The Mysteries of All Nations Part 13

Lord Byron, who was taught superst.i.tion by his nurse, became acquainted with the peculiar belief of the Highlanders while, in early life, he dwelt within sight of "dark Loch-na-Garr." When wandering about Pannanich, the shepherds told him many strange legends, and the old dames often enticed him into their huts to amuse him with fairy tales and witch stories. It was thought by the old crones that the wonderful boy had communings with more uncanny neighbours than these simple-minded people, who no more doubted the existence of witches and fairies than they doubted that the Dee flowed from the mountains to the sea. If report spoke true, he was often heard in conversation with intelligent beings, though to ordinary human eyes no other form but that of his own was seen. After his fame was wide-spread, an old woman, who lived in a little straw-thatched cottage by the roadside near Balmoral, declared that she expected that he would enlighten the world, for she had often seen him with those who could instruct him and tell him of past and future events. One of those persons, she said, was a little maid dressed in green, whose beautiful face, flowing hair, and agile figure were faultless. Frequently was she seen climbing steep precipices on which human foot was never known to rest, and bring him flowers, and even the eagles' nests were not beyond her reach. While the young and middle-aged would wonder who she was, the aged shook their heads. Whoever the fair little maid was, one thing in connection with her was exceedingly strange. Either Byron did not know her relations and home, or, for reasons he kept to himself, he chose to conceal them. Her merry laugh, clear as the sound of a silver bell, or her sweet voice in song, was generally what indicated her approach.

At one time she would emerge from a thicket, and rise at another, like a spectre from behind a rock. Her disappearance was equally mysterious. At their last parting she gave him a keepsake or charm, which he long wore, suspended by a ribbon, round his neck, and it was not till he threw it aside that he became unfortunate and unhappy. We cannot vouch for the truth of this story; but if Byron did not hold intercourse with unearthly beings, he has, by his writings and speech, left room for simple-minded people who have read his works and history, to suppose that he did. His belief in presentiment was very strong, as also visionary warnings of imminent danger or impending calamities.

A school-fellow of Byron had a small pony, and one day they went to the Don to bathe. When they came to the bridge of Balgownie, the young poet remembered the old prophecy:

"Brig o' Balgownie! wight is thy wa', Wi' a wife's ae son, an' a mare's ae foal, Down shalt thou fa'."

He immediately stopped his companion, who was then riding, and asked him if he recollected the prophecy, saying, that as they were both only sons, and as the pony might be "a mare's ae foal," he would rather ride over first, because he had only a mother to lament him should the bridge fall, whereas he, his companion, had both a father and mother to grieve for him if he perished. Byron, however, was not the only one who put faith in such prophecies. Leslie says, "Persons have been known to dismount when they came to the brig o' Balgownie, and send their horses over before them."

Byron had a belief in unlucky days. He once refused to be introduced to a lady because the day was Friday; and on this day of the week he would not visit his friends. "Something," he said, "whispered to me at my wedding that I was signing my death warrant. I am a great believer in presentiments. Socrates's demon was no fiction; Monk Lewis had his monitor, and Napoleon many warnings. At the last moment I would have retreated if I could have done so."

The poet had a high opinion of Monk Lewis. Here are two stories told by Byron:

"Whilst Lewis was residing at Mannheim, every night at the same hour, he heard, or thought he heard, in his room, when he was lying in bed, a crackling noise like that produced by parchment or thick paper. This circ.u.mstance caused inquiry, when it was told him that the sounds were attributable to the following cause:--The house in which he lived had belonged to a widow who had an only son. In order to prevent him marrying a poor but amiable girl to whom he was attached, he was sent to sea. Years pa.s.sed, and the mother heard no tidings of him nor of the s.h.i.+p in which he had sailed. It was supposed the vessel had been wrecked, and that all on board had perished. The reproaches of the girl, the upbraidings of her own conscience, and the loss of her child, crazed the old lady's mind. Her only pursuit was to turn over the gazettes for news. Hope at length left her: she did not live long, and continued her old occupation after death."

The other story runs thus:

"Two Florentine lovers, who had been attached to each other almost from childhood, made a vow of eternal fidelity. Mina was the name of the lady; her husband's I forget, but it is not material. They parted. He had been some time absent with his regiment, when, as his disconsolate lady was sitting alone in her chamber, she distinctly heard the well-known sound of his footsteps, and, starting up, beheld not her husband, but his spectre, with a deep ghastly wound across his forehead. She swooned with horror. When she recovered, the ghost told her that in future his visits should be announced by a pa.s.sing bell, and the words distinctly whispered, 'Mina, I am here!' Their interviews became frequent, till the woman fancied herself as much in love with the ghost as she had been with the man. But it was soon to prove otherwise. One fatal night she went to a ball. She danced, and, what was worse, her partner was a young Florentine, so much the counterpart of her lover, that she became estranged from the ghost.

Whilst the young gallant conducted her in the waltz, and her ear drank in the music of his voice and words, a pa.s.sing bell tolled. She had been accustomed to the sound till it hardly excited her attention, and, now lost in the attractions of her fascinating partner, she heard, but regarded it not. A second peal!--she listened not to its warnings. A third time the bell, with its deep and iron tongue, startled the a.s.sembled company, and silenced the music. Mina turned her eyes from her partner, and saw, reflected in the mirror, a form, a shadow, a spectre: it was her husband. He was standing between her and the young Florentine, and whispered, in a solemn and melancholy tone, the accustomed accents, 'Mina, I am here!' She instantly fell down dead. The two ghosts walked out of the room arm in arm."

Byron believed that the quality of mind descended from sire to son, and contended that any pa.s.sion might be worn out of a family by skilful culture. To his uncle, who was very superst.i.tious, and fed crickets, he ascribed his superst.i.tion; to another of his ancestors, who died laughing, he ascribed his buoyant spirits. Two of his relations had such an affection for each other, that they both died at the same time. "There seems," he said, "to have been a flaw in my escutcheon there, or that that loving couple have monopolised all the connubial bliss of the family."

Byron's superst.i.tion was so great that it led him to have his fortune told by a sybil. It was prophesied that his twenty-seventh and thirty-seventh years would prove unlucky to him. Some people have thought that the prophecy was fulfilled: he was married in his twenty-seventh, and died in his thirty-seventh year.

He was convinced that the princ.i.p.al charms of the Scotch resembled those of other nations. He was not ignorant of the supposed virtue of the mountain ash as an antidote against witchcraft. Everything pertaining to superst.i.tion was interesting to him. He had stored up in his memory many curious anecdotes. On being told of a particular race of men skilled in Cabala, who by a single gaze of their "evil eye"

could level an enemy to the earth and occasion instantaneous death, and of parents who had handsome children hanging cameos round their necks to protect them from the evil consequences of a wicked eye, his Lords.h.i.+p said, "I remember reading somewhere that Serenus Samonicus, preceptor to a young Gordian, recommended the Abracadabra or Abrasadabra as a charm or amulet in curing agues, and preventing other diseases."

A Hebrew Camyo, supposed to have been handed down from father to son since the building of the first temple, has a similar effect. Lucky is the circ.u.mcised Jew who has, in the time of need, the good fortune to have the Hebrew charm applied to his leprously-inclined body; and thrice fortunate is he, whoever he may be, that has it constantly at his command, and can claim it as his family relic.

The word Abracadabra or Abrasadabra must be written on parchment, or other suitable substance, in the manner below, omitting in every new line the last letter of the former line, so that the whole may form a kind of inverted cone:

A b r a c a d a b r a A b r a c a d a b r A b r a c a d a b A b r a c a d a A b r a c a d A b r a c a A b r a c A b r a A b r A b A

Byron looked as if he had added greatly to his stock of knowledge when he learned that, which way soever the letters of the charms might be taken, beginning from the lower point and ascending from the left to the right, they make the same word.

To every one who has read _Loch-na-Garr_, it must be evident that Byron believed, or wished it to appear that he believed, like the Highlanders, that the voices of the dead were heard in the storm, that the souls of departed heroes rode on the wind, and that the dark clouds encircled the forms of chieftain sires that added l.u.s.tre to their country's glory. But the poet shall speak for himself:--

"Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!

In you let the minions of luxury rove; Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war; Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-Garr.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd; My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid: On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade; I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-Garr.

'Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?'

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.

Round Loch-na-Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car: Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers; They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch-na-Garr.

'Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?'

Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, Victory crown'd not your fall with applause: Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, You rest with your clans in the caves of Braemar; The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch-na-Garr.

Years have roll'd on, Loch-na-Garr, since I left you, Years must elapse ere I tread you again: Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.

England! thy beauties are tame and domestic To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar: O for the crags that are wild and majestic!

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch-na-Garr!"

In _Oscar of Alva_ will also be found something of popular superst.i.tion. Pa.s.sing over a part of the tale, Byron says:--

"From high Southannon's distant tower Arrived a young and n.o.ble dame; With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came.

And Oscar claimed the beauteous bride, And Angus on his Oscar smiled; It soothed the father's feudal pride Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child.

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!

Hark to the swelling nuptial song!

In joyous strains the voices float, And still the choral peal prolong.

But where is Oscar? Sure 'tis late: Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame?

While thronging guests and ladies wait Nor Oscar nor his brother came.

At length young Allan join'd the bride; 'Why comes not Oscar?' Angus said: 'Is he not here?' the youth replied; 'With me he roved not o'er the glade.'

'O search, ye chiefs! O search around!

Allan, with these through Alva fly; Till Oscar, till my son is found, Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.'

Three days, three sleepless nights, the chief For Oscar searched each mountain cave Then hope is lost: in boundless grief His locks in grey torn ringlets wave.

Days rolled along: the orb of light Again had run his destined race; No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, And sorrow left a fainter trace.

For youthful Allan still remain'd, And now his father's only joy: And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy.

She thought that Oscar low was laid, And Allan's face was wondrous fair: If Oscar lived, some other maid Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care.

And Angus said, if one year more In fruitless hope was pa.s.s'd away, His fondest scruples should be o'er, And he would name their nuptial day.

Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last Arrived the dearly destined morn; The year of anxious trembling past, What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn!

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note!

Hark to the swelling nuptial song!

In joyous strains the voices float, And still the choral peal prolong.

Again the clan, in festive crowd, Throng through the gate of Alva's hall; The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, And all their former joy recall.

But who is he whose darken'd brow Glooms in the midst of general mirth?

Before his eyes' far fiercer glow The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth.

Dark is the robe which wraps his form, And tall his plume of gory red; His voice is like the rising storm, But light and trackless is his tread.