 | ST. MARK'S EVE. Bracebridge Hall, or, The humorists |  |
ST. MARK'S EVE.
Or if to be, to wander after death!
To walk as spirits do, in brakes all day,
And when the darkness comes, to glide in paths
That lead to graves; and in the silent vault
Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o'er it,
Striving to enter your forbidden corpse.
Dryden.
The conversation this evening at supper table
took a curious turn on the subject of a superstition,
formerly very prevalent in this part of the
country, relative to the present night of the year,
which is the Eve of St. Mark's. It was believed,
the parson informed us, that if any one would
watch in the church porch on this eve, for three
successive years, from eleven till one o'clock at
night, he would see, on the third year, the shades
of those of the parish who were to die in the
clad in their usual apparel.
Dismal as such a sight would be, he assured
us it was formerly a frequent thing for persons
to make the necessary vigils. He had known
more than one instance in his time. One old
woman who pretended to have seen this phantom
procession was an object of great awe,
for the whole year afterwards; and caused much
uneasiness and mischief. If she shook her head
mysteriously at a person it was like a death warrant,
and she had nearly caused the death of a
sick person by looking ruefully in at the window.
There was also an old man, not many years
since, of a sullen, melancholy temperament, who
had kept two vigils, and began to excite some
talk in the village, when fortunately for public
comfort he died shortly after his third watching;
no doubt from a cold which he had taken, as the
night was tempestuous. It was reported about
the village, however, that he had seen his own
phantom pass by him into the church.
This led to the mention of another superstition
of an equally strange and melancholy kind,
which, however, is chiefly confined to Wales.
It is respecting what are called corpse candles,
little wandering fires of a pale bluish light, that
move about like tapers in the open air, and are
supposed to designate the way some corpse is to
go. One was seen at Lanylar, late at night,
hovering up and down along the bank of the Istwish,
and was watched by the neighbours until
they were tired and went to bed. Not long
afterwards there came a comely country lass
from Montgomeryshire, to see her friends, who
dwelt on the opposite side of the river. She
thought to ford the stream at the very place
where the light had been first seen; but was
dissuaded on account of the height of the flood.
She walked to and fro along the bank just where
the candle had moved, waiting for the subsiding
of the water. She at length endeavoured
to cross; but the poor girl was drowned in the
attempt.[1]
There was something mournful in this little
anecdote of rural superstition that seemed to
affect all the listeners. Indeed, it is curious to
remark how completely a conversation of the
kind will absorb the attention of a circle, and
sober down its gayety, however boisterous. By
degrees I noticed that every one was leaning
forward, over the table, with their eyes fixed
upon the parson, and at the mention of corpse
candles, which had been seen about the chamber
of a young lady, who died on the eve of
her wedding day, Lady Lillycraft turned pale.
I have witnessed the introduction of stories of
the kind into various evening circles; they were
often commenced in jest, and listened to with
smiles, but I never knew the most gay, or the
most enlightened of audiences, that were not, if
the conversation continued for any length of time,
completely and solemnly interested in it. There
is, I believe, a degree of superstition lurking in
every mind; and I doubt if any one can thoroughly
examine all his secret notions and impulses
without detecting it, hidden, perhaps, even from
nature, like instinct of animals, acting independently
of our reason. It is often found existing
in lofty natures, especially those that are poetical
and aspiring. A great and extraordinary poet
of our day, whose life and writings evince a mind
subject to powerful exaltation, is said to believe
in omens and secret intimations. Cæsar, it is
well known, was greatly under the influence of
such belief; and Napoleon had his good and evil
days, and his presiding star.
I am now alone in my chamber; but these
themes have taken such hold of my imagination
that I cannot sleep. The room in which I sit is
just fitted to foster such a state of mind. The
walls are hung with tapestry, the figures of which
are faded, and look like unsubstantial shapes melting
away from sight. Over the fireplace is the
portrait of a lady, who, according to the housekeeper's
tradition, pined to death for the loss of
her lover in the battle of Blenheim. She has a
most pale and plaintive countenance, and seems to
fix her eyes mournfully upon me. The family
die away, and the distant doors clap to after them.
The murmur of voices and the peal of remote
laughter no longer reach the ear. The clock
from the church, in which so many of the former
inhabitants of this house lie buried, has chimed
the awful hour of midnight.
I have sat by the window, and mused upon
the dusky landscape, watching the lights disappearing
one by one from the distant village, and
the moon, rising in her silent majesty, and leading
up all the silver pomp of heaven. As I have
gazed upon these quiet groves and shadowy
lawns, silvered over and imperfectly lighted by
streaks of dewy moonshine, my mind has been
crowded by “thick coming fancies,” concerning
those spiritual beings which
Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep.
us and the Deity filled up by innumerable
orders of spiritual beings, forming the same gradations
that we see prevailing from humanity
down to the meanest insect? It is a sublime and
beautiful doctrine inculcated by the early fathers,
that there are guardian angels appointed to watch
over cities and nations; to take care of the welfare
of good men, and to guard and guide the
steps of helpless infancy. “Nothing,” says St.
Jerome, “gives us a greater idea of the dignity
of our souls than that God has given each of us,
at the moment of our birth, an angel to have care
of it.”
Even the doctrine of departed spirits returning
to visit the scenes and beings which were dear
to them during the bodies' existence, though it
has been debased by the absurd superstitions of
the vulgar, in itself is awfully solemn and sublime.
However lightly it may be ridiculed, yet the
attention involuntarily yielded to it whenever it
is made the subject of serious discussion; its prevalence
in all ages and countries; and even
among newly discovered nations that have had
parts of the world, prove it to be one of those
mysterious and almost instinctive beliefs, to
which, if left to ourselves, we should naturally
incline.
In spite of all the pride of reason and philosophy,
a vague doubt will still lurk in the mind;
and perhaps will never be perfectly eradicated,
as it is a matter that does not admit of positive
demonstration. Who yet has been able to comprehend
and describe the nature of the soul; its
mysterious connexion with the body; or in
what part of the frame it is situated? We
know merely that it does exist; but whence it
came; and when it entered into us; and how it
is retained; and where it is seated, and how it
operates, are all matters of mere speculation, and
contradictory theories. If, then, we are thus ignorant
of this spiritual essence, even while it
forms a part of ourselves, and is continually present
to our consciousness; how can we pretend
to ascertain, or to deny its powers and operations,
when released from its fleshy prison house?
is full of doubt and difficulty. “We are fearfully
and wonderfully made:” we are surrounded
by mysteries, and we are mysteries even to ourselves.
It is more the manner in which this superstition
has been degraded, than its intrinsic
absurdity, that has brought it into contempt.
Raise it above the frivolous purposes to which it
has been applied; strip it of the gloom and horror
with which it has been enveloped, and there
is none of the whole circle of visionary creeds
that could more delightfully elevate the imagination,
or more tenderly affect the heart. It would
become a sovereign comfort at the bed of death,
soothing the bitter tear wrung from us by the
agony of our mortal separation. What could
be more consoling than the idea that the souls of
those we once loved, were permitted to return
and watch over our welfare? That affectionate
and guardian spirits sat by our pillows when we
slept, keeping a vigil over our most helpless
hours? That beauty and innocence which had
languished into the tomb, yet smiled unseen
dreams wherein we live over again the hours of
past endearments? A belief of this kind would,
I should think, be a new incentive to virtue, rendering
us circumspect even in our most secret
moments, from the idea that those we once
loved and honoured were invisible witnesses of
all our actions.
It would take away, too, from that loneliness
and destitution which we are apt to feel
more and more, as we get on in our pilgrimage
through the wilderness of this world, and find
that those who set forward with us, lovingly
and cheerily, on the journey, have one by one
dropped away from our side. Place the superstition
in this light, and I confess I should like to
be a believer in it. I see nothing in it that is incompatible
with the tender and merciful nature
of our religion, nor revolting to the wishes and
affections of the heart.
There are departed beings that I have loved
as I never again shall love in this world; that
have loved me, as I never again shall be loved.
spheres the attachments which they felt on
earth; if they take an interest in the poor concerns
of transient mortality, and are permitted
to hold communion with those whom they
have loved on earth, I feel as if now, at this
deep hour of night, in this silence and solitude,
I could receive their visitation with the most
solemn but unalloyed delight.
In truth, such visitations would be too happy
for this world; they would take away from
the bounds and barriers that hem us in and keep
us from each other. Our existence is doomed
to be made up of transient embraces and long
separations. The most intimate friendship—of
what brief and scattered portions of time does
it consist! We take each other by the hand,
and we exchange a few words and looks of
kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short
moments, and then days, months, years, intervene,
and we have no intercourse with each
other. Or if we dwell together for a season,
the grave soon closes its gates and cuts off all
in separation and widowhood, until they
meet again in that more perfect state of being,
where soul shall dwell with soul, and there
shall be no such thing as death or absence, or
any other interruption of our union.
| ST. MARK'S EVE. Bracebridge Hall, or, The humorists | |