neighbourhood, but gives a liberal bounty for all that are brought him
alive; so that the Hall is well stocked with all kinds of birds of
prey. On these he and Master Simon have exhausted their patience and
ingenuity, endeavouring to "reclaim" them, as it is termed, and to
train them up for the sport; but they have met with continual checks
and disappointments. Their feathered school has turned out the most
untractable and graceless scholars: nor is it the least of their
trouble to drill the retainers who were to act as ushers under them,
and to take immediate charge of these refractory birds. Old Christy
and the gamekeeper both, for a time, set their faces against the whole
plan of education; Christy having been nettled at hearing what he
terms a wild-goose chase put on a par with a fox-hunt; and the
gamekeeper having always been accustomed to look upon hawks as arrant
poachers, which it was his duty to shoot down, and nail, in terrorem,
against the out-houses.
Christy has at length taken the matter in hand, but has done still
more mischief by his intermeddling. He is as positive and wrong-headed
about this, as he is about hunting. Master Simon has continual
disputes with him, as to feeding and training the hawks. He reads to
him long passages from the old authors I have mentioned; but Christy,
who cannot read, has a sovereign contempt for all book-knowledge, and
persists in treating the hawks according to his own notions, which are
drawn from his experience, in younger days, in the rearing of
game-cocks.
The consequence is, that, between these jarring systems, the poor,
birds have had a most trying and unhappy time of it. Many have fallen
victims to Christy's feeding and Master Simon's physicking; for the
latter has gone to work _secundum artem_, and has given them all the
vomitings and scourings laid down in the books; never were poor hawks
so fed and physicked before. Others have been lost by being but half
"reclaimed," or tamed; for on being taken into the field, they have
"raked" after the game quite out of hearing of the call, and never
returned to school.
All these disappointments had been petty, yet sore grievances to the
Squire, and had made him to despond about success. He has lately,
however, been made happy by the receipt of a fine Welsh falcon, which
Master Simon terms a stately high-flyer. It is a present from the
Squire's friend, Sir Watkyn Williams Wynne; and is, no doubt, a
descendant of some ancient line of Welsh princes of the air, that
have long lorded it over their kingdom of clouds, from Wynnstay to the
very summit of Snowden, or the brow of Penmanmawr.
Ever since the Squire received this invaluable present, he has been as
impatient to sally forth and make proof of it, as was Don Quixote to
assay his suit of armour. There have been some demurs as to whether
the bird was in proper health and training; but these have been
overruled by the vehement desire to play with a new toy; and it has
been determined, right or wrong, in season or out of season, to have a
day's sport in hawking to-morrow.
The Hall, as usual, whenever the Squire is about to make some new
sally on his hobby, is all agog with the thing. Miss Templeton, who is
brought up in reverence for all her guardian's humours, has proposed
to be of the party; and Lady Lillycraft has talked also of riding out
to the scene of action and looking on. This has gratified the old
gentleman extremely; he hails it as an auspicious omen of the revival
of falconry, and does not despair but the time will come when it will
be again the pride of a fine lady to carry about a noble falcon, in
preference to a parrot or a lap-dog.
I have amused myself with the bustling preparations of that busy
spirit, Master Simon, and the continual thwartings he receives from
that genuine son of a pepper-box, old Christy. They have had
half-a-dozen consultations about how the hawk is to be prepared for
the morning's sport. Old Nimrod, as usual, has always got in a pet,
upon which Master Simon has invariably given up the point, observing,
in a good-humoured tone, "Well, well, have it your own way, Christy;
only don't put yourself in a passion;" a reply which always nettles
the old man ten times more than ever.
HAWKING.
The soaring hawk, from fist that flies,
Her falconer doth constrain
Some times to range the ground about
To find her out again;
And if by sight or sound of bell,
His falcon he may see,
Wo ho! he cries, with cheerful voice--
The gladdest man is he.
--_Handful of Pleasant Delites_.
At an early hour this morning, the Hall was in a bustle preparing for
the sport of the day. I heard Master Simon whistling and singing under
my window at sunrise, as he was preparing the jesses for the hawk's
legs, and could distinguish now and then a stanza of one of his
favourite old ditties:
"In peascod time, when hound to horn
Gives note that buck be kill'd;
And little boy, with pipe of corn,
Is tending sheep a-field," &c.
A hearty breakfast, well flanked by cold meats, was served up in the
great hall. The whole garrison of retainers and hangers-on were in
motion, re-enforced by volunteer idlers from the village. The horses
were led up and down before the door; every body had something to say,
and something to do, and hurried hither and thither; there was a
direful yelping of dogs; some that were to accompany us being eager to
set off, and others that were to stay at home being whipped back to
their kennels. In short, for once, the good Squire's mansion might
have been taken as a good specimen of one of the rantipole
establishments of the good old feudal times.
Breakfast being finished, the chivalry of the Hall prepared to take
the field. The fair Julia was of the party, in a hunting-dress, with a
light plume of feathers in her riding-hat. As she mounted her
favourite galloway, I remarked, with pleasure, that old Christy forgot
his usual crustiness, and hastened to adjust her saddle and bridle. He
touched his cap, as she smiled on him, and thanked him; and then,
looking round at the other attendants, gave a knowing nod of his head,
in which I read pride and exultation at the charming appearance of his
pupil.
Lady Lillycraft had likewise determined to witness the sport. She was
dressed in her broad white beaver, tied under the chin, and a
riding-habit of the last century. She rode her sleek, ambling pony,
whose motion was as easy as a rocking-chair; and was gallantly
escorted by the general, who looked not unlike one of the doughty
heroes in the old prints of the battle of Blenheim. The parson,
likewise, accompanied her on the other side; for this was a learned
amusement, in which he took great interest; and, indeed, had given
much counsel, from his knowledge of old customs.
At length every thing was arranged, and off we set from the Hall. The
exercise on horseback puts one in fine spirits; and the scene was gay
and animating. The young men of the family accompanied Miss Templeton.
She sat lightly and gracefully in her saddle, her plumes dancing and
waving in the air; and the group had a charming effect, as they
appeared and disappeared among the trees, cantering along, with the
bounding animation of youth. The Squire and Master Simon rode
together, accompanied by old Christy, mounted on Pepper. The latter
bore the hawk on his fist, as he insisted the bird was most accustomed
to him. There was a rabble rout on foot, composed of retainers from
the Hall, and some idlers from the village, with two or three
spaniels, for the purpose of starting the game.
A kind of corps de reserve came on quietly in the rear, composed of
Lady Lillycraft, General Harbottle, the parson, and a fat footman. Her
ladyship ambled gently along on her pony, while the general, mounted
on a tall hunter, looked down upon her with an air of the most
protecting gallantry.
For my part, being no sportsman, I kept with this last party, or
rather lagged behind, that I might take in the whole picture; and the
parson occasionally slackened his pace, and jogged on in company with
me.
The sport led us at some distance from the Hall, in a soft meadow,
reeking with the moist verdure of spring. A little river ran through
it, bordered by willows, which had put forth their tender early
foliage. The sportsmen were in quest of herons, which were said to
keep about this stream.
There was some disputing, already, among the leaders of the sport. The
Squire, Master Simon, and old Christy, came every now and then to a
pause, to consult together, like the field officers in an army; and I
saw, by certain motions of the head, that Christy was as positive as
any old wrong-headed German commander.
As we were prancing up this quiet meadow, every sound we made was
answered by a distinct echo, from the sunny wall of an old building,
that lay on the opposite margin of the stream; and I paused to listen
to this "spirit of a sound," which seems to love such quiet and
beautiful places. The parson informed me that this was the ruin of an
ancient grange, and was supposed, by the country people, to be haunted
by a dobbie, a kind of rural sprite, something like Robin-good-fellow.
They often fancied the echo to be the voice of the dobbie answering
them, and were rather shy of disturbing it after dark. He added, that
the Squire was very careful of this ruin, on account of the
superstition connected with it. As I considered this local habitation
of an "airy nothing," I called to mind the fine description of an echo
in Webster's Duchess of Malfry:
--"Yond side o' th' river lies a wall,
Piece of a cloister, which, in my opinion,
Gives the best echo that you ever heard:
So plain in the distinction of our words,
That many have supposed it a spirit
That answers."
The parson went on to comment on a pleasing and fanciful appellation
which the Jews of old gave to the echo, which they called Bath-kool,
that is to say, "the daughter of the voice;" they considered it an
oracle, supplying in the second temple the want of the urim and
thummim, with which the first was honoured.[5] The little man was just
entering very largely and learnedly upon the subject, when we were
startled by a prodigious bawling, shouting, and yelping. A flight of
crows, alarmed by the approach of our forces, had suddenly risen from
a meadow; a cry was put up by the rabble rout on foot--"Now, Christy!
now is your time, Christy!" The Squire and Master Simon, who were
beating up the river banks In quest of a heron, called out eagerly to
Christy to keep quiet; the old man, vexed and bewildered by the
confusion of voices, completely lost his head; in his flurry he
slipped off the hood, cast off the falcon, and away flew the crows,
and away soared the hawk.
[Footnote 5: Bekker's Monde enchanté.]
I had paused on a rising ground, close to Lady Lillycraft and her
escort, from whence I had a good view of the sport. I was pleased with
the appearance of the party in the meadow, riding along in the
direction that the bird flew; their bright beaming faces turned up to
the bright skies as they watched the game; the attendants on foot
scampering along, looking up, and calling out; and the dogs bounding
and yelping with clamorous sympathy.
The hawk had singled out a quarry from among the carrion crew. It was
curious to see the efforts of the two birds to get above each other;
one to make the fatal swoop, the other to avoid it. Now they crossed
athwart a bright feathery cloud, and now they were against the clear
blue sky. I confess, being no sportsman, I was more interested for the
poor bird that was striving for its life, than for the hawk that was
playing the part of a mercenary soldier. At length the hawk got the
upper hand, and made a rushing stoop at her quarry, but the latter
made as sudden a surge downwards, and slanting up again, evaded the
blow, screaming and making the best of his way for a dry tree on the
brow of a neighbouring hill; while the hawk, disappointed of her blow,
soared up again into the air, and appeared to be "raking" off. It was
in vain old Christy called, and whistled, and endeavoured to lure her
down: she paid no regard to him; and, indeed, his calls were drowned
in the shouts and yelps of the army of militia that had followed him
into the field.
Just then an exclamation from Lady Lillycraft made me turn my head. I
beheld a complete confusion among the sportsmen in the little vale
below us. They were galloping and running towards the edge of a bank;
and I was shocked to see Miss Templeton's horse galloping at large
without his rider. I rode to the place to which the others were
hurrying, and when I reached the bank, which almost overhung the
stream, I saw at the foot of it, the fair Julia, pale, bleeding, and
apparently lifeless, supported in the arms of her frantic lover.
In galloping heedlessly along, with her eyes turned upward, she had
unwarily approached too near the bank; it had given way with her, and
she and her horse had been precipitated to the pebbled margin of the
river.
I never saw greater consternation. The captain was distracted; Lady
Lillycraft fainting; the Squire in dismay, and Master Simon at his
wit's end. The beautiful creature at length showed signs of returning
life; she opened her eyes; looked around her upon the anxious group,
and comprehending in a moment the nature of the scene, gave a sweet
smile, and putting her hand in her lover's, exclaimed, feebly, "I am
not much hurt, Guy!" I could have taken her to my heart for that
single exclamation.
It was found, indeed, that she had escaped almost miraculously, with a
contusion on the head, a sprained ankle, and some slight bruises.
After her wound was stanched, she was taken to a neighbouring cottage,
until a carriage could be summoned to convey her home; and when this
had arrived, the cavalcade which had issued forth so gayly on this
enterprise, returned slowly and pensively to the Hall.
I had been charmed by the generous spirit shown by this young
creature, who, amidst pain and danger, had been anxious only to
relieve the distress of those around her. I was gratified, therefore,
by the universal concern displayed by the domestics on our return.
They came crowding down the avenue, each eager to render assistance.
The butler stood ready with some curiously delicate cordial; the old
housekeeper was provided with half-a-dozen nostrums, prepared by her
own hands, according to the family receipt-book; while her niece, the
melting Phoebe, having no other way of assisting, stood wringing her
hands, and weeping aloud.
The most material effect that is likely to follow this accident, is a
postponement of the nuptials, which were close at hand. Though I
commiserate the impatience of the captain on that account, yet I shall
not otherwise be sorry at the delay, as it will give me a better
opportunity of studying the characters here assembled, with which I
grow more and more entertained.
I cannot but perceive that the worthy Squire is quite disconcerted at
the unlucky result of his hawking experiment, and this unfortunate
illustration of his eulogy on female equitation. Old Christy, too, is
very waspish, having been sorely twitted by Master Simon for having
let his hawk fly at carrion. As to the falcon, in the confusion
occasioned by the fair Julia's disaster, the bird was totally
forgotten. I make no doubt she has made the best of her way back to
the hospitable Hall of Sir Watkyn Williams Wynne; and may very
possibly, at this present writing, be pluming her wings among the
breezy bowers of Wynnstay.
ST. MARK'S EVE.
O 't is a fearful thing to be no more.
Or if to be, to wander after death!
To walk as spirits do, in brakes all day,
And, when the darkness comes, to glide in paths
That lead to graves; and in the silent vault,
Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o'er it,
Striving to enter your forbidden corpse.
--DRYDEN.
The conversation this evening at the supper-table took a curious turn,
on the subject of a superstition, formerly very prevalent in this part
of the country, relative to the present night of the year, which is
the Eve of St. Mark's. It was believed, the parson informed us, that
if any one would watch in the church porch on this eve, for three
successive years, from eleven to one o'clock at night, he would see,
on the third year, the shades of those of the parish who were to die
in the course of the year, pass by him into church, clad in their
usual apparel.
Dismal as such a sight would be, he assured us that it was formerly a
frequent thing for persons to make the necessary vigils. He had known
more than one instance in his time. One old woman, who pretended to
have seen this phantom procession, was an object of great awe for the
whole year afterwards, and caused much uneasiness and mischief. If she
shook her head mysteriously at a person, it was like a death-warrant;
and she had nearly caused the death of a sick person, by looking
ruefully in at the window.
There was also an old man, not many years since, of a sullen,
melancholy temperament, who had kept two vigils, and began to excite
some talk in the village, when, fortunately for the public comfort, he
died shortly after his third watching; very probably from a cold that
he had taken, as the night was tempestuous. It was reported about the
village, however, that he had seen his own phantom pass by him into
the church.
This led to the mention of another superstition of an equally strange
and melancholy kind, which, however, is chiefly confined to Wales. It
is respecting what are called corpse-candles, little wandering fires,
of a pale bluish light, that move about like tapers in the open air,
and are supposed to designate the way some corpse is to go. One was
seen at Lanyler, late at night, hovering up and down, along the bank
of the Istwith, and was watched by the neighbours until they were
tired, and went to bed. Not long afterwards there came a comely
country lass, from Montgomeryshire, to see her friends, who dwelt on
the opposite side of the river. She thought to ford the stream at the
very place where the light had been first seen, but was dissuaded on
account of the height of the flood. She walked to and fro along the
bank, just where the candle had moved, waiting for the subsiding of
the water. She at length endeavored to cross, but the poor girl was
drowned in the attempt.[6]
[Footnote 6: Aubrey's Miscel.]
There was something mournful in this little anecdote of rural
superstition, that seemed to affect all the listeners. Indeed, it is
curious to remark how completely a conversation of the kind will
absorb the attention of a circle, and sober down its gayety, however
boisterous. By degrees I noticed that every one was leaning forward
over the table, with eyes earnestly fixed upon the parson; and at the
mention of corpse-candles which had been seen about the chamber of a
young lady who died on the eve of her wedding-day, Lady Lillycraft
turned pale.
I have witnessed the introduction of stories of the kind into various
evening circles; they were often commenced in jest, and listened to
with smiles; but I never knew the most gay or the most enlightened of
audiences, that were not, if the conversation continued for any length
of time, completely and solemnly interested in it. There is, I
believe, a degree of superstition lurking in every mind; and I doubt
if any one can thoroughly examine all his secret notions and impulses,
without detecting it, hidden, perhaps, even from himself. It seems, in
fact, to be a part of our nature, like instinct in animals, acting
independently of our reason. It is often found existing in lofty
natures, especially those that are poetical and aspiring. A great and
extraordinary poet of our day, whose life and writings evince a mind
subject to powerful exaltations, is said to believe in omens and
secret intimations. Caesar, it is well known, was greatly under the
influence of such belief; and Napoleon had his good and evil days, and
his presiding star.
As to the worthy parson, I have no doubt that he is strongly inclined
to superstition. He is naturally credulous, and passes so much of his
time searching out popular traditions and supernatural tales, that his
mind has probably become infected by them. He has lately been immersed
in the Demonolatria of Nicholas Remigus, concerning supernatural
occurrences in Lorraine, and the writings of Joachimus Camerius,
called by Vossius the Phoenix of Germany; and he entertains the ladies
with stories from them, that make them almost afraid to go to bed at
night. I have been charmed myself with some of the wild little
superstitions which he has adduced from Blefkénius, Scheffer, and
others, such as those of the Laplanders about the domestic spirits
which wake them at night, and summon them to go and fish; of Thor, the
deity of thunder, who has power of life and death, health and
sickness, and who, armed with the rainbow, shoots his arrows at those
evil demons that live on the tops of rocks and mountains, and infest
the lakes; of the Jubles or Juhlafolket, vagrant troops of spirits,
which roam the air, and wander up and down by forests and mountains,
and the moonlight sides of hills.
The parson never openly professes his belief in ghosts, but I have
remarked that he has a suspicious way of pressing great names into the
defence of supernatural doctrines, and making philosophers and saints
fight for him. He expatiates at large on the opinions of the ancient
philosophers about larves, or nocturnal phantoms, the spirits of the
wicked, which wandered like exiles about the earth; and about those
spiritual beings which abode in the air, but descended occasionally to
earth, and mingled among mortals, acting as agents between them and
the gods. He quotes also from Philo the rabbi, the contemporary of the
apostles, and, according to some, the friend of St. Paul, who says
that the air is full of spirits of different ranks; some destined to
exist for a time in mortal bodies, from which being emancipated, they
pass and repass between heaven and earth, as agents or messengers in
the service of the deity.
But the worthy little man assumes a bolder tone, when he quotes from
the fathers of the church; such as St. Jerome, who gives it as the
opinion of all the doctors, that the air is filled with powers opposed
to each other; and Lactantius, who says that corrupt and dangerous
spirits wander over the earth, and seek to console themselves for
their own fall by effecting the ruin of the human race; and Clemens
Alexandrinus, who is of opinion that the souls of the blessed have
knowledge of what passes among men, the same as angels have.
I am now alone in my chamber, but these themes have taken such hold of
my imagination, that I cannot sleep. The room in which I sit is just
fitted to foster such a state of mind. The walls are hung with
tapestry, the figures of which are faded, and look like unsubstantial
shapes melting away from sight. Over the fire-place is the portrait of
a lady, who, according to the housekeeper's tradition, pined to death
for the loss of her lover in the battle of Blenheim. She has a most
pale and plaintive countenance, and seems to fix her eyes mournfully
upon me. The family have long since retired. I have heard their steps
die away, and the distant doors clap to after them. The murmur of
voices, and the peal of remote laughter, no longer reach the ear. The
clock from the church, in which so many of the former inhabitants of
this house lie buried, has chimed the awful hour of midnight.
I have sat by the window and mused upon the dusky landscape, watching
the lights disappearing, one by one, from the distant village; and the
moon rising in her silent majesty, and leading up all the silver pomp
of heaven. As I have gazed upon these quiet groves and shadowy lawns,
silvered over, and imperfectly lighted by streaks of dewy moonshine,
my mind has been crowded by "thick-coming fancies" concerning those
spiritual beings which
------"walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep."
Are there, indeed, such beings? Is this space between us and the deity
filled up by innumerable orders of spiritual beings, forming the same
gradations between the human soul and divine perfection, that we see
prevailing from humanity downwards to the meanest insect? It is a
sublime and beautiful doctrine, inculcated by the early fathers, that
there are guardian angels appointed to watch over cities and nations;
to take care of the welfare of good men, and to guard and guide the
steps of helpless infancy. "Nothing," says St. Jerome, "gives up a
greater idea of the dignity of our soul, than that God has given each
of us, at the moment of our birth, an angel to have care of it."