Part 4

I have not shot a great many seals. They are not now, nor were they in my younger and sporting days, so numerous as they were fifty or sixty years ago, when but a very few persons here and there owned a gun, which with scarcely an exception was only the old regulation flintlock musket. But since the invention of percussion locks, and of the splendid rifles and breech-loaders of the present day, and still more since steamers and sailing-vessels have been constantly plying amongst the islands, where formerly they never were seen, the seals have not had so peaceful a time of it; slaughter and persecution, and the inroads of modern civilisation in general, have greatly diminished their numbers; at least they are not now so frequently met with in their old haunts, from which it is probable most of them have retired, to more inaccessible and therefore safer quarters. These remarks apply only to the common seal. The Great seal was never very numerous anywhere, and there is not much chance of his wild retreats being disturbed except by an occasional hunter.

I have shot only three Great seals; but the largest one certainly I ever saw, I might have shot, but did not—dared not, I should say. Thus it happened. It was at the Holms of Gloup—some outlying rocks and skerries off the north point of the island of Yell. There is a fine hellyer here. According to the usual practice, I had landed on an abutting point or promontory at the outer entrance to the hellyer, and sent the boat inwards. If a seal happens to be in the hellyer, he plunges into the sea, swims out under water, and very generally rises up at no great distance, to see what is the cause of the disturbance and noise—for seals, as I have said, are very inquisitive as well as shy—and in this way the sportsman in ambush often gets a capital shot. As the boat went slowly inwards, the men kept shouting and peering into the darkness, all eyes directed towards the inner beach, which was dimly visible. Presently from my perch of some twenty or thirty feet, I saw, in the clear water, what they did not see, a rushing white figure coming outwards under water. Then, not thirty yards distant, the head and neck of an enormous haff-fish[2] rose above the surface. For time enough to have shot him five times over, he gazed at the boat, the back of his head turned towards me, and offering such a mark as I never had before or since. I covered him with the sights; my finger trembled on the trigger; I knew my weapon would not fail me. I knew I could kill him easily, and secure him too, even if he should sink, for the water was clear and shallow. But, as ill-fortune would have it, he was directly in the line between me and the boat, and I did not dare to fire. The boatmen never saw him, and of course I could make no sign. So the great ocean patriarch, having satisfied his curiosity, quietly withdrew under water.

I shall conclude with one other adventure of my seal-hunting 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.