Legendary Yorkshire

Who is there that has not heard of the famous and redoubtable hero of history and romance, Arthur, King of the British, who so valiantly defended his country against the pagan Anglo-Saxon invaders of the island? Who has not heard of the lovely but frail Guenevera, his Queen, and the galaxy of female beauty that constituted her Court at Caerleon? Who has not heard of his companions-in-arms—the brave and chivalrous Knights of the Round Table, who went forth as knights-errant to succour the weaker sex, deliver the oppressed, liberate those who had fallen into the clutches of enchanters, giants, or malicious dwarfs, and especially in quest of the Holy Graal, that mystic chalice, in which were caught the last drops of blood of the expiring Saviour, and which, in consequence, became possessed of wondrous properties and marvellous virtue of a miraculous character?

If such there be, let him lose no time in perusing Sir John Mallory's "La Morte d'Arthur," the "Chronicles of Geoffrey of Monmouth," the "Mabinogian of the Welsh," or the more recent "Idylls of the King," of Tennyson. According to Nennius, after vanquishing the Saxons in many battles, he crossed the sea, and carried his victorious arms into Scotland, Ireland, and Gaul, in which latter country he obtained a decisive victory over a Roman army. Moreover, that during his absence Mordred, his nephew, had seduced his queen and usurped his government, and that in a battle with the usurper, in 542, at Camlan, in Cornwall, he was mortally wounded; was conveyed to Avalon (Glastonbury), where he died of his wound, and was buried there. It is also stated that in the reign of Henry II. his reputed tomb was opened, when his bones and his magical sword "Excaliber" were found. This is given on the authority of Giraldus Cambrensis, who informs us that he was present on the occasion. But the popular belief in the West of England was that he did not die as represented, his soul having entered the body of a raven, which it will inhabit until he reappears to deliver England in some great extremity of peril.

This is what is told us by old chroniclers of Western England, the Welsh bards, and some romance writers; but in Yorkshire we have a different version of the story. It is true, say our legends, that Arthur was a mighty warrior, the greatest and most valiant that the island of Britain has produced either before or since; a man, moreover, of the most devout chivalry and gentle courtesy, and withal so pure in his life and sincere in his piety as a Christian, that he alone is worthy to find the Holy Graal, if not in his former life, in that which is forthcoming—for he is not dead, but reposes in a spell-bound sleep, along with his knights, Sir Launcelot, Sir Gawaine, Sir Perceval, etc., and that the time is coming when the needs of England will be such as only his victorious arm, wielding his magically wrought Excaliber, can rescue from irretrievable ruin. He sleeps—it is asserted—along with his knights, in a now undiscoverable cavern beneath the Castle of Richmond, whence he will issue in the fulness of time, scatter the enemies of England like chaff before the wind, as he so frequently dispersed the hordes of Teuton pagans, and place England on a higher eminence among the nations of the earth than it has ever previously attained. This enchanted cave has been seen but once, and by one man only. It happened in this wise:—

Once on a time there dwelt in Richmond one Peter Thompson. At what period he flourished is not recorded, but it matters not, although a little trouble in searching the parish registers and lists of burgesses of the town might reveal the fact. He gained a living by the fabrication of earthenware, and hence was popularly known amongst his comrades and townspeople as Potter Thompson. He was a simple and meek-minded man, small in stature and slender in limb, never troubling himself with either general or local politics. His voice was never heard at the noisy meetings of the vestry, nor did he join in the squabbles attendant on the meetings of the electors for the choice of their municipal governors or representatives in Parliament; he merely recorded his vote for the candidate who came forward as the representative of the colour he supported, leaving the shouting and quarreling and cudgel-playing to those of his fellow-townsmen who had a liking for such rough work. As for himself, he was only too glad when he had discharged his duty as a citizen to get back to his clay and his wheel, for he was an industrious little fellow, had plenty of work, and was thus enabled, by living a frugal life, to lay by a little money, and would have lived a comfortable and happy life but for one circumstance.