Sylva

‘Of writers other than poets, we have already mentioned Philemon Holland's translation of Pliny as a book which did much to perpetuate the names of plants. Eacon's celebrated essay on Gardens may well be reckoned among the treasures of garden literature. After him John Evelyn holds a high place; for though his 'Sylva' is specially devoted to trees, and so might perhaps be more fitly classed with the Herbals of the seventeenth century, yet it stands above and in many respects apart from them all, and retains its peculiar value. 'Evelyn's "Sylva,"' said Sir Walter Scott, 'is still the manual of British planters, as his life, manners, and principles, as illustrated in his Memoirs, ought to be the manual of English gentlemen.'…’

The text above is from “The Quarterly Review”, volume 183.  Walter Scott shared a good portion of John Evelyn’s enthusiasm for trees, and had ample opportunity to enjoy them at Abbotsford.  Evelyn, of course, shares one other trait with Scott, being a famous diarist, himself. The author of "Sylva"  published his memoirs, which cover much the same era as his friend Samuel Pepys.  John Evelyn was born on October 31^st, 1620.

St. Swithin's Chair

ST. SWITHIN'S CHAIR.



ON Hallowmas Eve, ere ye boune ye to rest,
Ever beware that your couch be bless'd;
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed.

For on Hallowmas Eve the Night-Hag will ride,
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side,
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud,
Sailing through moonshine, or swathed in the cloud.


The Lady she sat in St. Swithin's Chair,
The dew of the night had damp'd her hair ;
Her cheek was pale....but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye-
She muttered the spell of St. Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
When he stopt the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend, and her promise plight.


He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair,
When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,
Questions three, when he speaks the spell,
He may ask, and she must tell.


The Baron has been with King Robert his liege,
These three long years, in battle and siege ;
News there are none of his weal or his wo,
And fain the Lady his fate would know.

She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks
Is it the moody owl that shrieks ?
Or is it that sound, between laughter and scream,
The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream ?


The moan of the wind sunk silent and low,
And the roaring torrent has ceased to flow;
The calm was more dreadful than raging storm,
When the cold grey mist brought the ghastly form !
 
From "Waverly Poetry: being the poems scattered through the Waverly novels" by Sir Walter Scott.  Happy Halloween!

Tamlane

It is Halloween, and the author of "Demonology and Witchcraft" is not without a contribution for this day. Scott's Tamlane is not an original story, but is his favorite version of a well known Scotch folk tale. The tale starts:

"Oh I forbid ye, maidens a'
That wear gowd on your hair,
To come or go by Carterhaugh,
For young Tamlane is there.

There's none that goes by Carterhaugh,
But maun leave him a wad,
Either gowd rings or green mantles,
Or else their maidenheid.
...

According to Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, Carterhaugh is a plain, at the confluence of the Ettrick and Yarrow, Selkirkshire... Thus, this tale has a historical place, at least.

Tamlane himself was the son of the Earl Murray, and Burd Janet the daughter of Dunbar, the Earl of March. Tamlane and Janet are trothed, and make love before their marriage, after which Tamlane disappears, taken by elves. Janet finds Tamlane in Carterhaugh in a much reduced state (elf-sized), now a knight for the elf-queen. Tamlane tells Janet how to save him, which involves covering him with her green mantle to protect him from elfin magic.