Through August and down to the middle of September is the season for
blackberries, and wherever the bramble can grow, there the black,
luscious fruit hangs ripe and tempting. The Bookworm hazarded the
guess, as we tramped along, that the plant followed the Celtic
immigration in Cornwall and Brittany. The Bretons make money of the
fruit, but here whoever is minded may pick and eat and carry away; and
no one was ever prosecuted for wandering over fields in search of the
fruit, and pulling down bits of hedges to secure it. During the season,
blackberry parties go out with crook-sticks and baskets, and faces
as clean as usual, and return tired and torn, with hands and lips and
faces dyed all over with the dark juice. Some say it was the blackberry
juice which the ancient inhabitants used for frightening away the
Roman legions; but nothing positive is now known. It is, however, the
fact that the Cornish dye just as much of themselves as is visible
with blackberry juice once a year; and this may be a survival of an
ancient custom. Just for a wonder, it was neither saint nor piskie who
was quoted in connection with blackberries, but Old Nick himself, who
ate so many one thirteenth of September that he felt real ill, and
he cursed the fruit with such a terrible curse that, after the fatal
thirteenth, the fruit is said to be unfit for food, and is allowed to
rot where it grows.
If the blackberry isn't a native, it ought to be, considering the
impudent way in which it takes possession of the hedges and fences,
scrambling over everything, and sucking in all the sunshine which comes
out of the sky. Anywhere, everywhere it grows, even along the bleak
sea-cliffs washed with sea-spray and ruffled with bitter winds; but the
fruit is most sweet and generous when growing in sheltered spots on
moor and in valley. We were told to be sure to have blackberry pie, and
we had it at the farm; and if the immortals didn't envy us when eating
blackberry pie, smothered with Mrs. Andrawartha's cream, it's proof
positive that they don't know about one good thing in the eating line.
The Wesleyans are especially fond of blackberries. Of course there's
a reason for it. The Bookworm stumbled on it, as usual, and we went
to the circuit minister, who said he was quite right, and it was the
fruit which kept John Wesley alive on St. Hilary downs. The story is
all right, and can be verified in print. Here it is: "One day we had
been preaching on St. Hilary down. As we returned, John Wesley stopped
his horse to pick the blackberries, saying, 'Brother Nelson, we ought
to be thankful that there are plenty of blackberries, for this is the
best county I ever saw for getting a stomach, and the worst I ever saw
for getting food.'" Guy said there ought to be a blackberry day as well
as a primrose day. Why not? White roses and orchids are consecrated to
other illustrious persons, and why not blackberries to John Wesley?
Of course the blackberry has its legend, and this is one as it was told
to us.
THE ROMANCE OF PRINCESS OLWEN.
The fairest princess in Cornwall, as every one knew, was the daughter
of Bran Dhu, and it was the surprise of every one that his daughter
should be so fair when he was so dark, dark as his own black heart;
and that was dark enough, in all conscience. More golden was her hair
than the flower of the furze, and her skin was whiter than the foam of
the wave. A twin sister she had who favoured their father, and she was
as dark as a thunder-cloud, and as passionate as the other was gentle.
The twins grew up, and got on very well together, until the son of
the king stopped at Bran Dhu's castle and received a cup of milk from
the hand of the fair princess, who was called Olwen, when he ought to
have received it from Gertha, she of the flashing eyes and heart of
fire. Bran Dhu had made other arrangements for his fair daughter, whom
he removed the very next day to the dwelling of a herdsman whose wife
was a witch, and who had strict orders not to let the young prince see
the fair princess, even if he should chance upon her whereabouts. It
wasn't long before the young prince came again, and this time Gertha
handed him a cup of milk; but he had no eyes for her, and rode away.
Whenever he came he only saw Gertha, and rode away disappointed, which
so wounded her vanity that she ended by hating her sister of the
yellow hair and sea-foam skin. The young prince went to his father,
who commanded Bran Dhu to come and see him, bringing the fair Olwen
with him. Now, Bran Dhu was a subtle man, and told lies as naturally
as other great people, and he said that Olwen went on a visit in the
country and died, and was buried by the old herdsman and his wife. He
didn't mind telling where Olwen really was, because the herd's wife
had orders to turn the fair young princess into a bramble whenever the
king or young prince came in search of her. The young prince was very
much in love, and rode off to the herd's house, and the herd's wife
showed him the clothes which Olwen had worn, and the mound covering
her, and the bramble thick with blossom festooning the hedge. He was so
sorrowful that he did not notice that the bloom was out of season. He
came again and again and talked to the herd's wife, for his heart was
sore, and there was always the bramble in full bloom.
Now, at the King's court there was a "wise man," who smelt a rat as
soon as ever he heard about the bramble being in bloom, in season
and out of season, whenever the prince happened to be there; so he
turned the young prince into a chough, and told him to fly over to the
herdsman's house and look around. The Cornish chough was common enough
in those days, and the old witch took no notice of the black bird with
red beak hopping about the garden, its head on one side, and one eye on
Olwen the fair.
The "wise man," when he knew that Olwen was really in the flesh, took
in the whole situation.
The young prince flew over to the herdsman's house and hopped around,
and followed his lady love until she got into a wood, when he resumed
his proper shape and told his love, sweet and strong, and stayed so
late that the old witch caught him at it, and told Bran Dhu, who became
as mad as a hatter, and told Gertha, who became madder than he. And
they went over to the herdsman's and ordered the witch to turn Olwen
into a bramble, and pour some magic drops upon her fair blooms so that
she should become green and red and black in turns, sour to the taste,
and ugly to look upon.
Then the "wise man" anointed the beak of the chough, saying, "Fly away
and kiss the bloom, and your love shall become sweet and more sweet,
and when the berry is sweetest to your taste, pluck it and bring it to
me."
And so he did. Then the "wise man" broke the spell, and prince
and princess were married; but the bramble flourished and spread
everywhere, and all the people marvelled when they ate of it or turned
it into wine, as they do to this day.
And all true lovers know that sweetest is the love which has been
hard to get, and has passed through its sour and bitter stages and is
plucked when ripest.
[Illustration: PRINCESS OLWEN IS CHANGED INTO A BRAMBLE.]
We saw a Cornish chough during our tramp; but it is getting scarce now,
and tens of thousands of people may come and go without ever seeing
one. When the bird "with vermeil-tinted legs and bright red beak" has
quite vanished from its old haunts, it will probably be held in
the highest esteem, like it once was when it lived in the odour of
sanctity. The chough was at one time a sacred bird in Cornwall, just
as the long-legged ibis on the banks of the Nile, and, according to
the story, had secret relations with Old Nick, just as its cousin, the
raven, had in Wales. An odour of sulphur may have been the consequence;
but as even birds may reform, the chough cut its old acquaintance,
and was selected as the future habitation for the spirit of King
Arthur. When a Cornishman sees a chough he raises his hat, if he has
one, or pulls his forelock if he hasn't, which means the same thing,
namely, that the chough is of sainted lineage, and worthy of the very
highest respect. It is not so easy to see a chough now outside of a
"collection."
The chough is of very aristocratic appearance, and, in consequence,
all poor and ragamuffin and envious relations of the crow tribe are
doing their best to get rid of him by any means. No doubt dynamite
would be used if the crow socialists knew how to handle it. It was an
unfortunate day for the chough when Shakespeare advertised it as the
"russet-pated chough," and that might not have been so very bad, only
it set some people saying that Shakespeare did not know what he was
talking about, which provoked others to reply, and so the newspapers
debated whether Shakespeare should be criticized. Then all Cornwall
was ransacked for choughs, to see whether he was "russet-pated." If
"pate" means "head," then he isn't, but if "pate" means "foot," then
he is "russet-patted," or footed. Those who held that the poet knew
what he was writing about, scored one; but the discussion cost the
chough dear, so many people finding it necessary to shoot every chough
they saw. Every year King Arthur visits his own tomb in the form of a
chough, and some people hope that _one_ chough will be allowed to live
in the land just so long as the old King likes to revisit his own grave
and attend to its weeding. It would be a pity for an old tradition to
die out for want of a bird to carry it on.
[Illustration: POLPERRO.]