us;--in truth, puffing and whirling in and out of the Princ.i.p.ality, as we did, I am almost ashamed to count Wales as one of the countries I have seen.

In England, no town, however large it may be, is called a city, unless it has a Bishop and a Cathedral, as the capital of an Episcopal See.

Thus the great seaport of Liverpool is only a _town_, while St. Asaph, with but one street and eight hundred inhabitants, is a _city_.

The first Bishop of St. Asaph was St. Kentigern, a famous monk and monk-maker, and founder of monasteries. He had a disciple by the name of Asaph, whom he brought up to be a Saint.

Legends say that one day the good Bishop got severely chilled by remaining in his bath too long, and young Asaph, not having any shovel or tongs, took up some live coals in his hands, and carried them to his master, without burning himself at all. People said this was a very fair beginning for a Saint, and as he continued to improve, the church canonized him when he died, and the city and diocese were named for him.

Near St. Asaph is Rhyddlan Castle--the place where Edward I. outwitted the Welsh n.o.bles, by proposing that they should be ruled by a _native_ Prince, whose character n.o.body could say a word against. All joyfully agreed, and then he presented to them his infant son, born at Carnarvon Castle, and whom he had made Prince of Wales.

At Conway, we pa.s.sed close by a grand old castle, still very strong and imposing, though it was built by Edward I. Here we crossed the Tubular Bridge--a great curiosity--but far from equal to the Britannia Bridge, across the Menai Straits, which lie between Wales and the Island of Anglesea. I cannot describe this to you--but it is one of the most wonderful works in all the world.

Holyhead is a small town, on an island of the same name--divided by a narrow strait from the west coast of Anglesea. Here we took a steamer to cross the Irish channel.

We made the trip in about four hours; but they seemed to me no less than twelve--for I was mortally sick. I thought at one time that I was surely dying. I did not care much; people never do when they are sea-sick; still, I thought I should prefer a more romantic sort of a death, and I was heartily glad when I found myself on sh.o.r.e, at Kingstown, seven miles below Dublin, where we took the railway for that city. We arrived late at night, and drove to our hotel on a regular Irish jaunting car. This is a very funny looking vehicle--low and broad, with two wheels, concealed by the seats, which run lengthwise.

There is another kind, called the _inside car_. An Irishman once explained the difference to an English traveller, in this way: "An outside car, yer honor, has the wheels _inside_, and an inside car has the wheels _outside_."