The Haunted Ships

"Though my mind's not
Hoodwinked with rustic marvels, I do think
There are more things in the grove, the air, the flood,
Yea, and the charnelled earth, than what wise man,
Who walks so proud as if his form alone
Filled the wide temple of the universe,
Will let a frail mind say. I'd write i' the creed
O' the sagest head alive, that fearful forms,
Holy or reprobate, do page men's heels;
That shapes, too horrid for our gaze, stand o'er
The murderer's dust, and for revenge glare up,
Even till the stars weep fire for very pity."

Along the sea of Solway, romantic on the Scottish side, with its
woodland, its bays, its cliffs, and headlands; and interesting on the
English side, with its many beautiful towns with their shadows on the
water, rich pastures, safe harbours, and numerous ships, there still
linger many traditional stories of a maritime nature, most of them
connected with superstitions singularly wild and unusual. To the curious
these tales afford a rich fund of entertainment, from the many
diversities of the same story; some dry and barren, and stripped of all
the embellishments of poetry; others dressed out in all the riches of a
superstitious belief and haunted imagination. In this they resemble the
inland traditions of the peasants; but many of the oral treasures of the
Galwegian or the Cumbrian coast have the stamp of the Dane and the
Norseman upon them, and claim but a remote or faint affinity with the
legitimate legends of Caledonia. Something like a rude prosaic outline
of several of the most noted of the northern ballads, the adventures and
depredations of the old ocean kings, still lends life to the evening
tale; and, among others, the story of the Haunted Ships is still popular
among the maritime peasantry.

One fine harvest evening I went on board the shallop of Richard Faulder,
of Allanbay, and, committing ourselves to the waters, we allowed a gentle
wind from the east to waft us at its pleasure towards the Scottish coast.
We passed the sharp promontory of Siddick, and, skirting the land within
a stonecast, glided along the shore till we came within sight of the
ruined Abbey of Sweetheart. The green mountain of Criffel ascended
beside us; and the bleat of the flocks from its summit, together with the
winding of the evening horn of the reapers, came softened into something
like music over land and sea. We pushed our shallop into a deep and
wooded bay, and sat silently looking on the serene beauty of the place.
The moon glimmered in her rising through the tall shafts of the pines of
Caerlaverock; and the sky, with scarce a cloud, showered down on wood and
headland and bay the twinkling beams of a thousand stars, rendering every
object visible. The tide, too, was