SALT.

[132]The Saint Giles’s of Skipton, where the lower order of inhabitants generally reside.[133]Should any reader of this day find fault with the inelegant manner in which the dialogue is carried on between Kitchen and the soldier, in defence I beg leave to say, the dialogue is told as general Bibo related it, and though in many parts of the tale I have made so many alterations, that I should not be guilty of any impropriety in calling it an original: I do not consider myself authorized to change the dialogues occasionally introduced.[134]In Kirby Malhamdale church-yard is a public house, verifying the lines of the satirist:—Where God erects a house of prayer,The devil builds a chapel there.[135]Skipton-castle.[136]Rylstone-hall. See Wordsworth’s beautiful poem the White Doe.[137]History of Craven.

[132]The Saint Giles’s of Skipton, where the lower order of inhabitants generally reside.

[133]Should any reader of this day find fault with the inelegant manner in which the dialogue is carried on between Kitchen and the soldier, in defence I beg leave to say, the dialogue is told as general Bibo related it, and though in many parts of the tale I have made so many alterations, that I should not be guilty of any impropriety in calling it an original: I do not consider myself authorized to change the dialogues occasionally introduced.

[134]In Kirby Malhamdale church-yard is a public house, verifying the lines of the satirist:—

Where God erects a house of prayer,The devil builds a chapel there.

[135]Skipton-castle.

[136]Rylstone-hall. See Wordsworth’s beautiful poem the White Doe.

[137]History of Craven.

The conjecture of T. Q. M. concerning the disappearance of the spectre-host, and the breaking up of the nocturnal banquet, in the church-yard of Kirby Malhamdale, is ingenious, and entitled to the notice of the curious in spectral learning: but it may be as well to consider whether thepointof the legend may not be further illustrated.

According to Moresin,saltnot being liable to putrefaction, and preserving things seasoned with it from decay, was the emblem of eternity and immortality, and mightily abhorred by infernal spirits. “In reference to this symbolical explication, how beautiful,” says Mr. Brand, “is that expression applied to the righteous, ‘Ye are thesaltof the earth!’”

On the custom in Ireland of placing a plate ofsaltover the heart of a dead person, Dr. Campbell supposes, in agreement with Moresin’s remark, that the salt was considered the emblem of the incorruptible part; “the body itself,” says he, “being the type of corruption.”

It likewise appears from Mr. Pennant, that, on the death of a highlander, the friends laid on the breast of the deceased a wooden platter, containing a small quantity ofsaltand earth, separate and unmixed; the earth an emblem of the corruptible body—the salt an emblem of the immortal spirit.

The body’ssaltthe soul is, which when goneThe flesh soone sucks in putrefaction.Herrick.

The body’ssaltthe soul is, which when goneThe flesh soone sucks in putrefaction.

Herrick.

The custom of placing a plate ofsaltupon the dead, Mr. Douce says, is still retained in many parts of England, and particularly in Leicestershire; but the pewter plate and salt are laid with an intent to hinder air from getting into the body and distending it, so as to occasion bursting or inconvenience in closing the coffin. Though this be the reason for the usage at present, yet it is doubtful whether the practice is not a vulgar continuation of the ancient symbolical usage; otherwise, why issaltselected?

To these instances of the relation thatsaltbore to the dead, should be annexed Bodin’s affirmation, cited by Reginald Scot; namely, that assalt“is a sign of eternity, and used by divine commandment in all sacrifices,” so “the devil loveth noSALTin his meat.”—This saying is of itself, perhaps, sufficient to account for the sudden flight of the spectre, and the vanishing of the feast in the church-yard of Kirby Malhamdale on the call for thesalt.

Finally may be added,saltfrom the “Hesperides” ofHerrick:—

TO PERILLA.Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to seeMe, day by day, to steale away from thee?Age cals me hence, and my gray haires bid comeAnd haste away to mine eternal home;’Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,That I must give thee the supremest kisse:Dead when I am, first cast insalt, and bringPart of the creame from that religious spring,With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;That done, then wind me in that very sheetWhich wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst ploreThe gods protection but the night before;Follow me weeping to my turfe, and thereLet fall a primrose, and with it a teare:Then, lastly, let some weekly strewings beDevoted to the memory of me;Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keepStill in the cold and silent shades of sleep.

TO PERILLA.

Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to seeMe, day by day, to steale away from thee?Age cals me hence, and my gray haires bid comeAnd haste away to mine eternal home;’Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,That I must give thee the supremest kisse:Dead when I am, first cast insalt, and bringPart of the creame from that religious spring,With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;That done, then wind me in that very sheetWhich wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst ploreThe gods protection but the night before;Follow me weeping to my turfe, and thereLet fall a primrose, and with it a teare:Then, lastly, let some weekly strewings beDevoted to the memory of me;Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keepStill in the cold and silent shades of sleep.

Mr. Howel Walsh, in a corporation case tried at the Tralee assizes, observed, that “a corporation cannot blush. It was a body it was true; had certainly a head—a new one every year—an annual acquisition of intelligence in every new lord mayor. Arms he supposed it had, and long ones too, for it could reach at any thing. Legs, of course, when it made such long strides. A throat to swallow the rights of the community, and a stomach to digest them! But whoever yet discovered, in the anatomy of any corporation, either bowels, or a heart?”

House at Kirkby-Moorside, Yorkshire,WHEREIN THE SECOND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM DIED.

In the worst inn’s worst room, with mat half-hung,The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,On once a flock-bed, but repair’d with straw,With tape-ty’d curtains, never meant to draw,The George and Garter dangling from that bedWhere tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,GreatVillierslies—alas! how chang’d from him,That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim!Gallant and gay, in Cliveden’s proud alcove.The bow’r of wanton Shrewsbury and Love:Or just as gay at council, in a ringOf mimick’d Statesmen, and their merry King.No wit to flatter, ’reft of all his store!No fool to laugh at, which he valued more!There victor of his health, of fortune, friends,And fame; this lord of useless thousands ends.Pope.

Pope.

In an amusing and informing topographical tract, written and published by Mr. John Cole of Scarborough, there is the precedingrepresentationof the deathbed-house of the witty and dissipated nobleman, whose name is recorded beneath the engraving. From this, and a brief notice of the duke in a work possessed by most of the readers of theTableBook,[138]with some extracts from documents, accompanying Mr. Cole’s print, an interesting idea may be formed of this nobleman’s last thoughts, and the scene wherein he closed his eyes.

The room wherein he died is markedaboveby a star * near the window.

Kirkby-Moorside is a market town, about twenty-six miles distant from Scarborough, seated on the river Rye. It was formerly part of the extensive possessions of Villiers, the first duke of Buckingham, who was killed by Felton, from whom it descended with his title to his son, who, after a profligate career, wherein he had wasted his brilliant talents and immense property, repaired to Kirkby-Moorside, and died there in disease and distress.

In a letter to bishop Spratt, dated “Kerby-moor Syde, April 17, 1687,” the earlof Arran relates that, being accidentally at York on a journey towards Scotland, and hearing of the duke of Buckingham’s illness, he visited him. “He had been long ill of an ague, which had made him weak; but his understanding was as good as ever, and his noble parts were so entire, that though I saw death in his looks at first sight, he would by no means think of it.—I confess it made my heart bleed to see the duke of Buckingham in so pitiful a place, and in so bad a condition.—The doctors told me his case was desperate, and though he enjoyed the free exercise of his senses, that in a day or two at most it would kill him, but they durst not tell him of it; so they put a hard part on me to pronounce death to him, which I saw approaching so fast, that I thought it was high time for him to think of another world.—After having plainly told him his condition, I asked him whom I should send for to be assistant to him during the small time he had to live: he would make me no answer, which made me conjecture, and having formerly heard that he had been inclining to be a Roman Catholic, I asked him if I should send for a priest; for I thought any act that could be like a Christian, was what his condition now wanted most; but he positively told me that he was not of that persuasion, and so would not hear any more of that subject, for he was of the church of England.—After some time, beginning to feel his distemper mount, he desired me to send for the parson of this parish, who said prayers for him, which he joined in very freely, but still did not think he should die; though this was yesterday, at seven in the morning, and he died about eleven at night.

“I have ordered the corpse to be embalmed and carried to Helmsley castle, and there to remain till my lady duchess her pleasure shall be known. There must be speedy care taken: for there is nothing here but confusion, not to be expressed. Though his stewards have received vast sums, there is not so much as one farthing, as they tell me, for defraying the least expense. But I have ordered his intestines to be buried at Helmsley, where his body is to remain till farther orders. Being the nearest kinsman upon the place, I have taken the liberty to give his majesty an account of his death, and sent his George and blue ribbon to be disposed as his majesty shall think fit. I have addressed it under cover to my lord president, to whom I beg you would carry the bearer the minute he arrives.”

A letter, in Mr. Cole’s publication, written by the dying duke, confesses his ill-spent life, and expresses sincere remorse for the prostitution of his brilliant talents.

“From the younger Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, on his Deathbed to Dr.W——

“Dear doctor,

“I always looked upon you to be a person of true virtue, and know you to have a sound understanding; for, however I have acted in opposition to the principles of religion, or the dictates of reason, I can honestly assure you I have always had the highest veneration for both. The world and I shake hands; for I dare affirm, we are heartily weary of each other. O, what a prodigal have I been of that most valuable of all possessions,Time!I have squandered it away with a profusion unparalleled; and now, when the enjoyment of a few days would be worth the world, I cannot flatter myself with the prospect of half a dozen hours. How despicable, my dear friend, is that man who never prays to his God, but in the time of distress. In what manner can he supplicate that Omnipotent Being, in his afflictions, whom, in the time of his prosperity, he never remembered with reverence.

“Do not brand me with infidelity, when I tell you, that I am almost ashamed to offer up my petitions at the throne of Grace, or to implore that divine mercy in the next world which I have so scandalously abused in this.

“Shall ingratitude to man be looked upon as the blackest of crimes, and not ingratitude to God? Shall an insult offered to a king be looked upon in the most offensive light, and yet no notice (be) taken when the King of kings is treated with indignity and disrespect?

“The companions of my former libertinism would scarcely believe their eyes, were you to show this epistle. They would laugh at me as a dreaming enthusiast, or pity me as a timorous wretch, who was shocked at the appearance of futurity; but whoever laughs at me for being right, or pities me for being sensible of my errors, is more entitled to my compassion than resentment. A future state may well enough strike terror into any man who has not acted well in this life; and he must have an uncommon share of courage indeed who does not shrink at the presence of God. The apprehensions of death will soon bring the most profligate to a proper use of hisunderstanding. To what a situation am I now reduced! Is this odiouslittle huta suitable lodging for a prince? Is this anxiety of mind becoming the character of a Christian? From my rank I might have expected affluence to wait upon my life; from religion and understanding, peace to smile upon my end: instead of which I am afflicted with poverty, and haunted with remorse, despised by my country, and, I fear, forsaken by my God.

“There is nothing so dangerous as extraordinary abilities. I cannot be accused of vanity now, by being sensible that I was once possessed of uncommon qualifications, especially as I sincerely regret that I ever had them. My rank in life made these accomplishments still more conspicuous, and fascinated by the general applause which they procured, I never considered the proper means by which they should be displayed. Hence, to procure a smile from a blockhead whom I despised, I have frequently treated the virtues with disrespect; and sported with the holy name of Heaven, to obtain a laugh from a parcel of fools, who were entitled to nothing but contempt.

“Your men of wit generally look upon themselves as discharged from the duties of religion, and confine the doctrines of the gospel to meaner understandings. It is a sort of derogation, in their opinion, to comply with the rules of Christianity; and they reckon that man possessed of a narrow genius, who studies to be good.

“What a pity that the holy writings are not made the criterion of true judgment; or that any person should pass for a fine gentleman in this world, but he that appears solicitous about his happiness in the next.

“I am forsaken by all my acquaintance, utterly neglected by the friend of my bosom, and the dependants on my bounty; but no matter! I am not fit to converse with the former, and have no ability to serve the latter. Let me not, however, be wholly cast off by the good. Favour me with a visit as soon as possible. Writing to you gives me some ease, especially on a subject I could talk of for ever.

“I am of opinion this is the last visit I shall ever solicit from you; my distemper is powerful; come and pray for the departing spirit of the poor unhappy

“Buckingham.”

The following is from the parish register of Kirkby Moorside.

Copy.

buried in the yeare of our Lord [1687.]April ye 17.Gorges uiluas Lord dooke of bookingam, etc.

This vulgar entry is the only public memorial of the death of a nobleman, whose abuse of faculties of the highest order, subjected him to public contempt, and the neglect of his associates in his deepest distress. If any lesson can reach the sensualist he may read it in the duke’s fate and repentant letter.

The publication of such a tract as Mr. Cole’s, from a provincial press, is an agreeable surprise. It is in octavo, and bears the quaint title of the “Antiquarian Trio,” because it describes, 1. The house wherein the duke of Buckingham died. 2. Rudston church and obelisk. 3. A monumental effigy in the old town-hall, Scarborough, with a communication to Mr. Cole from the Rev. J. L. Lisson, expressing his opinion, that it represents John de Mowbray, who was constable of Scarborough castle in the reign of Edward II. Engravings illustrate these descriptions, and there is another on wood of the church of Hunmanby, with a poem, for which Mr. Cole is indebted to the pen of “the present incumbent, the Rev. Archdeacon Wrangham, M. A. F. R. S.”

[138]TheEvery-Day Book.

It is an item of “Foreign Occurrences,” in the “Gentleman’s Magazine,” July, 1807, that a firman of the grand signior sentenced the whole Servian nation to extermination, without distinction of age or sex; if any escaped the sword, they were to be reduced to slavery. Every plain matter-of-fact man knew from his Gazetteer that Servia was a province of Turkey in Europe, bounded on the north by the Danube and Save, which separate it from Hungary, on the east by Bulgaria, on the west by Bosnia, and on the south by Albania and Macedonia; of course, he presumed that fire and sword had passed upon the country within these boundaries, and that the remaining natives had been deported; and consequently, to render the map of Turkey in Europe perfectly correct, he took his pen, and blotted out “Servia.”It appears, however, that by one of those accidents, which defeatcertainpurposes of state policy, and which are quite as common to inhuman affairs, in “sublime” as in Christian cabinets, there was a change of heads in the Turkish administration. The Janizaries becoming displeased with their new uniforms, and with the ministers of Selim, the best of grand signiors, his sublime majesty was graciously pleased to mistake the objects of their displeasure, and send them the heads of Mahmud Effendi, and a few ex-ministers, who were obnoxious to himself, instead of the heads of Achmet Effendi, and others of his household; the discontented therefore immediately decapitated the latter themselves; and, further, presumed to depose Selim, and elevate Mustapha to the Turkish throne. According to an ancient custom, the deposed despot threw himself at the feet of his successor, kissed the border of his garment, retired to that department of the seraglio occupied by the princes of the blood who cease to reign, and Mustapha, girded with the sword of the prophet, was the best of grand signiors in his stead. This state of affairs at the court of Constantinople rendered it inconvenient to divert the energies of the faithful to so inconsiderable an object as the extinction of the Servian nation; and thus Servia owes its existence to the Janizaries’ dislike of innovation on their dress; and we are consequently indebted to that respectable prejudice for the volume of “Servian popular Poetry,” published by Mr. Bowring. We might otherwise have read, as a dry matter of history, that the Servian people were exterminatedA. D.1807, and have passed to our graves without suspecting that they had songs and bards, and were quite as respectable as their ferocious and powerful destroyers.

Mr. Bowring’s “Introduction” to his specimens of “Servian popular Poetry,” is a rapid sketch of the political and literary history of Servia.

“The Servians must be reckoned among those races who vibrated between the north and the east; possessing to-day, dispossessed to-morrow; now fixed, and now wandering: having their head-quarters in Sarmatia for many generations, in Macedonia for following ones, and settling in Servia at last. But to trace their history, as to trace their course, is impossible. At last the eye fixes them between the Sava and the Danube, and Belgrade grows up as the central point round which the power of Servia gathers itself together, and stretches itself along the right bank of the former river, southwards to the range of mountains which spread to the Adriatic and to the verge of Montengro. Looking yet closer, we observe the influence of the Venetians and the Hungarians on the character and the literature of the Servians. We track their connection now as allies, and now as masters; once the receivers of tribute from, and anon as tributaries to, the Grecian empire; and in more modern times the slaves of the Turkish yoke. Every species of vicissitude marks the Servian annals—annals represented only by those poetical productions of which these are specimens. The question of their veracity is a far more interesting one than that of their antiquity. Few of them narrate events previous to the invasion of Europe by the Turks in 1355, but some refer to facts coeval with the Mussulman empire in Adrianople. More numerous are the records of the struggle between the Moslem and the Christian parties at a later period; and last of all, they represent the quiet and friendly intercourse between the two religions, if not blended in social affections, at least associated in constant communion.”

Respecting the subject more immediately interesting, Mr. Bowringsays—

“The earliest poetry of the Servians has a heathenish character; that which follows is leagued with Christian legends. But holy deeds are always made the condition of salvation. The whole nation, to use the idea of Göthe, is imaged in poetical superstition. Events are brought about by the agency of angels, but the footsteps of Satan can be nowhere traced; the dead are often summoned from their tombs; awful warnings, prophecies, and birds of evil omen, bear terror to the minds of the most courageous.

“Over all is spread the influence of a remarkable, and, no doubt, antique mythology. An omnipresent spirit—airy and fanciful—making its dwelling in solitudes—and ruling over mountains and forests—a being called theVila, is heard to issue its irresistible mandates, and pour forth its prophetic inspiration: sometimes in a form of female beauty—sometimes a wilder Diana—now a goddess, gathering or dispersing the clouds—and now an owl, among ruins and ivy. The Vila, always capricious, and frequently malevolent, is a most important actor in all the popular poetry of Servia. TheTrica Polonicais sacred to her. She is equally renowned for the beauty of her person and the swiftness of her step:—‘Fair as the mountain Vila,’is the highest compliment to a Servian lady—‘Swift as the Vila,’ is the most eloquent eulogium on a Servian steed.

“Of the amatory poems of the Servians, Göthe justly remarks, that, when viewed all together, they cannot but be deemed of singular beauty; they exhibit the expressions of passionate, overflowing, and contented affection; they are full of shrewdness and spirit; delight and surprise are admirably portrayed; and there is, in all, a marvellous sagacity in subduing difficulties, and in obtaining an end; a natural, but at the same time vigorous and energetic tone; sympathies and sensibilities, without wordy exaggeration, but which, notwithstanding, are decorated with poetical imagery and imaginative beauty; a correct picture of Servian life and manners—every thing, in short, which gives to passion the force of truth, and to external scenery the character of reality.

“The poetry of Servia was wholly traditional, until within a very few years. It had never found a pen to record it, but has been preserved by the people, and principally by those of the lower classes, who had been accustomed to listen and to sing these interesting compositions to the sound of a simple three-stringed instrument, called aGusle; and it is mentioned by Göthe, that when some Servians who had visited Vienna were requested to write down the songs they had sung, they expressed the greatest surprise that such simple poetry and music as theirs should possess any interest for intelligent and cultivated minds. They apprehended, they said, that the artless compositions of their country would be the subject of scorn or ridicule to those whose poetry was so polished and so sublime. And this feeling must have been ministered to by the employment, even in Servia, of a language no longer spoken; for the productions of literature, though it is certain the natural affections, the every-day thoughts and associations could not find fit expression in the old churchdialect:—

“The talkMan holds with week-day man in the hourly walkOf the mind’s business, is the undoubted stalk‘True song’ doth grow on.”

“The collection of popular songs,Narodne srpske pjesme, from which most of those which occupy this volume are taken, was made by Vuk, and committed to paper either from early recollections, or from the repetition of Servian minstrels. These, he informs us, and his statement is corroborated by every intelligent traveller, form a very small portion of the treasure of song which exists unrecorded among the peasantry. How so much of beautiful anonymous poetry should have been created in so perfect a form, is a subject well worthy of inquiry. Among a people who look to music and song as a source of enjoyment, the habit of improvisation grows up imperceptibly, and engages all the fertilities of imagination in its exercise. The thought which first finds vent in a poetical form, if worth preservation, is polished and perfected as it passes from lip to lip, till it receives the stamp of popular approval, and becomes as it were a national possession. There is no text-book, no authentic record, to which it can be referred, whose authority should interfere with its improvement. The poetry of a people is a common inheritance, which one generation transfers sanctioned and amended to another. Political adversity, too, strengthens the attachment of a nation to the records of its ancient prosperous days. The harps may be hung on the willows for a while, during the storm and the struggle, but when the tumult is over, they will be strung again to repeat the old songs, and recall the time gone by.

“The historical ballads, which are in lines composed of five trochaics, are always sung with the accompaniment of theGusle. At the end of every verse, the singer drops his voice, and mutters a short cadence. The emphatic passages are chanted in a louder tone. ‘I cannot describe,’ says Wessely, ‘the pathos with which these songs are sometimes sung. I have witnessed crowds surrounding a blind old singer, and every cheek was wet with tears—it was not the music, it was the words which affected them.’ As this simple instrument, the Gusle, is never used but to accompany the poetry of the Servians, and as it is difficult to find a Servian who does not play upon it, the universality of their popular ballads may be well imagined.”

While Mr. Bowring pays cheerful homage to a rhyme translation of a Servian ballad, in the Quarterly Review, No. LXIX. p. 71, he adds, that it is greatly embellished, and offers a version, in blank verse, more faithful to the original, and therefore more interesting to the critical inquirer. The following specimen of Mr. Bowring’s translation may be compared with the corresponding passage in the Review.

She was lovely—nothing e’er was lovelier;She was tall and slender as the pine tree;White her cheeks, but tinged with rosy blushes,As if morning’s beam had shoneTill that beam had reach’d its high meridian;And her eyes, they were two precious jewels;And her eyebrows, leeches from the ocean;And her eyelids, they were wings of swallows;Silken tufts the maiden’s flaxen ringlets;And her sweet mouth was a sugar casket;And her teeth were pearls array’d in order;White her bosom, like two snowy dovelets;And her voice was like the dovelet’s cooing;And her smiles were like the glowing sunshine.

On the eyebrows of the bride, described as “leechesfrom the ocean,” it is observable that, with the word leech in Servian poetry, there is no disagreeable association. “It is the name usually employed to describe the beauty of the eyebrows, as swallows’ wings are the simile used for eyelashes.” A lover inquires

“Hast thou wandered near the ocean?Has thou seen thepijavitza?[139]Like it are the maiden’s eyebrows.”

There is a stronger illustration of the simile in

The Brotherless Sisters.Two solitary sisters, whoA brother’s fondness never knew.Agreed, poor girls, with one another.That they would make themselves a brother.They cut them silk, as snow-drops white;And silk, as richest rubies bright;They carved his body from a boughOf box-tree from the mountain’s brow;Two jewels dark for eyes they gave;For eyebrows, from the ocean’s waveThey took two leeches; and for teethFix’d pearls above, and pearls beneath;For food they gave him honey sweet.And said, “Now live, and speak, and eat.”

The Brotherless Sisters.

Two solitary sisters, whoA brother’s fondness never knew.Agreed, poor girls, with one another.That they would make themselves a brother.They cut them silk, as snow-drops white;And silk, as richest rubies bright;They carved his body from a boughOf box-tree from the mountain’s brow;Two jewels dark for eyes they gave;For eyebrows, from the ocean’s waveThey took two leeches; and for teethFix’d pearls above, and pearls beneath;For food they gave him honey sweet.And said, “Now live, and speak, and eat.”

The tenderness of Servian poetry is prettily exemplified in another of Mr. Bowring’s translations.

Farewell.Against white Buda’s walls, a vineDoth its white branches fondly twine:O no! it was no vine-tree thereIt was a fond, a faithful pair,Bound each to each in earliest vow—And, O! they must be severed now!And these their farewell words:—“We part—Break from my bosom—break—my heart!Go to a garden—go, and see,Some rose-branch blushing on the tree;And from that branch a rose-flower tear,Then place it on thy bosom bare;And as its leavelets fade and pine,So fades my sinking heart in thine.”And thus the other spoke: “My love!A few short paces backward move,And to the verdant forest go;There’s a fresh water-fount below;And in the fount a marble stone,Which a gold cup reposes on;And in the cup a ball of snow—Love! take that ball of snow to restUpon thine heart within thy breast,And as it melts unnoticed there,So melts my heart in thine, my dear!”

Farewell.

Against white Buda’s walls, a vineDoth its white branches fondly twine:O no! it was no vine-tree thereIt was a fond, a faithful pair,Bound each to each in earliest vow—And, O! they must be severed now!And these their farewell words:—“We part—Break from my bosom—break—my heart!Go to a garden—go, and see,Some rose-branch blushing on the tree;And from that branch a rose-flower tear,Then place it on thy bosom bare;And as its leavelets fade and pine,So fades my sinking heart in thine.”And thus the other spoke: “My love!A few short paces backward move,And to the verdant forest go;There’s a fresh water-fount below;And in the fount a marble stone,Which a gold cup reposes on;And in the cup a ball of snow—Love! take that ball of snow to restUpon thine heart within thy breast,And as it melts unnoticed there,So melts my heart in thine, my dear!”

One other poem may suffice for a specimen of the delicacy of feeling in a Servian bosom, influenced by the master-passion.

The Young Shepherds.The sheep, beneath old Buda’s wall,Their wonted quiet rest enjoy;But ah! rude stony fragments fall.And many a silk-wool’d sheep destroy;Two youthful shepherds perish there,The golden George, and Mark the fair.For Mark, O many a friend grew sad,And father, mother wept for him:George—father, friend, nor mother had,For him no tender eye grew dim:Save one—a maiden far away,She wept—and thus I heard her say:“My golden George—and shall a song,A song of grief be sung for thee—’Twould go from lip to lip—ere longBy careless lips profaned to be;Unhallow’d thoughts might soon defameThe purity of woman’s name.“Or shall I take thy picture fair,And fix that picture in my sleeve?Ah! time will soon the vestment tear.And not a shade, nor fragment leave:I’ll not give him I love so wellTo what is so corruptible.“I’ll write thy name within a book;That book will pass from hand to hand.And many an eager eye will look,But ah! how few will understand!—And who their holiest thoughts can shroudFrom the cold insults of the crowd?”

The Young Shepherds.

The sheep, beneath old Buda’s wall,Their wonted quiet rest enjoy;But ah! rude stony fragments fall.And many a silk-wool’d sheep destroy;Two youthful shepherds perish there,The golden George, and Mark the fair.For Mark, O many a friend grew sad,And father, mother wept for him:George—father, friend, nor mother had,For him no tender eye grew dim:Save one—a maiden far away,She wept—and thus I heard her say:“My golden George—and shall a song,A song of grief be sung for thee—’Twould go from lip to lip—ere longBy careless lips profaned to be;Unhallow’d thoughts might soon defameThe purity of woman’s name.“Or shall I take thy picture fair,And fix that picture in my sleeve?Ah! time will soon the vestment tear.And not a shade, nor fragment leave:I’ll not give him I love so wellTo what is so corruptible.“I’ll write thy name within a book;That book will pass from hand to hand.And many an eager eye will look,But ah! how few will understand!—And who their holiest thoughts can shroudFrom the cold insults of the crowd?”

For Mark, O many a friend grew sad,And father, mother wept for him:George—father, friend, nor mother had,For him no tender eye grew dim:Save one—a maiden far away,She wept—and thus I heard her say:

“My golden George—and shall a song,A song of grief be sung for thee—’Twould go from lip to lip—ere longBy careless lips profaned to be;Unhallow’d thoughts might soon defameThe purity of woman’s name.

“Or shall I take thy picture fair,And fix that picture in my sleeve?Ah! time will soon the vestment tear.And not a shade, nor fragment leave:I’ll not give him I love so wellTo what is so corruptible.

“I’ll write thy name within a book;That book will pass from hand to hand.And many an eager eye will look,But ah! how few will understand!—And who their holiest thoughts can shroudFrom the cold insults of the crowd?”

[139]The leech.

For the Table Book.

This celebrated scene of matrimonial mockery is situated in Dumfrieshire, near the mouth of the river Esk, nine miles north-west from Carlisle.

Mr. Pennant, in his journey to Scotland, speaks in the following terms of Gretna, or, as he calls it, Gretna Green. By some persons it is written GraitneyGreen, according to the pronunciation of the person from whom they hearit:—

“At a short distance from the bridge, stop at the little village of Gretna—the resort of all amorous couples, whose union the prudence of parents or guardians prohibits. Here the young pair may be instantly united by a fisherman, a joiner, or a blacksmith, who marry from two guineas a job, to a dram of whiskey. But the price is generally adjusted by the information of the postilions from Carlisle, who are in pay of one or other of the above worthies; but even the drivers, in case of necessity, have been known to undertake the sacerdotal office. This place is distinguished from afar by a small plantation of firs, the Cyprian grove of the place—a sort of landmark for fugitive lovers. As I had a great desire to see the high-priest, by stratagem I succeeded. He appeared in the form of a fisherman, a stout fellow in a blue coat, rolling round his solemn chaps a quid of tobacco of no common size. One of our party was supposed to come to explore the coast; we questioned him about the price, which, after eying us attentively, he left to our honour. The church of Scotland does what it can to prevent these clandestine matches, but in vain; for these infamous couplers despise the fulmination of the kirk, and excommunication is the only penalty it can inflict.”

The “Statistical Account of Scotland” gives the subsequent particulars:—“The persons who follow this illicit practice are mere impostors—priests of their own creation, who have no right whatever either to marry, or exercise any part of the clerical function. There are at present more than one of this description in this place; but the greatest part of the trade is monopolized by a man who was originally a tobacconist, and not a blacksmith, as is generally believed. He is a fellow without education, without principle, without morals, and without manners. His life is a continued scene of drunkenness: his irregular conduct has rendered him an object of detestation to all the sober and virtuous part of the neighbourhood. Such is the man (and the description is not exaggerated) who has had the honour to join in the sacred bonds of wedlock many people of great rank and fortune from all parts of England. It is forty years and upwards since marriages of this kind began to be celebrated here. At the lowest computation, about sixty are supposed to be solemnized annually in this place.”

Copy Certificate of a Gretna Green Marriage.

“Gretnay Green Febry 17 1784

“This is to Sertfay to all persons that may be Cunserned that William Geades from the Cuntey of Bamph in thee parish of Crumdell and Nelley Patterson from the Sitey of Ednbrough Both Comes before me and Declares them Selvese to be Both Single persons and New Mareid by thee way of thee Church of Englond And Now maried by thee way of thee Church of Scotland as Day and Deat abuv menchned by me

David M‘FarsonhisWilliamsignGeadesMarkNelly Patorson

WitnessDanell Morad”

By the canons and statutes of the church of Scotland, all marriages performed under the circumstances usually attending them at Gretna Green, are clearly illegal; for although it may be performed by a layman, or a person out of orders, yet, as in England, bans or license are necessary, and those who marry parties clandestinely are subject to heavy fine and severe imprisonment. Therefore, though Gretna Green be just out of the limits of the English Marriage Act, that is not sufficient, unless the forms of the Scottish church are complied with.

H. M. Lander.

The first record for marriage entered into the session-book of the West Parish of Greenock, commences withAdamandEve, being the Christian names of the first couple who were married after the book was prepared. The worthy Greenockians can boast therefore of an ancient origin, but traces of Paradise or the Garden of Eden in their bleak regions defy research.

Jerome speaks of “a dragon of wonderful magnitude, which the Dalmatians in their native language callboas, because they are so large that they can swallow oxen.” Hence it should seem, that theboa-snake may have given birth to the fiction ofdragons.[140]

[140]Fosbroke’s British Monachism.

Under this title, in a west-country paper of the present year, (1827) there is the followingstatement:—

On the highway near Bicton, in Devonshire, the seat of the right hon. lord Rolle, in the centre of four cross roads, is a directing post with the following inscriptions, by an attention to which the traveller learns the condition of the roads over which he has to pass, and at the same time is furnished with food formeditation:—

To Woodbury, Topsham, Exeter.—Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.

To Brixton, Ottery, Honiton.—O hold up our goings in thy paths that our footsteps slip not.

To Otterton, Sidmouth, Culliton, A. D. 1743.—O that our ways were made to direct that we might keep thy statutes.

To Budleigh.—Make us to go in the paths of thy commandments, for therein is our desire.

The history of Marseilles is full of interest. Its origin borders on romance. Six hundred years before the Christian era, a band of piratical adventurers from Ionia, in Asia Minor, by dint of superior skill in navigation, pushed their discoveries to the mouth of the Rhone. Charmed with the white cliffs, green vales, blue waters, and bright skies, which they here found, they returned to their native country, and persuaded a colony to follow them to the barbarous shores of Gaul, bearing with them their religion, language, manners, and customs. On the very day of their arrival, so says tradition, the daughter of the native chief was to choose a husband, and her affections were placed upon one of the leaders of the polished emigrants. The friendship of the aborigines was conciliated by marriage, and their rude manners were softened by the refinement of their new allies in war, their new associates in peace. In arts and arms the emigrants soon acquired the ascendancy, and the most musical of all the Greek dialects became the prevailing language of thecolony.[141]

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