“The good old customs of the country are passing away.”
No speech, perhaps, is oftener heard than this when, over the walnuts
and the wine, about Christmas time or Hallowe’en, the talk has turned
upon the subject of old-fashioned festivities. And the sentiment seldom
fails to evoke a sigh of regret, and to awake recollections of frolic
mirth enjoyed in lighter-hearted days. But while there is, without
doubt, truth in the remark, happily it is not altogether true. The
portly old gentleman who animadverts upon the subject is generally too
apt to take for granted that, because for some decades he has ceased
to share in these festal sports, the sports themselves have ceased
to be observed. If, however, the speaker were to return upon such a
night as All Hallow’s Eve to the village where perchance his youthful
years were passed, he might find that the quaint and merry customs he
laments do not altogether belong to the golden dust of long-forgotten
days. Though he himself has grown older and graver, the great heart of
the world has remained ever young; and ever still, as the traditional
occasions come round, there breaks forth amid its long-accustomed
scenes the ancient madcap carnival of mirth.
Not, indeed, quite as in bygone times is this festival of Hallowe’en
now observed. The witches no longer, as in days of yore, are believed
to hold their revels then upon the green-sward, and something of the
ancient superstition which otherwise lent awe to the eve of All Saints’
Day has been dispelled by modern education. But enough remains of
uncanny feeling to lend interest to the more mysterious proceedings of
the night; and the spirit of simple enjoyment may be trusted to keep
alive for its own sake most of the mirth-giving functions of the feast.
An institution which took its origin probably from some strange rite of
far-back pagan times, which has managed to survive countless changes of
thought, and, like a rolling snowball, to incorporate in itself traces
of the Crusades, of the mediæval church mysteries or miracle plays,
and of later witchcraft and elfin superstitions, must have a strong
hold somewhere upon human nature, and is not likely to disappear quite
at once even before the blast of the steam-engine and the roll of the
printing-press.
If one wishes to know how lads and lasses spent their Hallowe’en in
Ayrshire a hundred years ago, he has but to read the famous description
of the occasion written by the glowing peasant-pen of Burns; and
cold indeed must be his imagination if he does not catch from that
description something of the frolic spirit of the night. In these lines
he may hear the timid lasses “skirl” as their sweethearts surprise them
pulling the fateful corn-stalks; he may watch Jamie Fleck secretly
sowing his handful of hemp-seed, and waiting for the image of his
destined true-love to appear behind him in the act of harrowing it; he
may see Meg in the empty barn, winnowing her “wechts o’ naething,” and
likewise waiting for her true-love’s presentment; and he may laugh at
the mishap befalling the wanton widow as she dips her left sleeve in
the rivulet at the meeting of three lairds’ lands. But one must not
think that these time-honoured rites are all unpractised now.
Let him step into some great farm-kitchen of the Lothians, with its
red fire roaring up the chimney, its plate-racks gleaming on the walls,
and dressers, tables, and chairs clean as scrubbing can make them, and
he will find in practice bits of traditional folklore and traits of
human nature equally worthy of the poet’s pen.
The place for the moment is empty, the lamps shining from their bright
tin sconces on the walls upon unoccupied wooden settles and chairs;
for lads and lasses together have betaken themselves to pull each his
particular prophetic stock in the kailyard at hand. But presently,
with shouts of laughter, they come streaming in from the darkness;
and shrieks of merriment greet the discovery of the fortune which has
befallen individual members of the company. For, according as the
stock lighted on in the dark turns out to be straight or crooked, and
its taste sweet or bitter, so the appearance and disposition of its
possessor’s future mate will be; and according as earth has clung to
the uptorn root or not will the pockets of the future pair be well
filled or the reverse. A merry party these men and maidens make,
bringing in with them, as they enter, a breeze of the cool night air,
and a breath of the sweet, fresh-smelling earth. And from the flaming
cheeks and sparkling eyes of at least one of the laughing girls, it is
to be doubted that she has met outside with somewhat warmer and more
certain assurance of the personality of her future partner in life than
is likely to be afforded by her stock of curly kail.
Another method of divination, however, presently engrosses all
attention indoors. Three bowls are set out on the hearth--one full
of clean water, one muddy, and the remaining vessel empty. One after
another each lad and lass is blindfolded, the position of the bowls is
changed in thimble-rigging fashion, and he or she is led forward and
invited to place a hand in one. According as the dish chosen proves
dirty, clean, or empty, will the inquirer of the Fates marry a widow or
a maid, or remain a bachelor; and shrieks of merriment are occasioned
by the appropriate mishaps which befall the most confident.
Then there is the burning of nuts to be done in the great
kitchen-fire--a method of discovering whether the future wedded state
is to be one of peace or discord. And it is amusing to see the quietest
of the maids drop two nuts side by side into a red corner of the
coal, blushing at the guesses made by her merry companions, but shyly
whispering to herself, “This is Patey and this is me,” and watching
with bashful eagerness as the two take fire together. Puff! Alas for
her hopes, poor child! “Patey” has shot away from her side; and the hot
tears are woefully near her eyes as she notices that he has settled
down to burn by the nut of her neighbour. May her sorrows, sweet lass,
never have darker cause than this imaginary presage of losing a fickle
lover!
And now, by way of supper, a mighty platter of “champed” potatoes
is placed upon the table--a pile mountain high, in which are hidden
somewhere a ring, a sixpence, a thimble, and a button. The lamps are
put out, each person is armed with a spoon, and in the uncertain
light of the glowing fire the mystic procession moves round the table
in single file. Each one as he passes the platter takes a spoonful
of potatoes, and he or she who finds the ring is fated to be first
married. The sixpence is an augury of wealth, and the finding of
the thimble or the button is, according to the sex of the finder,
an indication that he or she will marry a maiden spouse or will die
single.
But, listen! There is a sudden loud knocking at the door. It heralds
the time-honoured visitation of the Guizards, a ceremony annually
renewed by each succeeding generation of village boys. In they stalk,
got up in grotesque improvisations of mumming costume, each armed with
a wooden sword, and carrying a ghostly lantern hollowed out of a giant
turnip. “Here comes in Galoshin,” as that individual himself informs
the company--being doubtless the traditional representative of some
forgotten Templar Knight; and presently he is engaged in a sanguinary
hand-to-hand encounter with another wooden-sworded champion upon the
floor. Many are the bold words that are said and the doughty deeds
that are done; and through the whole performance one may see, as Scott
remarked in a note to “Marmion,” traces of the ancient monkish plays
and the revels of the mediæval Lord of Misrule. At the end the players
are contented with a reward of apples and nuts, and a share in their
elders’ merriment.
Tubs full of water are placed on the floor, and dozens of red-cheeked
apples set swimming in them; and immediately a wild scene of revel
ensues, as all and sundry, men and maids, on their knees, seek to
snatch the floating apples with their teeth. Many an unexpected ducking
is got, and shrieks of laughter greet each mishap and each ineffectual
effort to secure a prize. Then there is a wild game of blind man’s
buff, led off by Galoshin himself, who turns out, now that his burnt
cork and whiskers have been washed off, to be one of the younger men
of the house, and the soul of all the fun. And from the sly fashion
in which he avoids other quarry, and keeps hemming one rosy little
maid into corners, compelling her to spring shrieking over settles and
chairs, it may be gathered that the knowing fellow is no more blinded
than he wishes himself to be.
And so the night goes on, a night of whole-hearted and innocent
mirth--enough to prove that the spirit of old-fashioned revelry is by
no means dead, and that, for at least one night in the year, the young
blood of Lowland and Lothian still can make as much and as joyous
merriment as ever did its progenitors a hundred years ago.