Kitobni o'qish: «Elves and Heroes»
PREFACE
THE ELVES
The immemorial folk-beliefs of our native land are passing away, but they still retain for us a poetic appeal, not only on account of the glamour of early associations, but also because they afford us inviting glimpses of the mental habits and inherent characteristics of the men and women of past generations. When we re-tell the old tales of our ancestors, we sit beside them over the peat-fire; and, as we glory with them in their strong heroes, and share their elemental joys and fears, we breathe the palpitating air of that old mysterious world of theirs, peopled by spirits beautiful, and strange, and awe-inspiring.
The attitude of the Gael towards the supernatural, and his general outlook upon life in times gone by, was not associated with unbroken gloom; nor was he always an ineffectual dreamer and melancholy fatalist. These attributes belong chiefly to the Literary Celt of latter-day conception—the Celt of Arnold and Renan, and other writers following in their wake, who have woven misty impressions of a people whom they have met as strangers, and never really understood. Celtic literature is not a morbid literature. In Highland poetry there is more light than shadow, much symbolism, but no vagueness; pictures are presented in minute detail; stanzas are cunningly wrought in a spirit of keen artistry; and the literary style is direct and clear and comprehensible. In Highland folklore we find associated with the haunting "fear of things invisible," common to all peoples in early stages of development, a confident feeling of security inspired by the minute observances of ceremonial practices. We also note a distinct tendency to discriminate between spirits, some of which are invariably friendly, some merely picturesque, and perhaps fearsome, and others constantly harbouring a desire to work evil upon mankind. Associated with belief in the efficacy of propitiatory offerings and "ceremonies of riddance," is the ethical suggestion that good wishes and good deeds influence spirits to perform acts of kindly intent.
Of fairies the Highlanders spoke, as they are still prone to do in these districts where belief in them is not yet extinct, with no small degree of regard and affection. It may be that "the good folk" and the "peace-people" (sitchean) were so called that good intention might be compelled by the conjuring influence of a name, as well as to avoid giving offence by uttering real names, as if it were desired to exercise a magical influence by their use. Be that as it may, it is evident from Highland folk-tales that the fairies were oftener the friends than the foes of mankind. When men and women were lured to their dwellings they rarely suffered injury; indeed, the fairies appeared to have taken pleasure in their company. To such as they favoured they imparted the secrets of their skill in the arts of piping, of sword-making, etc. At sowing time or harvest they were at the service of human friends. On the needy they took pity. They never failed in a promise; they never forgot an act of kindness, which they invariably rewarded seven-fold. Against those who wronged them they took speedy vengeance. It would appear that on these humanised spirits of his conception the Highlander left, as one would expect him to do, the impress of his own character—his shrewdness and high sense of honour, his love of music and gaiety, his warmth of heart and love of comrades, and his indelible hatred of tyranny and wrong.
The Highland "wee folk" are not so diminutive as the fairies of England—at least that type of fairy, beloved of the poet, which hovers bee-like over flowers and feeds on honey-dew. Power they had to shrink in stature and to render themselves invisible, but they are invariably "little people," from three to four feet high. It may be that the Gael's conception of humanised spirits may not have been uninfluenced by the traditions of that earlier diminutive race whose arrow-heads of flint were so long regarded as "elf-bolts." The fairies dwelt only in grassy knolls, on the summits of high hills, and inside cliffs. Although capable of living for several centuries, they were not immortal. They required food, and borrowed meal and cooking utensils from human beings, and always returned what they received on loan. They could be heard within the knolls grinding corn and working at their anvils, and they were adepts at spinning and weaving and harvesting. When they went on long journeys they became invisible, and were carried through the air on eddies of western wind.
At the seasonal changes of the year, "the wee folk" were for several days on end inspired, like all other supernatural furies, with enmity against mankind. Their evil influences were negatived by spells and charms. We who still hang on our walls at Christmas the mystic holly, are unconsciously perpetuating an old-world custom connected with belief in the efficacy of the magical circle to protect us against evil spirits. And in our concern about luck, our proneness to believe in omens, the influence of colours and numbers, in dreams and in prophetic warnings, we retain as much of the spirit as the poetry of the religion of our remote ancestors.
THE HEROES
The heroes, with the exception of Cuchullin, who appear in this volume, figure in the tales and poems of the Ossianic or Fian Cycle, which is common to Ireland and to Scotland. They have been neglected by our Scottish poets since Gavin Douglas and Barbour. In Ireland the Fians are a band of militia—the original Fenians. In Scotland the tales vary considerably, and belong to the hunting period before the introduction of agriculture. But in this country, as well as in Ireland, they are evidently influenced by historic happenings. There are tales of Norse conflicts, as well as tales of adventure among giants and spirits.
The cycle had evidently remote beginnings. When we find Diarmid and Grainnč, like Paris and Helen, the cause of conflict and disaster; and Diarmid, like Achilles, charmed of body, and vulnerable only on his heel-spot, we incline to the theory that from a mid-European centre migrating "waves" swept over prehistoric Greece, and left traces of their mythology and folk-lore in Homer, while other "waves," sweeping northward, bequeathed to us as a literary inheritance the Celtic folk-tales, in which the deeds and magical attributes of remote tribal heroes and humanised deities are co-mingled and perpetuated.
On fragments of these folk-tales the poet Macpherson reared his Ossianic epic, in imitation of the Iliad and Paradise Lost.
The "Death of Cuchullin" is a rendering in verse of an Irish prose translation of a fragment of the Cuchullin Cycle, which moves in the Bronze Age period. Cuchullin, with "the light of heroes" on his forehead, is also reminiscent of Achilles. One of the few Cuchullin tales found in Scotland is that which relates his conflict with his son, and bears a striking similarity to the legend of Sohrab and Rustum. Macpherson also drew from this Cycle in composing his Ossian, and mingled it with the other, with which it has no connection.
The third great Celtic Cycle—the Arthurian—bears close resemblances, as Campbell, of "The West Highland Tales," has shown, to the Fian Cycle, and had evidently a common origin. Its value as a source of literary inspiration has been fully appreciated, but the Fian and Cuchullin cycles still await, like virgin soil, to yield an abundant harvest for the poets of the future.
Notes on the folk-beliefs and tales will be found at the end of this volume.
Some of the short poems have appeared in the "Glasgow Herald" and
"Inverness Courier"; the three tales appeared in the "Celtic Review."
THE WEE FOLK
In the knoll that is the greenest,
And the grey cliff side,
And on the lonely ben-top
The wee folk bide;
They'll flit among the heather,
And trip upon the brae—
The wee folk, the green folk, the red folk and grey.
As o'er the moor at midnight
The wee folk pass,
They whisper 'mong the rushes
And o'er the green grass;
All through the marshy places
They glint and pass away—
The light folk, the lone folk, the folk that will not stay.
O many a fairy milkmaid
With the one eye blind,
Is 'mid the lonely mountains
By the red deer hind;
Not one will wait to greet me,
For they have naught to say—
The hill folk, the still folk, the folk that flit away.
When the golden moon is glinting
In the deep, dim wood,
There's a fairy piper playing
To the elfin brood;
They dance and shout and turn about,
And laugh and swing and sway—
The droll folk, the knoll folk, the folk that dance alway.
O we that bless the wee folk
Have naught to fear,
And ne'er an elfin arrow
Will come us near;
For they'll give skill in music,
And every wish obey—
The wise folk, the peace folk, the folk that work and play.
They'll hasten here at harvest,
They will shear and bind;
They'll come with elfin music
On a western wind;
All night they'll sit among the sheaves,
Or herd the kine that stray—
The quick folk, the fine folk, the folk that ask no pay.
Betimes they will be spinning
The while we sleep,
They'll clamber down the chimney,
Or through keyholes creep;
And when they come to borrow meal
We'll ne'er them send away—
The good folk, the honest folk, the folk that work alway.
O never wrong the wee folk—
The red folk and green,
Nor name them on the Fridays,
Or at Hallowe'en;
The helpless and unwary then
And bairns they lure away—
The fierce folk, the angry folk, the folk that steal and slay.
BONNACH FALLAIDH
(THE REMNANT BANNOCK.)
O, the good-wife will be singing
When her meal is all but done—
Now all my bannocks have I baked,
I've baked them all but one;
And I'll dust the board to bake it,
I'll bake it with a spell—
O, it's Finlay's little bannock
For going to the well.
The bannock on the brander
Smells sweet for your desire—
O my crisp ones I will count not
On two sides of the fire;
And not a farl has fallen
Some evil to foretell!—
O it's Finlay's little bannock
For going to the well.
The bread would not be lasting,
'Twould crumble in your hand;
When fairies would be coming here
To turn the meal to sand—
But what will keep them dancing
In their own green dell?
O it's Finlay's little bannock
For going to the well.
Now, not a fairy finger
Will do my baking harm—
The little bannock with the hole,
O it will be the charm.
I knead it, I knead it, 'twixt my palms,
And all the bairns I tell—
O it's Finlay's little bannock
For going to the well.
THE BANSHEE
Knee-deep she waded in the pool—
The Banshee robed in green—
She sang yon song the whole night long,
And washed the linen clean;
The linen that would wrap the dead
She beetled on a stone,
She stood with dripping hands, blood-red,
Low singing all alone—
His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
'Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill,
Come back from foreign wars,
His horse's feet were clattering sweet
Below the pitiless stars;
And in his heart he would repeat—
"O never again I'll roam;
All weary is the going forth,
But sweet the coming home!"
His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
He saw the blaze upon his hearth
Come gleaming down the glen;
For he was fain for home again,
And rode before his men—
"'Tis many a weary day," he'd sigh,
"Since I would leave her side;
I'll never more leave Scotland's shore
And yon, my dark-eyed bride."
His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
So dreaming of her tender love,
Soft tears his eyes would blind—
When up there crept and swiftly leapt
A man who stabbed behind—
"'Tis you," he cried, "who stole my bride,
This night shall be your last!" …
When Fergus fell, the warm, red tide
Of life came ebbing fast …
His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!
