Part 73
The “Bridal of Caölchairn” is a legendary poem, founded upon a very slight tradition, concerning events which are related to have occurred during the absence of sir Colin Campbell on his expedition to Rome and Arragon. It is said by the tale, that the chieftain was gone ten years, and that his wife having received no intelligence of his existence in that time, she accepted the addresses of one of her husband’s vassals, Mac Nab of Barachastailan. The bridal was fixed; but on the day when it was to have been solemnized, the secret was imparted to sir Colin in Spain, by a spirit of the nether world. When the knight received the intelligence, he bitterly lamented the distance which prevented him from wreaking vengeance upon his presumptuous follower. The communicating spirit, either out of love for mischief, or from a private familiarity with sir Colin, promised to obviate this obstacle; and on the same day, before the bridal was celebrated, transported the chieftain in a blast of wind from Arragon to Glen Urcha. In what manner sir Colin proceeded, tradition does not say; it simply records, that the bridal was broken, but is silent upon the nature of the catastrophe. The legend is now almost entirely forgotten in the neighbourhood where its events are said to have taken place. “As far as I know,” says Mr. Allan, “it is confined to one old man, named Malcolm Mac Nab, who lives upon the hill of Barachastailan; he is between eighty and ninety years of age, and the last of the race of ancient smiths, who remains in the place of his ancestors. A few yards from his cottage there is the foundation of one of those ancient circular forts built by the Celts, and so frequently to be met in the Highlands: these structures are usually ascribed by the vulgar to Fion and his heroes. In a neighbouring field, called ‘Larich nam Fion,’ there were formerly two others of these buildings; their walls of uncemented stone were not many years since entire, to the height of eight or nine feet; but they have since been pulled down and carried away to repair the neighbouring cottages: it is from these buildings that the hill received its name of ‘Bar-a-chas-tailan,’ the ‘eminence of the castles.’”
The tide of centuries has rolled away O’er Innishail’s solitary isle, The wind of ages and the world’s decay Has swept upon the Campbells’ fortress pile: And far from what they were is changed the while The monks’ grey cloister, and the baron’s keep. I’ve seen the sun within the dungeon smile, And in the bridal bower the ivy creep. I’ve stood upon the fane’s foundation stone, Heard the grass sigh upon the cloister’s heap, And sat upon the holy cross o’erthrown, And marked within the cell where warriors sleep, Beneath the broad grey stone the timorous rabbit peep.
The legend of the dead is past away As the dim eye amid the night doth fail. The memorie of the fearful bridal day Is parted from the people of the vale; And none are left to tell the weary tale. Save on yon lone green hill by Fion’s tower Yet lives a man bowed down with age and ail: Still tells he of the fearful legend’s hour-- It was his father fell within the bridal bower.
But though with man there is a weary waste. It is not so beyond the mortal way; With the unbodied spirits nought is spaced; But when the aged world has worn away, They look on earth where once their dwelling lay. And to their never-closing eye doth show All that has been--a fairie work of day; And all which here their mortal life did show, Yet lives in that which never may decay; When thought, and life, and memorie below Has sunk with all it bore of gladness or of woe.
At eventime on green Inchail’s isle A dim grey form doth sit upon the hill: No shadow casts it in the moonshine smile, And in its folded mantle bowed and still No feature e’er it showed the twilight chill, But seems beneath its hood a void grey. The owlet, when it comes, cries wild and shrill; The moon grows dim when shows it in its ray, None saw it e’er depart;--but it is not at day.
By Caölchairn at night when all is still, And the black otter issues from his lair, He hears a voice along the water chill, It seems to speak amid the cloudy air; But some have seen beyond the Donjon stair Where now the floor from the wall is gone, A form dim standing ’mid the ether fair, No light upon its fixed eye there shone, And yet the blood seems wet upon its bosom wan.
[226] Statistical Account, vol. viii. p. 347.
[227] Statistical Account of Scotland, vol. viii. p. 346; and Pennant’s Tour in Scotland, 1774, p. 217.
[228] When the chieftain returned to his house, the coal which had so near proved its destruction, was found in the roof; it was taken out by order of Mac Intire, and preserved with great care by his descendants, till the late Glen O was driven to America by the misfortunes of the Highlands and the oppression of his superior.
* * * * *
MY ARM-CHAIR.
_For the Table Book._
In my humble opinion an arm-chair is far superior to a sofa; for although I bow to Cowper’s judgment, (who assigned the superiority to the sofa,) yet we must recollect that it was in compliance with the request of a fair lady that he chose that subject for praise: he might have eulogized in equal terms an arm-chair, had he consulted his own feelings and appreciation of comfort. I acknowledge the “soft recumbency of outstretched limbs,” so peculiar to the sofa--the opportunity afforded the fair sex of displaying grace and elegance of form, while reposing in easy negligence on a Grecian couch--but then think of the snug comfort of an easy-chair. Its very name conveys a multitude of soothing ideas: its commodious repose for your back; its generous and unwearied support of your head; its outstretched arms wooing you to its embraces:--think on these things, and ask yourself if it be possible to withstand its affectionate and disinterested advances.
On entering a room where there is an easy-chair, you are struck by the look of conscious self-importance which seems to distinguish it as the monarch of all the surrounding chairs; there is an appearance of regal superiority about it, blended, however, with such a charming condescension, that you immediately avail yourself of its gracious inclination to receive the _burden_ of your homage.
There is one kind of arm-chair for which I entertain a very resentful feeling, it _assumes_ the title of an _easy_-chair to induce you to believe it one of that amiable fraternity, whereas it only claims kindred on account of its shape, and is in reality the complete antipodes of ease--I mean the horse-hair arm-chair. Its arms, like those of its brethren, invite you to repose; but, if you attempt it, you are repulsed by an ambush of sharp shooting prickles. It is like a person who has a desire to please and obtain you for his friend, but who is of so incorrigibly bad a temper that attachment is impossible. If you try to compose yourself with one of these pretenders, by endeavouring to protect the back of your head with your pocket-handkerchief for a pillow, you either dream that you are under the hands of a surgeon who is cupping you on the cheek, or that you are transformed into your cousin Lucy, and struggling to avoid being kissed by old Mr. D----, who does not shave above once a week. When you awake, you discover that your face has slipped off the handkerchief, and come immediately in contact with the _chevaux de frise_ of bristles.
As an excellent specimen of an easy-chair, I select the one I at present occupy. Its ancient magnificence of red damask silk--embossed in wavy flowers and curved arabesques, surrounded by massive gilt carving--is now shrouded with an unostentatious covering of white dimity. This, however, does not compromise its dignity--it is rather a resignation of fatiguing splendour, and the assumption of the ease suitable to retirement in old age. Perhaps a happy father once sat in it surrounded by his smiling offspring: some climbing up the arms; others peeping over the lofty back, aiming to cling round his neck; his favourite little girl insinuating herself behind him, while he gazes with affectionate but anxious thoughts on the countenance of his eldest son, standing between his knees. Perhaps two lovers once sat in it _together_, although there were plenty of other chairs in the room. (For fear some of my fair readers should be incredulous, I beg leave to assure them that it is quite possible for two people to sit together in an arm-chair, if they choose to be accommodating; therefore I would not have them dislike an easy-chair on the plea of its being _unsocial_.) Perhaps it may have been the means of concealment--in a similar way with the arm-chair in “Le Nozze di Figaro.” Often have I when a child curled myself round in it, and listened to my old nurse’s wonderful stories, till I have fallen fast asleep. Often have I since enjoyed many a delightful book, while lolling indolently enclosed in its soft, warm, cushioned sides--
M. H.
* * * * *
~Garrick’s Plays.~
No. XXII.
[From “Querer Por Solo Querer:” concluded from last Number.]
_Address to Solitude._
Sweet Solitude! still Mirth! that fear’st no wrong, Because thou dost none: Morning all day long! Truth’s sanctuary! Innocency’s spring! Inventions Limbeck! Contemplation’s wing! Peace of my soul, which I too late pursued; That know’st not the world’s vain inquietude: Where friends, the thieves of time, let us alone Whole days, and a man’s hours are all his own.
_Song in praise of the Same._
Solitude, of friends the best, And the best companion; Mother of truths, and brought at least Every day to bed of one: In this flowery mansion I contemplate how the rose Stands upon thorns, how quickly goes The dismaying jessamine: Only the soul, which is divine, No decay of beauty knows. The World is Beauty’s Mirror. Flowers, In their first virgin purity, Flatt’rers both of the nose and eye.-- To be cropt by paramours Is their best of destiny: And those nice darlings of the land, Which seem’d heav’n’s painted bow to scorn. And bloom’d the envy of the morn, Are the gay trophy of a hand.
_Unwilling to love again._
--sadly I do live in fear, For, though I would not fair appear, And though in truth I am not fair, Haunted I am like those that are And here, among these rustling leaves, With which the wanton wind must play, Inspired by it, my sense perceives This snowy Jasmin whispering say, How much more frolic, white, and fair In her green lattice she doth stand, To enjoy the free and cooler air, Than in the prison of a hand.[229]
_Loving without hope._
I look’d if underneath the cope Were one that loved, and did not hope; But from his nobler soul remove That _modern heresy in love_ When, hearing a shrill voice, I turn, And lo! a sweet-tongued Nightingale, Tender adorer of the Morn,-- In him I found that One and All. For that same faithful bird and true, Sweet and kind and constant lover, Wond’rous passion did discover, From the terrace of an eugh. And tho’ ungrateful she appear’d Unmoved with all she saw and heard; Every day, before ’twas day, More and kinder things he’d say, Courteous, and never to be lost, Return’d not with complaints, but praise Loving, and all at his own cost; Suffering, and without hope of ease: For with a sad and trembling throat He breathes into her breast this note: “I love thee not, to make thee mine; But love thee, ’cause thy form’s divine.”
_The True Absence in Love._
Zelidaura, star divine, That do’st in highest orb of beauty shine; Pardon’d Murd’ress, by that heart Itself, which thou dost kill, and coveted smart Though my walk so distant lies From the sunshine of thine eyes; Into sullen shadows hurl’d, To lie here buried from the world ’Tis the least reason of my moan, That so much earth is ’twixt us thrown. ’Tis absence of another kind, Grieves me; for where you are present too, Love’s Geometry does find, I have ten thousand miles to you. ’Tis not absence to be far, But to abhor is to absent; To those who in disfavour are, Sight itself is banishment.[230]
_To a Warrioress._
Heav’n, that created thee thus warlike, stole Into a woman’s body a man’s soul. But nature’s law in vain dost thou gainsay; The woman’s valour lies another way. The dress, the tear, the blush, the witching eye. More witching tongue, are beauty’s armoury: To railly; to discourse in companies, Who’s fine, who courtly, who a wit, who wise; And with the awing sweetness of a Dame, As conscious of a face can tigers tame, By tasks and circumstances to discover, Amongst the best of Princes, the best Lover; (The fruit of all those flowers) who serves with most Self diffidence, who with the greatest boast; Who twists an eye of Hope in braids of Fear; Who silent (made for nothing but to bear Sweet scorn and injuries of love) envies Unto his tongue the treasure of his eyes: Who, without vaunting shape, hath only wit; Nor knows to hope reward, tho’ merit it: Then, out of all, to make a choice so rare, So lucky-wise, as if thou wert not fair.[231]
_All mischiefs reparable but a lost Love._
1.
A second Argo, freighted With fear and avarice, Between the sea and skies Hath penetrated To the new world, unworn With the red footsteps of the snowy morn.
2.
Thirsty of mines; She comes rich back; and (the curl’d rampire past Of watry mountains, cast Up by the winds) Ungrateful shelf near home Gives her usurped gold a silver home.
3.
A devout Pilgrim, who To foreign temple bare Good pattern, fervent prayer, Spurr’d by a pious vow; Measuring so large a space, That earth lack’d regions for his plants[232] to trace.
4.
Joyful returns, tho’ poor: And, just by his abode, Falling into a road Which laws did ill secure, Sees plunder’d by a thief (O happier man than I! for ’tis) his life.
5.
Conspicuous grows a Tree, Which wanton did appear, First fondling of the year. With smiling bravery, And in his blooming pride The Lower House of Flowers did deride:
6.
When his silk robes and fair (His youth’s embroidery, The crownet of a spring, Narcissus of the air) Rough Boreas doth confound, And with his trophies strews the scorned ground.
7.
Trusted to tedious hope So many months the Corn; Which now begins to turn Into a golden crop: The lusty grapes, (which plump Are the last farewell of the summer’s pomp)
8.
How spacious spreads the vine!-- Nursed up with how much care, She lives, she thrives, grows fair; ’Bout her loved Elm doth twine:-- Comes a cold cloud; and lays, In one, the fabric of so many days.
9.
A silver River small In sweet accents His music vents, (The warbling virginal, To which the merry birds do sing-- Timed with stops of gold[233] the silver string);
10.
He steals by a greenwood With fugitive feet; Gay, jolly, sweet: Comes me a troubled flood; And scarcely one sand stays, To be a witness of his golden days.--
11.
The Ship’s upweigh’d; The Pilgrim made a Saint; Next spring re-crowns the Plant; Winds raise the Corn, was laid; The Vine is pruned; The Rivulet new tuned:-- But in the Ill I have I’m left alive only to dig my grave.
12.
Lost Beauty, I will die, But I will thee recover; And that I die not instantly, Shews me more perfect Lover: For (my Soul gone before) I live not now to live, but to deplore.
C. L.
[229] Claridiana, the Enchanted Queen, speaks this, and the following speech.
[230] Claridoro, rival to Felisbravo, speaks this.
[231] Addressed to Zelidaura.
[232] Soles of his feet.
[233] Allusion to the Tagus, and golden sands.
* * * * *
WELSH WEDDINGS.
_From a Lady--To the Editor._
Sir,--If a brief account of the manner of celebrating marriage in some parts of Wales should afford entertainment to your readers, I shall feel gratified.
The early part of my life was spent at a village in the mountainous part of Glamorganshire, called Myrther Tidvel. Since then it has become a considerable place for the manufactory of iron, and I expect both the manners and inhabitants are much changed: the remembrance of its rural and lovely situation, and of the simplicity of its humble villagers, when I lived amongst them, often produces in my mind the most pleasing sensations.
Some weeks previous to a wedding taking place, a person, well-known in the parish, went round and invited all, without limitation or distinction, to attend. As the ceremonies were similar I shall select one, as an illustration, in which I took part as bride’s-maid to a much valued servant.
On the evening previous to the marriage, a considerable company assembled at the bride’s father’s, and in a short time the sound of music proclaimed the approach of the bridegroom. The bride and her company were then shut up in a room, and the house-doors locked; great and loud was the cry for admittance from without, till I was directed, as bride’s-maid, by an elderly matron, to open the window, and assist the bridegroom to enter, which being done the doors were set open, and his party admitted. A room was set apart for the young people to dance in, which continued for about an hour, and having partaken of a common kind of cake and warm ale, spiced and sweetened with sugar, the company dispersed.
At eight, next morning, I repaired to the house of the bridegroom, where there had assembled in the course of an hour about one hundred and fifty persons: he was a relation to the dissenting minister, a man highly esteemed; and he was much respected on that as well as his own account. The procession set out, preceded by a celebrated harper playing “Come, haste to the wedding;” the bridegroom and I came next, and were followed by the large company. At the door of the bride’s father we were met by the bride, led by her brother, who took their station behind the bridegroom and me; her company joining, and adding nearly as many again to the procession: we then proceeded to the church, the music playing as before. After the ceremony the great door of the church was opened, and the bride and her maid having changed their partners were met at it by the harper, who struck up “Joy to the bridegroom,” and led the way to a part of the church-yard never used as a burial-ground; there placing himself under a large yew-tree the dancers immediately formed, the bride and bridegroom leading off the two first dances,--“The beginning of the world,” and “My wife shall have her way:” these are never danced but on like occasions, and then invariably.
By this time it was twelve o’clock, and the bride and bridegroom, followed by a certain number, went into the house, where a long table was tastefully set out with bread of two kinds, one plain and the other with currants and seeds in it; plates of ornamented butter; cold and toasted cheese; with ale, some warmed and sweetened. The bride and her maid were placed at the head of the table, and the bridegroom and her brother at the bottom. After the company had taken what they liked, a plate was set down, which went round, each person giving what they chose, from two to five shillings; this being done, the money was given to the bride, and the company resigned their places to others; and so on in succession till all had partaken and given what they pleased. Dancing was kept up till seven, and then all dispersed. At this wedding upwards of thirty pounds was collected.
In an adjoining parish it was the custom for the older people to go the evening before, and take presents of wheat, meal, cheese, tea, sugar, &c., and the young people attended next day, when the wedding was conducted much in the way I have described, but smaller sums of money were given.
This method of forwarding young people has always appeared to me a pleasing trait in the Welsh character; but it only prevails amongst the labouring classes.
When a farmer’s daughter, or some young woman, with a fortune of from one hundred to two hundred pounds, marries, it is generally very privately, and she returns to her father’s house for a few weeks, where her friends and neighbours go to see her, but none go empty-handed. When the appointed time arrives for the young man to take home his wife, the elderly women are invited to attend the _starald_, that is, the furniture which the young woman provides; in general it is rather considerable. It is conveyed in great order, there being fixed rules as to the articles to be moved off first, and those which are to follow. I have thought this a pleasing sight, the company being all on horseback, and each matron in her appointed station, the nearest relations going first; all have their allotted basket or piece of small furniture, a horse and car following afterwards with the heavier articles. The next day the young couple are attended by the younger part of their friends, and this is called a _turmant_, and is frequently preceded by music. The derivation of _starald_ and _turmant_ I never could learn, though I have frequently made the inquiry.
I am, sir, &c. &c.
A. B.
* * * * *
CUMBERLAND WEDDINGS.
In Cumberland, and some other parts of the north of England, they have a custom called a “bridewain,” or the public celebration of a wedding. A short time after a match is entered into, the parties give notice of it; in consequence of which the whole neighbourhood, for several miles round, assemble at the bridegroom’s house, and join in various pastimes of the county. This meeting resembles the wakes or revels celebrated in other places; and a plate or bowl is fixed in a convenient place, where each of the company contributes in proportion to his inclination and ability, and according to the degree of respect the parties are held in; by which laudable custom a worthy couple have frequently been benefited with a supply of money, from fifty to a hundred pounds. The following advertisements are from Cumberland newspapers:--
INVITATION.
Suspend for one day your cares and your labours, And come to this wedding, kind friends and good neighbours.
NOTICE is hereby given, that the marriage of Isaac Pearson with Frances Atkinson, will be solemnized in due form in the parish church of Lamplugh, in Cumberland, on Tuesday next, the 30th of May inst. (1786); immediately after which the bride and bridegroom, with their attendants, will proceed to Lonefoot, in the said parish, where the nuptials will be celebrated by a variety of rural entertainments.
Then come one and all At Hymen’s soft call, From Whitehaven, Workington, Harington, Dean, Hail, Ponsonby, Blaing, and all places between; From Egremont, Cockermouth, Barton, St. Bee’s, Cint, Kinnyside, Calder, and parts such as these; And the country at large may flock in if they please. Such sports there will be as have seldom been seen, Such wrestling and fencing, and dancing between, And races for prizes, for frolic and fun, By horses and asses, and dogs, will be run, That you’ll go home happy--as sure as a gun. In a word, such a wedding can ne’er fail to please; For the sports of Olympus were trifles to these.