“he saw before him a nude being with eyes burning like fire, and these glittering balls were directed towards him. The awful being was only a dozen yards or so off. And now it crouched, and now it stood erect, but it never for a single instant withdrew its terrible eyes from the miserable man in the tree.”
I love a good old folklore tome.
Not just the “collected fairy tales.” Those tend to have been scoured from books like Elias Owen’s “Welsh Folk Lore,” but with the names added in to make it more relatable. I like the books with endless “a man said…” “a woman did…” Elias Own is not afraid to tell three or four variants of one tale, but stops before it gets too dull. He doesn’t overly disparage anyone, and he is obsessed with the minutiae, the little details and superstitions. The hills of Wales come alive with fairies and spirits and superstitions in the pages of this book.
“Of a winter’s evening, by the faint light of a peat fire and rush candles, our forefathers recounted the weird stories of olden times, of devils, fairies, ghosts, witches, apparitions, giants, hidden treasures, and other cognate subjects, and they delighted in implanting terrors in the minds of the listeners that no philosophy, nor religion of after years, could entirely eradicate.