FINIS.God Saue the King.
It may be presumed that “the Order for Swannes” fairly illustrates the origin of the term “swanhopping;” perhaps the “order” itself will be regarded by some of the readers of theEvery-Day Bookas “a singular rarity.”
The sign of the “Swan with two necks,” at one of our old city inns, from whence there are “passengers and parcels booked” to all parts of the kingdom, is manifestly a corruption. As every swan belonging to the king was marked, according to the swan laws, with twonicksor notches; so the old sign of this inn was the royal bird so marked, that is to say, “the swan with twonicks.” In process of time the “two nicks” were called “two necks;” an ignorant landlord hoisted the foul misrepresentation; and, at the present day, “the swan with two nicks” is commonly called or known by “the name or sign” of “the swan with two necks.”
“A Southern Tourist,” in the “Gentleman’s Magazine,” for 1793, giving an account of his summer rambles, which he calls “A naturalist’s stray in the sultry days of July,” relates that he “put up for the night at the Bush-inn, by Staines-bridge,” and describes his sojournment there with such mention of the swans as seems fitting to extract.
“This inn is beautifully situated: a translucent arm of the Thames runs close under the windows of the eating-rooms, laving the drooping streamers of the Babylonian willows that decorate the garden, and which half conceal the small bridge leading into it. In these windows we spent the evening in angling gudgeons for our supper, and in admiring a company of swans that were preening themselves near an aite in the river. The number of these birds on the Thames is very considerable, all swimming between Marlow and London, being protected by the dyers and vintner’s companies, whose properties they are. These companies annually send to Marlow six wherries, manned by persons authorized to count and to mark the swans, who are hence denominated swan-hoppers. The task assigned them is rather difficult to perform; for, the swans being exceeding strong, scuffling with them amongst the tangles of the river is rather dangerous, and recourse is obliged to be had to certain strong crooks, shaped like those we suppose the Arcadian shepherds to have used.”
The swan is a royal bird, and often figured in the princely pleasures of former kings of England.
In Edward the fourth’s time none was permitted to keep swans, who possessed not a freehold of at least five marks yearly value, except the king’s son: and by an act of Henry the Seventh, persons convicted of taking their eggs were liable to a year’s imprisonment, and a fine at the will of thesovereign.[255]
More anciently, if a swan was stolen in an open and common river, the same swan or another, according to old usage, was to be hanged in a house by the beak, and he who stole it was compelled to give the owner as much corn as would cover the swan, by putting and turning the corn upon the head of the swan, until the head of the swan was covered withcorn.[256]
In the hard winter of 1726, a swan was killed “at Emsworth, between Chichester and Portsmouth, lying on a creek of the sea, that had a ring round its neck, with the king of Denmark’s arms onit.”[257]
For indications of the weather, by the flight of the swans on the Thames, see vol. i. col. 505.
It is mentioned by the literary lord Northampton, as formerly “a paradox of simple men to thinke that a swanne cannot hatch without a cracke ofthunder.”[258]
The car of Juno is fabled to have been drawn by swans. They were dedicated to Venus and Apollo. To the latter, according to Banier, because they were “reckoned to have by instinct a faculty of prediction;” but it is possible that they were consecrated to the deity of music, from their fabled melody at the moment of death.
Buffon says, the ordinary voice of the tame swan is rather low than canorous. It is a sort of creaking, exactly like what is vulgarly called the swearing of a cat, and which the ancients denoted by the imitative worddrensare. It would seem to be an accent of menace or anger; nor does its love appear to have a softer. In the“Mémoires de l’Académie des Inscriptions” is a dissertation by M. Morin, entitled, “Why swans, which sung so well formerly, sing so ill now.”
The French naturalist further remarks, that “swans, almost mute, like ours in the domestic state, could not be those melodious birds which the ancients have celebrated and extolled. But the wild swan appears to have better preserved its prerogatives; and with the sentiment of entire liberty, it has also the tones. The bursts of its voice form a sort of modulated song.” He then cites the observations of the abbé Arnaud on the song of two wild swans which settled on the magnificent pools of Chantilly. “One can hardly say that the swans of Chantilly sing, they cry; but their cries are truly and constantly modulated; their voice is not sweet; on the contrary, it is shrill, piercing, and rather disagreeable; I could compare it to nothing better than the sound of a clarionet, winded by a person unacquainted with the instrument. Almost all the melodious birds answer to the song of man, and especially to the sound of instruments: I played long on the violin beside our swans, on all the tones and chords. I even struck unison to their own accents, without their seeming to pay the smallest attention: but if a goose be thrown into the basin where they swim with their young, the male, after emitting some hollow sounds, rushes impetuously upon the goose, and seizing it by the neck, plunges the head repeatedly under water, striking it at the same time with his wings; it would be all over with the goose, if it were not rescued. The swan, with his wings expanded, his neck stretched, and his head erect, comes to place himself opposite to his female, and utters a cry, to which the female replies by another, which is lower by half a tone. The voice of the male passes from A (la) to B flat (si bémol); that of the female, from G sharp (sol dièse) to A. The first note is short and transient, and has the effect of that which our musicians callsensible; so that it is not detached from the second, but seems toslipinto it. Fortunately for the ear, they do not both sing at once; in fact, if while the male sounded B flat, the female struck A, or if the male uttered A, while the female gave G sharp, there would result the harshest and most insupportable of discords. We may add, that this dialogue is subjected to a constant and regular rhythm, with the measure of two times.”
M. Grouvelle observes, that “there is a season when the swans assemble together, and form a sort of commonwealth; it is during severe colds. When the frost threatens to usurp their domain, they congregate and dash the water with all the extent of their wings, making a noise which is heard very far, and which, whether in the night or the day, is louder in proportion as it freezes more intensely. Their efforts are so effectual, that there are few instances of a flock of swans having quitted the water in the longest frosts, though a single swan, which has strayed from the general body, has sometimes been arrested by the ice in the middle of the canals.”
Buffon further remarks, that the shrill and scarcely diversified notes of the loud clarion sounds, differ widely from the tender melody, the sweet and brilliant variety of our chanting birds. Yet it was not enough that the swan sung admirably, the ancients ascribed to it a prophetic spirit. It alone, of animated beings, which all shudder at the prospect of destruction, chanted in the moment of its agony, and with harmonious sounds prepared to breathe the last sigh. They said that when about to expire, and to bid a sad and tender adieu to life, the swan poured forth sweet and affecting accents, which, like a gentle and doleful murmur, with a voice low, plaintive, and melancholy, formed its funeral song. This tearful music was heard at the dawn of day, when the winds and the waves were still: and they have been seen expiring with the notes of their dying hymn. No fiction of natural history, no fable of antiquity, was ever more celebrated, oftener repeated, or better received. It occupied the soft and lively imaginations of the Greeks: poets, orators, even philosophers adopted it as a truth too pleasing to be doubted. And well may we excuse such fables; they were amiable and affecting; they were worth many dull, insipid truths; they were sweet emblems to feeling minds. The swan, doubtless, chants not its approaching end; but, in speaking of the last flight, the expiring effort of a fine genius, we shall ever, with tender melancholy, recal the classical and pathetic expression, “It is the song of the swan!”
Shakspeare nobly likens our island to the eyrie of the royalbird:—
——————I’ the world’s volumeOur Britain seems as of it, but not in it;In a great pool, a swan’s nest.
——————I’ the world’s volumeOur Britain seems as of it, but not in it;In a great pool, a swan’s nest.
——————I’ the world’s volumeOur Britain seems as of it, but not in it;In a great pool, a swan’s nest.
Nor can we fail to remember his beautiful allusions to the swan’s death-song. Portia orders “sweet music” during Bassanio’s deliberation on thecaskets:—
Let music sound while he doth make his choice:Then if he lose, he makes a swan-like end—Fading in music.
Let music sound while he doth make his choice:Then if he lose, he makes a swan-like end—Fading in music.
Let music sound while he doth make his choice:Then if he lose, he makes a swan-like end—Fading in music.
And after the Moor has slain his innocent bride, Æmilia exclaims while her heart is breaking, andsings—
Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan,And die in music—Willow, willow, willow.
Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan,And die in music—Willow, willow, willow.
Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan,And die in music—Willow, willow, willow.
After “King John” is poisoned, his son, prince Henry, is told that in his dying frenzy “he sung,”—the princeanswers—
———’Tis strange that death should sing.—I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death;And from the organ-pipe of frailty, singsHis soul and body to their lasting rest.
———’Tis strange that death should sing.—I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death;And from the organ-pipe of frailty, singsHis soul and body to their lasting rest.
———’Tis strange that death should sing.—I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death;And from the organ-pipe of frailty, singsHis soul and body to their lasting rest.
The muse of “Paradise” remarks, that
————The swan with arched neckBetween her white wings mantling, proudly rowesHer state with oary feet: yet oft they quitThe dank, and rising on stiff pennons, tourThe mid æreal sky.
————The swan with arched neckBetween her white wings mantling, proudly rowesHer state with oary feet: yet oft they quitThe dank, and rising on stiff pennons, tourThe mid æreal sky.
————The swan with arched neckBetween her white wings mantling, proudly rowesHer state with oary feet: yet oft they quitThe dank, and rising on stiff pennons, tourThe mid æreal sky.
Opportunities for observing the flight of the wild swan are seldom, and hence it is seldom mentioned by our poets. The migrations of other aquatic birds are frequent themes of their speculation.
To a Water-fowl.Whither, ’midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong.As darkly painted on the crimson skyThy figure floats along.Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or maize of river wide,Or where the rocky billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean’s side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fann’d,At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSoon o’er thy shelter’d nest.Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallow’d up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He, who from zone to zoneGuides through the boundless sky the certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
To a Water-fowl.
Whither, ’midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong.As darkly painted on the crimson skyThy figure floats along.Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or maize of river wide,Or where the rocky billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean’s side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fann’d,At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSoon o’er thy shelter’d nest.Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallow’d up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He, who from zone to zoneGuides through the boundless sky the certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
Whither, ’midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong.As darkly painted on the crimson skyThy figure floats along.
Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or maize of river wide,Or where the rocky billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean’s side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fann’d,At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSoon o’er thy shelter’d nest.
Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallow’d up thy form; yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He, who from zone to zoneGuides through the boundless sky the certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
Mean Temperature 64·02.
[253]Gentleman’s Magazine.[254]Ibid.[255]Buffon,note.[256]Cowel.[257]Gentleman’s Magazine.[258]Brand.
[253]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[254]Ibid.
[255]Buffon,note.
[256]Cowel.
[257]Gentleman’s Magazine.
[258]Brand.
For the Every-Day Book.
Anthony Payne, the Falstaff of the sixteenth century, was born in the manor-house at Stratton, in Cornwall, where he died, and was buried in the north aisle of Stratton church, the 13th of July, 1691. In early life he was the humble, but favourite attendant of John, eldest son of sir Beville Granville, afterwards earl of Bath, whom he accompanied throughout many of his loyal adventures and campaigns during the revolution and usurpation of Cromwell. At the age of twenty he measured the extraordinary height of seven feet two inches, with limbs and body in proportion, and strength equal to his bulk and stature. The firmness of his mind, and his uncommon activity of person, together with a large fund of sarcastic pleasantry, were well calculated to cheer the spirits of his noble patron during the many sad reverses and trying occasions which he experienced after the restoration. His lordship introduced Payne to Charles the Second; “the merry monarch” appointed him one of the yeomen of his guard. This office he held during his majesty’s life; and when his lordship was made governor of the citadel of Plymouth, Payne was placed therein as a gunner. His picture used to stand in the great hall at Stowe, in the county of Cornwall, and is now removed to Penheale, another seat of the Granville family. At his death the floor of the apartment was taken up in order to remove his enormous remains. As a Cornishman, in point of size, weight, and strength he has never been equalled.
The nearest to Anthony Payne was Charles Chillcott, of Tintagel, who measured six feet four inches high, round the breast six feet nine inches, and weighed four hundred and sixty pounds. He was almost constantly occupied in smoking—three pounds of tobacco was his weekly allowance; his pipetwo incheslong. One of his stockings would contain six gallons of wheat. He was much pleased with the curiosity of strangers who came to see him, and his usual address to them was, “Come under my arm, little fellow.” He died 5th of April, 1815, in his sixtieth year.
Januarywas calledMis(a corruption of the Latin wordmensis, a month)Genver, (an ancient corruption of its common name, January,) or the cold air month.
February,Hu-evral, or the whirling month.
March,Mis Merh, or the horse month; also,Meurz, orMerk, a corruption of March.
April,Mis Ebrall, or the primrose month;Abrilly, or the mackerel month; alsoEpiell, a corruption of its Latin appellative,Aprilis.
May,Miz Me, or the flowery month;Me, being obviously a corruption of May, orMaius, the original Latin name.
June,Miz Epham, the summer month, or head of summer.
July,Miz Gorephan, or the chief head of the summer month.
August,Miz East, or the harvest month.
September,Mis Guerda Gala, or the white straw month.
October,Miz Hedra, or the watery month.
November,Miz Dui, or the black month.
December,Miz Kevardin, or in ArmoricMiz Querdu, the month following the black month, or the month also black.
Sam Sam’s Son.
June 21, 1826.
Mean Temperature 63·55.
On the 14th of July, 1766, the Grand Junction Canal, connecting the Irish sea to the British ocean, was commenced by Mr. Brindley.
From the destruction of the Bastille this day in the year1789,[259]the commencement of the French revolution is dated.
Miss Plumptre mentions a singular allegorical picture in theHotel de Ville, or Guildhall, of the city of Aix. It representedthe three orders of the state—the nobles, the clergy, and thetiers-état—in their relative situations before the revolution. In the middle is a peasant, with the implements of his profession about him, the scythe, the reaping-hook, thepioche, which is a sort of pick-axe used in Provence to turn up the ground in steep parts where a plough cannot be used, a spade, a vessel for wine, &c. On his shoulders he supports a heavy burden, intended to represent the state itself; while on one side of him is a noble, and on the other an ecclesiastic, in the costume of their respective orders, who just touch the burden with one hand, while he supports it with his whole strength, and is bowed down by it. The intention of the allegory is to show, that it is on the peasantry, ortiers-état, that the great burden of the state presses, while the nobles and clergy are scarcely touched by it. Above the burden, which is in the form of a heart, is the motto,nihil aliud in nobis, “There is nothing else in our power.” From the costume of the figures, which is that of the sixteenth century, it is conjectured that the picture was of that date; but no tradition is preserved of the time when, or the person by whom it was executed.
This remarkable painting hung in the guard-room, on one side of the door of the room where the consuls of Aix held their meetings for the settling the impositions of the rates and taxes; a room which was consequently in theory the sanctuary ofequity, the place where to each member of the community was allotted the respective proportion which in justice was demanded of him for supporting the general good of the whole. “This,” says Miss Plumptre, “was a very fine piece of satire, and it is only surprising that it should have been suffered to hang there: it probably had occupied the place so long, that it had ceased from time immemorial to excite attention; but it shows that even two centuries before the revolution there were those who entertained the opinions which led finally to this tremendous explosion, and that these opinions did not then first start into existence.”
The Brétons were even from the commencement of the revolution among the most eager in the popular cause, and the original republican party arose among them. Bailly, the first president of the national constituent assembly, and afterwards the celebrated mayor of Paris, mentions, in a posthumous work, that an association was formed at Versailles as early as in June, 1789, even before the taking of the Bastille, of the deputies ofBrétagneto thetiers-état, which was known by the name of thecomitéBréton; and he goes on to say:—“This may be called the original of the society afterwards so celebrated as theJacobin Club, and was disapproved by all who did not belong to it. The Brétons were certainly excellent patriots, but ardent, vehement, and not much given to reflection; nor have I any doubt but that the first idea of establishing a republic was engendered by the overstrained notions of liberty cherished in this club. To them, consequently, must be imputed the origin of those fatal divisions which afterwards arose between the adherents of a limited monarchy, and those who would not be satisfied with any thing short of a republic;—divisions which occasioned so many and so great misfortunes to the whole country.”
This province was, in the sequel, reputed to be one of the parts of France the most attached to the Bourbon interest, because the arbitrary proceedings of the convention had afforded a handle for another set of anarchists to rise in opposition to them. In this conflict it would be difficult to determine on which side the greatest want of conduct was shown,—which party was guilty of the greatest errors.
Like the people of Wales, who boast that their ancestors were never conquered by the Saxons, the Brétons affirm that their country alone, of all the provinces of Gaul, was never bowed to the Frankish yoke; and that they are the true descendants of the ancient Armoricans, its first known inhabitants. They allow the Welsh to be of the same stock as themselves, and are proud of affinity with a people who, like themselves, firmly and effectually resisted a foreign yoke; but they claim precedence in point of antiquity, and consider themselves as the parent stock from which Britain was afterwards peopled. Indeed from the great resemblance between the Brétons and the Welsh, a strong argument may be drawn to conclude that they had acommon origin. As Wales is to England the great repository of its ancient superstitions, so is Brittany to France. Here was the prime seat of the Druidical mysteries, nor were they banished till the conversion of the country to Christianity. In the southern provinces, when Woden and Thor ceded their places to Apollo and Diana, the gods of Roma Antica were installed in their seats, till they in their turn were displaced by the legions of the papal hierarchy: but the deities established in Brittany by the Celto-Scythian inhabitants maintained their ground till they were overpowered by the army of popish saints, whose numbers so far exceeded the Celtic deities, that it was impossible to resist the invasion. Yet if the ancient deities were conquered, and honoured no longer under their original names, their influence remained. The wonders attributed to them were not forgotten. Their remembrance was still cherished, their miracles were transferred to another set of champions, and the Thors and Wodens were revived under the names of St. Pol, St. Ferrier, &c.
The old religion of the Druids secured unbounded authority over the minds of the people. This engine was too powerful to be lightly relinquished; and the papacy instead of directing them to the sublime contemplation of one all-powerful, all-commanding governor of the universe, through whom alone all live and move and have their being, transferred to new names the ancient reveries of a supernatural agency perpetually interposing in all the petty affairs of mankind. The operators in this agency, genii, fairies, dæmons, and wizards, were all comprehended under the one denomination of saints. Enchanters and dragons were exchanged for pious solitaries and wonderful ascetics, who calmed tempests with a word, walked on the waves of the ocean as on dry land, or wafted over it upon cloaks or millstones; who metamorphosed their staves into trees, and commanded fountains to rise under their feet; by whom the sick were healed; whose shadows were pretended to have raised the dead; and whose approach might be perceived by the perfume their bodies spread throughout the air.
Two of the most illustrious and wonder-working saints of the country, SaintPol de Léonand SaintJean du Doigt, were established at only a short distance from Morlaix; the former a little to the north-west of the town, the latter a little to the north-east. The town of St. Pol de Léon stands on the coast. From the boldness and beauty of the workmanship of the cathedral, it was supposed that it could hardly have been executed by mortal hands; it would have been to the honour of the saint to have ascribed it to him, as a notable worker of miracles, but, by the most fervent, the architecture is attributed to the devil.
Miss Plumptre says, “The name of this episcopal see has become familiar in England, from its bishop having made a very conspicuous figure in his emigration hither, and having here at length ended his days. I did not find the character of this prelate more popular among his fellow-countrymen in Brétagne, than it had been among his fellow-emigrants in London: they gave him the same character,—of one of the most haughty, insolent, and over-bearing among the ecclesiastical dignitaries in France; and while the Brétons had in general an almost superstitious veneration for their clergy, they regarded this bishop with very different sentiments.”
The honour of having given birth to St. Pol de Léon is ascribed to England about the year 490. When a boy he gave an earnest of what might in future be expected of him. The fields of the monastery in which he was a student, were ravaged by such a number of birds, that the whole crop of corn was in danger of being devoured. St. Pol summoned the sacrilegious animals to appear before the principal of the monastery, St. Hydultus, that they might receive the correction they merited. The birds, obedient to his summons, presented themselves in a body; but St. Hydultus, being of a humane disposition, only gave them a reproof and admonition, and then let them go, even giving them his benediction at their departure. The grateful birds never after touched the corn of the monastery. In a convent of nuns hard by, situated on the sea-shore, and extremely exposed to the tempestuous winds of the north, lived a sister of St. Pol. She represented the case of the convent to her brother; when he ordered the sea to retire four thousand paces from the convent; which it did immediately. He then directed his sister and her companions to range a row of flints along the shore for a considerabledistance; which was no sooner done than they increased into vast rocks, they so entirely broke the force of the winds, that the convent was never after incommoded.
For some reason or other, it does not appear what, St. Pol de Léon took a fancy to travel, and walked over the sea one fine morning from England to the Isle of Batz. Immediately on landing there, by a touch of his staff—for saints used a staff instead of a wand, which was the instrument employed by fairies—he cured three blind men, two who were dumb, and one who was a cripple with the palsy.
A count de Guythure, who was governor of Batz at the saint’s arrival laboured under a mortal uneasiness of mind, on account of a little silver bell belonging to the reigning king of England, the possession of which, in defiance of the injunction contained in the tenth commandment, he coveted exceedingly. St. Pol ordered a fish to swallow the bell, and bring it over: this was instantly performed; but the saint had provided a rival to himself, for the bell became a no less celebrated adept in miracles than he was, and between them both the want of physicians in the country was entirely precluded. The bell was afterwards deposited among the treasures in the cathedral of St. Pol de Léon.
But the Isle of Batz was visited with even a heavier affliction than the mortal uneasiness of its governor; it was infested by a terrible dragon, which devoured men, animals, and every thing that came in its way. St. Pol, dressed in his pontificial robes and accompanied by a young man whom he had selected for the purpose, repaired to the monster’s cavern, and commanded him to come forth. He soon appeared, making dreadful hissings and howlings; a stroke of the saint’s staff silenced him: a rope thrown round his neck, and an order to lead him away finished all opposition. St. Pol conducted him to the northernmost point of the island; another stroke of his staff precipitated the monster into the sea, and he never more returned.
The count de Guythure, charmed with the saint, resigned his splendid palace to him, and retired to Occismor on the continent, the place where the town now stands. The saint converted the palace into a monastery; and, there being no water, had recourse to his staff again, and produced a fountain of fresh water still existing on the sea-shore, which is not affected by the overflowing of the sea.
St. Pol was afterwards bishop of Occismor, on which occasion the place changed its name. Here he continued to work miracles, till, growing weary of mankind, he retired again to the Isle of Batz, where he died at the age of a hundred and two years. The inhabitants of the island and the people of Occismor disputed for his body; the dispute was settled by each agreeing to accept half. They were about to carry this agreement into execution, when the body suddenly disappeared, and was afterwards found on the sea-shore at Occismor, which was considered as a plain indication that the saint himself chose that for the place of his interment. Such are the kind of fables related of this saint.
An occurrence in the town of St. Pol de Léon about the end of the seventeenth century, has only this of prodigy in it, that such facts are not common. A seigneur of the neighbourhood had accumulated debts to so large an amount, that he was entirely unable to discharge them, and knew not what means to pursue for extricating himself from his embarrassments. Three of his tenants, farmers, offered to undertake the management of his affairs, if he would resign every thing in trust to them for a certain term of years; and they proffered to allow him half the revenue he had drawn from them, and with the remainder to pay off his debts, taking to themselves only what profit they might be able to derive from the speculation. The seigneur agreed to the proposal, and every part of the agreement was punctually performed by the farmers. At the term agreed on the estates were returned to the owner, not merely disencumbered, but exceedingly increased in value, and in a state of excellent cultivation, while the farmers had at the same time made a fair profit to themselves. At the final conclusion of the agreement they made a present to the seigneur’s lady of eight horses, that she might come to church, as they said, in a manner suitable to her rank.
In Brittany, mingled with the legends of saints are its still more ancient superstitions. There is scarcely a rock, a fountain, a wood, or a cave, to which some tale of wonder is not attached. From thence omens and auguries are drawn regarding the ordinary occurrences of life. Every operation of nature is attributed by the Brétons to miraculous interposition: they believe that the air, the earth, and the waters are peopled with supernatural agents of all sorts and descriptions.
Likewise there are fountains, into which if a child’s shirt or shift be thrown and it sinks, the child will die within the year; if it should swim, it is then put wet on the child, and is a charm against all kinds of diseases. The waters of some fountains are poured upon the ground by those who have friends at sea, to procure a favourable wind for them during four-and-twenty hours.
Another mode of procuring a favourable wind is to sweep up the dust from a church immediately after mass, and blow it towards the side on which the friends are expected to return. The croak of the raven and the song of the thrush are answers to any questions put to them; they tell how many years any one is to live, when he is to be married, and how many children he is to have. Any noise which cannot be immediately accounted for foretells some misfortune, and the howling of a dog is as sure forerunner of death in a family of Brittany as in England. The noise of the sea, or the whistling of the wind heard in the night, is the lamentation of the spirit of some one who has been drowned, complaining for want of burial.
A dæmon or spirit of some kind, called theTeusarpouliet, often presents himself to the people under the form of a cow, a dog, a cat, or some other domestic animal; nay, he will sometimes in his assumed form do all the work of the house.
Jean gant y Tan, “John and his fire,” is a dæmon who goes about in the night with a candle on each finger, which he keeps constantly turning round very quick. What end this is to answer does not appear; there seems none, but the pleasure of frightening any body who may chance to meet him.
Another nocturnal wanderer is a spectre in white carrying a lantern; he appears at first like a mere child, but as you look at him he increases in size every moment, till he becomes of a gigantic stature, and then disappears. Like the other he seems to have no object in his walks except to frighten people. One of the servants in the house where Miss Plumptre resided very gravely gave her an account of a rencontre which she once had with this gentleman. She had been out on an errand, and returning home over thePlace du Peupleshe saw a light coming towards her, which she thought at first was somebody with a lantern; but as it came near she perceived the white figure, and it began to increase in size,—so then she knew what it was, and she put her hands before her face, and ran screaming home. Her master, she said, laughed at her for a fool, and said it was her own fancy, because he had never happened to see the spectre; nay, she did not know whether he would believe in it if he did see it; but nobody should persuade her out of her senses; she saw it as plain as ever she saw any thing in her life, and she had never ventured since to go out by herself after dark without a lantern, for the spectre never presents himself before people who carry a light.
TheCariguel Ancou, or “Chariot of death,” is a terrible apparition covered with a white sheet, and driven by skeletons; and the noise of the wheels is always heard in the street passing the door of a house where a person is dying.
TheBuguel-nosis a beneficent spirit of a gigantic stature, who wears a long white cloak, and is only to be seen between midnight and two in the morning. He defends the people against the devil by wrapping his cloak round them; and while they are thus protected they hear the infernal chariot whirl by, with a frightful noise, the charioteer making hideous cries and howlings: it may be traced in the air for a long time after, by the stream of light which it leaves behind it.
There are a set of ghostly washerwoman calledar cannerez nos, or “nocturnalsingers,” who wash their linen always by night, singing old songs and tales all the time: they solicit the assistance of people passing by to wring the linen; if it be given awkwardly, they break the person’s arm; if it be refused, they pull the refusers into the stream, and drown them.
In the district of Carhaix is a mountain called St. Michael, whither it is believed all dæmons cast out from the bodies of men are banished: if any one sets his foot at night within the circle they inhabit, he begins to run, and will never be able to cease all the rest of the night. Nobody therefore ventures to this mountain after dark.
The Brétons throw pins or small pieces of money into certain wells or springs, for good luck; in others the women dip their children, to render them inaccessible to pain. They watch the graves of their friends for some nights after their interment, lest the devil should seize upon them, and carry them off to his dominions.
In the district of Quimperlé there is a fountain called Krignac: to drink three nights successively of this at midnight is an infallible cure for an intermittent fever; or, if it should not succeed it is a sure sign that the patient’s time is come, and he has nothing to do but quietly wait the stroke of death.
If a person who keeps bees has his hives robbed, he gives them up immediately, because they never can succeed afterwards. This idea arises from an old Bréton proverb, which says,Nesquét a chunche, varlearch ar laër“No luck after the robber.” But why the whole weight of the proverb is made to fall upon the bee-hives, it might be difficult to determine.
In other parts of the country they tie a small piece of black stuff to the bee-hives, in case of a death in the family, and a piece of red in the case of a marriage; without which the bees would never thrive. On the death of any one, they draw from the smoke of the fire an augury whether his soul be gone to the regions of the blessed or the condemned: if the smoke be light and mount rapidly, he is gone to heaven; if it be thick and mount slowly, he is doomed to the regions below. If the left eye of a dead person do not close, his nearest relation is to die very soon.
The Brétons have the legend of St. Guénolé, whose sister had an eye plucked out by a goose; the saint took the eye out of the goose’s entrails, and restored it to its place without its appearing in any way different from what it was before.
They tell you likewise of St. Vincent Ferrier, who, while he was celebrating mass at Vannes, perceived that he had lost his gloves and parapluie; and recollecting that he had left them at Rome went thither to seek them, and returned and finished his mass, without one of his congregation having perceived his absence.
They have also a narrative of a wolf who ate up a poor man’s ass. St. Malo ordered the wolf to perform the functions of the ass, which he continued to do ever after; and though sometimes shut up in the stable with the sheep, never offered to touch them, but contentedly fed on thistles, and such other provender as his predecessor used to have.
A peasant boy in the district of Lesneven was never able to pronounce any other words thanO itroun guerhes Mari, “O lady Virgin Mary.” This he was perpetually repeating, and he passed among the country people for an idiot. As he grew up he would live no longer with his parents in their cottage, but slept in the hollow of a tree, and ran about the woods making his usual cry; in the coldest weather he plunged into the water up to his neck, still uttering his usual words, and came up without receiving any injury. After he died, a lily sprang from the spot where he was interred. “A miracle!” was the immediate cry, and a church was built over the grave, dedicated toNotre Dame de Follgoat, “Our lady of the madman of the woods,” where notable miracles were afterwards performed.
Certain ruins near the coast, a little to the south of Brest, are reputed to be those of a palace which belonged to theCourils, a sort of pigmies, who deal in sorceries, are very malicious, and are great dancers. They are often seen by moonlight skipping about consecrated stones or any ancient druidical monument; they seizepeople by the hand, who cannot help following them in all their movements; and when the spirits have made them dance as long as they please, they trip up their heels, leave them sprawling on the ground, and go laughing away.
There are in more than one place near the western coast stones set up in the same manner as those at Stonehenge. A species of genii, calledGaurics, are supposed to dance among them; and the stones are called, in general,Chior-gaur, or “The giants’ dance.” In one of the places where some of these stones are to be seen, the people of the neighbourhood, if asked what they mean, say that it was a procession to a wedding which was all in a moment changed into stone for some crime, but they do not know what. In another place they are reputed to be the funeral procession of a miser, who received this punishment because in his lifetime he had never given any thing to the poor.
These are only a few out of the innumerable superstitions which prevail throughout Bretagne, but they are sufficient to give a perfect idea of the power which imagination has over the minds of thesepeople.[260]
Mean Temperature 63·30.