French Influence

Later Brittany became a bone of contention between France and Normandy. Hoel, the native Duke, claimed the protection of France against the Norman duchy. A long period of peace followed under Alain Fergant and Conan III, but on the death of the latter a fierce war of succession was waged (1148-56). Conan IV secured the ducal crown by Norman-English aid, and gave his daughter Constance in marriage to Geoffrey Plantagenet, son of Henry II of England. Geoffrey was crowned Duke of Brittany in 1171, but after his death his son Arthur met with a dreadful fate at the hands of his uncle, John of England. Constance, his mother, the real heiress to the duchy, married again, her choice falling upon Guy de Thouars, and their daughter was wed to Pierre de Dreux, who became Duke, and who defeated John Lackland, the slayer of his wife’s half-brother, under the walls of Nantes in 1214.

The country now began to flourish apace because of the many innovations introduced into it by the wisdom of its French rulers. A new way of life was adopted by the governing classes, among whom French manners and fashions became the rule. But the people at large retained their ancient customs, language, and dress; nor have they ever abandoned them, at least in Lower Brittany. On the death of John III (1341) the peace of the duchy was once more broken by a war of succession. John had no love for his half-brother, John of Montfort, and bequeathed the ducal coronet to his niece, Joan of Penthièvre, wife of Charles of Blois, nephew of Philip VI of France. This precipitated a conflict between the rival parties which led to years of bitter strife.

Just as two women, Fredegonda and Brunhilda, swayed the fortunes of Neustria and Austrasia in Merovingian times, and Mary and Elizabeth those of England and Scotland at a later day, so did two heroines arise to uphold the banners of either party in the civil strife which now convulsed the Breton land. England took the side of Montfort and the French that of Charles. Almost at the outset (1342) John of Montfort was taken prisoner, but his heroic wife, Joan of Flanders, grasped the leadership of affairs, and carried on a relentless war against her husband’s enemies. After five years of fighting, in 1347, and two years subsequent to the death of her lord, whose health had given way after his imprisonment, she captured her arch-foe, Charles of Blois himself, at the battle of La Roche-Derrien, on the Jaudy. In this encounter she had the assistance of a certain Sir Thomas Dagworth and an English force. Three times was Charles rescued, and thrice was he retaken, until, bleeding from eighteen wounds, he was compelled to surrender. He was sent to London, where he was confined in the Tower for nine years. Meanwhile his wife, Joan, imitating her rival and namesake, in turn threw her energies into the strife. But another victory for the Montfort party was gained at Mauron in 1352. On the release of Charles of Blois in 1356 he renewed hostilities with the help of the famous Bertrand Du Guesclin.

Bertrand Du Guesclin (c.1320-80), Constable of France, divides with Bayard the Fearless the crown of medieval32French chivalry as a mighty leader of men, a great soldier, and a blameless knight. He was born of an ancient family who were in somewhat straitened circumstances, and in childhood was an object of aversion to his parents because of his ugliness.

One night his mother dreamt that she was in possession of a casket containing portraits of herself and her lord, on one side of which were set nine precious stones of great beauty encircling a rough, unpolished pebble. In her dream she carried the casket to a lapidary, and asked him to take out the rough stone as unworthy of such goodly company; but he advised her to allow it to remain, and afterward it shone forth more brilliantly than the lustrous gems. The later superiority of Bertrand over her nine other children fulfilled the mother’s dream.

At the tournament which was held at Rennes in 1338 to celebrate the marriage of Charles of Blois with Joan of Penthièvre, young Bertrand, at that time only some eighteen years old, unhorsed the most famous competitors. During the war between Blois and Montfort he gathered round him a band of adventurers and fought on the side of Charles V, doing much despite to the forces of Montfort and his ally of England.

Du Guesclin’s name lives in Breton legend as Gwezklen, perhaps the original form, and approximating to that on his tomb at Saint-Denis, where he lies at the feet of Charles V of France. In this inscription it is spelt “Missire Bertram du Gueaquien,” perhaps a French rendering of the Breton pronunciation. Not a few legendary ballads which recount the exploits of this manly and romantic figure remain in the Breton language, and I have made a free translation of the33following, as it is perhaps the most interesting of the number:

Trogoff’s strong tower in English handsHas been this many a year,Rising above its subject-landsAnd held in hate and fear.That rosy gleam upon the swardIs not the sun’s last kiss;It is the blood of an English lordWho ruled the land amiss.“O sweetest daughter of my heart,My little Marguerite,Come, carry me the midday milkTo those who bind the wheat.”“O gentle mother, spare me this!The castle I must passWhere wicked Roger takes a kissFrom every country lass.”“Oh! fie, my daughter, fie on thee!The Seigneur would not glanceOn such a chit of low degreeWhen all the dames in FranceAre for his choosing.” “Mother mine,I bow unto your word.Mine eyes will ne’er behold you more.God keep you in His guard.”Young Roger stood upon the towerOf Trogoff’s grey château;Beneath his bent brows did he lowerUpon the scene below.“Come hither quickly, little page,Come hither to my knee.Canst spy a maid of tender age?Ha! she must pay my fee.”34Fair Marguerite trips swiftly byBeneath the castle shade,When villain Roger, drawing nigh,Steals softly on the maid.He seizes on the milking-pailShe bears upon her head;The snow-white flood she must bewail,For all the milk is shed.“Ah, cry not, pretty sister mine,There’s plenty and to spareOf milk and eke of good red wineWithin my castle fair.Ah, feast with me, or pluck a roseWithin my pleasant garth,Or stroll beside yon brook which flowsIn brawling, sylvan mirth.”“Nor feast nor flowers nor evening airI wish; I do entreat,Fair Seigneur, let me now repairTo those who bind the wheat.”“Nay, damsel, fill thy milking-pail:The dairy stands but here.Ah, foolish sweeting, wherefore quail,For thou hast naught to fear?”The castle gates behind her close,And all is fair within;Above her head the apple glows,The symbol of our sin.“O Seigneur, lend thy dagger keen,That I may cut this fruit.”He smiles and with a courteous mienHe draws the bright blade out.

Trogoff’s strong tower in English hands

Has been this many a year,

Rising above its subject-lands

And held in hate and fear.

That rosy gleam upon the sward

Is not the sun’s last kiss;

It is the blood of an English lord

Who ruled the land amiss.

“O sweetest daughter of my heart,My little Marguerite,Come, carry me the midday milkTo those who bind the wheat.”“O gentle mother, spare me this!The castle I must passWhere wicked Roger takes a kissFrom every country lass.”

“O sweetest daughter of my heart,

My little Marguerite,

Come, carry me the midday milk

To those who bind the wheat.”

“O gentle mother, spare me this!

The castle I must pass

Where wicked Roger takes a kiss

From every country lass.”

“Oh! fie, my daughter, fie on thee!The Seigneur would not glanceOn such a chit of low degreeWhen all the dames in FranceAre for his choosing.” “Mother mine,I bow unto your word.Mine eyes will ne’er behold you more.God keep you in His guard.”

“Oh! fie, my daughter, fie on thee!

The Seigneur would not glance

On such a chit of low degree

When all the dames in France

Are for his choosing.” “Mother mine,

I bow unto your word.

Mine eyes will ne’er behold you more.

God keep you in His guard.”

Young Roger stood upon the towerOf Trogoff’s grey château;Beneath his bent brows did he lowerUpon the scene below.“Come hither quickly, little page,Come hither to my knee.Canst spy a maid of tender age?Ha! she must pay my fee.”

Young Roger stood upon the tower

Of Trogoff’s grey château;

Beneath his bent brows did he lower

Upon the scene below.

“Come hither quickly, little page,

Come hither to my knee.

Canst spy a maid of tender age?

Ha! she must pay my fee.”

34Fair Marguerite trips swiftly byBeneath the castle shade,When villain Roger, drawing nigh,Steals softly on the maid.He seizes on the milking-pailShe bears upon her head;The snow-white flood she must bewail,For all the milk is shed.

Fair Marguerite trips swiftly by

Beneath the castle shade,

When villain Roger, drawing nigh,

Steals softly on the maid.

He seizes on the milking-pail

She bears upon her head;

The snow-white flood she must bewail,

For all the milk is shed.

“Ah, cry not, pretty sister mine,There’s plenty and to spareOf milk and eke of good red wineWithin my castle fair.Ah, feast with me, or pluck a roseWithin my pleasant garth,Or stroll beside yon brook which flowsIn brawling, sylvan mirth.”

“Ah, cry not, pretty sister mine,

There’s plenty and to spare

Of milk and eke of good red wine

Within my castle fair.

Ah, feast with me, or pluck a rose

Within my pleasant garth,

Or stroll beside yon brook which flows

In brawling, sylvan mirth.”

“Nor feast nor flowers nor evening airI wish; I do entreat,Fair Seigneur, let me now repairTo those who bind the wheat.”“Nay, damsel, fill thy milking-pail:The dairy stands but here.Ah, foolish sweeting, wherefore quail,For thou hast naught to fear?”

“Nor feast nor flowers nor evening air

I wish; I do entreat,

Fair Seigneur, let me now repair

To those who bind the wheat.”

“Nay, damsel, fill thy milking-pail:

The dairy stands but here.

Ah, foolish sweeting, wherefore quail,

For thou hast naught to fear?”

The castle gates behind her close,And all is fair within;Above her head the apple glows,The symbol of our sin.“O Seigneur, lend thy dagger keen,That I may cut this fruit.”He smiles and with a courteous mienHe draws the bright blade out.

The castle gates behind her close,

And all is fair within;

Above her head the apple glows,

The symbol of our sin.

“O Seigneur, lend thy dagger keen,

That I may cut this fruit.”

He smiles and with a courteous mien

He draws the bright blade out.

THE DEATH OF MARGUERITE IN THE CASTLE OF TROGOFF

She takes it, and in earnest prayerHer childish accents rise:“O mother, Virgin, ever fair,Pray, pray, for her who dies35For honour!” Then the blade is drenchedWith blood most innocent.Vile Roger, now, thine ardour quenched,Say, art thou then content?“Ha, I will wash my dagger keenIn the clear-running brook.No human eye hath ever seen,No human eye shall lookUpon this gore.” He takes the bladeFrom out that gentle heart,And hurries to the river’s shade.False Roger, why dost start?Beside the bank Du Guesclin stands,Clad in his sombre mail.“Ha, Roger, why so red thy hands,And why art thou so pale?”“A beast I’ve slain.” “Thou liest, hound!But I a beast will slay.”The woodland’s leafy ways resoundTo echoings of fray.Roger is slain. Trogoff’s châteauIs level with the rock.Who can withstand Du Guesclin’s blow,What towers can brave his shock?The combat is his only joy,The tournament his play.Woe unto those who would destroyThe peace of Brittany!

She takes it, and in earnest prayer

Her childish accents rise:

“O mother, Virgin, ever fair,

Pray, pray, for her who dies

For honour!” Then the blade is drenched

With blood most innocent.

Vile Roger, now, thine ardour quenched,

Say, art thou then content?

“Ha, I will wash my dagger keenIn the clear-running brook.No human eye hath ever seen,No human eye shall lookUpon this gore.” He takes the bladeFrom out that gentle heart,And hurries to the river’s shade.False Roger, why dost start?

“Ha, I will wash my dagger keen

In the clear-running brook.

No human eye hath ever seen,

No human eye shall look

Upon this gore.” He takes the blade

From out that gentle heart,

And hurries to the river’s shade.

False Roger, why dost start?

Beside the bank Du Guesclin stands,Clad in his sombre mail.“Ha, Roger, why so red thy hands,And why art thou so pale?”“A beast I’ve slain.” “Thou liest, hound!But I a beast will slay.”The woodland’s leafy ways resoundTo echoings of fray.

Beside the bank Du Guesclin stands,

Clad in his sombre mail.

“Ha, Roger, why so red thy hands,

And why art thou so pale?”

“A beast I’ve slain.” “Thou liest, hound!

But I a beast will slay.”

The woodland’s leafy ways resound

To echoings of fray.

Roger is slain. Trogoff’s châteauIs level with the rock.Who can withstand Du Guesclin’s blow,What towers can brave his shock?The combat is his only joy,The tournament his play.Woe unto those who would destroyThe peace of Brittany!

Roger is slain. Trogoff’s château

Is level with the rock.

Who can withstand Du Guesclin’s blow,

What towers can brave his shock?

The combat is his only joy,

The tournament his play.

Woe unto those who would destroy

The peace of Brittany!

In the decisive battle of Auray (1364) Charles was killed and Du Guesclin taken prisoner. John of Montfort, son of the John who had died, became Duke of Brittany. But he had to face Oliver de Clisson, round whom the adherents of Blois rallied. From a war the strife degenerated into a vendetta. Oliver de Clisson seized the person of John V and imprisoned36him. But in the end John was liberated and the line of Blois was finally crushed.

The next event of importance in Breton history is the enforced marriage of Anne of Brittany, Duchess of that country in her own right, to Charles VIII of France, son of Louis XI, which event took place in 1491. Anne, whose father, Duke Francis II, had but recently died, had no option but to espouse Charles, and on his death she married Louis XII, his successor. Francis I, who succeeded Louis XII on the throne of France, and who married Claude, daughter of Louis XII and Anne, annexed the duchy in 1532, providing for its privileges. But beneath the cramping hand of French power the privileges of the province were greatly reduced. From this time the history of Brittany is merged in that of France, of which country it becomes one of the component parts in a political if not a racial sense.

We shall not in this place deal with the people of modern Brittany, their manners and customs, reserving the subject for a later chapter, but shall ask the reader to accompany us while we traverse the enchanted ground of Breton story.

37CHAPTER II: MENHIRS AND DOLMENS

Inthe mind of the general reader Brittany is unalterably associated with the prehistoric stone monuments which are so closely identified with its folk-lore and national life. In other parts of the world similar monuments are encountered, in Great Britain and Ireland, Scandinavia, the Crimea, Algeria, and India, but nowhere are they found in such abundance as in Brittany, nor are these rivalled in other lands, either as regards their character or the space they occupy.

To speculate as to the race which built the primitive stone monuments of Brittany is almost as futile as it would be to theorize upon the date of their erection.[6]A generation ago it was usual to refer all European megalithic monuments to a ‘Celtic’ origin, but European ethnological problems have become too complicated of late years to permit such a theory to pass unchallenged, especially now that the term ‘Celt’ is itself matter for fierce controversy. In the immediate neighbourhood of certain of these monuments objects of the Iron Age are recovered from the soil, while near others the finds are of Bronze Age character, so that it is probably correct to surmise that their construction continued throughout a prolonged period.

Regarding the nomenclature of the several species of megalithic monuments met with in Brittany some38definitions are necessary. A menhir is a rude monolith set up on end, a great single stone, the base of which is buried deep in the soil. A dolmen is a large, table-shaped stone, supported by three, four, or even five other stones, the bases of which are sunk in the earth. In Britain the term ‘cromlech’ is synonymous with that of ‘dolmen,’ but in France and on the Continent generally it is exclusively applied to that class of monument for which British scientists have no other name than ‘stone circles.’ The derivation of the words from Celtic and their precise meaning in that tongue may assist the reader to arrive at their exact significance. Thus ‘menhir’ seems to be derived from the Welsh or Brythonicmaen, ‘a stone,’ andhir, ‘long,’ and ‘dolmen’ from Bretontaol, ‘table,’ andmen, ‘a stone.’[7]‘Cromlech’ is also of Welsh or Brythonic origin, and is derived fromcrom, ‘bending’ or ‘bowed’ (hence ‘laid across’), andllech, ‘a flat stone.’ Theallée couverteis a dolmen on a large scale.

The nature of these monuments and the purpose for which they were erected were questions which powerfully exercised the minds of the antiquaries of a century ago, who fiercely contended for their use as altars, open-air temples, and places of rendezvous for the discussion of tribal affairs. The cooler archæologists of a later day have discarded the majority of such theories as untenable in the light of hard facts. The dolmens, they say, are highly unsuitable for the purpose of altars, and as it has been proved that this class of monument39was invariably covered in prehistoric times by an earthen tumulus its ritualistic use is thereby rendered improbable. Moreover, if we chance upon any rude carving or incised work on dolmens we observe that it is invariably executed on thelowersurface of the table stone, the upper surface being nearly always rough, unhewn, often naturally rounded, and as unlike the surface of an altar as possible.

Recent research has established the much more reasonable theory that these monuments are sepulchral in character, and that they mark the last resting-places of persons of tribal importance, chiefs, priests, or celebrated warriors. Occasionally legend assists us to prove the mortuary character of menhir and dolmen. But, without insisting any further for the present upon the purpose of these monuments, let us glance at the more widely known of Brittany’s prehistoric structures, not so much in the manner of the archæologist as in that of the observant traveller who is satisfied to view them as interesting relics of human handiwork bequeathed from a darker age, rather than as objects to satisfy the archæological taste for discussion.

For this purpose we shall select the best known groups of Breton prehistoric structures, and shall begin our excursion at the north-eastern extremity of Brittany, following the coast-line, on which most of the principal prehistoric centres are situated, and, as occasion offers, journeying into the interior in search of famous or interesting examples.

Dol is situated in the north of the department of Ille-et-Vilaine, not far from the sea-coast. Near it, in a40field called the Champ Dolent (‘Field of Woe’), stands a gigantic menhir, about thirty feet high and said to measure fifteen more underground. It is composed of grey granite, and is surmounted by a cross. The early Christian missionaries, finding it impossible to wean the people from frequenting pagan neighbourhoods, surmounted the standing stones with the symbol of their faith, and this in time brought about the result desired.[8]

A strange legend is connected with this rude menhir. On a day in the dark, uncharted past of Brittany a fierce battle was fought in the Champ Dolent. Blood ran in streams, sufficient, says the tale, to turn a mill-wheel in the neighbourhood of the battlefield. When the combat was at its height two brothers met and grappled in fratricidal strife. But ere they could harm one another the great granite shaft which now looms above the field rose up between them and separated them.

There appears to be some historical basis for the tale. Here, or in the neighbourhood,A.D.560, met Clotaire, King of the Franks, and his son, the rebel Chramne. The rebellious son was signally defeated. He had placed his wife and two little daughters in a dwelling hard by, and as he made his way thence to convey them from the field he was captured. He was instantly strangled, by order of his brutal father, in the sight of his wife and little ones, who were then burned alive in the house where they had taken refuge. The Champ Dolent does not belie its name, and even thirteen41centuries and a half have failed to obliterate the memory of a savage and unnatural crime, which, its remoteness notwithstanding, fills the soul with loathing against its perpetrators and with deep pity for the hapless and innocent victims.

At Plouaret, in the department of Côtes-du-Nord, is a curious subterranean chapel incorporating a dolmen. The dolmen was formerly partially embedded in a tumulus, and the chapel, erected in 1702, was so constructed that the great table-stone of the dolmen has become the chapel roof, and the supporting stones form two of its sides. The crypt is reached by a flight of steps, and here may be seen an altar to the Seven Sleepers, represented by seven dolls of varying size. The Bretons have a legend that this structure dates from the creation of the world, and they have embodied this belief in a ballad, in which it is piously affirmed that the shrine was built by the hand of the Almighty at the time when the world was in process of formation.

Camaret, on the coast of Finistère, is the site of no less than forty-one standing stones of quartz, which outline a rectangular space 600 yards in length at its base. Many stones have been removed, so that the remaining sides are incomplete. None of these monoliths is of any considerable size, however, and the site is not considered to be of much importance, save as regards its isolated character. At Penmarch, in the southern extremity of Finistère, there is an ‘alignment’ of some two hundred small stones, and a dolmen42of some importance is situated at Trégunc, but it is at Carnac, on the coast of Morbihan, that we arrive at the most important archæological district in Brittany.

The Carnac district teems with prehistoric monuments, the most celebrated of which are those of Plouharnel, Concarneau, Concurrus, Locmariaquer, Kermario, Kerlescant, Erdeven, and Sainte-Barbe. All these places are situated within a few miles of one another, and a good centre from which excursions can be made to each is the little town of Auray, with its quaint medieval market-house and shrine of St Roch. Archæologists, both Breton and foreign, appear to be agreed that the groups of stones at Ménéac, Kermario, and Kerlescant are portions of one original and continuous series of alignments which extended for nearly two miles in one direction from south-west to north-east. The monolithic avenue commences quite near the village of Ménéac, stretching away in eleven rows, and here the large stones are situated, these at first rising to a height of from 10 to 13 feet, and becoming gradually smaller, until they attain only 3 or 4 feet. In all there are 116 menhirs at Ménéac. For more than three hundred yards there is a gap in the series, which passed, we come to the Kermario avenue, which consists of ten rows of monoliths of much the same size as those of Ménéac, and 1120 in number.

Passing on to Kerlescant, with its thirteen rows of menhirs made up of 570 individual stones, we come to the end of the avenue and gaze backward upon the plain covered with these indestructible symbols of a forgotten past.

Carnac! There is something vast, Egyptian, in the name! There is, indeed, a Karnak in Egypt, celebrated for its Avenue of Sphinxes and its pillared temple raised to the goddess Mut by King Amenophis III. Here, in the Breton Carnac, are no evidences of architectural skill. These sombre stones, unworked, rude as they came from cliff or seashore, are not embellished by man’s handiwork like the rich temples of the Nile. But there is about this stone-littered moor a mystery, an atmosphere no less intense than that surrounding the most solemn ruins of antiquity. Deeper even than the depths of Egypt must we sound if we are to discover the secret of Carnac. What mean these stones? What means faith? What signifies belief? What is the answer to the Riddle of Man? In the words of Cayot Délandre, a Breton poet:

Tout cela eut un sens, et traduisitUne pensée; mais clé de ce mystère,Où est elle? et qui pourrait dire aujourd’huiSi jamais elle se retrouvera?[9]

Tout cela eut un sens, et traduisit

Une pensée; mais clé de ce mystère,

Où est elle? et qui pourrait dire aujourd’hui

Si jamais elle se retrouvera?[9]

Over this wild, heathy track, covered with the blue flowers of the dwarf gentian, steals a subtle change. Nor air nor heath has altered. The lichen-covered grey stones are the same. Suddenly there arises the burden of a low, fierce chant. A swarm of skin-clad figures appears, clustering around a gigantic object44which they are painfully dragging toward a deep pit situated at the end of one of the enormous alleys of monoliths. On rudely shaped rollers rests a huge stone some twenty feet in length, and this they drag across the rough moor by ropes of hide, lightening their labours by the chant, which relates the exploits of the warrior-chief who has lately been entombed in this vast pantheon of Carnac. The menhir shall serve for his headstone. It has been vowed to him by the warriors of his tribe, his henchmen, who have fought and hunted beside him, and who revere his memory. This stone shall render his fame immortal.

And now the task of placing the huge monolith in position begins. Ropes are attached to one extremity, and while a line of brawny savages strains to raise this, others guide that end of the monolith destined for enclosure in the earth toward the pit which has been dug for its reception. Higher and higher rises the stone, until at last it sinks slowly into its earthy bed. It is held in an upright position while the soil is packed around it and it is made secure. Then the barbarians stand back a space and gaze at it from beneath their low brows, well pleased with their handiwork. He whom they honoured in life rests not unrecognized in death.

RAISING A MENHIR

The legend of Carnac which explains these avenues of monoliths bears a resemblance to the Cornish story of ‘the Hurlers,’ who were turned into stone for playing at hurling on the Lord’s Day, or to that other English example from Cumberland of ‘Long Meg’ and her daughters. St Cornely, we are told, pursued by an45army of pagans, fled toward the sea. Finding no boat at hand, and on the point of being taken, he transformed his pursuers into stones, the present monoliths.

The Saint had made his flight to the coast in a bullock-cart, and perhaps for this reason he is now regarded as the patron of cattle. Should a bullock fall sick, his owner purchases an image of St Cornely and hangs it up in the stable until the animal recovers. The church at Carnac contains a series of fresco paintings which outline events in the life of the Saint, and in the churchyard there is a representation of the holy man between two bullocks. The head of St Cornely is said to be preserved within the edifice as a relic. On the 13th of September is held at Carnac the festival of the ‘Benediction of the Beasts,’ which is celebrated in honour of St Cornely. The cattle of the district are brought to the vicinity of the church and blessed by the priests—should sufficient monetary encouragement be forthcoming.

In the neighbourhood is Mont-Saint-Michel,[10]a great tumulus with a sepulchral dolmen, first excavated in 1862, when late Stone Age implements, jade celts, and burnt bones were unearthed. Later M. Zacharie Le Rouzic, the well-known Breton archæologist, tunnelled into the tumulus, and discovered a mortuary chamber, in which were the incinerated remains of two oxen. To this tumulus each pilgrim added a stone or small quantity of earth, as has been the custom in Celtic countries from time immemorial, and so the funerary mound in the course of countless generations grew into46quite a respectable hill, on which a chapel was built, dedicated to St Michael, from the doorway of which a splendid prospect of the great stone alignments can be had, with, for background, the Morbihan and the long, dreary peninsula of Quiberon, bleak, treeless, and deserted.

Near Carnac is the great dolmen of Rocenaud, the ‘cup-and-ring’ markings on which are thought by the surrounding peasantry to have been made by the knees and elbows of St Roch, who fell upon this stone when he landed from Ireland. When the natives desire a wind they knock upon the depressions with their knuckles, murmuring spells the while, just as in Scotland in the seventeenth century a tempest was raised by dipping a rag in water and beating it on a stone thrice in the name of Satan.

What do these cup-and-ring markings so commonly discovered upon the monuments of Brittany portend? The question is one well worth examining at some length, as it appears to be almost at the foundations of Neolithic religion. Recent discoveries in New Caledonia have proved the existence in these far-off islands, as in Brittany, Scotland, and Ireland, of these strange symbols, coupled with the concentric and spiral designs which are usually associated with the genius of Celtic art. In the neighbourhood of Glasgow, and in the south-west of Scotland generally, stones inscribed with designs closely resembling those on the New Caledonian rocks have been found in abundance, as at Auchentorlie47and Cockno, Shewalton Sands, and in the Milton of Colquhoun district, where the famous ‘cup-and-ring altar’ was discovered. At Shewalton Sands in particular, in 1904, a number of stones were found bearing crosses like those discovered in Portugal by Father José Brenha and Father Rodriguez. These symbols have a strong resemblance to certain markings on the Breton rocks, and are thought to possess an alphabetic or magical significance. In Scotland spirals are commonly found on stones marked with ogham inscriptions, and it is remarkable that they should occur in New Caledonia in connexion with a dot ‘alphabet.’ The New Caledonian crosses, however, approximate more to the later crosses of Celtic art, while the spirals resemble those met with in the earlier examples of Celtic work. But the closest parallel to the New Caledonian stone-markings to be found in Scotland is supplied by the examples at Cockno, in Dumbartonshire, where the wheel symbol is associated with the cup-and-ring markings.

The cup-and-ring stones used to be considered the peculiar product of a race of ‘Brythonic’ or British origin, and it is likely that the stones so carved were utilized in the ritual of rain-worship or rain-making by sympathetic magic. The grooves in the stone were probably filled with water to typify a country partially covered with rain-water.[11]

From these analogies, then, we can glean the purpose of the cup-and-ring markings upon the dolmens of Brittany, and may conclude, if our considerations are48well founded, that they were magical in purpose and origin. Do the cup-shaped depressions represent water, or are they receptacles for rain, and do the spiral symbols typify the whirling winds?

Nowhere are these mysterious markings so well exemplified as in the wonderful tumulus of Gavr’inis. This ancient place of sepulture, the name of which means ‘Goat Island,’ lies in the Morbihan, or ‘Little Sea,’ an inland sea which gives its name to a department in the south of Brittany. The tumulus is 25 feet high, and covers a fine gallery 40 feet long, the stones of which bear the markings alluded to. Whorls and circles abound in the ornamentation, serpent-like figures, and the representation of an axe, similar to those to be seen in some of the Grottes aux Fées, or on the Dol des Marchands. The sculptures appear to have been executed with metal tools. The passage ends in a square sepulchral chamber, the supports of which are eight menhirs of grained granite, a stone not found on the island. Such of the menhirs as are carved were obviously so treated before they were placedin situ, as the design passes round the edges.

The Ile aux Moines (‘Monks’ Island’) is also situated in the Morbihan, and has many prehistoric monuments, the most extensive of which are the circle of stones at Kergonan and the dolmen of Penhapp. On the Ile d’Arz, too, are megalithic monuments, perhaps the best example of which is the cromlech or circle at Penraz.

The folk-beliefs attached to the megalithic monuments49of Brittany are numerous, but nearly all of them bear a strong resemblance to each other. Many of the monuments are called Grottes aux Fées or Roches aux Fées, in the belief that the fairies either built them or used them as dwelling-places, and variants of these names are to be found in the Maison des Follets (‘House of the Goblins’) at Cancoet, in Morbihan, and the Château des Paulpiquets, in Questembert, in the same district. Ty en Corygannt (‘The House of the Korrigans’) is situated in the same department, while near Penmarch, in Finistère, at the other end of the province, we find Ty C’harriquet (‘The House of the Gorics’ or ‘Nains’). Other mythical personages are also credited with their erection, most frequently either the devil or Gargantua being held responsible for their miraculous creation. The phenomenon, well known to students of folk-lore, that an unlettered people speedily forgets the origin of monuments that its predecessors may have raised in times past is well exemplified in Brittany, whose peasant-folk are usually surprised, if not amused, at the question “Who built the dolmens?” Close familiarity with and contiguity to uncommon objects not infrequently dulls the sense of wonder they should otherwise naturally excite. But lest we feel tempted to sneer at these poor folk for their incurious attitude toward the visible antiquities of their land, let us ask ourselves how many of us take that interest in the antiquities of our own country or our own especial locality that they demand.[12]

For the most part, then, the megaliths, in the opinion of the Breton peasant, are not the handiwork of man. He would rather refer their origin to spirits, giants, or fiends. If he makes any exception to this supernatural attribution, it is in favour of the saints he reverences so profoundly. The fairies, he says, harnessed their oxen to the mighty stones, selected a site, and dragged them thither to form a dwelling, or perhaps a cradle for the infant fays they were so fond of exchanging for human children. Thus the Roches aux Fées near Saint-Didier, in Ille-et-Vilaine, were raised by fairy hands, the elves collecting “all the big stones in the country” and carrying them thither in their aprons. These architectural sprites then mounted on each other’s shoulders in order that they might reach high enough to place the mighty monoliths securely in position. This practice they also followed in building the dolmen near the wood of Rocher, on the road from Dinan to Dol, say the people of that country-side.

But the actual purpose of the megaliths has not been neglected by tradition, for a venerable farmer at Rouvray stated that the fairies were wont to honour after their death those who had made good use of their lives and built the dolmens to contain their ashes. The presence of such a shrine in a country-side was a guarantee of abundance and prosperity therein, as a subtle and indefinable charm spread from the saintly remnants and communicated itself to everything in the neighbourhood.[13]The fairy builders, says tradition, went about their work in no haphazard manner. Those51among them who possessed a talent for design drew the plans of the proposed structure, the less gifted acting as carriers, labourers, and masons. Apron-carrying was not their only method of porterage, for some bore the stones on their heads, or one under each arm, as when they raised the Roche aux Fées in Retiers, or the dolmen in La Lande Marie.[14]The space of a night was usually sufficient in which to raise a dolmen. But though ‘run up’ with more than Transatlantic dispatch, in view of the time these structures have endured for, any charge of jerry-building against their elfin architects must fall to the ground. Daylight, too, frequently surprised the fairy builders, so that they could not finish their task, as many a ‘roofless’ dolmen shows.

There are many Celtic parallels to this belief. For example, it is said that the Picts, or perhaps the fairies, built the original church of Corstorphine, near Edinburgh, and stood in a row handing the stones on, one to another, from Ravelston Quarry, on the adjacent hill of Corstorphine. Such is the local folk-tale; and it has its congeners in Celtic and even in Hindu myth. Thus in the Highland tale of Kennedy and theclaistig, or fairy, whom he captured, and whom he compelled to build him a house in one night, we read that she set her people to work speedily:

And they brought flags and stonesFrom the shores of Cliamig waterfall,Reaching them from hand to hand.[15]

And they brought flags and stones

From the shores of Cliamig waterfall,

Reaching them from hand to hand.[15]

Again, the Round Tower of Ardmore, in Ireland, was52built with stones brought from Slieve Grian, a mountain some four or five miles distant, “without horse or wheel,” the blocks being passed from hand to hand from the quarry to the site of the building. The same tradition applied to the Round Tower of Abernethy, in Perthshire, only it is in this case demonstrated that the stone of which the tower is composed was actually taken from the traditional quarry, even the very spot being geologically identified.[16]In like manner, too, was Rama’s bridge built by the monkey host in Hindu myth, as recounted in theMahābhārataand theRāmāyana.

Tales, as apart from beliefs, are not often encountered in connexion with the monuments. Indeed, Sébillot, in the course of his researches, found only some dozen of these all told.[17]They are very brief, and appear for the most part to deal with fairies who have been shut up by the power of magic in a dolmen. Tales of spirits enclosed in trees, and even in pillars, are not uncommon, and lately I have heard a peculiarly fearsome ghost story which comes from Belgium, in which it is related how certain spirits had become enclosed in a pillar in an ancient abbey, for the saintly occupants of which they made it particularly uncomfortable. Mr George Henderson, in one of the most masterly and suggestive studies of Celtic survivals ever published, states that stones in the Highlands of Scotland were formerly believed to have souls, and that those too large to be moved “were held to be in intimate connexion with spirits.” Pillared stones are not employed in building dwellings in the Highlands, ill luck, it is believed, being53sure to follow their use in this manner, while to ‘meddle’ with stones which tradition connects with Druidism is to court fatality.[18]

M. Salomon Reinach tells us of the Breton belief that certain sacred stones go once a year or once a century to ‘wash’ themselves in the sea or in a river, returning to their ancient seats after their ablutions.[19]The stones in the dolmen of Essé are thought to change their places continually, like those of Callernish and Lewis, and, like the Roman Penates, to have the gift of coming and going if removed from their habitual site.

The megalithic monuments of Brittany are undoubtedly the most remarkable relics of that epoch of prehistoric activity which is now regarded as the immediate forerunner of civilization. Can it be that they were miraculously preserved by isolation from the remote beginnings of that epoch, or is it more probable that they were constructed at a relatively late period? These are questions of profound difficulty, and it is likely that both theories contain a certain amount of truth. Whatever may have been the origin of her megaliths, Brittany must ever be regarded as a great prehistoric museum, a unique link with a past of hoary antiquity.

54CHAPTER III: THE FAIRIES OF BRITTANY

Whateverthe origin of the race which conceived the demonology of Brittany—and there are indications that it was not wholly Celtic—that weird province of Faëry bears unmistakable evidence of having been deeply impressed by the Celtic imagination, if it was not totally peopled by it, for its various inhabitants act in the Celtic spirit, are moved by Celtic springs of thought and fancy, and possess not a little of that irritability which has forced anthropologists to include the Celtic race among those peoples described as ‘sanguine-bilious.’ As a rule they are by no means friendly or even humane, these fays of Brittany, and if we find beneficent elves within the green forests of the duchy we may feel certain that they are French immigrants, and therefore more polished than the choleric native sprites.

Of all the many localities celebrated in the fairy lore of Brittany none is so famous as Broceliande. Broceliande! “The sound is like a bell,” a far, faëry chime in a twilit forest. In the name Broceliande there seems to be gathered all the tender charm, the rich and haunting mystery, the remote magic of Brittany and Breton lore. It is, indeed, the title to the rarest book in the library of poetic and traditional romance.

“I went to seek out marvels,” said old Wace. “The forest I saw, the land I saw. I sought marvels, but I found none. A fool I came back, a fool I went; a fool55I went, a fool I came back; foolishness I sought; a fool I hold myself.”[20]

Our age, even less sceptical than his, sees no folly in questing for the beautiful, and if we expect no marvels, nor any sleight of faëry, however desirous we are, we do not hold it time lost to plunge into the enchanted forest and in its magic half-gloom grope for, and perchance grasp, dryad draperies, or be trapped in the filmy webs of fancy which are spun in these shadows for unwary mortals.

Standing in dream-girt Broceliande of a hundred legends, its shadows mirrored by dim meres that may never reflect the stars, one feels the lure of Brittany more keenly even than when walking by its fierce and jagged coasts menaced by savage grey seas, or when wandering on its vast moors where the monuments of its pagan past stand in gigantic disarray. For in the forest is the heart of Arthurian story, the shrine of that wonder which has drawn thousands to this land of legend, who, like old Wace, trusted to have found, if not elfin marvels, at least matter of phantasy conjured up by the legendary associations of Broceliande.

But we must beware of each step in these twilit recesses, for the fays of Brittany are not as those of other lands. Harsh things are spoken of them. They are malignant, say the forest folk. The note of Brittany is scarce a joyous one. It is bitter-sweet as a sad chord struck on an ancient harp.

The fays of Brittany are not the friends of man. They are not ‘the good people,’ ‘the wee folk’; they have no endearing names, the gift of a grateful peasantry. Cold and hostile, they hold aloof from human converse, and,56should they encounter man, vent their displeasure at the interruption in the most vindictive manner.

Whether the fairies of Brittany be the late representatives of the gods of an elder day or merely animistic spirits who have haunted these glades since man first sheltered in them, certain it is that in no other region in Europe has Mother Church laid such a heavy ban upon all the things of faëry as in this strange and isolated peninsula. A more tolerant ecclesiastical rule might have weaned them to a timid friendship, but all overtures have been discouraged, and to-day they are enemies, active, malignant, swift to inflict evil upon the pious peasant because he is pious and on the energetic because of his industry.

Among those forest-beings of whom legend speaks such malice none is more relentless than the Korrigan, who has power to enmesh the heart of the most constant swain and doom him to perish miserably for love of her. Beware of the fountains and of the wells of this forest of Broceliande, for there she is most commonly to be encountered, and you may know her by her bright hair—“like golden wire,” as Spenser says of his lady’s—her red, flashing eyes, and her laughing lips. But if you would dare her wiles you must come alone to her fountain by night, for she shuns even the half-gloom that is day in shadowy Broceliande. The peasants when they speak of her will assure you that she and her kind are pagan princesses of Brittany who would have none of Christianity when the holy Apostles brought it to Armorica, and who must dwell here under a ban, outcast and abhorred.

The Seigneur of Nann was high of heart, for that day his bride of a year had presented him with two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, both white as May-blossom. In his joy the happy father asked his wife her heart’s desire, and she, pining for that which idle fancy urged upon her, begged him to bring her a dish of woodcock from the lake in the dale, or of venison from the greenwood. The Seigneur of Nann seized his lance and, vaulting on his jet-black steed, sought the borders of the forest, where he halted to survey the ground for track of roe or slot of the red deer. Of a sudden a white doe rose in front of him, and was lost in the forest like a silver shadow.

At sight of this fair quarry the Seigneur followed into the greenwood. Ever his prey rustled among the leaves ahead, and in the hot chase he recked not of the forest depths into which he had plunged. But coming upon a narrow glade where the interlacing leaves above let in the sun to dapple the moss-ways below, he saw a strange lady sitting by the broken border of a well, braiding her fair hair and binding it with golden pins.

The Seigneur louted low, begged that he might drink, and bending down set his lips to the water; but she, turning strange eyes upon him—eyes not blue like those of his bride, nor grey, nor brown, nor black, like those of other women, but red in their depths as the heart’s blood of a dove—spoke to him discourteously.

“Who are you who dare to trouble the waters of my58fountain?” she asked. “Do you not know that your conduct merits death? This well is enchanted, and by drinking of it you are fated to die, unless you fulfil a certain condition.”

“And what is that?” asked the Seigneur.

“You must marry me within the hour,” replied the lady.

“Demoiselle,” replied the Seigneur, “it may not be as you desire, for I am already espoused to a fair bride who has borne me this very day a son and a daughter. Nor shall I die until it pleases the good God. Nevertheless, I wot well who you are. Rather would I die on the instant than wed with a Korrigan.”

Leaping upon his horse, he turned and rode from the woodland as a man possessed. As he drew homeward he was overshadowed by a sense of coming ill. At the gate of his château stood his mother, anxious to greet him with good news of his bride. But with averted eyes he addresses her in the refrain so familiar to the folk-poetry of all lands:

“My good mother, if you love me, make my bed. I am sick unto death. Say not a word to my bride. For within three days I shall be laid in the grave. A Korrigan has done me evil.”

Three days later the young spouse asks of her mother-in-law:

“Tell me, mother, why do the bells sound? Wherefore do the priests chant so low?”

“’Tis nothing, daughter,” replies the elder woman. “A poor stranger who lodged here died this night.”

“Ah, where is gone the Seigneur of Nann? Mother, oh, where is he?”

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