by Llewellynn Jewitt, F.8.A., Etc., Etc., Etc.
Originally published in The Reliquary (John Russell Smith) vol.1 #1 (Jul 1860).
There are some very remarkable beliefs and superstitions connected with the Fern still remaining among the rustic population of England, and perhaps these are nowhere more wild and more general than in Derbyshire. We have therefore thought it well to throw together a few notes on the subject, as a sequel to the foregoing paper.
Fern-seed—found on the back of the matured leaf,—is supposed to possess many remarkable qualities for purposes of divination; but to ensure its remarkable power, it is said to be essential that it should be gathered on the eve of St. John the Baptist; (midsummer eve,); and this is done with peculiar ceremonies. Among its wonderful magic properties, are said to be those of rendering the holder invisible; of having the talismanic power of bringing lovers into the presence of their mistresses, and vice versa; and of raising up the spirits of departed friends. In many parts of the county it is still usual for the rustic maidens and youths too, to gather the fern seed, and for this purpose much caution is used. The person intending to gather it fasts during the evening, and then shortly before midnight proceeds carefully and noiselessly to the plant, kneels down before it, and places a vessel or paper beneath its leaves and waits patiently for the seed to discharge itself and fall into the receptacle which is held, of its own accord, and without shaking the plant, except it be with a hazel wand. This is then most carefully preserved and carried home for use. Arrived at home the doors are opened, not a word is spoken, the table is silently laid with bread and cheese and best beer, and some of the fern seed is sprinkled on the cloth. The expectant maidens then sit down as if to eat, but not a morsel is touched, or word spoken, and after a time the young men whom they are destined to marry are supposed to enter the room, walk up to the table, and bowing lovingly each to his intended, take up a glass and silently drink, and they then pass out by the opposite door as noiselessly as they entered. The charm being thus broken, the young women empty the glasses out of which their lovers had in spirit sipped, and then retire to rest, placing the fern seed under their pillows to dream on. In some parts of the Peak a somewhat different custom formerly prevailed. The fern seed having been procured, was placed, with a pen-knife, on a clean cloth in the centre of the room, the maidens then each hung a clean undergarment on a chair before the fire, and waited the denouement in silence. If the young woman was destined to be married "before the year was out," her lover was supposed to enter by the open door, take up the knife, cut a hole in the garment, and pass out again. How anxiously the maidens looked in the morning for the coveted mark may be imagined, and how certainly the smallest tear was construed into a "sign," need not be described.
This custom, now, happily, I believe obsolete in this county, is very similar to another divination which is thus curiously described in an old book of charms.—"My daughters, let seven of you go together on a Midsummer's Eve, just at sunset, into a silent grove, and gather every one of you, a sprig of red sage, and return into a private room, with a stool in the middle; let each one of you have a clean shift turned the wrong side outwards, hanging on a line across the room, and let every one of you lay their sprig of red sage in a clean basin of rose water, set on the stool; which done, place yourselves in a row, and continue until twelve or one o'clock, saying nothing, let you see what you may; for after midnight each one's sweetheart, or husband that shall be, shall take each maid's sprig of sage out of the rose water, and sprinkle his love's shift with it, and turn it,—and those who are so unfortunate as never to be married, their sprigs of sage will not be moved, but in lieu of it sobs and sighs will be heard by her."
The magic power of the Fern-seed to produce invisibility, is thus alluded to by Ben Jonson.
—"I had
No medicine, Sir, to go invisible,
No Fern-seed in my pocket."
And Shakespeare says—
"We have the receipt of Fern-seed, we walk invisible."[1]
In "Plaine Percival," of the time of Elizabeth, occurs the passage—"I thinke the mad slave hath tasted on a ferne stalke, that he walks so invisible."
The plant was supposed to seed only on St. John's night, and thus to possess those peculiar properties for which it had become almost sacred. The gathering of the seed was believed to be attended with considerable danger; and no wonder, for if people are superstitious enough to believe in the efficacy of the seed, their minds must be weak enough to construe the rustling of the grass, the sighing of the wind, the movement of a bird or insect, or the tremor of a leaf, into a voice, or the presence of an evil spirit.
Bovet, in his Pandemonium (1684) says:—
"Much discourse hath been about gathering of fern seed, (which is looked upon as a magical herb) on the night of Midsummer Eve; and I remember I was told of one who went to gather it, and the spirits whisk't by his ears like bullets, and sometimes struck his hat, and other parts of his body; in fine, though he apprehended he had gotten a quantity of it, and secured it in papers and a box besides, when he got home he found all empty. But most probable, this appointing of times and hours is of the devil's own institution, as well as the fact that having once ensnared people to an obedience to his rules, he may with more facility oblige them to stricter vassalage."
One of the most extraordinary accounts of the gathering of Fern-seed, and its accompanying mental perils, occurs in the following extract from Bamford's "Life of a Radical," which shows the extent to which the imagination may be worked upon when parties are bent on a superstitious errand.
"A little before midnight on the eve of Saint John. Plant, Chirrup, and Bangle, were at the whale-jaw gate, before mentioned; and having slightly scanned each other, they proceeded, without speaking, until they had crossed the brook at a stepping-place, opposite the old Fyrin-ho'. The first word spoken was, "What hast thou!" "Mine is breawn an' roof," said Plant, exhibiting a brown earthen dish. "What hast thou?" he then asked. "Mine is breet enough," said Chirrup, shewing a pewter platter; and continued, "What hast thou?"
"Teed wi' web an' woof,
Mine is deep enough,"
said Bangle, displaying a musty, dun skull, with the cap sawn off above the eyes, and left flapping like a lid, by a piece of tanned scalp, which still adhered. The interior cavities also been stuffed with moss and lined with clay, kneaded with blood from human veins; and the youth had secured the skull to his shoulders by a twine of three strands, of unbleached flax,—of undyed wool,—and of woman's hair; from which also depended a raven black tress, which a wily crone had procured from the maid he sought to obtain. "That will do," said a voice, in a half whisper, from one of the low bushes they were passing. Plant and Chirrup paused; but Bangle, who had evidently his heart on the accomplishment of the undertaking, said, "Forward,—if we turn now a spirit hath spoken, we are lost—Come on," and they went forward.
A silence, like that of death, was around them-as they entered on the open platting. Nothing moved either in tree or brake. Through a space in the foliage the stars were seen pale in heaven; and a crooked moon hung in a bit of blue, amid motionless clouds. All was still and breathless, as if earth heaven. and the elements, were aghast. Anything would have been preferable to that unnatural stillness and silence—the hoot of the night howl—the larum of the pit sparrow—the moan of the wind—the toll of a death bell—or the howl of a ban dog—would, inasmuch as they are things of this world, have been welcome sounds amid that horrid pause. But no sound came—no object moved.
Gasping, and with cold sweat oozing on his brow, Plant recollected that they were to shake the fern with a forked rod of witch hazle, and by no means must touch it with their hands; and he asked in a whisper if the others had brought one? Both said they had forgotten, and Chirrup said they had better never have come; but Plant drew his knife, and stepping into a moonlighted bush, soon returned with what was wanted, and they went forward.
The green knowe—the old oaks—the encircled space—and the fern—were now approached: the latter stiff and erect in a gleamy light. "Is it deep neet?" said Bangle. "It is," said Plant
"The star that bids the shepherd fold,
Now the top of heaven doth hold,"
And they drew near. All was still and motionless. Plant knelt on one knee, and held his dish under the fern. Chirrup held his broad plate next below, and Bangle knelt, and rested the skull directly under both, on the green sod; the lid being up.
Plant said,
"Good Saint John, this seed we crave,
"We have dared; shall we have!"
A voice responded:
"Now the moon is downward starting,
"Moon and stars are all departing;
"Quick, quick; shake, shake;
"He whose heart shall soonest break,
"Let him take."
They looked, and perceived by a glance, that a venerable form, in a loose robe was near them.
Darkness came down like a swoop. The fern was shaken, the upper dish flew into pieces,—the pewter one melted,—the skull emitted a cry, and eyes glared in its sockets; lights broke,—beautiful children were seen walking in their holiday clothes, and graceful female forms sung mournful and enchanting airs.
The men stood terrified and fascinated; and Bangle gazing, bade "God bless 'em." A crash followed, as if the whole of the timber in the kloof was being split and torn up,—strange and horrid forms appeared from the thickets,—the men ran as if sped on the wind,—they separated and lost each other. Plant ran towards the old house, and there, leaping the brook, he cast a glance behind him, and saw terrific shapes, some beastly, some part human, and some hellish, gnashing their teeth, and howling and uttering the most fearful and mournful tones, as if wishful to follow him, but unable to do so.
In an agony of terror he arrived at home, not knowing how he got there. He was, during several days in a state bordering on unconsciousness; and when he recovered he learned that Chirrup was found on the White Moss, raving mad, and chasing the wild birds; as for poor Bangle, he found his way home over hedge and ditch; running with supernatural and fearful speed,—the skull's eyes glaring at his back, and the nether jaw grinning and jabbering frightful and unintelligible sounds. He had preserved the seed however, and having taken it from the skull, he buried the latter at the cross road from whence he had taken it. He then carried the spell out, and his proud love stood one night by his bed-side in tears. But he had done too much for human nature,—in three months after she followed his corpse, a real mourner, to the grave!"
In the Peak of Derbyshire, and, indeed, in other parts of the county, when seasons were unusually dry, large bonfires were formerly made of fern for the purpose of producing rain. This custom was very prevalent during the reign of Charles the First; and shortly after the period when he had visited Bolsover Castle, and other parts of Derbyshire, and been so hospitably entertained on his many levying "progresses;" being desirous of ensuring sunny weather for himself while he passed from Belvoir,—regardless of the crops which were drying up for want of rain,—he caused the following characteristic letter to be written by his Lord Chamberlain, Philip Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, to the High-Sheriff of Staffordshire, of which a copy is preserved in the Pococke MSS. in the British Museum.:—
Sir,
His Majesty taking notice of an opinion entertained in Staffordshire, that the burning of Ferne doth draw down rain, and being desirous that the country and himself may enjoy fair weather as long as he remains in those parts, his Majesty hath commanded me to write unto you to cause all burning of Ferne to be forborne until his Majesty has passed the country. Wherein not doubting but the consideration of their own interest as of his Majesty's, will invite the country to a ready observance of this, his Majesty's command.
I rest,
Your very loving friend,
PEMBROKE and MONTGOMERY.
Belvoir, 1st August, 1636.
To my very loving friend,
The High-Sheriff of the County of Stafford.
Whether this letter had the desired effect of preserving fine weather for his Majesty's pleasure "while he remained in those parts" we cannot say; but the letter is at all events a curious illustration of the hold which the custom of this and the adjoining counties had taken on the royal mind.
The stem of the Bracken (Pteris aquilina) when cut across near the root presents a very beautiful appearance; the section exhibiting in the centre of the stem almost a tree-formed object of a dark purplish brown colour. This has been construed by the vulgar mind into the figure of an eagle,—a "spread eagle"—and by a strange leap from St. John the Baptist to the Apostle, is said to be the emblem of the former, and is supposed to be a proof of the sacred character of the plant, and of the wonderful properties which it is believed to possess. When the stem is fresh, and newly cut, of course there is some degree of moisture apparent in its pores, and if a drop or two of this sap can be squeezed out and instantly given to one subject to fits, it is believed in the neighbourhood of Heanor to be an infallible cure. We have heard this remedy thus recommended, "take him out and give him some John's Tears"—the "John's tears" being the juice of the fern we have named.
There are many other curious matters relating to Fern plants and seed, but the foregoing will be enough to call attention to these remains of early superstition, which all have an important bearing on the early ecclesiastical and social history of our country.
1. Henry IV, part I, act II, scene I.