We boast of being “the latest seed of Time,” we “cry down the past,” we talk of the omnipotence of science and philosophy; and well that we can do so. But is it not strange, that, in spite of all this real or fancied progress—in spite of our nineteenth-century refinement and civilisation—this demon of superstition still remains, lurking in every corner of our land, crushing the minds of its victims in the broad and open day? Is it not more than strange, that they who, by reason of their comparative enlightenment, seem bound to cry it down, to root it out, to trample it under foot with scorn and indignation, are, in fact, its main supporters, not only tolerating the accursed credulity of their poorer and more ignorant brethren, but even countenancing it by their own expressed belief?
Many may say, “How absurd to view it in such a light: I always thought the belief in witches something amusing—a mere nothing.” So—in some respects—it may be. But is it amusing in its consequences? Is it nothing when it destroys the peace of a home? Is it nothing when it proves the ruin of a human life? Above all, is superstition nothing, when it cramps the minds and energies of thousands, preventing the exercise of those great and noble every-day virtues—the glory of our land—the brightest ornament of an English labourer’s home?
Truly we may still go far, very far into the remote distance, and yet not cease to cry, Excelsior!
NOMÉNOË.
LITERALLY RENDERED FROM THE BRETON.
[Noménoë was the Alfred of the Bretons, their deliverer from the Franks under Charles the Bald, in the 9th century (a.d., 841). He is a strictly historical personage. Under him the Bretons succeeded in driving the immensely superior force of the Franks beyond the rivers of l’Oust and Vilaine ; pushed their frontier as far as Poitou, and rescued from the hands of the invader the towns of Nantes and Rennes, which have remained included in Brittany from the date of their deliverance by Noménoë. This very spirited ballad was obtained by M. de Villemarqué, from the oral recitation of a peasant of Kergerez. As in my other translations of Breton ballads, I have adhered to the metre and couplets of the original, line for line.—Tom Taylor.]
FYTTE I.
The herb of gold[1] is cut: a cloud
Across the sky hath spread its shroud.
To war!
“The storm-wreaths gather, grim and grey,”
Quoth the great chief of Mount Aré.
“These three weeks past so thick they fall,
Towards the marches of the Gaul
“So thick, that I no ways can see
My son returning unto me.
“Good merchant, farer to and fro,
Hast tidings of my son, Karò?”
“Mayhap, old chieftain of Aré;
But what his kind and calling say.”
“He is a man of heart and brains,
To Roazon[2] he drove the wains;
“The wains to Roazon drove he,
Horsed with good horses, three by three,—
“That drew fair-shared among them all,
The Breton’s tribute to the Gaul.”
“If thy son’s wains the tribute bore,
He will return to thee no more.
“When that the coin was brought to scale,
Three pounds were lacking to the tale.
“Then outspake the Intendant straight:
‘Vassal, thy head shall make the weight!’
“With that his sword forth he abrade,
And straight smote off the young man’s head;
“And by the hair the head he swung,
And in the scale, for makeweight, flung.”
The old chief at that cruel sound,
Him seemed as he would fall in swound.
Stark on the rocks he grovelled there—
His face hid with his hoary hair;
And, head on hand, made heavy moan:
“Karò, my son—my darling son!”
FYTTE II.
Then forth he fares, that aged man,
And after him his kith and clan;
The aged chieftain fareth straight
Unto Noménoë’s castle-gate.
“Now, tell me, tell me, thou porter bold,
If that thy master be in hold?
“But, be he in, or be he out,
God guard from harm that chieftain stout.”
Or ever he had pray’d d his prayer,
Behold, Noménoë was there!
His quarry from the chase he bore,
His great hounds gambolling before:
In his right hand his bow unbent;
A wild-boar on his back uphent.
On his white hand, all fresh and red,
The blood dripp’d from the wild-boar’s head.
“Fair fall you, honest mountain-clan,
Thee first, as chief, thou white-hair’d man.
“Your news, your news, come tell to me:
What would you of Noménoë?”
“We come for right; to know, in brief,
Hath Heaven a God,—Bretayne a chief?”
“Heaven hath a God, I trow, old man;
Bretayne a chief, if ought I can.”
“He can that will, thereof no doubt,
And he that can the Frank drives out—
“Drives out the Frank, defends the land,
To avenge, and still avenge, doth stand;—
“To avenge the living and the dead,
Me and my fair son foully sped;
“My Karò, whose brave head did fall
By hand of the accursèd Gaul.
“They flung his head the weights to square;
Like ripe wheat shone the golden hair.”
