Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  “A Boke of Sprites!” exclaimed Simpson, with a shout of exultation: “a boke of sprites, with the signs they may be known by, and divers rules to keep you from harm: the like was never known before!”

  “Excellent! excellent!” said Willoughton; “and here is another black-letter volume. Well, friend, without looking further, what shall I give you for them?”

  “This is past endurance!” said Mr. Simpson; “my patience is out!”

  “O Sir! I will give you these into the bargain,” said the old man, smiling; an offer which Willoughton would not accept, who paid the old man what he thought they were worth. Mr. Simpson, then taking his friend by the arm, desired his host to direct them to the chaise.

  “I must see the ruin by moonlight,” said Willoughton; “but I will not detain you many minutes.”

  “No, no; you will see the towers of Warwick by moonlight; which will be much finer.”

  “My good friend here,” said Willoughton, “will order the chaise round to the gate where it set us down; and, by the time it arrives, I shall have seen what I wish to see.”

  “Be it so,” said Mr. Simpson, with an air of resignation; “one is sure of you when a journey is to be begun; but never when one would end, or hasten it. I have not forgotten our midnight rambles about Stonehenge! Doubtless we were the first human beings, who had appeared there, at such an hour, for many centuries; and what astonished me afterwards, more than any thing I saw, was, that I myself should have been conjured there at such an unseasonable hour; I, whose brain never hatched any of those ‘high and unimaginable fantasies,’ as your poet Gray calls them, which distract the heads of some of his readers.”

  “Ay! those shadows of the moon at full,” said Willoughton laughing, as they walked towards the ruin, his friend remonstrating with him on the imprudence of this passion for antiquities and on his credulity. “And can you really hold,” said he, “that these books were found in the manner related; and that any of them, especially the ‘Boke of Sprites,’ ever belonged to the library of the priory?”

  “It does not seem probable,” replied Willoughton, “that the old man should have invented the story he has related of the discovery of them; but, be that as it may, the books themselves announce their own genuine antiquity. The manuscript is laboriously illuminated, and it is well known, that such works were chiefly performed by the inhabitants of monasteries. The Boke of Sprites even was likely to have served the purposes of the monks. We know that the libraries of monasteries contained a most heterogenous assemblage: Ovid, the Romance of Charlemagne, Guy of Warwick, and the Rimes of Robin Hood, have been found on the shelf with Homilies, and other books; which, although they might be tinged with the corruptions of the Papal school, ought not to have had such companions. You may recollect, that Warton, in the interesting sketches of ancient manners which he gives in his History of English Poetry, mentions this very fully; and that, among others, the library of Peterborough contained ‘Amys and Amdion,’ ‘Sir Tristram Merlin’s Prophecies,’ and the ‘Destruction of Troy:’ and books of this sort were not only copied, but often invented by the monks, sometimes for their amusement, sometimes for worse purposes.”

  “One of the old books you have relates to their castle, I think,” said Mr. Simpson, looking up at the shadowy masses; which, shown thus faintly by the rising moon, seemed more majestic than before.

  “Yes, and I perceive,” continued Willoughton, “that even you feel a curiosity to know what may have passed so many ages back, on the spot we now stand upon.”

  “Why,” acknowledged Simpson, “when one looks up at the very walls now crumbling into ruin, that were once so magnificent, and that inclosed beings with passions as warm as our own — beings, who have so long since vanished from the earth, one cannot help wishing to know a little of their history and of the scenes they witnessed; but, for your legend, I fear to trust it.”

  “It speaks of the times of Henry the Third,” said Willoughton, “those were lawless enough to permit many adventures; and, if the citizens of London were then robbed in the streets even at noonday, what could travellers in the forest of Arden expect? But this Manuscript seems to tell of princely feasts given in the castle, and of adventures passing in the presence of the Court.”

  “Ay, if one could but believe them.”

  “A great part of the castle,” pursued Willoughton, “which then existed, is now gone; and much that we look at, stands in its place; but that noble hall, and Cæsar’s tower and several other towers, such as those where the moonlight falls, beheld the very court of Henry the Third, ay, and Montfort, on whom he had bestowed Kenilworth, and who added ingratitude to treason, by holding the fortress against his benefactor and liege lord.”

  They stood for some minutes in silence, looking up at the ruin and listening, as the breeze rushed by, to the shivering of the ivy, that overhung it, — all the shining leaves trembling in the moonlight. The pauses of solemn stillness, that followed these sighings of the air among the old branches, were very solemn, and the sound itself — so still, uncertain, and sudden, Willoughton could have fancied to have been the warning murmurs of one, who, in his mortal state, had lived within these walls, and now haunted the scene where it had once revelled, or, perhaps, suffered. It seemed like a voice imperfectly uttering forth some dark prophecy, and telling of the illusion of life and the certainty of death. To Willoughton’s recollection this spectacle of the remains of ages past, now glimmering under the soft shadows of moonlight, brought those touching lines of Beattie —

  Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,

  And woo the weary to profound repose,

  Can passion’s wildest uproar lull to rest,

  And whisper comfort to the man of woes.

  Willoughton stood so wrapt, that he heard not his friend’s inquiry, whether he meant to pass a night at Kenilworth, as a sequel to a former one at Stonehenge; nor was he immediately aware of the nearer approach of his aged conductor, who said, in a tone somewhat tremulous, “You are now on the very spot, Sir, where Mortimer’s tower stood; it was the main entrance to the castle, when there was a lake, and it opened from the tilt-yard, that ran along the end of the water into the lower court: you see, Sir, it was quite on the opposite side of the castle from Lord Leicester’s great gate.”

  Willoughton surveyed the place, but not a vestige of the building remained. “Here then,” said he, “the unhappy Edward the Second was, for a while, imprisoned, before he was removed to Corfe and Berkeley Castles, his last abodes.”

  “If you please, Sir,” said the man, “the chaise is at the gate; and, if you will take my advice, you will not stay here long, for I cannot say I like it myself; I shall begin to think I see that strange figure again, and I had rather not.”

  “Well, let us go,” said Mr. Simpson, “or I shall begin to fancy something of the same sort, too. What did you say, it had a mask on its face?”

  “Yes, Sir, and a drawn sword in its hand; but I don’t like the place, Sir, let us go.”

  “Ay, ay,” said Mr. Simpson, “let us go; we — we — we shall not get to Warwick to-night.”

  A laugh from his friend, which he too well understood, both vexed and ashamed him. “I did not think it possible,” said he, “that I could have yielded to the contagion of this folly thus; remember, however, it is not Elizabeth in her ruff and farthingale, that I fear, nor any thing else distinctly.”

  Willoughton laughed again triumphantly. “Better and better; your feelings are true to my arguments, in spite of your own. I desire no farther proof of the effects of time and circumstances — of solitude and obscurity on the imagination.”

  As they passed by Cæsar’s tower, and inquired where the line of the castle-ditch had been traced, he observed, that probably the chief entrance had at first been over a drawbridge to that tower, though now no sign of it could be distinguished.

  When the travellers were once more seated in the chaise, Mr. Simpson betook himself to sleep; while, on their
journey of four miles through the checkered moonlight of woody lanes to Warwick, Willoughton did not lament the silence of his friend, which left him to the quiet musings of his own mind, and to the peace of nature, reposing under this soft and beautiful shade. The air was so still that scarcely a leaf trembled of the lofty boughs that overshadowed the road; and when the postilion stopped to make some alteration of the harness, the breathing of the horses alone, was heard through all this scene of night.

  There is a peace of the spirits, which has surely somewhat holy in it. Such is the calmness which the view of a midsummer-dawn communicates, or that of moonlight on woods and green plains; and such Willoughton experienced during this short ride, till he drew near Warwick, when the beautiful towers of Saint Mary’s appeared on the right, and the more lofty and distant ones of the castle on the left of the perspective; and these awakened the stronger interest of expectation.

  Having reached the inn, and Mr. Simpson, late as it was, having ordered a good supper, they walked out to take a view of the castle. Finding that, at this hour, they could not gain admittance by the porter’s gate, they went to the bridge over the Avon, on the outside of the town, and thence had a fine retrospect of the castle, with all its towers crowning the high, woody bank of that peaceful and classic stream. One vast, round tower of most warlike air, looking down upon the precipice, delighted Willoughton more than any other. A part of the edifice, repaired and adorned in the time of James the First, containing the state rooms, which run in a long line upon the steep, was not in harmony with this tower, and gave very different ideas of the character and manners of the respective ages to which they belonged. The moonlight touched this tower with a fine solemnity, and fell on the tops of the dark cedars and other trees, that clothe the precipice, as it glanced to Shakspeare’s stream below, where it rested in all its silver radiance, as if pleased to claim it for its home.

  Willoughton leaned over the bridge, and looked upon the scene in silence. The brightness of the river, the dark, clear shade of the woods, reflected on its margin and rising with majesty up the steep, with the grey towers, in softened light, crowning all, formed a harmony of tints and of objects such as he had not often seen, and which recalled to him that state of holy peace he had so lately experienced.

  Amidst the stillness of this scene, there arose a strain, as if commanded by Shakspeare’s wand, and to which his words might have been applied. “O! it came o’er mine ear, like the sweet south, that breathes upon a bank of violets.” It was the music of French-horns, sweetened by distance and by the water, over which it passed, accompanied by a few voices addressing the river and celebrating the bard in the wellknown song of Garrick and Arne,— “Thou soft-flowing Avon!”

  Nothing could exceed the beauty of some of the cadences, prolonged by the deep, mellow tones of the horns, or of the chorus, and of the close, that gave these words: —

  The fairies by moonlight dance round the green bed,

  For, hallow’d the turf is, that pillows his head.

  They brought tears into the eyes of Willoughton, and drew from him a deep sigh long after silence had returned.

  Mr. Simpson looked about to discover whence this charming tribute to the memory of the loved poet came, and perceived two little boats stealing along the margin of the stream, under shadow of the bank that rose to the castle. The white awning of the first betrayed it to his eye, before it emerged on the moonlight; and now the measured trampling of the oars told its departing course upon the waters, till once again that chorus died along the air, and then the steps of the oars were heard no more.

  The travellers remained for some moments, as if spell-bound, in thoughtful silence; and they left this enchanting scene, and returned to their inn, without having uttered a word. This was an unusual mood with Mr. Simpson; he had caught it from his companion, rather than from the scene; and now, on the entrance of supper, he rejoiced to get rid of it, and to return to the more substantial pleasures of this world.

  Willoughton, when he had retired to his chamber, and had, as was his custom, looked out upon the night, now overcast with gloomy clouds, sat down to examine his manuscripts, instead of seeking repose. Bound up with that of the “Trew Chronique,” was another, entitled “A Trew Historie of two Mynstrells, that came by night to the Priory of Saint Margaret, and what they disclosed, and what one in the convent by his art, proved them to bee.” This “Trew Historie” was more difficult to be deciphered than the “Trew Chronique,” and Willoughton left it for the present, and took the “Boke of Sprites.”

  As he turned over the leaves, curious to see the thraldom of superstition to which the people of a remote age were liable, he often smiled at the artless absurdities he discovered, the clumsy inventions practised upon the fears of the ignorant by the venality of the monks. Yet he sometimes found his attention seized, in spite of himself, by the marvellous narratives before him; till, at length, he began to feel that he was alone, to recollect that it was past midnight, to observe that all around him was still as death; and gradually to think he might as well lay aside the “Boke of Sprites” till daylight should return and the world again sound busily around him.

  He did so, and again took the “Trew Chronique,” desirous of ending his long day, with some new traits of an age so distant from his own and of the style, in which they might be shadowed forth. The mere spelling did not render this so difficult, as the character in which it was written, with its abundance of abbreviations and contractions.

  The following is a modernized copy, which he afterwards wrote out for the amusement of a friend, who was fond of the subjects it touched upon, but had not industry enough to work his way through the obstructions of the original. In this copy, while Willoughton endeavoured to preserve somewhat of the air of the old style, without its dryness, he was often compelled to regret, that much of the effect of the story was lost, with the simplicity, brevity and quaintness of the ancient manner. However, he often retained the old words, where they did not seem to form too glaring a contrast with the modern style, and, now and then, somewhat of the quaintness of the original, the title of which ran thus: —

  A Boke,

  Contenynge a trew chronique of what passed at

  Killingworth, in Ardenn, when Our Soveren

  Lord, the Kynge, kept ther his fest of

  Senzt Michel; with ye marveylous

  accident, that ther befel, at the so-

  lempnissazion of the marriage

  of Gaston de Blondeville.

  With divers things, cu-

  rious to be known,

  thereunto purtayn-

  ing. With an

  account of the

  grete Turney,

  ther held

  in the

  yere

  MCCLVI.

  Changed out of the Norman tongue

  By Grymbald, Monk of Senzt Marie

  Priori in Killingworth.

  THE FIRST DAY.

  At the head of this chapter was a drawing, of the King and Queen, with their train, passing under the towers of Kenilworth. Near the King rode a young knight of a very spirited air; in one hand he held his cap, bending towards the King, who seemed to be speaking to him, and with the other he reined in his fiery courser. At some distance, was a man pressing through the crowd, with eager gesticulation and a wild countenance, towards the King. The royal banner, on the tower above, was tinged by the setting sun, and the arms and caps of the soldiers on the battlement there glistened with the rays. The cap of one of these, who, as if to obtain a longer view of the King, appeared to have stretched too far forward, was falling on the multitude below; some of whom were laughing.

  It was at the feast of Saint Michel, that King Henry, the third of his name, with his Queen and sundrie of the nobles of the realm and a marvellous train of estates and gentils, came to keep court in Ardenn, at his castle of Kenilworth. The day was drawing to an end ere they arrived: and it was a goodly sight to see this noble company coming over the forest, till the
n so lonesome; and the last light of this day’s sun glittering upon the helmets and lances of the King’s guard; likewise on the gorgeous apparelling of their horses and trumpets, with their banners unrolled, that went before his grace; also on the litters of the Queen, covered with cloth of gold and with tapestry of rich colours, brought from her own land beyond the sea.

  This noble train, with all the spearmen attendant on the King, was like unto a little army covering the paths and tracks, for many miles, as they wound amongst the woods of Ardenn; or like unto some mighty river, that flowing along, appears, where the shades open, in shining bends upon the plain, and is lost again as they enter beneath the gloom; but yet may you judge of their course throughout all the prospect. Like as you may the broken lines of the great aqueduct, stretching over the plains of our dear father of Rome; which, as we perceive its distant points athwart those solitudes, we connect in our minds into one great whole, grander in its sweep than it might have shown when it stood complete.

  There went before the King a hundred archers in pairs, sumptuously apparelled, and having the feathers of their arrows stained with green; the horns sounded before them through the woods: then fifty demi-lancemen, two abreast; then fifty pikemen; then trumpets, with their banners also displayed; then officers at arms, in their surcoats, the serjeants with their maces. In the midst was borne up the royal banner, by six of the standard-bearers: the pipes of it were of silver, and were slided along the banner-staff; which was held with horn in a girdle of white leather, embroidered, worn by the King’s chief standard-bearer.

  The King’s Highness came riding on a noble grey, widely encompassed about with pikemen, and attended by divers nobles of the realm and by knights and gentils, without number. His Highness wore that day a cloak of purple velvet, lined with yellow satin, and furred with martin and ermine; on his head was a cap of black velvet, bearing a sable plume. His countenance was goodly and gracious, and he often turned and spoke to those about him.