Mut unt este noble Barun
			Cil de Bretaine li Bretun.
					Marie de France

			Thise olde gentil Bretons in hir dayes
			Of diverse aventures maden layes.
						Chaunce

The ancient intercourse kept up with Wales and Cornwall by the Bretons, who were in a great measure colonists from these parts of Britain, caused the traditions and poetry of the latter to be current and familiar in Little Britain, as that country was then called. To poetry and music, indeed, the whole Celtic race seem to have been strongly addicted; and, independently of the materials which Brittany supplied for the history of Geoffrey of Monmouth, many other true or romantic adventures were narrated by the Breton poets in their Lais.

Several of these Lais were translated into French verse in the thirteenth century by a poetess named Marie de France, resident at the court of the Anglo-Norman monarchs, to one of whom, probably Henry III, her Lais are dedicated (note 1).

This circumstance may account for the Lais being better known in England than in France. The only manuscript containing any number of them is in the Harleian Library. The manuscripts of France contain but five Lais. The Lai du Fresne was translated into English; and from the Lai de Lanval and the Lai de Graelent--which last is not in the Harleian MS.--Chestre made his "Launfal Miles," or "Sir Launfal" (note 2). Chaucer perhaps took the concluding circumstance of his Dream from the Lai de Eliduc (note 3).

In some of these Lais we meet what we may call Fairy machinery. The word Fee, indeed, occurs but once, in a comparison; but in the Lais de Gugemer, de Lanval, d'Wenec, and de Graelent, we meet personages differing in nothing from the Fays of Romance, and who, like them, appear to be human beings endowed with superior powers.

The origin of the Breton Fairies, as they are called, has been sought, and not improbably, in the Gallicanae or Barigenae (note 4) of ancient Gaul, of whom Pomponius Mela thus writes:

"Sena (note 5), in the British sea, opposite the Ofismician coast, is remarkable for an oracle of the Gallic God. Its priestesses, holy in perpetual virginity, are said to be nine in number. They are called Gallicenae, and are thought to be endowed with singular powers, so as to raise by their charms the winds and seas, to turn themselves into what animals they will, to cure wounds and diseases, incurable by others, to know and predict the future; but this they do only to navigators who go thither purposely to consult them." (note 6)

We have here certainly all the attributes of the Damoiselles of the Lais of Marie de France. The doe whom Gugemer wounds speaks with a human voice. The lady who loved Lanval took him away into an island, and Graelent and his mistress crossed a deep and broad river to arrive at her country, which perhaps was also an island in the original Breton Lai. The part most difficult of explanation is the secret manner in which these dames used to visit their lovers; but perhaps the key is to be found in the Lai d'Ywenec, of which, chiefly on that account, we give an analysis. The hero of that Lai differs not in point of power from these ladies, and as he is a real man, with the power of assuming at will the shape of a bird, so it is likely they were real women, and that it was in the bird-shape they entered the chambers of their lovers. Graelent's mistress says to him:

	I shall love you truely;
	But one thing I forbid straitly,
	You must not utter a word apert
	Which might our love make discovert.
	I will give unto you richly,
	Gold and silver, clothes, and fee.
	Much love shall be between us two--
	Night and day I'll go to you:
	You'll see me come to you alway--	
	With me laugh and talk you may.
	You shall no comrade have to see,
	Or who shall know my privacy.

	*	*	*	*	*

	Take care now that you do not boast
	Of things by which I may be lost.

The lady says to Launval,

	When you would speak to me of ought--	
You must uin no place from the thought
	Where no one could meet his amie
	Without reproach and villainie--
	I will be presently with you,
	All your commands ready to do;
	No one but you will me see,
	Or hear the words that come from me.

She also had previously imposed on the knight the obligation of secrecy.

	I have in thought and purpose too,
	Of Ywenec to tellen you--
	Of whom he born was, his sire's fame,
	How first he to his mother came.
	He who beget did Ywenec
	He named was Eudemarec.

There formerly lived in Britain a man who was rich and old. He was Avoez or governor of Caewent on the Doglas, and lord of the surrounding country. Desirous of having an heir to his estates, he espoused a maiden "courteous and sage, and passing fair". She was given to him because he was rich, and loved by him for her beauty. Why should I say more, but that her match was not to be found between Lincoln and Ireland? "Great sin did they who gave her him."

On account of her rare beauty, the jealous husband now turned all his thoughts to keeping her safe. To this end he shut her up in his tower, in a large room, to which no on had access but himself and his sister, an old widow, without whose permission the young wife was forbidden to speak to any even of her female attendants.

In this tower the suspicious husband immured his lovely bride for seven years, during which time they had no children, nor did she ever leave her confinement on any account. She had neither chamberlain nor huissier to light the tapers in her chamber when she would retire, and the poor lady passed her time weeping, sighing, and lamenting; and from grief and neglect of herself losing all her beauty.

	The month of April was ent'ring,
	When every brid begins to sing;
	Her lord arose at early day,
	And to the wood has ta'en his way.

Before he set out he called up the old dame to fasten the door after him. This done, she took her psalter and retired to another room to chant it. The imprisoned lady awoke in tears, seeing the brightness of the sun, and thus began her moan:

	Alas! said she, why born was I?
	Right grievous is my destiny:
	In this tower imprisoned,
	I ne'er shall leave it till I'm dead.

She marvels at the unreasonable jealousy of her old husband, curses her parents, and all concerned in giving her to a man not only so unamiable, but who was of so tough a constitution that the chance of his dying seemed infinitely remote.

	When baptized he was to be,
	In hell's river deep dipt was he;
	Hard are his sinews, hard each vein,
	And lively blood they all contain.

	  Oft have I heard the people tell,
	That in this country there befell
	Adventures in the days of yore,
	That did to joy grieved hearts restore;
	Knights met with damsels, fair and gent,
	In all things unto their talent;
	And dames met lovers courteous,
	Handsome, and brave, and generous;
	So that they never blamed were,
	For save themselves none saw them e'er. (note 7)
	If this may be, or ever was,
	Or any e'er befallen has,
	May God, who hath all might and power,
	My wish perform for me this hour.

Scarcely had she uttered this pious wish, when she perceived the shadow of a large bird at a narrow window. The bird now flew into the room. He had jesses on his legs, and appeared to be a goss-hawk (note 8). He placed himself before the lady, and in a few minutes after became a handsome and gentle knight. The lady was terrified at the sight, and covered her head; but the knight was courteous, and addressed her,

	Lady, said he, be not thus stirred;
	A goss-hawk is a gentle-bird.
	If my secret should be obscure,
	Attend, and I shall you assure;
	Make now of me your lover,
	For that it is I am come here.
	Long have I loved you and admired,
	And in my heart have much desired;
	I ne'er have loved save you alone,
	And save you never shall love one;
	But I could never come to you,
	Nor from my country e'er issue,
	If you had not required me:
	Your lover now I may well be.

The lady was now reassured: she uncovered her head, and told the knight she would accept him as her Dru, if she were satisfied that he believed in God. On this head he assures her,

	I in the Creator believe,
	Who did from misery us relieve,
	In which us Adam our sire put,
	By eating of that bitter fruit:
	He is, and was, and ever he
	To sinners life and light will be.

And to put the matter out of all doubt, he directs her to feign sickness, and send for the chaplain, when he undertakes to assume her form, and receive the holy Sacrament. The dame does accordingly; and the old woman, after many objections, at length sends for the chaplain.

	And he with all due speed did hie,
	And brought the Corpus Domini.
	The knight received the holy sign,
	And from the chalice drank the wine:
	The chaplain then his way is gone--	
	The old dame shut the doors anon.

The scruples of the lady being now entirely removed, she grants le don d'amoureuse merci, and the bliss of the lovers is complete. At length the knight takes his leave, and in reply to the lady's question, of when she should see him again, he tells her that she has only to wish for him, and the wish will be fulfilled by his appearance; but he warns her to beware of the old woman, who will closely watch her, assuring her at the same time that a discovery will be his certain death.

The lady now bids adieu to all sadness and melancholy, and gradually regains all her former beauty. She desires no longer to leave her tower; for, night and day, she has only to express a wish, and her knight is with her. The old lord marvels greatly at this sudden change, and begins to distrust the fidelity of his sister. On revealing his suspicions, her replies fully satisfy him on that head, and they concert between them how to watch the young wife, and to discover her secret.

?After an interval of three days, the old lord tells his wife that the king has sent for him, and that he must attend him, but will soon return. He sets out, and the old woman having closed the door as usual after him, gets behind a curtain to watch. The lady now wishes for her lover, and instantly he is with her, and they continue together till it is time to rise. He then departs, leaving the spy, who had seen how he came and went, terrified at the strange metamorphosis.

When the husband, who was at no great distance, came home, his spy informed him of the strange affaid. Greatly grieved and incensed at this, he began to meditate the destruction of his rival. He accordingly got four pikes made, with steel heads so sharp that

	No razor under heaven's sheen
	Was ever yet so sharp and keen.

These he set at the window through which the knight was used to enter.

Next day he feigns to go to the chase, the old woman returns to her bed to sleep, and the lady anxiously expects "him whom she loveth loyally,"

	And says that he may come safely,
	And with her at all leisure be.

So said, so done: the bird was at the window; but alas! too eager for caution, he overlooked the pikes, and, flying against them, was mortally wounded. Still he entered the chamber and threw himself on the bed, which his blood soon filled, and thus addressed his distracted mistress:

	He said unto her--"My sweet friend,
	For you my life comes to an end;
	I often told you 't would be so,
	That your fair cheer would work us woe."
	When she heard this she swooned away,
	And long time there for dead she lay;
	Her gently to herself he brought,
	And said, that grief availeth nought;
	That she by him a son would bear,
	Valiant, and wise, and debonair;
	He would dispel her sorrows all.
	Ywenec she should him call.
	He would vengeance for their sake
	Upon their trait'rous enemy take.

Exhausted with loss of blood, he can stay no longer. He departs; and the lady, uttering loud cries of woe, leaps after him, unapparelled as she is, out of the window, wich was twenty feet from the ground, and pursues him by the traces of his blood.

	Along the path strayed the dame,
	Until unto a hill she came. (note 9)
	Into this hill one entrance led;
	It with the blood was all sprinkled.
	Before her she can nothing see;
	Whereat she thinketh full surely
	Her lover thither is gone in.
	She entereth with mickle teen;
	Within it light ne found she none;
	Thorow it still she goeth on,
	Until she from the hill issued
	In a fair meadow, rich and good.
	With blood she stained found the grass,
	At which she much dismayed was;
	The trace lay of it on the ground.
	Quite near she there a ciy found;
	With walls it was enclosed all--
	There was not house, or tower, or hall,
	That did not seem of silver fair.
	The Mandevent (note 10) right wealthy are.
	Before the two lay marshes rude,
	The forest, and wild solitude.
	On the other side, towards the donjon,
	The water all around did run;
	And here the ships they did enter,
	More than three hundred of them were.
	The lower gate wide open lay;
	Therein the lady took her way,
	Stil following the blood, that fell
	The town thorow to the castel.
	Unto her there spake no one,
	Ne man or woman found she none.  
	She to the palace came; with blood
	The steps she found were all bedewed;
	She entered then a low chamber;
	A knight she found fast sleeping there;
	She knew him not--she passed on--
	To a larger chamber came anon;
	A bed, and nothing more, there found,
	A knight was on it sleeping sound.
	Still farther passed on the dame;
	Unto the third chamber she came,
	Where she did find her lover's bed.
	The posts were gold enamelled;
	I could not price the clothes aright:
	The chandeliers and tapers bright,
	Which night and day burned constantly,
	Were worth the gold of a city.

At seeing his wretched state the unhappy lady swoons again. The expiring knight endeavours to console her; and, fortelling his own death on that day, directs her to depart, lest his people in their grief should ill treat her as the cause of his death. She, however, protests that she will stay and die with him, as, if she returns, her husband will put her to death. The knigth repeats his consolations, and gives her a ring, which, while she wears, her husband will retain no remembrance of what relates to her. At the same time he gives her his sword, which she is to keep safely and to give to her son when grown up and become a valiant knight. He says, she then

	Unto a festival will go;
	Her lord will thither wend also;
	Unto an abbey they will come,
	Where they will see a stately tomb,
	Will learn the story of the dead,
	And how he was there buried.
	There thou the sword shalt to him reach,
	And all the adventure then teach,
	How he was born, who was his sire;
	His deeds enough will then admire.

He then gave her a dress of fine silk, and insisted on her departure. She is with difficulty induced to leave him, and is hardly half a league from the place when she hears the bells tolling, and the cries of grief of the people for the death of their lord. She faints four times, but at length recovering, retraces her steps, and returns to her tower. Her husband makes no inquiry, and gives her no farther uneasiness.

She bare a son, as Eudamarec had foretold, and named him Ywenec. As he grew up, there was not his peer in the kingdom for beauty, valour, and generosity.

After Ywenec had been dubbed a knight, his supposed father was summoned to attend the feast of St. Aaron at Carlion. He went, accompanied by his wife and Ywenec. On their way, they stopped at a rich abbey, where they were received with the utmost hospitality. Next day, when they asked to depart, the abbot entreated them to stay a little longer till he should show them the rest of the abbey. They consented, and after dinner,

	On entering the chapter-room,
	They found a large and stately tomb,
	covered with rich tapestry,
	Bordered with gold embroidery.
	At head and feet and sides there were
	Twenty tapers burning clear;
	Of fine gold were the chandeliers;
	Of amethyst were the censers,
	With which they incensed alway,
	For great honour, this tomb each day.

The curiosity of the visitors was excited by the sight of this magnificent tomb, and they learned on inquiry that therein lay one of the noblest and most valiant knights that had ever lived. He had been king of that country, and had been slain at Caerwent for the love of a lady, leaving a vacancy in the throne which had never been filled, it being reserved, according to his last commands, for his son by that lady.

When the Dame heard this she called aloud to her son,

	"Fair son, you now have heard," she said,
	"That God hath us to this place led.
	It is your father here doth lie,
	When this old man slew wrongfully."


She then gave him the sword she had kept so long, relating the whole story to
him.  At the conclusion she fainted on the tomb, and expired.


Filled with rage and grief, Ywenec at one blow struck off the head of the old
man, and avenged both his father and mother.  The lady was buried in the
coffin with him whom she had loved, and the people joyfully acknowledged
Ywenec as king of the country.


	Long time after maden they,
	Who heard this adventure, a Lay
	Of grief and the dolour
	That for love these did endure.

				     

				     

				     


There are still to be seen in Brittany the rock, the cavern, the fountain, the
hole, the valley, &c. of the Fees.


The forest of Brecheliart, near Quintin, was, in the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries, regarded as the chief seat of Breton wonders.  It contained the
tomb of Merlin.  Robert de Wace, hearing of the wonders of this forest,
visited it; but, by his own account, to little purpose.


	Le allai je merveilles querre (chercher),
	Vis la foret et vis la terre,
	Merveilles quis (cherchai) mais ne trovai
	Fol m'en revins, fol y allai,
	Fol y allai, fol m'en revins,
	Folie quis por fol me tins.


There were also the Fountain of Barenton and the Perron (horse-block) of
Merveilleux.


	En Bretagne ce treuve-on
	Une Fountaine et un Perron,
	Quant on gette l'iaeu (eau) dessus
	Si vente et tonne et replit jus.

Huon de Mery was more fortunate than Wace.  He sprinkled the Perron from the
golden basin that hung from the oak that shaded it, and beheld all the
marvels.

				     

				     

				     


Such is the result of our inquiries respecting the Fairy-system of the "olde
gentil" Bretons.  The Breton Fairies of the present day are of a far less
amiable character.  They are mostly Dwarfs, called Crions, Gorics, and
Courils, inhabiting Druidical monuments, or dwelling beneath the foundation of
ancient catstles.


At Carnac, near Quiberon, in the department of Morbihon, on the sea-shore, is
the Temple of Carnac, called in Breton Ti Goriquet (the house of the Gorics),
one of the most remarkable Celtic monuments extant.  It is composed of more
than 4000 large stones, standing erect in an arid plain, where neither tree
nor shrub is to be seen, and not even a pebble is to be found in the soil on
which they stand.


If the inhabitants are asked concerning this wonderful monument, they say it
is an old camp of Caesar's, an army turned into stone, or that it is the work
of the Crions or the Gorics.  These they describe as little men between two
and three feet high, who carried these enormous masses on their hands; for,
though little, they are stronger than giants.  Every night they dance around
the stones; and woe betide the traveller who approaches within their reach! he
is forced to join the dance, where he is whirled about till, breathless and
exhausted, he falls down, amidst the peals of laughter of the Crions.  All
vanish with the break of day (note 11).


In the ruins of Tresmalouen dwell the Courils.  They are of a malignant
disposition, but great lovers of dancing.  At night they sport around the
Druidical monuments.  The unfortunate shepherd that approaches them must dance
their rounds with them till cock-crow; and the instances are not few of
persons thus ensnared who have been found next morning dead with exhaustion
and fatigue.


Woe to the ill-fated maiden who draws near the Couril dance! nine months
after, the family counts one member more.  Yet so great is the power and
cunning of these Dwarfs, that the stranger bears no resemblance to them, but
they impart to it the features of some lad of the village.


A number of little men, no more than a foot high, dwell under the castle of
Morlaix.  They live in holes in the ground, whither they may often be seen
going, and beating on basins.  They possess great treasures, which they
sometimes bring out; and if any one pass by at the time, allow him to take one
handful, but no more.  Should anyone attempt to fill his pockets, the money
fanishes, and he is instantly assailed by a shower of boxes-in-the-ear from
invisible hands.


There is a species of malignant beings, called Night-washers (Eur tunnerez
noz), who appear on the banks of streams, and call on the passers-by to aid
them to wash the linen of the dead.  If anyone refuses, they drag him into the
water and break his arms.


About Morlaix the people are afraid of evil beings they call Teurst.  One of
these, called Teurstapoulict, appears in the likeness of some domestic animal
(note 12).


In the district of Vannes is a colossal spirit called Teus
(note 13), or Bugelnoz, who appears clothed in white
between midnight and two in the morning.  His office is to rescue victims from
the Devil.  He spreads his mantle over them, and they are secure.  The Devil
comes over the ocean; but, unable to endure the look of the good spirit, he
sinks down again, and, the object of the spirit accomplished, he vanishes.








note 1: Poesies de Marie de France, par De Roqufort.
Paris, 1820.


note 2: M. de Roquefort is mistaken in supposing the
Nightingale in the Cottonian Library, Caligula A. II, to be a translation of
the Lai du Laustic.  It is a poem on quite a different subject.


note 3: We very much doubt if the English poets knew of
any Breton Lais but those of Marie.  Chaucer's Frankelein, indeed, says, of
the Breton Lais,

	And on of hem have I in remembrance,
	Which I shall sayn with good wille as I can.

But his tale is from Boccaccio, who, however, it may be said, took it from a
Trouverre, who took it from a Lai.  The author of Orfeo and Heurodis also
mentions the Breton Lais.


note 4: This last is the reading of Vossius.


note 5: Sena is supposed to be the L'Isle des Saints,
nearly opposite Brest.


note 6: Pomp. Mela, 1.3, c.6.

note 7:
note 8:
note X:
note X:
note X:



				    

	       
				      

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