recreant lover to his languishing admirer’s feet, the wolf was universally consecrated to darker deeds of blood and vengeance. Nothing escaped Shakespeare, and the “tooth of wolf” is of course an ingredient in the hell-broth brewed by the witches in Macbeth. That most credulous of old naturalists, Pliny, has some wonderful stories of the potent effects of this animal’s influence. Horses are rendered torpid if they do but tread on its tracks. With some glimmering, we suppose, of the mediæval doctrine of signatures, he goes on to tell us its liver is shaped like a horse’s hoof. If any one wished for an infallible receipt to keep wolves off his premises, he had only to cut off a wolf’s feet, sprinkle the blood round his grounds, and take care to bury the animal itself at the place where the operation commenced. This has a wonderful smack of Mrs. Glasse’s celebrated roast-hare, which it is first necessary to catch. Just as peasants nail up horseshoes at the present day to keep away witches, so the snout of a wolf used at Rome to be considered a sure charm against witchcraft, and was frequently fastened over house-doors. Superstitions, like children’s games, often linger in the world longer than arts and kingdoms and schemes of government.
From very old times there has been a current belief that some men by the aid of magic and demons could become wolves, and return at will to their real nature. The author we have just quoted (than whom Herodotus himself was not fonder of marvels) tells us of an Arcadian who lived nine years with wolves and then returned to mankind, just as “Bonny Kilmeny” spent her time with the fairies and came back,—
When seven long years had come and fled;
When grief was calm, and hope was dead.
And another Arcadian priest, while offering human sacrifices, chanced to taste “the boy he was offering up,” and forthwith became a wolf for ten years; a story which must be true, for did not this very man after his restoration win a victory at the Olympic games? These “wolf-men,” as they were called, curiously enough reappear under the name of were-wolves in Gothic superstition: that gloomy people told of strange men meeting you and forthwith bounding off like wolves. In this state they used to prey on sheep and men with unusual ferocity, and were objects of great dread to all. Our word “turncoats” springs from this belief. It was also said that if a wolf once looked behind it while feeding, a sudden forgetfulness came upon it and it departed. This story can easily be traced to the indiscriminate rapacity of the animal, which forbade its ever leaving off while anything remained to eat. Let us conclude these legends with one of special interest to the ladies. For the peace and quietness’ sake of the poor wolves in the Zoological Gardens, we have half a mind to forbear; but remembering the fate of Orpheus, and having once aroused a woman’s curiosity, perhaps the safer plan will be to go on. Well, then, there is a love-charm of peculiar virtue resident in one hair of a wolf’s tail. It is even more potent than the fabled hippomanes, more quick than the drug the “caitiff wretch” of an apothecary sold Romeo in his need. Alas, that we should throw any obstacles in a lady’s way! but—it must be plucked from the tail of the animal while it is alive!
Wolves have left their traces on our flowery banks. The lycopodiums or puff-balls are so called from their resemblance to the dark circular cushion-like foot of a wolf. Its upper surface, again, was seen by the fanciful botanists of old in the cut leaves of the gipsy-wort or lycopus, which means wolf’s-foot. The gaping mouth of the wolf has also its supposed analogue in the bugloss or lycopsis (wolf’s-face).
How far the huge bits used by our horse-breakers answer to the “wolfish teeth-bits” with which the Roman horses were ridden, we must leave to those of our “horsey” friends who are also classical scholars.
Not unnecessarily to remind readers of the boy in the fable who cried “wolf, wolf!” untruly, we will now really conclude this paper with one more instance of wolf lore. It speaks with peculiar propriety to travellers in lands where wolves may reasonably be expected to appear. Be sure, then, that you keep a sharp look-out for the animal, and contrive if you possibly can to see him before he sets eyes on you; otherwise you will infallibly be struck dumb.
Lupi Mœrin videre priores.
HACHO, THE DANE; OR THE BISHOP’S RANSOM.
(A LEGEND OF LLANDAFF.)
This incident of the capture of one of the early Bishops of Llandaff by a band of marauders is mentioned both in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and in that of Florence of Worcester. The unlucky Prelate was Camelac, or, as called by the Welsh, Cyfeiliog, whose episcopacy dates about the reign of Edward, the father of Athelstan, by whom, according to one account, he was ransomed. I have not, however, thought it necessary to apply to the King, as cathedral endowments were, there is reason to think, even in those early days, amply sufficient for maintenance, for charity, and for something more.
I.
Ho! what ship is this on Hafren?[1]
See, before the storm she flies,
Like an eagle in the sunset,
Dashing through the lurid skies.
Night is closing on the waters,
Far is borne the crested spray,
Stout must be their hearts who trust her,
Strong their arms who guide her way.
Tales of wondrous men are told us,
Men who loved, and ruled the sea;
He who guides that bark to safety,
Of those brave sea-kings must be.
Shifted sand-heaps shall to-morrow
Finger-marks of Ocean show,
Where against the groaning sea-banks
Dealt he thundering blow on blow.
- ↑ Hafren, the ancient name of the Severn.
