I cannot believe it is a year since I last wrote a post for A Regency Reticule! Where has the time gone to? It has been a very busy year.
I thought I would look at Hallowe'en from the Regency perspective rather than the event we celebrate today.
Dating from the middle of the sixteenth century, the term All Hallow Eve was overtaken by that of Hallow-e’en or Hallowe’en in the last years of the seventeenth century, particularly in Scotland. It is not therefore surprising that Sir Walter Scott should include a spirit in one of his early works, The Monastery, published in 1820. Central to the tale is the Glendinning family, the scion of which, Halbert, is a sprightly, impetuous youth – and jealous of the apparent affection Mary of Avenel holds for his brother.
‘He arrived at length in a narrow and secluded cleuch, or deep ravine, which ran down into the valley, and contributed a scanty rivulet to the supply of the brook with which Glendearg is watered. Up this he sped with the same precipitate haste which had marked his departure from the tower, nor did he pause and look around until he had reached the fountain from which the rivulet had its rise.
Here Halbert stopt short, and cast a gloomy, and almost a frightened glance around him. A huge rock rose in front, from a cleft of which grew a wild holly-tree, whose dark green branches rustled over the spring which arose beneath. The banks on either hand rose so high, and approached each other so closely, that it was only when the sun was at its meridian height, and during the summer solstice, that its rays could reach the bottom of the chasm in which he stood. But it was now summer, and the hour was noon, so that the unwonted reflection of the sun was dancing in the pellucid fountain.
“It is the season and the hour,” said Halbert to himself; “and now I—I might soon become wiser than Edward with all his pains! Mary should see whether he alone is fit to be consulted, and to sit by her side, and hang over her as she reads, and point out every word and every letter. And she loves me better than him—I am sure she does—for she comes of noble blood, and scorns sloth and cowardice.—And do I myself not stand here slothful and cowardly as any priest of them all?—Why should I fear to call upon this form—this shape?—Already have I endured the vision, and why not again? What can it do to me, who am a man of lith and limb, and have by my side my father's sword? Does my heart beat—do my hairs bristle, at the thought of calling up a painted shadow, and how should I face a band of Southrons in flesh and blood? By the soul of the first Glendinning, I will make proof of the charm!”’
Halbert then bowed three times to the holly tree and the same to the fountain, uttering a rhyme, thus producing ‘...a figure of a female clothed in white...’
'There’ something in that ancient superstition,
Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves.
The spring that, with its thousand crystal bubbles,
Bursts from the bosom of some desert rock
In secret solitude, may well be deem’d
The haunt of something purer, more refined,
And mightier than ourselves.
OLD PLAY.
‘Young Halbert Glendinning had scarcely pronounced the mystical rhymes, than, as we have mentioned in the conclusion of the last chapter, an appearance, as of a beautiful female, dressed in white, stood within two yards of him. His terror for the moment overcame his natural courage, as well as the strong resolution which he had formed, that the figure which he had now twice seen should not a third time daunt him. But it would seem there is something thrilling and abhorrent to flesh and blood, in the consciousness that we stand in presence of a being in form like to ourselves, but so different in faculties and nature, that we can neither understand its purposes, nor calculate its means of pursuing them.
Halbert stood silent and gasped for breath, his hairs erecting themselves on his head—-his mouth open—his eyes fixed, and, as the sole remaining sign of his late determined purpose, his sword pointed towards the apparition. At length with a voice of ineffable sweetness, the White Lady, for by that name we shall distinguish this being, sung, or rather chanted, the following lines:—
“Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me?
Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee?
He that seeks to deal with us must know no fear nor failing!
To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing.
The breeze that brought me hither now, must sweep Egyptian ground,
The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound;
The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay,
For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day.”
The astonishment of Halbert began once more to give way to his resolution, and he gained voice enough to say, though with a faltering accent, “In the name of God, what art thou?” The answer was in melody of a different tone and measure:—
“What I am I must not show—
What I am thou couldst not know—
Something betwixt heaven and hell—
Something that neither stood nor fell—
Something that through thy wit or will
May work thee good—may work thee ill.
Neither substance quite nor shadow,
Haunting lonely moor and meadow,
Dancing; by the haunted spring,
Riding on the whirlwind’s wing;
Aping in fantastic fashion
Every change of human passion,
While o'er our frozen minds they pass,
Like shadows from the mirror’d glass.
Wayward, fickle is our mood,
Hovering betwixt bad and good,
Happier than brief-dated man,
Living twenty times his span;
Far less happy, for we have
Help nor hope beyond the grave!
Man awakes to joy or sorrow;
Ours the sleep that knows no morrow.
This is all that I can show—
This is all that thou mayest know.”
The White Lady paused, and appeared to await an answer; but, as Halbert hesitated how to frame his speech, the vision seemed gradually to fade, and became more and more incorporeal. Justly guessing this to be a symptom of her disappearance, Halbert compelled himself to say,—“Lady, when I saw you in the glen, and when you brought back the black book of Mary Avenel, thou didst say I should one day learn to read it.”
The White Lady replied,
“Ay! and I taught thee the word and the spell,
To waken me here by the Fairies' Well,
But thou hast loved the heron and hawk,
More than to seek my haunted walk;
And thou hast loved the lance and the sword,
More than good text and holy word;
And thou hast loved the deer to track,
More than the lines and the letters black;
And thou art a ranger of moss and of wood,
And scornest the nurture of gentle blood.”
“I will do so no longer, fair maiden,” said Halbert; “I desire to learn; and thou didst promise me, that when I did so desire, thou wouldst be my helper; I am no longer afraid of thy presence, and I am no longer regardless of instruction.” As he uttered these words, the figure of the White Maiden grew gradually as distinct as it had been at first; and what had well-nigh faded into an ill-defined and colourless shadow, again assumed an appearance at least of corporeal consistency, although the hues were less vivid, and the outline of the figure less distinct and defined—so at least it seemed to Halbert—than those of an ordinary inhabitant of earth. “Wilt thou grant my request,” he said, “fair Lady, and give to my keeping the holy book which Mary of Avenel has so often wept for?”
The White Lady replied:
“Thy craven fear my truth accused,
Thine idlehood my trust abused;
He that draws to harbour late,
Must sleep without, or burst the gate.
There is a star for thee which burn’d.
Its influence wanes, its course is turn’d;
Valour and constancy alone
Can bring thee back the chance that's flown.”
“If I have been a loiterer, Lady,” answered young Glendinning, “thou shalt now find me willing to press forward with double speed. Other thoughts have filled my mind, other thoughts have engaged my heart, within a brief period—and by Heaven, other occupations shall henceforward fill up my time. I have lived in this day the space of years—I came hither a boy—I will return a man—a man, such as may converse not only with his own kind, but with whatever God permits to be visible to him. I will learn the contents of that mysterious volume—I will learn why the Lady of Avenel loved it—why the priests feared, and would have stolen it—why thou didst twice recover it from their hands.—What mystery is wrapt in it?—Speak, I conjure thee!” The lady assumed an air peculiarly sad and solemn, as drooping her head, and folding her arms on her bosom, she replied:
“Within that awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries!
Happiest they of human race,
To whom God has granted grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, and force the way;
And better had they ne'er been born,
Who read, to doubt, or read to scorn.”
“Give me the volume, Lady,” said young Glendinning. “They call me idle—they call me dull—in this pursuit my industry shall not fail, nor, with God's blessing, shall my understanding. Give me the volume.” The apparition again replied:
“Many a fathom dark and deep
I have laid the book to sleep;
Ethereal fires around it glowing—
Ethereal music ever flowing—
The sacred pledge of Heav’n
All things revere.
Each in his sphere,
Save man for whom ’twas giv’n:
Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy
Things ne’er seen by mortal eye.”
Halbert Glendinning boldly reached his hand to the White Lady.
“Fearest thou to go with me?” she said, as his hand trembled at the soft and cold touch of her own—
“Fearest thou to go with me?
Still it is free to thee
A peasant to dwell:
Thou mayst drive the dull steer,
And chase the king's deer,
But never more come near
This haunted well.”
“If what thou sayest be true,” said the undaunted boy, “my destinies are higher than thine own. There shall be neither well nor wood which I dare not visit. No fear of aught, natural or supernatural, shall bar my path through my native valley.”
He had scarce uttered the words, when they both descended through the earth with a rapidity which took away Halbert's breath and every other sensation, saving that of being hurried on with the utmost velocity. At length they stopped with a shock so sudden, that the mortal journeyer through this unknown space must have been thrown down with violence, had he not been upheld by his supernatural companion.
It was more than a minute, ere, looking around him, he beheld a grotto, or natural cavern, composed of the most splendid spars and crystals, which returned in a thousand prismatic hues the light of a brilliant flame that glowed on an altar of alabaster. This altar, with its fire, formed the central point of the grotto, which was of a round form, and very high in the roof, resembling in some respects the dome of a cathedral. Corresponding to the four points of the compass, there went off four long galleries, or arcades, constructed of the same brilliant materials with the dome itself, and the termination of which was lost in darkness.
No human imagination can conceive, or words suffice to describe, the glorious radiance which, shot fiercely forth by the flame, was returned from so many hundred thousand points of reflection, afforded by the sparry pillars and their numerous angular crystals. The fire itself did not remain steady and unmoved, but rose and fell, sometimes ascending in a brilliant pyramid of condensed flame half way up the lofty expanse, and again fading into a softer and more rosy hue, and hovering, as it were, on the surface of the altar to collect its strength for another powerful exertion. There was no visible fuel by which it was fed, nor did it emit either smoke or vapour of any kind.
What was of all the most remarkable, the black volume so often mentioned lay not only unconsumed, but untouched in the slightest degree, amid this intensity of fire, which, while it seemed to be of force sufficient to melt adamant, had no effect whatever on the sacred book thus subjected to its utmost influence.
The White Lady, having paused long enough to let young Glendinning take a complete survey of what was around him, now said in her usual chant,
“Here lies the volume thou boldly hast sought;
Touch it, and take it,—’twill dearly be bought!”
Familiarized in some degree with marvels, and desperately desirous of showing the courage he had boasted, Halbert plunged his hand, without hesitation, into the flame, trusting to the rapidity of the motion, to snatch out the volume before the fire could greatly affect him. But he was much disappointed. The flame instantly caught upon his sleeve, and though he withdrew his hand immediately, yet his arm was so dreadfully scorched, that he had well-nigh screamed with pain. He suppressed the natural expression of anguish, however, and only intimated the agony which he felt by a contortion and a muttered groan. The White Lady passed her cold hand over his arm, and, ere she had finished the following metrical chant, his pain had entirely gone, and no mark of the scorching was visible:
“Rash thy deed,
Mortal weed
To immortal flames applying;
Rasher trust
Has thing of dust,
On his own weak worth relying:
Strip thee of such fences vain,
Strip, and prove thy luck, again.”
Obedient to what he understood to be the meaning of his conductress, Halbert bared his arm to the shoulder, throwing down the remains of his sleeve, which no sooner touched the floor on which he stood than it collected itself together, shrivelled itself up, and was without any visible fire reduced to light tinder, which a sudden breath of wind dispersed into empty space. The White Lady, observing the surprise of the youth, immediately repeated—
“Mortal warp and mortal woof.
Cannot brook this charmed roof;
All that mortal art hath wrought,
In our cell returns to nought.
The molten gold returns to clay,
The polish’d diamond melts away.
All is alter’d, all is flown,
Nought stands fast but truth alone.
Not for that thy quest give o'er:
Courage! prove thy chance once more.”
Imboldened by her words, Halbert Glendinning made a second effort, and, plunging his bare arm into the flame, took out the sacred volume without feeling either heat or inconvenience of any kind. Astonished, and almost terrified at his own success, he beheld the flame collect itself, and shoot up into one long and final stream, which seemed as if it would ascend to the very roof of the cavern, and then, sinking as suddenly, became totally extinguished. The deepest darkness ensued; but Halbert had no time to consider his situation, for the White Lady had already caught his hand, and they ascended to upper air with the same velocity with which they had sunk into the earth.
They stood by the fountain in the Corri-nan-shian when they emerged from the bowels of the earth; but on casting a bewildered glance around him, the youth was surprised to observe, that the shadows had fallen far to the east, and that the day was well-nigh spent. He gazed on his conductress for explanation, but her figure began to fade before his eyes—her cheeks grew paler, her features less distinct, her form became shadowy, and blended itself with the mist which was ascending the hollow ravine. What had late the symmetry of form, and the delicate, yet clear hues of feminine beauty, now resembled the flitting and pale ghost of some maiden who has died for love, as it is seen indistinctly and by moonlight, by her perjured lover.
“Stay, spirit!” said the youth, imboldened by his success in the subterranean dome, “thy kindness must not leave me, as one encumbered with a weapon he knows not how to wield. Thou must teach me the art to read, and to understand this volume; else what avails it me that I possess it?”
But the figure of the White Lady still waned before his eye, until it became an outline as pale and indistinct as that of the moon, when the winter morning is far advanced, and ere she had ended the following chant, she was entirely invisible:—
“Alas! alas!
Not ours the grace
These holy characters to trace:
Idle forms of painted air,
Not to us is given to share
The boon bestow’d on Adam's race!
With patience bide.
Heaven will provide
The fitting time, the fitting guide.”
The form was already gone, and now the voice itself had melted away in melancholy cadence, softening, as if the Being who spoke had been slowly wafted from the spot where she had commenced her melody.
It was at this moment that Halbert felt the extremity of the terror which he had hitherto so manfully suppressed. The very necessity of exertion had given him spirit to make it, and the presence of the mysterious Being, while it was a subject of fear in itself, had nevertheless given him the sense of protection being near to him. It was when he could reflect with composure on what had passed, that a cold tremor shot across his limbs, his hair bristled, and he was afraid to look around lest he should find at his elbow something more frightful than the first vision. A breeze arising suddenly, realized the beautiful and wild idea of the most imaginative of our modern bards {Footnote: Coleridge.}—
It fann’d his cheek, it raised his hair,
Like a meadow pale in spring;
It mingled strangely with his fears,
Yet it fell like a welcoming.
The youth stood silent and astonished for a few minutes. It seemed to him that the extraordinary Being he had seen, half his terror, half his protectress, was still hovering on the gale which swept past him, and that she might again make herself sensible to his organs of sight. “Speak!” he said, wildly tossing his arms, “speak yet again—be once more present, lovely vision!—thrice have I now seen thee, yet the idea of thy invisible presence around or beside me, makes my heart beat faster than if the earth yawned and gave up a demon.”
But neither sound nor appearance indicated the presence of the White Lady, and nothing preternatural beyond what he had already witnessed, was again audible or visible. Halbert, in the meanwhile, by the very exertion of again inviting the presence of this mysterious Being, had recovered his natural audacity. He looked around once more, and resumed his solitary path down the valley into whose recesses he had penetrated.’
Fairies, too, come abroad on Hallowe’en, making it a night full of charms and spells. In 1785, Robert Burns wrote his poem of that name and published it the following year. Here are just the first two stanzas:
UPON that night, when fairies light,
On Cassilis Downans dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colzean the route is ta’en,
Beneath the moon's pale beams;
There, up the cove, to stray an’ rove
Amang the rocks and streams
To sport that night.
Amang the bonnie winding banks,
Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear,
Where Bruce ance ruled the martial ranks,
An’ shook his Carrick spear,
Some merry, friendly countra folks
Together did convene,
To burn their nits, an’ pu’ their stocks,
And haud their Hallowe’en,
Fu’ blithe that night.
Spells and magic were very much at the root of the customs and traditions of this night, which has very little to do with pumpkins, trick or treating and dressing up in scary costumes, although the Lord of Misrule does promote the last. With the exception of the Prince of Misbehaviour, these are, of course, much enjoyed by modern children of all ages but have come to us from America. On this side of the Pond, superstition, witches and warlocks, fairies and other magical spirits are the traditional components of this once pagan celebration on the last night of the year.
British customs, by which mainly Scots and Irish, may well have begun with a festival to honour Pomona, the goddess of fruits, for it was thought that this was the time when the stores of fruit kept for winter consumption were opened. Nuts were considered sacred by the Romans, echoing the belief from those pagan times.
Indeed, it was a Roman custom for a bridegroom to toss nuts about the room, whereupon the boys might scramble to gather them, intimating (as put forward by some) that the new husband intended thereafter to set aside the games and sports of boyhood. Nuts were also employed in perhaps the most ancient rite of divination performed on this night – that of prophesying a successful marital union. Two nuts, selected by the girl and her proposed match, were put into the fire. If they lay still and burned together, it was a sign of a happy marriage or a hopeful love. If they bounced and jumped apart, it was considered to be a sign of ill-omen. From this practice, and from cracking nuts with the teeth, came the rather charming appellation of ‘Nutcrack Night’. John Gay (1685-1732) described the custom quite beautifully in his poem, ‘Spell’.
‘Two hazel nuts I threw into the flame,
And to each nut I gave a sweetheart’s name,
This with the loudest bounce me sore amaz’d,
That in a flame of brightest colour blaz’d;
As blaz’d the fat, so may thy passion grow,
For t’was thy nut that did so brightly glow!’
The nutty proceedings, however, were not the first to be performed. The foremost and first act of the evening was for the younger members of the party to proceed into the garden. With eyes tightly closed, they groped to the cabbage patch, where they each pulled up a stock. These were then examined on their return to the house. The shape of each stock was said to determine the figure of the maid or youth’s future husband or wife. Thomas Pennant, in his Tour In Scotland of 1769, confirms this practice, saying: ‘The young people determine the figure and size of their husbands by drawing cabbages blindfold on All-Hallows Even...’ Then it was time to gather about the roaring fire and, with each person given a certain number of nuts, one boy and one girl put one nut into the fire, in an alternative version of the above ritual. Depending on how seriously this was taken, the outcome could cause much hilarity, happiness or horror!
Next, a barrel of water was produced containing a few apples bobbing on the surface. The young gentlemen of the company then ducked for them in the time-honoured manner, their hands behind their back while they tried to catch them with their teeth. The apples thus claimed were given to the ladies, who, according to the old superstition, then lit a candle and went alone to a room. Here, before a looking-glass, each combed her hair whilst eating the apple, in order to see the face of her future husband peeping over her shoulder.
Three dishes were then placed on a table. One contained clean water, one dirty water and one nothing at all. Blindfolded, the young gentlemen were led to the table to dip a finger in one bowl. This was repeated three times, with the bowls in different positions. If the gentleman dipped his finger in the clean water, it was a sign his future wife would be a pretty young girl; if he chose the dirty water, she would be a widow; and if fate gave him the empty bowl, he was destined to remain a bachelor.
After this came the second apple-catching tradition, one of great antiquity. From a length of thin rope or cord, a crossed stick was suspended from the ceiling or horizontal beam. At the four ends were hung, alternately, an apple and a lit candle. The cross was then set spinning, and while it was whirling, the maids and their swains tried to catch the apples with their mouths without being burned. This activity may be likened to the ancient game of Quintain. John Stow describes the sport, the province of squires and young knights in medieval England, in his Survey of London.
‘I have seen a quinten set up on Cornehill, by the Leaden Hall, where the attendants on the lords of merry disports have runne and made greate pastime; for he that hit not the broad end of the quinten was of all men laughed to scorne; and he that hit it full, if he rid not the faster, had a sound blow in his necke with a bag full of sand hanged on the other end.’
Different parts of the kingdom and, indeed, different countries, have different ceremonies and traditions. The inhabitants of St. Kilda, stated Martin Martin in 1703, observed the festival of All Saints by baking ‘a large Cake, in form of a Triangle, furrowed round,’ and that ‘it must be all eaten that Night.’ This tradition, says a correspondent in The Gentleman’s Magazine Vol. LX, Part II for 1790, had travelled to Ripon in Yorkshire, where ‘On the eve of All Saints the good women make a cake for every one in the family; so this is generally called cake-night.’ John Brand, in Popular Antiquities of Great Britain, 1813, adds, ‘There was formerly a custom in Warwickshire to have Seed Cake at Allhallows [sic], at the end of wheat seed-time...’
It was also the tradition in Scotland to light bonfires in every village. Once the fire had been consumed, the ashes were carefully drawn into a circle, and a stone placed near the edge for every person of those families taking part. Any stone moved or damaged by the following morning indicated that person to be fey and they were then expected not to live above a twelvemonth from that day. The bonfire was lit by consecrated fire received from the Druid priests and was supposed to remain for a year.
A similar tradition was upheld in North Wales, where a fire was lit on All Hallow Even, under the name of Coel Coeth. This was done in the most conspicuous position near each house and then kept burning for about an hour during the night. Once almost out, each person flung a white stone, previously marked, into the ashes. The company then paced about the embers, saying their prayers, before retiring to bed. Early the following morning they searched for the stones, the firm belief being that should any stone be missing, the one to whom it belonged would die before All Saints’ Eve could come again. Spooky!
On the subject of foretelling the future, though, not everyone approved. John Platt, as a minister of the church clearly did not and neither, it seems, did Robert Burns.
‘“The passion of prying into futurity,” says Mr. Burns, “makes a striking part of the history of human nature, in its rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened in our own.”’
I wonder what they would think if they could see the ghoulish, vampiric, tricking, pumpkin-grinning and treating celebration it has become?
© Heather King
All images are in the public domain.
