Sir Walter Scott, the "Great Unknown"—His belief in Superstition—How his Tales of Fiction are composed—A Town-Clerk frightened by an Apparition—A Ghost that did not understand Erse, but could communicate in Latin—Lovel and Edie Ochiltree—Discovery of Hidden Treasure by Occult Science—"Rob Roy"—Fairies' Caverns—Supposed Apparition in the Trossachs—Elfin People at the Firth of Forth—A Minister taken away by Fairies—Dame Glendinning's Tale—Lines from "Marmion"—A Fairy Knight—Mysterious Steed.
Sir Walter Scott, the "Great Unknown"—His belief in Superstition—How his Tales of Fiction are composed—A Town-Clerk frightened by an Apparition—A Ghost that did not understand Erse, but could communicate in Latin—Lovel and Edie Ochiltree—Discovery of Hidden Treasure by Occult Science—"Rob Roy"—Fairies' Caverns—Supposed Apparition in the Trossachs—Elfin People at the Firth of Forth—A Minister taken away by Fairies—Dame Glendinning's Tale—Lines from "Marmion"—A Fairy Knight—Mysterious Steed.
Sir Walter Scott, the "Great Unknown," was sensibly affected by his country's tales of witches, fairies, and ghosts. Whether the fear he entertained proceeded fromearly impressions, or whether an awe imperceptibly crept over him, through his frequent communings with old people (when he was in more advanced life) who had no doubt of the existence of witches and spirits, good and bad, visiting the earth, and performing acts of benevolence or malevolence, according to the inclination or caprice of the uncanny or unearthly agent, we cannot say; but of one thing there can be no doubt, that even in years of maturity he believed there were spirits that appeared to men, and assisted them to perform actions they could not have done without superhuman aid, and that by such beings future events were made known. Were it not for the dash of superstition he threw here and there into his tales, they would be comparatively of a commonplace description. Like other writers of fiction, or authors whose writings rest on a slender foundation of truth, Sir Walter Scott often brings forward a witch, wizard, gipsy, fairy, ghost, and other spirits. A haunted castle, a fortune-teller, and a good or evil genius are as indispensable in a good story as a cruel parent, a rich uncle, and a disappointed lover. None knew better than the great Scottish novelist how to work on his readers' feelings; and hence his success.
Sir Walter tells, in theAntiquary, a story of Rab Tull, the town-clerk, being in an old house searching for important documents, but who was obliged to go to bed without finding them. The bodie had got such a custom of tippling and tippling with his drunken cronies, that he could not sleep without his punch, and as usual he took his glass that evening. In the middle watches of night he had a fearful wakening—he was never himself after it—and was stricken with the dead palsy that very day four years. He thought he heard the bed curtains move, and out he looked. Before him appeared an old gentleman in a queer-fashioned dress. Rab, greatly frightened, asked the apparition (for it was a spirit that stood beforehim) what it wanted. The spirit answered in an unknown tongue. Rab replied in Erse, but the spirit did not seem to understand this language. In his strait, the clerk bethought him of two or three words of Latin he used in making out the town's deeds; and no sooner had he tried the strange object before him with these, than out came such a blatter of Latin, that Rab Tull—who with all his pretensions was no great scholar—was overwhelmed. It then made a sign to Rab to follow it. He followed up-stairs and down-stairs to a tower in a corner of the house. There the ghost pointed out a cabinet, and suddenly disappeared. In a drawer of that repository the missing deed was found.
Lovel, after shooting M'Intyre in a duel, fled from justice, under the guidance of old Edie Ochiltree. Exhausted by excitement and a long walk through a thicket, they reached a cave with narrow entrance, concealed by the boughs of an oak. Passing through the aperture, not much larger than a fox-hole, they reached the interior. Lovel was led to a narrow turnpike stair leading to a church above. In the evening they reached a spot which commanded a full view of the chancel in every direction. Ere long, Lovel was startled by the sound of human voices. Two persons, with a dark lantern, entered the chancel. After conversing together some time in whispers, Lovel recognised the voice of Dousterswivel, pronouncing in a smothered tone, "Indeed, mine goot sir, dere cannot be one finer hour nor season for dis great purpose.... I will show you all de secrets dat art can show—ay, de secret of de great Pymander." The other individual turned out to be Sir Arthur Wardour, and their business evidently had reference to the discovery of hidden treasure, by means of consulting the heavenly bodies or some friendly spirit. Before Sir Arthur and Dousterswivel left the ruins of St. Ruth, they found a casket containing gold and silver coins. These two worthies, along with Mr.Oldenbuck, set out, on another occasion to search for treasure at the ruins of St. Ruth. Arrived at the scene of operations, the Antiquary addressed the adept Dousterswivel: "Pray, Mr. Dousterswivel, shall we dig from east to west, or from west to east? or will you assist us with your triangular vial of May-dew, or with your divining-rod of witch-hazel?" This was said tauntingly, yet nevertheless they proceeded to dig, in the hope of finding treasure; and sure enough, a chest containing ingots of silver to the value of a thousand pounds was discovered. Dousterswivel claimed the credit of bringing about the discovery. Mr. Oldenbuck refused to give him any credit, telling him that he came without weapons, and did not use charms, lamen-sigel, talisman, spell-crystal, pentacle, magic-mirror, nor geomantic figure. "Where," asked the Antiquary, "be your periapts, and your abracadabras, man? your May-fern, your vervain—
"Your toad, your crow, your dragon, and your panther,Your sun, your moon, your firmament, your adrop,Your Lato, Azoch, Zernich, Chibrit, Heautarit,With all your broths, your menstrues, your materials,Would burst a man to name?"
"Your toad, your crow, your dragon, and your panther,Your sun, your moon, your firmament, your adrop,Your Lato, Azoch, Zernich, Chibrit, Heautarit,With all your broths, your menstrues, your materials,Would burst a man to name?"
Dousterswivel, like all others who resort to enchantments, believing in the existence of hobgoblins and divination, was not certain but his own art had really contributed to the success of his party. Chagrined at the treatment of Mr. Oldenbuck, and separated for a time from Sir Arthur, he was glad to enter into conversation with Edie Ochiltree, who witnessed the finding of the treasure with a keen eye to future operations. Edie had surreptitiously obtained possession of the treasure box-lid, and on it he and the conjurer were able to decipher, "Search number one." The old beggar, who knew many of the traditions of the country, told Dousterswivel that the remains of Malcolm the Misticot were, along with a large amount of gold andsilver, buried somewhere at St. Ruth. Moreover, he recited the old prophecy:
"If Malcolm the Misticot's grave were fun',The lands of Knockwinnock are lost and won."
"If Malcolm the Misticot's grave were fun',The lands of Knockwinnock are lost and won."
They resolved to return to the ruins of St. Ruth at midnight to make another search, not on account of Sir Arthur or Mr. Oldenbuck, but for themselves. Neither gold nor silver were found; but those engaged in the search got a fright, one supposing he saw evil spirits rising from the earth's bowels, and the other that he was chased by a ghost on horseback. A series of interesting incidents connected with adventure, love, and crime follow. Dousterswivel was discovered to be an impostor; certain persons engaged in a dark plot were cut off by death, but the virtuous were rewarded.
Sir Walter Scott, inRob Roy, makes mention of an eminence or mound near the upland hills, whence the Forth springs, supposed by the people in the neighbourhood to contain within its unseen caverns the palaces of fairies; and in his Notes toRob Royit is stated that the lakes and precipices, amidst which the river Forth has its birth, are still, according to popular tradition, haunted by elfin people. In one note the reader is informed that the Rev. Robert Kirk, who died at Aberfoyle in the year 1688, was supposed to have been taken away by fairies. Mr. Kirk was walking near his manse on aDun Shie, or fairy mound, when he sank down apparently in a faint, and seemingly died. The body was supposed to be buried, but shortly afterwards he appeared in living form to a friend, to whom he told that he was not dead, but in fairyland, whither he was carried at the time he fell down in a swoon. The reverend captive gave directions how he might be rescued by him; but the person who was appointed to perform the prescribed ceremony failed toproceed as directed, and Mr. Kirk, who had been twice seen after his supposed death, never appeared again.
As we are writing of Rob Roy's country, and of an incident connected with the fate of a minister there, we suddenly break the thread of our narrative, to introduce the particulars of a most extraordinary circumstance connected with another clergyman in that quarter.
A few years ago, about 1870, a most respectable gentleman belonging to Edinburgh, devoid of superstitious fear, told the writer: "In the autumn I was enjoying the retirement and grandeur of the Trossachs and surrounding district. The lake, the hill, the dale, and, above all, the people, interested me. Often was I in the humble cot, and, although a sojourner, I became acquainted with families in the more exalted positions in society. Among others, I gained the friendship of a venerable clergyman, whose charity and piety were known far and near.
"While I had my residence in the Trossachs Hotel, the clergyman, I was told, one day was dangerously ill. Next morning, before starting with a few friends up Loch Katrine, I sent to inquire after the invalid's health. The answer returned conveyed the impression that he was fast sinking. We proceeded up the lake, and came back by the last boat for the day. We took outside seats on the coach, and while turning a corner of the road, about half-way between the lake and the hotel, I and several other passengers (including the captain of the Loch Katrine steamer and the driver) observed a gentleman passing us, whom we all declared was the clergyman. Trusting our sight, we thought it most extraordinary that a man, considered to be dying in the morning, should be seen in the evening on the highway, far from home.
"The steamboat being unusually late of arriving at her destination, the sun had gone down, and the shades of night were closing over us before half our journey bycoach could be accomplished, still it was not so dark when the figure of the pious minister appeared but that one might not only see the figure of a man, but observe his every feature. The sight struck all, who recognised in the traveller the invalid minister with amazement, and some with fear. On the coach arriving at the hotel, a messenger was despatched to inquire after the reverend gentleman's health. The answer received disclosed the startling intelligence that the clergyman had expired shortly before the time we saw his figure walking with slow step and sad countenance towards Loch Katrine.
But we now return to Sir Walter Scott's works. Those who have read theMonastery(and who have not?) may recollect of Dame Glendinning telling Tibb what she had seen on a Hallowe'en in her youth—which was as follows:—
"Aweel, aweel, I had mair joes than ane, but I favoured nane o' them; and sae, at Hallowe'en, Father Nicolas the cellarer—he was cellarer before his father, Father Clement, that now is—was cracking his nuts and drinking his brown beer with us, and as blithe as might be, and they would have me try a cantrip to ken wha suld wed me; and the monk said there was nae ill in it, and if there was, he would assoil me for it. And awa' I went into the barn to winnow my three weights o' naething—sair, sair, my mind misgave me for fear of wrang-doing and wrang-suffering, baith; but I had aye a bauld spirit. I had not winnowed the last weight clear out, and the moon was shining bright upon the floor, when in stalked the presence of my dear Simon Glendinning, that is now happy. I never saw him plainer in my life than I did that moment; he held up an arrow as he passed me, and I swarf'd awa' wi' fright. Muckle wark there was to bring me to mysel' again, and sair they tried to make me believe it was a trick o' Father Nicolas andSimon between them, and that the arrow was to signify Cupid's shaft, as the Father called it; and mony a time Simon wad threep it to me after I was married—gude man, he liked not it suld be said that he was seen out o' the body!—But mark the end o' it, Tibb: we were married, and the grey-goose wing was the death o' him, after a'!"
The following lines appear inMarmionin reference to a combat with a goblin knight:—
"Soon as the midnight bell did ring,Alone, and armed, forth rode the KingTo that old camp's deserted round:Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound,Left hand the town,—the Pictish raceThe trench, long since, in blood did trace;The moor around is brown and bare,The space within is green and fair.The spot our village children know,For there the earliest wild flowers grow;But woe betide the wandering wight,That treads its circle in the night!The breadth across, a bowshot clear,Gives ample space for full career;Opposed to the four points of heaven,By four deep gaps is entrance given.The southernmost our monarch passed,Halted, and blew a gallant blast;And on the north, within the ring,Appeared the form of England's king,Who then a thousand leagues afar,In Palestine waged holy war:Yet arms like England's did he wield,Alike the leopards in the shield,Alike his Syrian courser's frame,The rider's length of limb the same:Long afterwards did Scotland knowFell Edward was her deadliest foe.The vision made our monarch start,But soon he manned his noble heart,And in the first career they ran,The Elfin Knight fell horse and man;Yet did a splinter of his lanceThrough Alexander's visor glance,And razed the skin—a puny wound.The king, light leaping to the ground,With naked blade his phantom foeCompelled the future war to show.Of Largs he saw the glorious plain,Where still gigantic bones remain,Memorial of the Danish war;Himself he saw amid the field,On high his brandished war-axe wield,And strike proud Haco from his car,While all around the shadowy kings,Denmark's grim ravens cowered their wings.'Tis said that, in that awful night,Remoter visions met his sight,Foreshowing future conquests far,When our sons' sons wage northern war;A royal city, tower and spire,Reddened the midnight sky with fire;And shouting crews her navy bore,Triumphant, to the victor shore.Such signs may learned clerks explain,They pass the wit of simple swain.The joyful king turned home again,Headed his host and quelled the Dane;But yearly, when returned the nightOf his strange combat with the sprite,His wound must bleed and smart;Lord Gifford then would gibing say,'Bold as ye were, my liege, ye payThe penance of your start.'Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave,King Alexander fills his grave,Our Lady give him rest!Yet still the nightly spear and shieldThe elfin warrior doth wield,Upon the brown hill's breast;And many a knight hath proved his chanceIn the charmed ring to break a lance,But have all foully sped;Save two, as legends tell, and theyWere Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.—Gentles, my tale is said."
"Soon as the midnight bell did ring,Alone, and armed, forth rode the KingTo that old camp's deserted round:Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound,Left hand the town,—the Pictish raceThe trench, long since, in blood did trace;The moor around is brown and bare,The space within is green and fair.The spot our village children know,For there the earliest wild flowers grow;But woe betide the wandering wight,That treads its circle in the night!The breadth across, a bowshot clear,Gives ample space for full career;Opposed to the four points of heaven,By four deep gaps is entrance given.The southernmost our monarch passed,Halted, and blew a gallant blast;And on the north, within the ring,Appeared the form of England's king,Who then a thousand leagues afar,In Palestine waged holy war:Yet arms like England's did he wield,Alike the leopards in the shield,Alike his Syrian courser's frame,The rider's length of limb the same:Long afterwards did Scotland knowFell Edward was her deadliest foe.
The vision made our monarch start,But soon he manned his noble heart,And in the first career they ran,The Elfin Knight fell horse and man;Yet did a splinter of his lanceThrough Alexander's visor glance,And razed the skin—a puny wound.The king, light leaping to the ground,With naked blade his phantom foeCompelled the future war to show.Of Largs he saw the glorious plain,Where still gigantic bones remain,Memorial of the Danish war;Himself he saw amid the field,On high his brandished war-axe wield,And strike proud Haco from his car,While all around the shadowy kings,Denmark's grim ravens cowered their wings.'Tis said that, in that awful night,Remoter visions met his sight,Foreshowing future conquests far,When our sons' sons wage northern war;A royal city, tower and spire,Reddened the midnight sky with fire;And shouting crews her navy bore,Triumphant, to the victor shore.Such signs may learned clerks explain,They pass the wit of simple swain.
The joyful king turned home again,Headed his host and quelled the Dane;But yearly, when returned the nightOf his strange combat with the sprite,His wound must bleed and smart;Lord Gifford then would gibing say,'Bold as ye were, my liege, ye payThe penance of your start.'Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave,King Alexander fills his grave,Our Lady give him rest!Yet still the nightly spear and shieldThe elfin warrior doth wield,Upon the brown hill's breast;And many a knight hath proved his chanceIn the charmed ring to break a lance,But have all foully sped;Save two, as legends tell, and theyWere Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay.—Gentles, my tale is said."
One of Sir Walter Scott's poetic effusions has reference to a popular story concerning a fairy knight:—
"Osbert, a bold and powerful baron, visited a noble family in the vicinity of Wandlebury, in the bishopric of Ely. Among other stories related in the social circle of his friends (who, according to custom, amused each other by repeating ancient tales and traditions), he was informed, that if any knight, unattended, entered an adjacent plain by moonlight, and challenged an adversary to appear, he would be immediately encountered by a spirit in the form of a knight. Osbert resolved to make the experiment, and set out, attended by a single squire, whom he ordered to remain without the limits of the plain, which was surrounded by an ancient entrenchment. On repeating the challenge, he was instantly assailed by an adversary, whom he quickly unhorsed, and seized the reins of his steed. During this operation, his ghostly opponent sprang up, and darting his spear like a javelin at Osbert, wounded him in the thigh. Osbert returned in triumph with the horse, which he committed to the care of his servants. The horse was of a sable colour, as well as his whole accoutrements, and apparently of great beauty and vigour. He remained with his keepers till cock-crowing, when, with eyes flashing fire, he reared, spurned the ground, and vanished. On disarming himself, Osbert perceived that he was wounded, and that one of his steel boots was full of blood. Gervase adds, that as long as he lived, the scar of his wound opened afresh on the anniversary of the eve on which he encountered the spirit."
Lord Byron taught Superstition by his Nurse and others—Byron and the Maid in Green—The Maid's Keepsake or Charm—Bridge of Balgonie—Byron's fear to ride over it—His belief in Unlucky Days and Presentiments—Socrates's Demon—Monk Lewis's Monitor—Napoleon's Warnings—A Sorrowful Tale—A Strange Story—Qualities of Mind descending from Sire to Son—Byron's Fortune told by a Sybil—Hebrew Camyo—Abracadabra—Loch-na-Garr—Oscar of Alva—Byron's last Instructions.
Lord Byron taught Superstition by his Nurse and others—Byron and the Maid in Green—The Maid's Keepsake or Charm—Bridge of Balgonie—Byron's fear to ride over it—His belief in Unlucky Days and Presentiments—Socrates's Demon—Monk Lewis's Monitor—Napoleon's Warnings—A Sorrowful Tale—A Strange Story—Qualities of Mind descending from Sire to Son—Byron's Fortune told by a Sybil—Hebrew Camyo—Abracadabra—Loch-na-Garr—Oscar of Alva—Byron's last Instructions.
Lord Byron, who was taught superstition by his nurse, became acquainted with the peculiar belief of the Highlanders while, in early life, he dwelt within sight of "dark Loch-na-Garr." When wandering about Pannanich, the shepherds told him many strange legends, and the old dames often enticed him into their huts to amuse him with fairy tales and witch stories. It was thought by the old crones that the wonderful boy had communings with more uncanny neighbours than these simple-minded people, who no more doubted the existence of witches and fairies than they doubted that the Dee flowed from the mountains to the sea. If report spoke true, he was often heard in conversation with intelligent beings, though to ordinary human eyes no other form but that of his own was seen. After his fame was wide-spread, an old woman, who lived in a little straw-thatched cottage by the roadside near Balmoral, declared that she expected that he would enlighten the world, for she had often seen him with those who could instruct him and tell him of past and future events. One of those persons, she said, was a little maid dressed in green, whose beautiful face, flowing hair, and agile figure were faultless. Frequently was she seen climbing steep precipices on which human foot was never known to rest, and bring him flowers, and eventhe eagles' nests were not beyond her reach. While the young and middle-aged would wonder who she was, the aged shook their heads. Whoever the fair little maid was, one thing in connection with her was exceedingly strange. Either Byron did not know her relations and home, or, for reasons he kept to himself, he chose to conceal them. Her merry laugh, clear as the sound of a silver bell, or her sweet voice in song, was generally what indicated her approach. At one time she would emerge from a thicket, and rise at another, like a spectre from behind a rock. Her disappearance was equally mysterious. At their last parting she gave him a keepsake or charm, which he long wore, suspended by a ribbon, round his neck, and it was not till he threw it aside that he became unfortunate and unhappy. We cannot vouch for the truth of this story; but if Byron did not hold intercourse with unearthly beings, he has, by his writings and speech, left room for simple-minded people who have read his works and history, to suppose that he did. His belief in presentiment was very strong, as also visionary warnings of imminent danger or impending calamities.
A school-fellow of Byron had a small pony, and one day they went to the Don to bathe. When they came to the bridge of Balgownie, the young poet remembered the old prophecy:
"Brig o' Balgownie! wight is thy wa',Wi' a wife's ae son, an' a mare's ae foal,Down shalt thou fa'."
"Brig o' Balgownie! wight is thy wa',Wi' a wife's ae son, an' a mare's ae foal,Down shalt thou fa'."
He immediately stopped his companion, who was then riding, and asked him if he recollected the prophecy, saying, that as they were both only sons, and as the pony might be "a mare's ae foal," he would rather ride over first, because he had only a mother to lament him should the bridge fall, whereas he, his companion, had both a father and mother to grieve for him if he perished.Byron, however, was not the only one who put faith in such prophecies. Leslie says, "Persons have been known to dismount when they came to the brig o' Balgownie, and send their horses over before them."
Byron had a belief in unlucky days. He once refused to be introduced to a lady because the day was Friday; and on this day of the week he would not visit his friends. "Something," he said, "whispered to me at my wedding that I was signing my death warrant. I am a great believer in presentiments. Socrates's demon was no fiction; Monk Lewis had his monitor, and Napoleon many warnings. At the last moment I would have retreated if I could have done so."
The poet had a high opinion of Monk Lewis. Here are two stories told by Byron:
"Whilst Lewis was residing at Mannheim, every night at the same hour, he heard, or thought he heard, in his room, when he was lying in bed, a crackling noise like that produced by parchment or thick paper. This circumstance caused inquiry, when it was told him that the sounds were attributable to the following cause:—The house in which he lived had belonged to a widow who had an only son. In order to prevent him marrying a poor but amiable girl to whom he was attached, he was sent to sea. Years passed, and the mother heard no tidings of him nor of the ship in which he had sailed. It was supposed the vessel had been wrecked, and that all on board had perished. The reproaches of the girl, the upbraidings of her own conscience, and the loss of her child, crazed the old lady's mind. Her only pursuit was to turn over the gazettes for news. Hope at length left her: she did not live long, and continued her old occupation after death."
The other story runs thus:
"Two Florentine lovers, who had been attached to each other almost from childhood, made a vow of eternal fidelity. Mina was the name of the lady; her husband'sI forget, but it is not material. They parted. He had been some time absent with his regiment, when, as his disconsolate lady was sitting alone in her chamber, she distinctly heard the well-known sound of his footsteps, and, starting up, beheld not her husband, but his spectre, with a deep ghastly wound across his forehead. She swooned with horror. When she recovered, the ghost told her that in future his visits should be announced by a passing bell, and the words distinctly whispered, 'Mina, I am here!' Their interviews became frequent, till the woman fancied herself as much in love with the ghost as she had been with the man. But it was soon to prove otherwise. One fatal night she went to a ball. She danced, and, what was worse, her partner was a young Florentine, so much the counterpart of her lover, that she became estranged from the ghost. Whilst the young gallant conducted her in the waltz, and her ear drank in the music of his voice and words, a passing bell tolled. She had been accustomed to the sound till it hardly excited her attention, and, now lost in the attractions of her fascinating partner, she heard, but regarded it not. A second peal!—she listened not to its warnings. A third time the bell, with its deep and iron tongue, startled the assembled company, and silenced the music. Mina turned her eyes from her partner, and saw, reflected in the mirror, a form, a shadow, a spectre: it was her husband. He was standing between her and the young Florentine, and whispered, in a solemn and melancholy tone, the accustomed accents, 'Mina, I am here!' She instantly fell down dead. The two ghosts walked out of the room arm in arm."
Byron believed that the quality of mind descended from sire to son, and contended that any passion might be worn out of a family by skilful culture. To his uncle, who was very superstitious, and fed crickets, he ascribed his superstition; to another of his ancestors, who died laughing, he ascribed his buoyant spirits.Two of his relations had such an affection for each other, that they both died at the same time. "There seems," he said, "to have been a flaw in my escutcheon there, or that that loving couple have monopolised all the connubial bliss of the family."
Byron's superstition was so great that it led him to have his fortune told by a sybil. It was prophesied that his twenty-seventh and thirty-seventh years would prove unlucky to him. Some people have thought that the prophecy was fulfilled: he was married in his twenty-seventh, and died in his thirty-seventh year.
He was convinced that the principal charms of the Scotch resembled those of other nations. He was not ignorant of the supposed virtue of the mountain ash as an antidote against witchcraft. Everything pertaining to superstition was interesting to him. He had stored up in his memory many curious anecdotes. On being told of a particular race of men skilled in Cabala, who by a single gaze of their "evil eye" could level an enemy to the earth and occasion instantaneous death, and of parents who had handsome children hanging cameos round their necks to protect them from the evil consequences of a wicked eye, his Lordship said, "I remember reading somewhere that Serenus Samonicus, preceptor to a young Gordian, recommended the Abracadabra or Abrasadabra as a charm or amulet in curing agues, and preventing other diseases."
A Hebrew Camyo, supposed to have been handed down from father to son since the building of the first temple, has a similar effect. Lucky is the circumcised Jew who has, in the time of need, the good fortune to have the Hebrew charm applied to his leprously-inclined body; and thrice fortunate is he, whoever he may be, that has it constantly at his command, and can claim it as his family relic.
The word Abracadabra or Abrasadabra must bewritten on parchment, or other suitable substance, in the manner below, omitting in every new line the last letter of the former line, so that the whole may form a kind of inverted cone:
A b r a c a d a b r aA b r a c a d a b rA b r a c a d a bA b r a c a d aA b r a c a dA b r a c aA b r a cA b r aA b rA bA
A b r a c a d a b r aA b r a c a d a b rA b r a c a d a bA b r a c a d aA b r a c a dA b r a c aA b r a cA b r aA b rA bA
Byron looked as if he had added greatly to his stock of knowledge when he learned that, which way soever the letters of the charms might be taken, beginning from the lower point and ascending from the left to the right, they make the same word.
To every one who has readLoch-na-Garr, it must be evident that Byron believed, or wished it to appear that he believed, like the Highlanders, that the voices of the dead were heard in the storm, that the souls of departed heroes rode on the wind, and that the dark clouds encircled the forms of chieftain sires that added lustre to their country's glory. But the poet shall speak for himself:—
"Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!In you let the minions of luxury rove;Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,Round their white summits though elements war;Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-Garr.Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd;My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid:On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade;I sought not my home till the day's dying gloryGave place to the rays of the bright polar star;For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-Garr.'Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voicesRise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?'Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.Round Loch-na-Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,Winter presides in his cold icy car:Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch-na-Garr.'Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions forebodingTell you that fate had forsaken your cause?'Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,Victory crown'd not your fall with applause:Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,You rest with your clans in the caves of Braemar;The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number,Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch-na-Garr.Years have roll'd on, Loch-na-Garr, since I left you,Years must elapse ere I tread you again:Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.England! thy beauties are tame and domesticTo one who has roved o'er the mountains afar:O for the crags that are wild and majestic!The steep frowning glories of dark Loch-na-Garr!"
"Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!In you let the minions of luxury rove;Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,Round their white summits though elements war;Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-Garr.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd;My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid:On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade;I sought not my home till the day's dying gloryGave place to the rays of the bright polar star;For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-Garr.
'Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voicesRise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?'Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.Round Loch-na-Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,Winter presides in his cold icy car:Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch-na-Garr.
'Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions forebodingTell you that fate had forsaken your cause?'Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,Victory crown'd not your fall with applause:Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,You rest with your clans in the caves of Braemar;The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number,Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch-na-Garr.
Years have roll'd on, Loch-na-Garr, since I left you,Years must elapse ere I tread you again:Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.England! thy beauties are tame and domesticTo one who has roved o'er the mountains afar:O for the crags that are wild and majestic!The steep frowning glories of dark Loch-na-Garr!"
InOscar of Alvawill also be found something of popular superstition. Passing over a part of the tale, Byron says:—
"From high Southannon's distant towerArrived a young and noble dame;With Kenneth's lands to form her dower,Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came.And Oscar claimed the beauteous bride,And Angus on his Oscar smiled;It soothed the father's feudal prideThus to obtain Glenalvon's child.Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!Hark to the swelling nuptial song!In joyous strains the voices float,And still the choral peal prolong.* * * * *But where is Oscar? Sure 'tis late:Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame?While thronging guests and ladies waitNor Oscar nor his brother came.At length young Allan join'd the bride;'Why comes not Oscar?' Angus said:'Is he not here?' the youth replied;'With me he roved not o'er the glade.'* * * * *'O search, ye chiefs! O search around!Allan, with these through Alva fly;Till Oscar, till my son is found,Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.'Three days, three sleepless nights, the chiefFor Oscar searched each mountain caveThen hope is lost: in boundless griefHis locks in grey torn ringlets wave.* * * * *Days rolled along: the orb of lightAgain had run his destined race;No Oscar bless'd his father's sight,And sorrow left a fainter trace.For youthful Allan still remain'd,And now his father's only joy:And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd,For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy.She thought that Oscar low was laid,And Allan's face was wondrous fair:If Oscar lived, some other maidHad claim'd his faithless bosom's care.And Angus said, if one year moreIn fruitless hope was pass'd away,His fondest scruples should be o'er,And he would name their nuptial day.Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at lastArrived the dearly destined morn;The year of anxious trembling past,What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn!Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!Hark to the swelling nuptial song!In joyous strains the voices float,And still the choral peal prolong.Again the clan, in festive crowd,Throng through the gate of Alva's hall;The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,And all their former joy recall.But who is he whose darken'd browGlooms in the midst of general mirth?Before his eyes' far fiercer glowThe blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.Dark is the robe which wraps his form,And tall his plume of gory red;His voice is like the rising storm,But light and trackless is his tread.'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd;With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,And all combine to hail the draught.Sudden the stranger chief arose,And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd;And Angus' cheek with wonder glows,And Mora's tender bosom blush'd.'Old man!' he cried, 'this pledge is done;Thou saw'st was duly drunk by me:It hail'd the nuptials of thy son:Now will I claim, a pledge from thee.While all around is mirth and joy,To bless thy Allan's happy lot,Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy?Say, why should Oscar be forgot?''Alas!' the hapless sire replied,The big tear starting as he spoke;When Oscar left my hall, or died,This aged heart was almost broke.'Thrice has the earth revolved her courseSince Oscar's form has bless'd my sight;And Allan is my last resource,Since martial Oscar's death or flight.'''Tis well,' replied the stranger stern,And fiercely flashed his rolling eye;'Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn:Perhaps the hero did not die.'Perchance if those whom most he lovedWould call, thy Oscar might return;Perchance the chief has only roved;For him thy beltane yet may burn.'Fill high the bowl the table round,We will not claim the pledge by stealth;With wine let every cup be crown'd:Pledge me departed Oscar's health.''With all my soul,' old Angus said,And fill'd his goblet to the brim;'Here's to my boy! alive or dead,I ne'er shall find a son like him.''Bravely, old man, this health hath sped;But why does Allan trembling stand?Come, drink remembrance of the dead,And raise thy cup with firmer hand.'The crimson glow of Allan's faceWas turn'd at once to ghastly hue;The drops of death each other chaseAdown in agonizing dew.Thrice did he raise the goblet high,And thrice his lips refused to taste;For thrice he caught the stranger's eyeOn his with deadly fury placed.'And is it thus a brother hailsA brother's fond remembrance here;If thus affection's strength prevails,What might we not expect from fear?'Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl,'Would Oscar now could share our mirth!'Internal fear appall'd his soul;He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!'Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form;'A murderer's voice!' the roof replies,And deeply swells the bursting storm.The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,The stranger's gone—amidst the crewA form was seen in tartan green,And tall the shade terrific grew.His waist was bound with a broad belt round,His plume of sable stream'd on high;But his breast was bare, with the red wounds thereAnd fixed was the glare of his glassy eye.And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild,On Angus bending low the knee:And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground,Whom shivering crowds with horror see.The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,The thunders through the welkin ring;And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm,Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing.Cold was the feast, the revel ceased,Who lies upon the stony floor?Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast,At length his life-pulse throbs once more.Away! away! let the leech assayTo pour the light on Allan's eyes:His sand is done—his race is run;O! never more shall Allan rise:But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,His locks are lifted by the gale:And Allan's barbed arrow layWith him in dark Glentanar's vale.And whence the dreadful stranger came,Or who, no mortal wight can tell;But no one doubts the form of flame,For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.Ambition nerved young Allan's hand,Exulting demons wing'd his dart;While Envy waved her burning brand,And pour'd her venom round his heart.Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow;Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,The dart has drunk his vital tide.And Mora's eye could Allan move,She bade his wounded pride rebel;Alas! that eyes which beam'd with loveShould urge the soul to deeds of hell.Lo! seest thou not a lonely tombWhich rises o'er a warrior dead?It glimmers through the twilight gloom:O! that is Allan's nuptial bed.Far, distant far, the noble graveWhich held his clan's great ashes stood;And o'er his corse no banners wave,For they were stain'd with kindred blood.What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise?The song is glory's chief reward,But who can strike a murderer's praise?Unstrung, untouch'd the harp must stand,No minstrel dare the theme awake;Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,His harp in shuddering chords would break.No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse,Shall sound his glories high in air:A dying father's bitter curse,A brother's death-groan echoes there."
"From high Southannon's distant towerArrived a young and noble dame;With Kenneth's lands to form her dower,Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came.
And Oscar claimed the beauteous bride,And Angus on his Oscar smiled;It soothed the father's feudal prideThus to obtain Glenalvon's child.
Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!Hark to the swelling nuptial song!In joyous strains the voices float,And still the choral peal prolong.
* * * * *
But where is Oscar? Sure 'tis late:Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame?While thronging guests and ladies waitNor Oscar nor his brother came.
At length young Allan join'd the bride;'Why comes not Oscar?' Angus said:'Is he not here?' the youth replied;'With me he roved not o'er the glade.'
* * * * *
'O search, ye chiefs! O search around!Allan, with these through Alva fly;Till Oscar, till my son is found,Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.'
Three days, three sleepless nights, the chiefFor Oscar searched each mountain caveThen hope is lost: in boundless griefHis locks in grey torn ringlets wave.
* * * * *
Days rolled along: the orb of lightAgain had run his destined race;No Oscar bless'd his father's sight,And sorrow left a fainter trace.
For youthful Allan still remain'd,And now his father's only joy:And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd,For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy.
She thought that Oscar low was laid,And Allan's face was wondrous fair:If Oscar lived, some other maidHad claim'd his faithless bosom's care.
And Angus said, if one year moreIn fruitless hope was pass'd away,His fondest scruples should be o'er,And he would name their nuptial day.
Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at lastArrived the dearly destined morn;The year of anxious trembling past,What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn!
Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!Hark to the swelling nuptial song!In joyous strains the voices float,And still the choral peal prolong.
Again the clan, in festive crowd,Throng through the gate of Alva's hall;The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,And all their former joy recall.
But who is he whose darken'd browGlooms in the midst of general mirth?Before his eyes' far fiercer glowThe blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.
Dark is the robe which wraps his form,And tall his plume of gory red;His voice is like the rising storm,But light and trackless is his tread.
'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff'd;With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,And all combine to hail the draught.
Sudden the stranger chief arose,And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd;And Angus' cheek with wonder glows,And Mora's tender bosom blush'd.
'Old man!' he cried, 'this pledge is done;Thou saw'st was duly drunk by me:It hail'd the nuptials of thy son:Now will I claim, a pledge from thee.
While all around is mirth and joy,To bless thy Allan's happy lot,Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy?Say, why should Oscar be forgot?'
'Alas!' the hapless sire replied,The big tear starting as he spoke;When Oscar left my hall, or died,This aged heart was almost broke.
'Thrice has the earth revolved her courseSince Oscar's form has bless'd my sight;And Allan is my last resource,Since martial Oscar's death or flight.'
''Tis well,' replied the stranger stern,And fiercely flashed his rolling eye;'Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn:Perhaps the hero did not die.
'Perchance if those whom most he lovedWould call, thy Oscar might return;Perchance the chief has only roved;For him thy beltane yet may burn.
'Fill high the bowl the table round,We will not claim the pledge by stealth;With wine let every cup be crown'd:Pledge me departed Oscar's health.'
'With all my soul,' old Angus said,And fill'd his goblet to the brim;'Here's to my boy! alive or dead,I ne'er shall find a son like him.'
'Bravely, old man, this health hath sped;But why does Allan trembling stand?Come, drink remembrance of the dead,And raise thy cup with firmer hand.'
The crimson glow of Allan's faceWas turn'd at once to ghastly hue;The drops of death each other chaseAdown in agonizing dew.
Thrice did he raise the goblet high,And thrice his lips refused to taste;For thrice he caught the stranger's eyeOn his with deadly fury placed.
'And is it thus a brother hailsA brother's fond remembrance here;If thus affection's strength prevails,What might we not expect from fear?'
Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl,'Would Oscar now could share our mirth!'Internal fear appall'd his soul;He said, and dash'd the cup to earth.
'Tis he! I hear my murderer's voice!'Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form;'A murderer's voice!' the roof replies,And deeply swells the bursting storm.
The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,The stranger's gone—amidst the crewA form was seen in tartan green,And tall the shade terrific grew.
His waist was bound with a broad belt round,His plume of sable stream'd on high;But his breast was bare, with the red wounds thereAnd fixed was the glare of his glassy eye.
And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild,On Angus bending low the knee:And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground,Whom shivering crowds with horror see.
The bolts loud roll from pole to pole,The thunders through the welkin ring;And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm,Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing.
Cold was the feast, the revel ceased,Who lies upon the stony floor?Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast,At length his life-pulse throbs once more.
Away! away! let the leech assayTo pour the light on Allan's eyes:His sand is done—his race is run;O! never more shall Allan rise:
But Oscar's breast is cold as clay,His locks are lifted by the gale:And Allan's barbed arrow layWith him in dark Glentanar's vale.
And whence the dreadful stranger came,Or who, no mortal wight can tell;But no one doubts the form of flame,For Alva's sons knew Oscar well.
Ambition nerved young Allan's hand,Exulting demons wing'd his dart;While Envy waved her burning brand,And pour'd her venom round his heart.
Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow;Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?Dark Oscar's sable crest is low,The dart has drunk his vital tide.
And Mora's eye could Allan move,She bade his wounded pride rebel;Alas! that eyes which beam'd with loveShould urge the soul to deeds of hell.
Lo! seest thou not a lonely tombWhich rises o'er a warrior dead?It glimmers through the twilight gloom:O! that is Allan's nuptial bed.
Far, distant far, the noble graveWhich held his clan's great ashes stood;And o'er his corse no banners wave,For they were stain'd with kindred blood.
What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise?The song is glory's chief reward,But who can strike a murderer's praise?
Unstrung, untouch'd the harp must stand,No minstrel dare the theme awake;Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,His harp in shuddering chords would break.
No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse,Shall sound his glories high in air:A dying father's bitter curse,A brother's death-groan echoes there."
The incidents immediately preceding Byron's death show that, to his last moments, he entertained what is generally regarded as superstitious sentiments. He thought it possible for him to waken from the sleep of death, and torment those he desired to punish. Perceiving that he was seriously ill, he called his faithful attendant Fletcher, and gave him several directions. The servant expressed a hope that he (his master) would live many years. To this Byron replied, "No, it is now nearly over;" and then added, "I must tell you all, without losing a single moment. Now pay attention—You will be provided for—Oh, my poor dear child, my dear Ada!—could I but see her—give her my blessing—and my dear sister Augusta and her children—you will go to Lady Byron, and say—tell her everything." Here his Lordship seemed to be greatly affected; his voice failed him so much that it was difficult to understand what he said. After remaining silent for a short time, he raised his voice and said, "Fletcher: now if you do not execute every order which I have given you, I will torment you hereafter, if possible." These were nearly the last words he spoke, having very soon afterwards fallen into an easy sleep, from which he never awoke.