This fearful
superstition, I believe, is confined to the isle of Artz, where
a still more striking phenomenon is said to take place.
Sometimes, in the twilight, they say, large white women may be
seen moving slowly from the neighboring islands over the sea,
and seating themselves upon its borders.
There they remain
throughout the night, digging in the sands with their naked
feet, and stripping off between their fingers the leaves of the
rosemary flowers culled upon the beach. Those women, according
to the tradition, are natives of the islands, who, marrying
strangers, and dying in their sins, have returned to their
beloved birthplace to beg the prayers of their friends."
Another superstition was recalled. "At the seaside village of
St. Gildas, the fishermen who lead evil lives are often
disturbed at midnight by three knocks at their door from an
invisible hand. They immediately get up and, impelled by some
supernatural power whose behests they cannot resist and dare not
question, go down to the beach, where they find long black
boats, apparently empty, yet sunk so deeply in the water as to
be nearly level with it. The moment they enter, a large white
sail streams out from the top of the mast, and the bark is
carried out to sea with irresistible rapidity, never to be seen
by mortal eyes again. The belief is that these boats are
freighted with condemned souls, and that the fishermen are
doomed to pilot them over the waste of waters until the day of
judgment. The legend, like many others, is of Celtic origin."
(footnote: Alexander Bell.)
One can readily see how the imaginative minds of those Celtic
fishermen could people their desolate coasts with spectres and
phantoms, and indeed we did not need to draw much on our own
imagination to see strange figures gliding along the shore in
the gloom on a night like this.
Soon, however, the lights from the numerous windows and veranda
sent their invitations through the mist-filled air and we
entered the hospitable building, and drew our chairs before the
glowing fireplace with a feeling of comfort not readily
imagined. On leaving the fireside to take a look at the ocean,
behold what a transformation! Instead of scudding clouds, a
clear blue sky filled with sparkling stars and a full moon, that
made a path of gold which led far away over the water. It was
such a night as one sees along the shores of the Mediterranean,
lacking only the balmy air, the fragrance of orange blossoms,
and the broad leafed date palm reflecting the glorious light.
True, the air was chilly, but the sudden transition from a dull,
melancholy scene to one so cheerful had a fascination for us,
like the lulling melody of flutes when their sweetness hushes
into silence the loud clamor of an orchestra.
>From the spacious brick piazza, we had a lovely view out over
the rolling Manomet Hills. The blue on the distant bluffs grew
silvery in the moonlight and the orchestra filled the place with
delightful music, so in accord with the murmuring waves, that we
thought as did Hogg, the poet:
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