Writing of the old traditions of Cheshire, Mrs. Gaskell said,
“I was once saying to an old blind country-woman how much I
admired the foxglove. She looked mysteriously solemn as she
told me they were not like other flowers; they had ‘knowledge’
in them!”
“I have an annual holiday, which I generally spend in Wales; and often in
this immediate neighbourhood.”
“I do not wonder at your choice,” replied Ruth. “It is a beautiful
country.”
“It is, indeed; and I have been inoculated by an old innkeeper at Conway
with a love for its people, and history, and traditions. I have picked up
enough of the language to understand many of their legends; and some are
very fine and awe-inspiring, others very poetic and fanciful.”
Ruth was too shy to keep up the conversation by any remark of her own,
although his gentle, pensive manner was very winning.
“For instance,” said he, touching a long bud-laden stem of foxglove
in the hedge-side, at the bottom of which one or two crimson speckled
flowers were bursting from their green sheaths, “I dare say, you don’t
know what makes this foxglove bend and sway so gracefully. You think it
is blown by the wind, don’t you?” He looked at her with a grave smile
which did not enliven his thoughtful eyes, but gave an inexpressible
sweetness to his face.
“I always thought it was the wind. What is it?” asked Ruth innocently.
“Oh, the Welsh tell you that this flower is sacred to the fairies, and
that it has the power of recognising them, and all spiritual beings
who pass by, and that it bows in deference to them as they waft along.
Its Welsh name is Maneg Ellyllyn—the good people’s glove; and hence, I
imagine, our folk’s-glove or foxglove.”
“It’s a very pretty fancy,” said Ruth, much interested, and wishing that
he would go on, without expecting her to reply.