experience. It was at the Neeps off Gravaland, on the west side of
Yell. Here the coast-line is sinuous and precipitous, the cliffs in
many parts being very high; and here there are many well-sheltered
creeks, rather favourite haunts of the tang-fish. A cautious survey
discovered twelve or twenty of them ‘lying up’ on a few detached rocks
in one of these creeks, and of course, as usual, far beyond range
from any point on the top of the cliff. To get a chance of a shot, it
was necessary to scramble down to the beach and out amongst the great
boulders left dry by the ebb-tide, a matter of no small difficulty,
and also danger. I was accompanied by a young Englishman, who was very
eager for a shot. Retiring a little from the brow of the cliff, we held
a brief whispered consultation. ‘Nothing for it,’ I said, ‘but to get
down. Will you try it?’
‘No,’ he replied; ‘I dare not. I always get giddy, looking down from
great heights, and I could not possibly attempt a precipice like that.
Do you really mean to venture?’
‘Certainly,’ I said; ‘nothing venture nothing win.’
‘Well, well,’ rejoined he, ‘you’re to the manner born, and I wish you
luck.’
One can’t climb or descend a difficult precipice with boots, so I
discarded mine, carefully charged my trusty old fowling-piece, and
commenced the descent, well out of view of the seals. The task would
have been no easy one at any time; but cumbered as I was with my
fowling-piece, and obliged to double and twist in all directions, to
avoid being seen, it was stalking under difficulties of no ordinary
magnitude. After infinite toil and circumspection, I found myself
about thirty feet from the bottom; but farther I was utterly unable
to proceed without coming full in sight of the seals, who were as yet
unaware of the proximity of danger. Continuing my downward course,
they soon caught sight of me, and one after another quietly slipped
off the rocks into the water. I made my way to the beach, and crept
out as far as possible amongst the great ebb-stones, behind one of
which I crouched, in hopes of getting a shot at a seal swimming, for
they kept bobbing up and down in the creek. At last one fellow did
give me a pretty good chance, and I brought his gambols to a speedy
close. To strip and plunge into the sea was the work of a minute. But
before I reached him he had sunk. This was very provoking. However,
nothing daunted, I returned on shore, retraced my way up the cliff, and
then across a long stretch of barren moor, to the nearest fishermen’s
cottages at Whalfirth Voe. A boat was speedily manned by three obliging
young fellows, and a pull of several miles brought us round to the
creek. Having borrowed two stout piltock rods, I lashed them firmly
together, and tied a ling hook to the point, and thus extemporised a
capital gaff. We found the water not more than twelve or fourteen feet
deep, and quite clear. I knew the exact spot where the seal had sunk;
so we soon discovered him lying on the bottom, seeming not much larger
than a good-sized cod, owing, I suppose, to refraction. I speedily
gaffed him, and brought him to the surface. He proved to be a splendid
animal, five feet nine inches in length, and very fat. The skin, a
particularly fine one, I presented to my English friend; and the
blubber was converted into oil, which kept our dining-room lamp burning
brightly during many long nights of the succeeding winter.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Continued from No. 23, p. 364.
[2] In our former paper, the Great seal or Haff-fish was inadvertently
named _Phoca barbata_ instead of _Halichœrus gryphus_, a mistake which
we take this opportunity of rectifying.
SOME SACRED TREES.
There are few things more impressive to the thoughtful mind than the
near contemplation of tall and large trees in full foliage. They are
symbols of antiquity and endurance, yet also of the changes consequent
on a constant renewal. Traditions gather naturally round an object
which witnesses the growth and disappearance of generations. The
memories of men long dead become connected with them; and the rude
imagination pictures the souls of the departed as still lingering in
the familiar groves, and haunting the favourite tree which sheltered
them in the noonday heat and from the fury of the sudden tempest. Such
fancies in untutored times naturally induced veneration for the object
which inspired them, and such may have been the origin of tree-worship,
which has been a prevalent form of idolatry.
In the East, the greatest veneration is paid to the Indian _Ficus
religiosa_, the sacred and consecrated fig-tree or peepul-tree,
which is held pre-eminently sacred by the Buddhists, and is revered
also by the Hindus, the birth of Vishnu having occurred beneath its
branches. It is the Rarvasit, the tree of knowledge and wisdom, the
holy Bo-tree of the lamas of Tibet. It is met with in most countries of
South-eastern Asia; but the descriptions of it in botanical handbooks
are confused and misleading. It is a handsome tree, growing frequently
to a great height, an evergreen, which puts forth its flowers in April,
and the bark yields freely upon incision an acrid milk containing a
considerable proportion of india-rubber. According to Balfour, ‘the
leaves are heart-shaped, long, pointed, and not unlike those of some
poplars; and as the footstalks are long and slender, the leaves vibrate
in the air like those of the aspen. It was under this tree that Gautama
slept, and dreamed that his bed was the vast earth, and the Himalaya
Mountains his pillow, while his left arm reached to the Eastern Ocean,
his right to the Western Ocean, and his feet to the great South Sea.’
(Balfour’s _Cyclopædia of India_.) This dream warned him that he was
about to become a Buddha; and when its prophecy was fulfilled, he was
again seated beneath the same tree.
In the year 250 B.C. a branch of this sacred tree was sent to the
ancient city of Amūrādhapōōra, in the interior of Ceylon, together with
the collar-bone of Gautama, and his begging-dish with other relics.
Here it was planted, and was known by the name of the Bo-tree. The
highest reverence was paid to it for two thousand years, and it is to
this day the chief object of worship to the pilgrims who every year
flock to the ruins of this city. These ruins are of vast extent, and
abound in intricate and magnificent carvings. ‘An inclosure of three
hundred and forty-five feet in length, and two hundred and sixteen in
breadth, surrounds the court of the Bo-tree, designated by Buddhists
the great, famous, and triumphant fig-tree.’ It is declared to be the
same tree sprung from the branch sent by Asoka from Buddh-gyâ, and the
amazing vigour and longevity of these trees make the assertion within
the limits of the possible. ‘The city is in ruins,’ says Fergusson;
‘its great dagobas (sanctuaries containing relics) have fallen into
decay; its monasteries have disappeared; but the great Bo-tree still
flourishes, according to the legend: “Ever green, never growing, or
decreasing, but living on for ever for the delight and worship of
mankind.” There is probably no older idol in the world, certainly none
more venerated.’[3]
A recent Indian periodical, describing the white elephant purchased by
Mr Barnum, states that, under the terms of the deed of sale, the great
showman was required to swear ‘by the holy and sacred Bo-tree’ that the
animal, itself reverenced in the highest degree, should receive every
kindness and consideration.
The next instance of a venerated tree is of a still more astonishing
kind. Tsong Kaba, the founder of the Yellow Cap Lamas, who became
Buddha in the early part of the fifteenth century, was endowed from his
birth with miraculous white hair. At the age of three years his head
was shaved, and the hair, which was fine, long, and flowing, was thrown
outside his parents’ tent. ‘From this hair there forthwith sprung a
tree, the wood of which dispensed an exquisite perfume around, and
each leaf of which bore, engraved on its surface, a character in the
sacred language of Tibet.’ Whatever may be thought of this legend, it
is certain that the tree which it is concerned with actually existed
in the days of the Abbé Huc, who visited it, and in whose Travels it is
circumstantially described. It is situated at the foot of the mountain
where Tsong Kaba was born, near the lamasery or Buddhist convent called
Kounboum, which signifies the ‘Ten Thousand Images,’ and is a famous
place of pilgrimage.
‘This tree,’ says the abbé, ‘does exist; and we had heard of it too
often in our journey not to feel somewhat eager to visit it. At the
foot of the mountain on which the lamasery stands is a great square
inclosure, formed by brick walls. Upon entering this, we were able to
examine at leisure the marvellous tree. Our eyes were first directed
with earnest curiosity to the leaves; and we were filled with an
absolute consternation of astonishment at finding that there were upon
each of the leaves well-formed Tibetan characters, all of a green
colour—some darker, some lighter than the leaf itself. Our first
impression was a suspicion of fraud on the part of the lamas; but
after a minute examination of every detail, we could not discover the
least deception. The characters all appeared to us portions of the
leaf itself, equally with its veins and nerves. The position was not
the same in all: in one leaf, they would be at the top; in another,
in the middle; in a third, at the base, or side. The younger leaves
represented the characters only in a partial state of formation. The
bark of the tree and of its branches, which resemble that of the
plane-tree, is also covered with these characters. When you remove a
piece of the bark, the young bark under it exhibits the indistinct
outlines of characters in a germinating state; and what is very
singular, these new characters are not unfrequently different from
those which they replace. We examined everything with the closest
attention, in order to detect some trace of trickery; but we could
discern nothing of the sort. The tree of the Ten Thousand Images seemed
to be of great age. Its trunk, which three men could scarcely embrace
with outstretched arms, is not more than eight feet high; the branches
spread out in the shape of a plume of feathers, and are extremely
bushy; few of them are dead. The leaves are always green; and the wood,
which is of a reddish tint, has an exquisite odour, something like
cinnamon. The lamas informed us that in summer towards the eighth moon,
the tree produces large red flowers of a beautiful character. Many
attempts have been made in various lamaseries of Tartary and Tibet to
propagate it by seeds and cuttings, but all these attempts have been
fruitless.
‘The Emperor Khang-hi, when upon a pilgrimage to Kounboum, constructed
at his own private expense a dome of silver over the tree of the Ten
Thousand Images, and endowed the lamasery with a yearly revenue for
the support of three hundred lamas.’ This tree is said to be still in
existence.
In Hunter’s _Annals of Rural Bengal_, there is the following
interesting instance of tree-worship. ‘Adjoining the Santal village
is a grove of their national tree’—the Sal (_Shorea robusta_)—‘which
they believe to be the favourite resort of all the family gods (lares)
of the little community. From its silent gloom the bygone generations
watch their children playing their several parts in life. Several
times a year the whole hamlet, dressed out in its showiest, repairs to
the grove to do honour to the _Lares Rurales_ with music and sacrifice.
Men and women join hands, and dancing in a large circle, chant songs in
remembrance of the original founder of the community, who is venerated
as the head of the village pantheon. Goats, red cocks, and chickens are
sacrificed; and while some of the worshippers are told off to cook the
flesh for the coming festival at great fires, the rest separate into
families, and dance round the particular trees which they fancy their
domestic lares chiefly haunt.’
Three principal deities are at this day worshipped by the people of
Dahomey: the serpent-god, which Burton describes as a brown python,
streaked with white and yellow, of moderate dimensions, and quite
harmless. This is the supreme god. ‘It has one thousand Danh-’si,
or snake-wives.’ These are maidens and married women devoted to the
service of the serpent. The second deity ‘is represented by lofty and
beautiful trees, in the formation of which Dame Nature seems to have
expressed her greatest art. They are prayed to and presented with
offerings in times of sickness, and especially of fever. Those most
revered are the Hun-’tin, or acanthaceous silk-cotton, whose wives
equal those of the snake; and the Loko, the well-known Edum, ordeal,
or poison tree of the West African coast. The latter numbers fewer
Loko-’si or Loko spouses. On the other hand, it has its own fetich
pottery, which may be bought in every market.’ The god Hu, the ocean,
is the youngest of the three deities; he is inferior both in power and
age to the other divinities, and his turbulence is held in check by
them.
The island of Ferro is the most westerly and the smallest of the
Canaries. Fresh water is very scarce, and the moisture which falls
from the leaves of the linden-tree is said to be collected to increase
the supply. This seems to be the only foundation for a wonderful
story told in Glass’s _History of the Canary Islands_, concerning a
‘fountain-tree,’ which would certainly have received divine honours
of the highest kind from all tree-worshippers. There grows, says the
story, in the middle of the island a tree, ‘called in the language
of the ancient inhabitants, Garse—that is, sacred or holy tree—which
constantly distils from its leaves such a quantity of water as is
sufficient to furnish drink to every creature in Ferro. It is situated
about a league and a half from the sea. Nobody knows of what species
it is, only that it is called Til. The circumference of the trunk
is about twelve spans, and in height it is about forty spans. Its
fruit resembles the acorn, the leaves those of the laurel; but they
are larger, wider, and more curved; they come forth in a perpetual
succession, so that the tree always remains green. On the north side of
the trunk are two large tanks. Every morning a cloud of mist rises from
the sea, and rests upon the thick leaves and wide-spreading branches,
whence it distils in drops during the remainder of the day. This tree
yields most water when the Levant or east winds have prevailed, for by
these winds only the clouds are drawn from the sea. A person lives on
the spot, who is appointed to take care of the tree and its water, and
is allowed a house to live in and a certain salary.’
The story is evidently told in good faith; and the power of condensing
mist is possessed by various species of trees. The Garse, moreover, has
been described by more than one traveller.
In conclusion, while tree-worship is, of course, essentially pagan,
innumerable superstitions concerning trees have prevailed in Christian
countries, notably in England. They are now almost extinct; but the
traveller in remote country-places might still meet with some of
those strange instances recorded in Brand’s _Antiquities_ and in the
_Fragments_ of Edward Moor.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] ‘Not long since,’ said a writer some years ago in _Notes and
Queries_, ‘an old woman in the neighbourhood of Benares was observed
walking round and round a certain peepul-tree. At every round she
sprinkled a few drops of water from the water-vessel in her hand on the
small offering of flowers she had laid beneath the tree. A bystander,
who was questioned as to this ceremony, replied: “This is a sacred
tree; the good spirits live up amidst its branches, and the old woman
is worshipping them.”’
IN A HIGHLAND GLEN.
AN AUTUMN REVERIE.
The dreamy hush of a warm autumn noon, broken only by the sweet
murmurous sound of the falling water as it leaps from its shining
pebbled shallows into the rock-encompassed linn. What could give more
peace and quiet delight than this? Let us sit for one brief half-hour
under the fresh green hazels and drink in the varied charms of sight
and sound. We are ‘far from the madding crowd,’ and have left all
care leagues behind. Let us rest on this mossy bank in the delight of
dreamy ease, with the delicious fragrance of the wild thyme wafted to
us on the wing of the gentle breeze. We are here seeking rest, and
that sweet dreamy pleasure which a mind can get when it is in the
delicious equipoise that repose and the beauties of nature can bring.
The stream’s melodious wanderings in this sunny hour are of more
importance to us than all the anxious worldly sounds of a city’s din;
and the glowing petals of that wild red rose wooing its own shadow in
the stream are better far to our eyes in our present mood than any of
the exquisite studies of Salvator Rosa or Claude Lorraine. What wealth
of light and shadow is given to us in the far-stretching umbrageous
vista! Never had cathedral aisles more perfect and graceful roof, or
more radiant lights from painted windows; and is not the music here of
stream and hazel-haunting warblers sweeter and more heart-inspiring
than the organ’s swell? The interlacing branches through which the
filtered sunlight comes, rendered in flashes of green and gold, are
better than the Gothic roof of cathedral aisle or dome; and the eerie
cry of the curlew commends itself more to our soul—in the midst of
heather and mountains as we are—than would the richest chorus of human
song.
This is not the time or place for preaching or moralising; but is it
out of place for us to consider in this delectable hour the exquisite
delight that we poor unworthy souls get by an intense reverence for the
harmonies that nature has for us! This glen, these sheltering hazels,
this melodious mountain rill, are all our own. For the time we are the
possessors of these green grottos and flashing waves and bird-notes,
which exceed in excellence anything that kings’ palaces can give.
Every rustle of the breeze turns over for us a fresh leaf of Nature’s
wondrous, inexhaustible book; and the flash of emerald from the
kingfisher’s breast, or the glorious note from the blackbird’s mellow
throat, gives us sudden and bright revelations of sweetness and
joy, that we can call up with a lingering delight and tenderness of
feeling when we are far away. Up the bed of the glistening stream
there, at a perfect artistic distance, are the silent shadowy rocks,
overlooking and guarding the deep and sullen linn, and working out
Nature’s will with a quiet watchfulness, and with a changeless
solemnity and patience. And see! right above the sombre linn there
are rainbow-fringed cloudlets of spray, brought down by the laughing
stream, that comes with soothing unobtrusive din over its rocky ledges.
That sound of falling waters is like a lullaby, and contains in it more
of the hush of rest than anything else in nature.
What a history this mountain stream must have had in all the seasons
and the centuries! and how many hearts has it not gladdened in its
lights and shadows and silvery song! Its waters have chiselled these
overhanging rocks into a stern beauty, and those boulders have been
moulded by them into a soft symmetry and grace. Its changes are like
the mutations that belong to human life, now the roar of the torrent,
and now the deep calm of the clear crystalline pool. The sportive trout
has long leaped from the quiet breast of its limpid shallows, and its
woodlands have resounded to the song of the mavis and blackbird. The
swallows that have passed their winter amid the slopes of Carmel, the
groves of Sharon, or the gardens of Damascus, may be those that are
now skimming over the sunlit pools there in the hush of this noontide
hour. But their aërial and graceful flight is as pleasing here to us
poor rest-seeking pilgrims as ever it was to the eye of vizier or khan;
and the cottage eaves in this glen echo the twitter to human ears as
deliciously as do the frescoed piazzas of Athens, Venice, or Rome.
What a temple is here for the worship, with reverent spirit, with
silent tongue, of the One who made and loveth all! Ferns and flowers,
birds and wandering bees, sunshine and singing waters! What lessons of
tenderness, natural piety, and reverence may we not get here! Yon shaft
of sunlight, filtered through the hazels, striking the stream, and
lighting its still bosom with emerald and gold, brings before us some
of the finest lines of _Lycidas_, that peerless poem of the lights and
shadows and music of Arcadia.
All around us, the brightness that fills the spirit, the deep shadows
beneath scaur and tree, the sound of bleating upon the hills, and the
melody of waters dashing past boulders or rolling with an onward,
free, and joyous music over pebbled beds, lead us alike to reverence
and gratitude. Nature is a gentle, sweet, and loving teacher. We shall
never touch the hem of her garment in vain. She giveth us grace and
sympathy and love.
But we must leave our bosky dell in the midst of this Highland glen.
We can carry away, however, memories from it that shall be always our
own. The indescribable yet fascinating music of the waters falling into
the linn yonder is ours for ever now; so is the rock there, cushioned
with the tender green moss, that moss that comes in silence, and lays
its gentle covering mantle over the mounds of our beloved dead. There,
too, a few yards from us, is a still pool which might remain for ever
in one’s memory. How the shadows are reflected from the flowers! Here
we have the fable of Narcissus told us again in this Highland dell. But
that flower near us droops—it is almost touching its shadow: they have
been wooing each other long. By-and-by they will clasp each other, and
wooed and wooer will float away. But it is autumn, and flowers must
wither and die. When our autumn departure cometh, may our passing away
be as calm!
THE RIME OF SIR LIONNE.
‘Hush, a little, for harp and rhyme;
This befell in the olden time.’
W. ALLINGHAM.
In days of old, as rimesters tell,
(Culvert, and petrel, and mangonel),
A maiden dwelt in a castle stout,
Guarded and walled, within, without,
And ever defeat and direful rout
To all her castle’s besiegers fell.
No suitor the maid’s proud heart could win,
(Pike, and halberd, and culverin);
She recked not of love-kiss, ne vow, ne sigh,
But her song had the ring of a battle-cry:
‘O strong is my fortress—a maid am I—
And never a foeman shall enter in.’
But it fell in an evening windy-wet,
(Hauberk, and helmet, and bascinet),
A knight drew rein ’neath the castle wall;
Proud was his port, his stature tall,
His face held the gazer’s eye in thrall,
And a lion of gold on his casque was set.
He winded a bugle silver-clear,
(Mace, and arblast, and bandoleer),
Singing: ‘Yield up thy castle, fair May, to me:
Sir Lionne me hight, of a far countrie.
Now boune thee, Lady, my love to be,
Or I take thee by prowess of bow and spear!’
In the pale, pale light of a crescent moon,
(Spear, and corselet, and musketoon),
She saw him there by the castle wall,
And shrilled to the warder a careless call:
‘Ho!—let portcullis and drawbridge fall;
We would see this bold knight of a braggart tune.’
And oh! but the wind had changed, I trow,
(Falchion, and gauntlet, and good crossbow),
When, an eve from thence, in a fading light,
On the bastion-keep stood a maid and knight,
And, while to his heart he clasped her tight,
‘Thou hast conquered, Sir Lionne!’ she murmured low.
‘I had vowed that no knight beneath the sun,
(Demi-pique, helm, and habergeon),
Beneath the sunlight, or moonbeam shine,
Should be lord of this castle and heart of mine:
But take me, dear love, I am only thine;
My fortress is taken—my heart is won.’
BRINHILD.
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