From John O'Groats to Land's End Part 18

The wondrous Michael Scott A wizard, of such dreaded fame, That when in Salamanca's Cave Him listed his magic wand to wave The bells would ring in Notre Dame,

and he explained the origin of this by relating the story that Michael on one occasion when in Spain was sent as an Amba.s.sador to the King of France to obtain some concessions, but instead of going in great state, as usual on those occasions, he evoked the services of a demon in the shape of a huge black horse, forcing it to fly through the air to Paris.

The king was rather offended at his coming in such an unceremonious manner, and was about to give him a contemptuous refusal when Scott asked him to defer his decision until his horse had stamped its foot three times. The first stamp shook every church in Paris, causing all the bells to ring; the second threw down three of the towers of the palace; and when the infernal steed had lifted up his hoof for the third time, the king stopped him by promising Michael the most ample concessions.

A modern writer, commenting upon this story, says, "There is something uncanny about the Celts which makes them love a Trinity of ideas, and the old stories of the Welsh collected in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries include a story very similar about Kilhwch, cousin to Arthur, who threatens if he cannot have what he wants that he will set up three shouts than which none were ever heard more deadly and which will be heard from Pengwaed in Cornwall to Dinsol in the North and Ergair Oerful in Ireland. The Triads show the method best and furnish many examples, quoting the following:

Three things are best when hung--salt fish, a wet hat, and an Englishman.

Three things are difficult to get--gold from the miser, love from the devil, and courtesy from the Englishman.

The three hardest things--a granite block, a miser's barley loaf, and an Englishman's heart. But perhaps the best known is one translated long ago from the Welsh:

A woman, a dog, and a walnut tree, The more they are beaten, the better they be.

But to return to Michael Scott. Another strange story about Michael was his adventure with the witch of Falschope. To avenge himself upon her for striking him suddenly with his own wand whereby he was transformed for a time and a.s.sumed the appearance of a hare, Michael sent his man with two greyhounds to the house where the witch lived, to ask the old lady to give him a bit of bread for the greyhounds; if she refused he was to place a piece of paper, which he handed to him, over the top of the house door. The witch gave the man a curt refusal, and so he fastened the paper, on which were some words, including, "Michael Scott's man sought meat and gat nane," as directed. This acted as a spell, and the old witch, who was making cakes for the reapers then at work in the corn, now began to dance round the fire (which, as usual in those days, was burning in the middle of the room) and to sing the words:

"Maister Michael Scott's man Sought meat and gat nane."

and she had to continue thus until the spell was broken. Meantime, her husband and the reapers who were with him were wondering why the cakes had not reached them, so the old man sent one of the reapers to inquire the reason. As soon as he went through the door he was caught by the spell and so had to perform the same antics as his mistress. As he did not return, the husband sent man after man until he was alone, and then went himself. But, knowing all about the quarrel between Michael and his wife, and having seen the wizard on the hill, he was rather more cautious than his men, so, instead of going through the door, he looked through the window. There he saw the reapers dragging his wife, who had become quite exhausted, sometimes round, and sometimes through the fire, singing the chorus as they did so. He at once saddled his horse and rode as fast as he could to find Michael, who good-naturedly granted his request, and directed him to enter his house backwards, removing the paper from above the door with his left hand as he went in. The old man lost no time in returning home, where he found them all still dancing furiously and singing the same rhyme; but immediately he entered, the supernatural performance ended, very much, we imagine, to the relief of all concerned.

Michael Scott was at one time, it was said, much embarra.s.sed by a spirit for whom he had to find constant employment, and amongst other work he commanded him to build a dam or other weir across the River Tweed at Kelso. He completed that in a single night. Michael next ordered him to divide the summit of the Eildon Hill in three parts; but as this stupendous work was also completed in one night, he was at his wits'

end what work to find him to do next. At last he bethought himself of a job that would find him constant employment. He sent him to the seash.o.r.e and employed him at the hopeless and endless task of making ropes of sand there, which as fast as he made them were washed away by the tides.

The three peaks of Eildon Hill, of nearly equal height, are still to be seen. Magnificent views are to be obtained from their tops, which Sir Walter Scott often frequented and of which he wrote, "I can stand on the Eildon and point out forty-three places famous in war and in verse."

Another legend connected with these hills was that in the "Eildon caverns vast" a cave existed where the British King Arthur and his famous Knights of the Round Table lie asleep waiting the blast of the bugle which will recall them from Fairyland to lead the British on to a victory that will ensure a united and glorious Empire. King Arthur has a number of burial-places of the same character, according to local stories both in England and Wales, and even one in Ches.h.i.+re at Alderley Edge, close By the "Wizard Inn," which t.i.tle refers to the story.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MELROSE ABBEY.]

Melrose and district has been hallowed by the influence and memory of Sir Walter Scott, who was to Melrose what Shakespeare was to Stratford-on-Avon, and he has invested the old abbey with an additional halo of interest by his "Lay of the Last Minstrel," a copy of which we saw for the first time at the inn where we called for tea. We were greatly interested, as it related to the neighbourhood we were about to pa.s.s through in particular, and we were quite captivated with its opening lines, which appealed so strongly to wayfarers like ourselves:

The way was long, the wind was cold.

The Minstrel was infirm and old; His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray, Seem'd to have known a better day;

The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy.

The last of all the Bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry.

We were now nearing the Borders of Scotland and England, where this Border warfare formerly raged for centuries. The desperadoes engaged in it on the Scottish side were known as Moss-troopers, any of whom when caught by the English were taken to Carlisle and hanged near there at a place called Hairibee. Those who claimed the "benefit of clergy" were allowed to repeat in Latin the "Miserere mei," at the beginning of the 51st Psalm, before they were executed, this becoming known as the "neck-verse."

William of Deloraine was one of the most desperate Moss-troopers ever engaged in Border warfare, but he, according to Sir Walter Scott:

By wily turns, by desperate bounds, Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds; In Eske or Liddel, fords were none, But he would ride them, one by one;

Steady of heart, and stout of hand.

As ever drove prey from c.u.mberland; Five times outlawed had he been, By England's King, and Scotland's Queen.

When Sir Michael Scott was buried in Melrose Abbey his Mystic Book--which no one was ever to see except the Chief of Branxholm, and then only in the time of need--was buried with him. Branxholm Tower was about eighteen miles from Melrose and situated in the vale of Cheviot.

After the death of Lord Walter (who had been killed in the Border warfare), a gathering of the kinsmen of the great Buccleuch was held there, and the "Ladye Margaret" left the company, retiring laden with sorrow and her impending troubles to her bower. It was a fine moonlight night when--

From amid the armed train She called to her, William of Deloraine.

and sent him for the mighty book to Melrose Abbey which was to relieve her of all her troubles.

"Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, Mount thee on the wightest steed; Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride.

Until thou come to fair Tweedside; And in Melrose's holy pile Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.

Greet the Father well from me; Say that the fated hour is come, And to-night he shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb: For this will be St. Michael's night, And, though stars be dim, the moon is bright; And the Cross, of b.l.o.o.d.y red, Will point to the grave of the mighty dead.

"What he gives thee, see thou keep; Stay not thou for food or sleep: Be it scroll, or be it book, Into it, Knight, thou must not look; If thou readest, thou art lorn!

Better had'st thou ne'er been born."--

"O swiftly can speed my dapple-grey steed, Which drinks of the Teviot clear; Ere break of day," the Warrior 'gan say, "Again will I be here: And safer by none may thy errand be done, Than, n.o.ble dame, by me; Letter nor line know I never a one, Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee."

Deloraine lost no time in carrying out his Ladye's wishes, and rode furiously on his horse to Melrose Abbey in order to be there by midnight, and as described in Sir Walter Scott's "Lay of the Last Minstrel":

Short halt did Deloraine make there; Little reck'd he of the scene so fair With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong, He struck full loud, and struck full long.

The porter hurried to the gate-- "Who knocks so loud, and knocks so late?"

"From Branksome I," the warrior cried; And straight the wicket open'd wide For Branksome's Chiefs had in battle stood, To fence the rights of fair Melrose; And lands and livings, many a rood, Had gifted the Shrine for their souls' repose.

Bold Deloraine his errand said; The porter bent his humble head; With torch in hand, and feet unshod.

And noiseless step, the path he trod.

The arched cloister, far and wide, Rang to the warrior's clanking stride, Till, stooping low his lofty crest, He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest, And lifted his barred aventayle, To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle.

"The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by me, Says, that the fated hour is come, And that to-night I shall watch with thee, To win the treasure of the tomb."

From sackcloth couch the Monk arose, With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd; A hundred years had flung their snows On his thin locks and floating beard.

And strangely on the Knight look'd he, And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and wide; "And, darest thou, Warrior! seek to see What heaven and h.e.l.l alike would hide?

My breast, in belt of iron pent, With s.h.i.+rt of hair and scourge of thorn; For threescore years, in penance spent.

My knees those flinty stones have worn; Yet all too little to atone For knowing what should ne'er be known.

Would'st thou thy every future year In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, Yet wait thy latter end with fear Then, daring Warrior, follow me!"

"Penance, father, will I none; Prayer know I hardly one; For ma.s.s or prayer can I rarely tarry, Save to patter an Ave Mary, When I ride on a Border foray.

Other prayer can I none; So speed me my errand, and let me be gone."

Again on the Knight look'd the Churchman old, And again he sighed heavily; For he had himself been a warrior bold.

And fought in Spain and Italy.