Of those who remained at home; and melancholy fancies
must have flitted across their memories as they watched at
midnight, listening to the melancholy moaning of wind and wave.
No wonder phantoms and death warnings were familiar to the
ancient Celtic fishermen, for those terrible disasters that were
constantly occurring could not help but increase the gloom which
acts so strongly upon those who are accustomed to contemplate
the sea under all its aspects.
"In the long winter nights, when the fishermen's wives whose
husbands are out at sea are scared from their uneasy sleep by
the rising of the tempest, they listen breathlessly for certain
sounds to which they attach a fatal meaning. If they hear a low,
monotonous noise of waters falling drop by drop at the foot of
their bed, and discover that it has been caused by unnatural
means and that the floor is dry, it is the unerring token of
shipwreck. The sea has made them widows! 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:
Of all the arts beneath the heaven
That man has found or God has given,
None draws the soul so sweet away,
As music's melting, mystic lay.
After the orchestra ceased playing, a young man stepped to the
piano and gave a beautiful rendition of Beethoven's Moonlight
Sonata; recalling our sojourn in the city of Bonn and the
pilgrimage to the home of this wonderful genius. How like this
must have been that night on which the famous master was stirred
with emotion.
"One moonlight evening, while out walking with a friend, through
one of the dark, narrow streets of his native city, as they were
passing a humble dwelling, the sweet tones of a piano floated
out on the evening air, that throbbed with the sweet notes of
the nightingale.
"Hush!" said Beethoven, "what sound is that? It is from my
Sonata in F. Hark! How well it is played!"
There was a sudden break in the finale, when a sobbing voice
exclaimed:
"I cannot play it any more. It is so beautiful; it is beyond my
power to do it justice. O, what would I not give to go to the
Concert at Cologne!"
This appeal, coming out into the stillness of the night, was too
much for the kind-hearted musician. He resolved to gratify her
desire. As he gently opened the door, he said to his friend: "I
will play for her. Here is feeling, genius, understanding! I
will play for her and she will understand it."
It was only the humble home of a shoemaker and his blind sister.
"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted
to enter.
