In German folk-lore, there was a belief that the wood of the yew, ground to powder, made into paste, and baked in an oven, was a sovereign remedy against the bite of a mad dog[1055]. Alternatively, a die was made of yew and letters and signs were cut in the block. Cakes stamped with this charm (Toll-holz) were given to the mad animal. These instances show that the yew, while feared as of ill-omen, brought its measure of luck to him who could obtain and use it aright.
The foregoing beliefs seem to form part of a tangled skein, which, if temporarily dropped, must be picked up again shortly. In the interval, material of a like nature may be examined.
The dense, heavy tree, “standing single in the midst of its own darkness,” has been considered a just emblem of sin, death, and mortality. Being, perhaps, our most deadly indigenous tree, it materializes the adverse spirit of evil and destruction[1056]. In partial conflict with this idea, the vitality of the tree, its longevity, its durable timber, and its evergreen leaves, have suggested to some minds the Resurrection and the eternal life. This latter fancy may have been strengthened by the sight of young shoots springing out of the old, apparently dead, wood, even from a decaying stump, or a hole entirely hollow, and charred perchance by fire. Whether these symbolisms are altogether adventitious and derivative, and whether they can be quite reconciled, are difficult questions. The ideas have a Mediaeval tinge, but none the less they may be relics of an older mysticism.
The inquiry may be pushed back further, because there are a few miscellaneous fragments of evidence to be collected. Dr Daniel Rock, whose volumes show wide research and carefulness in sifting ecclesiological details, casts aside the bow theory, and proceeds to say that many of our yews were planted by Anglo-Saxons, and not a few by British Christians. The hardy evergreen yew is the analogue of the cypress of hotter climes. The converted Britons, he believes, “often, if not always, sought to build their churches near to some fine yew-tree—even then, maybe, a few hundred years old[1057].” Dr Rock gives the grand yew of Aldworth, Berkshire, as an example of this early planting, but we can scarcely accept his opinion. Although, by actual measurement, it was found, as already mentioned, that this tree has not increased in girth since the year 1760, yet this girth is but 27 feet, and will not satisfy the claim of so great an antiquity. Undoubtedly the yew-tree was reverenced in the early times. Two churches, alluded to by an ancient Welsh bard, were renowned for their prodigious trees: the minsters of Esgor and Heûllan, “of celebrity for sheltering yews[1058].” Boswell Syme, the authority for this statement, adds that Heûllan signifies an old grove. We read, too, of consecrated yews. In the old Welsh laws, a consecrated yew was assessed at £1, a specimen of ordinary yew at 15 pence only. With these prices we may compare those of a mistletoe branch and an oak branch, which were threescore pence and sixscore pence respectively[1059].
In the North of Scotland the yew was credited with a peculiar property. A branch of graveyard yew would enable one chief to denounce another, in such a manner that, while the clansmen standing by could hear the threats, the intended victim could not hear a word[1060].
Accumulated testimony shows that the yew was an object of veneration in pre-Christian times. Mr H. C. Coote has dragged forth evidence on this subject, as on many kindred questions, which had previously lain unnoticed. “But of these old-world superstitions,” he writes, “that connected with the yew-tree is the most interesting. For, as of old, it was associated with the passage of the soul to its new abode,—so ever since the introduction of Christianity into this country it has continued to adorn the last resting place of the body which the soul had left[1061].” He then quotes the poet Statius, who flourished about A.D. 81: “Necdum illum [i.e. Amphiaraum] aut trunca lustraverat obvia taxa Eumenis[1062],” that is, Amphiaraus had descended into Hades so quickly that the Eumenides, or Furies, had no time to purify him by a touch of the holy yew branch[1063]. The Furies are also fabled to have made torches of yew[1064]. In connection with the superstition mentioned by Statius, a discovery described by Wright is of interest. In a Roman cinerary urn there was found a dark incrustation of vegetable matter, believed to be caused by the decay of a branch of yew[1065].
Since, then, the yew called forth tributary respect in pagan times, we are led nearer the centre of mystery, and the Cimmerian shades close in rapidly. Can we be sure of the primary cause of the veneration? The tree has been popularly associated with that much misunderstood priestly caste, which embraced the Druids of classical writers. Dr Lowe contends that there is no evidence to show that the Britons held the yew in reverence; to disprove the notion, he adds, “I have been unable to discover a single instance of a Druidical stone being associated with a Christian church[1066].” If, as is fairly evident, “Druidical stone” is to be interpreted as “prehistoric megalith,” a reference to Chapter I. will show that such cases were probably not uncommon. Concerning the Druids and their sacred trees our direct knowledge is scanty, but absence of allusions to the yew in connection with Druidical rites is not completely conclusive against the ceremonial virtues of the tree. Besides, there are some half hints which are not quite negligible.
To speak of the worship of sacred trees would carry us far from our bearings. Those who desire to study this subject would do well to read Professor J. G. Frazer’s Golden Bough, and the famous seventh chapter of Mr Grant Allen’s Evolution of the Idea of God. From these writers we learn not only the significance of tree-worship and tree-spirits, but we understand the inspiring motive of ceremonial tree-planting. The first trees which grew on barrows may have become rooted there by accident, such as the chance visits of birds, or the scraping together of the material of the mound. The trees would receive the more encouragement from the fact that the soil had been turned over and laboured. Again, is it too fanciful to suggest that a sacred grave-stake, freshly trimmed, might occasionally put forth leaves and take root? Whatever the origin of the practice, direct planting, with a fixed purpose, would eventually come into vogue. Shrubs, especially evergreens, would be placed on the graves of dead tribesmen (cf. [p. 323] supra). Like practices have been recorded the world over. Greeks, Arabs, Etruscans, Phoenicians, Hindoos, Chinese, and various American peoples furnish examples. A survival is seen in the English custom of thrusting slips of bay and yew into the green turf of Christian graves[1067].
Frequently the round or Bronze Age barrows of the South of England are topped by the Scotch pine, a tree which is not indigenous to that region. In Southern Europe the cypress is the favoured evergreen of tombs and cemeteries, but in Italy and Provence the holm-oak is equally a conventional graveyard tree. In Northern Europe it is the yew which receives the place of honour[1068]. Branches of cypress and yew were employed in ancient Greece and Rome as signals that a household was in mourning[1069]. No great stress can be laid on the passage from Macpherson’s Ossian, “The yew was a funereal tree, the companion of the grave among the Celtic tribes. Here rests their dust, Cuthullen! These lonely yews sprang from their tomb and shaded them from the storm[1070].” Without daring to re-open the Ossian controversy, one may, however, hazard the opinion that the passage enshrines a genuine tradition.
At Knowlton, Dorset, as stated on p. 13 supra, the church, which is now utterly ruined, and which is of Norman, or, as some have supposed, perhaps even Saxon foundation, stood within a round British earthwork, one of a small group. The earthworks, which were first carefully described by Warne, are themselves now nearly obliterated, but a group of storm-swept yews, it will be recollected, marks the site[1071]. It is perhaps justifiable to suppose that our early ancestors, like the churchmen of Mediaeval days, replaced dead or uprooted yews by fresh saplings. The group of yews at Kingly Vale, to which we have already paid some attention, stands in the neighbourhood of four barrows, and numerous excavations, probably prehistoric, dot the turfy slopes of the hillside.