I love the sound of hymnsOn some bright Sabbath morning, on the moorWhere all is still save praise; and where hard byThe ripe grain shakes its bright beard in the sun:The wild bee hums more solemnly: the deep sky;The fresh green grass, the sun, and sunny brook,—All look as if they knew the day, the hour,And felt with man the need and joy of thanks.Philip Bailey’sFestus.
I love the sound of hymnsOn some bright Sabbath morning, on the moorWhere all is still save praise; and where hard byThe ripe grain shakes its bright beard in the sun:The wild bee hums more solemnly: the deep sky;The fresh green grass, the sun, and sunny brook,—All look as if they knew the day, the hour,And felt with man the need and joy of thanks.
Philip Bailey’sFestus.
There at least are warmth and enthusiasm; there at least, if there be extravagance, is also an exhibition of much character, and plenty of the picturesque. A crowd of rustic people is assembled; a wagon is drawn thither for a stage, and in it stand men with black skull-caps, or coloured handkerchiefs tied upon their heads to prevent taking cold after their violent exertions; men of those grave and massy, or thin, worn, and sharp features, that tell of strong, rude intellects, or active and consuming spirits; men in whose bright, quick eyes, or still, deep gaze, from beneath shaggy brows, you read passions that will lighten, or a shrewdness that will tell with strong effect. In their addresses you are continually catching the most picturesque expressions, the most unlooked-for illustrations,—often the most irresistibly amusing. I heard one edifying his audience with an account of the apples of the Dead Sea, gathered most likely, at a tenth transmission, from Adam Clarke’s Commentaries. “Ay,” said he, “sin is fair to look at, but foul to taste. It is like those apples that grow by theRed Sea. They are yellow as gold on one side, and rosy-cheeked as a fair maid of a morning on the other; but bite them,—yes, I say bite them, and they are full of pepper and mustard!”
Another was talking of God’s goodness, and applying Christ’s illustration: “‘If you ask your father for bread, will he give you a stone?’ Now, my brethren I don’t mean a stone of bread,—Christdidn’t mean a stone of bread: for, may be, it was not sold by the stone in his time; and he would not be a bad father neither, that gave you a stone of bread at a time; but I mean a stone from the road,—a real pebble, as cold as charity, as bare as the back of my hand, and as hard as the heart of a sinner.”
Now, none but those who had known the immense value of a stone of bread would be likely to think of such a thing, or to guard against such a mistake. But with such laughable errors, with much ignorance and outrageous cant, there is often mixed up a rude intellectual strength, and a freshness of thought that never knew the process of taming and trammelling called education, and that fears no criticism; and flashes of poetical light, that please the more for the rudeness of their accompaniment. There are women, too, that exhort in soft voices and pathetic tones on such occasions; and, suddenly the crowd will divide itself into several companies, and go singing to different parts of the field. Their hymns have a wild vivacity, a metaphoric boldness, and strange as it may seem, a greater spirituality about them than those of any other English sect that I have come in contact with. It is well known that they are set to some of the finest and liveliest, and most touching song-tunes; and hence, perhaps partly their startling effect; having divested themselves of that dry and dolorous monotony that hangs about sectarian hymns in general. They describe the Christian life under the figure of battles and campaigns, with “Christ their conquering captain” at their head; as pilgrimages, and night-watches; and hence their addresses are full of the most vivid imagery. I well remember, in the dusk of a fine summer evening, the moon hanging in the far western sky, the dark leaves of the brookside alders rustling in the twilight air, hearing, from the dim heath where they were holding their camp-meetings, the wild sound of one of these hymns. It was the dialogue of a spirit questioning and answering itself in the passage of death and the entrance into the happy land, and the chorused words of “All is well!—All is well!” came over the shadowy waste with an unearthly effect.
Singing then, such hymns,—but on these occasions chiefly of supplication or triumph,—they kneel down, each company in a circle; the leaders pray; and it is curious to see what looks ofholy jealousy are cast from one circle to another, as the voice of one leader predominates over those of the others by its vehemence, its loudness, or its eloquence; drawing speedily away all the audience of the less gifted. It is scarcely now to be expected that we shall ever find a Whitefield, a Wesley, a Fox, or a Bunyan, on such an occasion, but from the effect of the enthusiasm, the earnestness, the wild energy and rude eloquence, that Ihaveseen in a few humble men, I can well imagine, with Lord Byron, what must be the impression made by one strong mind under the broad blue sky, and amid the accompanying picturesqueness of scene and people.
But let us away into the far, far country! Into the still, pure, unadulterated country. Ah! here indeed is a Sabbath! What a sunny peace, what a calm yet glad repose lies on its fair hills; over all its solemn woods! How its flowery dales, and deep, secluded valleys reflect the holy tranquillity of heaven! It is morning; and the sun comes up the sky as if he knew it was a day of universal pause in the workings of the world; he shines over the glittering dews, and green leaves, and ten thousand blossoms; and the birds fill the blue fresh air with a rapture of music. The earth looks new and beautiful as on the day of its creation; but it is as full of rest as if it drew near to its close—all its revolutions past, all its turbulence hushed, all its mighty griefs healed, its mysterious destinies accomplished; and the light of eternity about to break over it with a new and imperishable power. Man rests from his labours, and every thing rests with him. There lie the weary steeds that have dragged the chain, and smarted under the lash—that have pulled the plough and the ponderous wagon, or flown over hill and dale at man’s bidding; there they lie, on the slope of the sunny field; and the very sheep and cattle seem imbued with their luxurious enjoyment of rest. The farmer has been walking into his fields, looking over this gate and that fence, into enclosures of grass, mottled with flowers like a carpet, or rich green corn growing almost visibly; at his cattle and his flock; and now he comes back with leisurely steps, and enters the shady quiet of his house. And itisa shady quiet. The sun glances about its porch, and flickers amongst the leaves on the wall, and the sparrows chirp, and fly to and fro; but the dog liesand slumbers on the step of the door, or only raises his head to snap at the flies that molest him. The very cat, coiled up on a sunbright border in the garden, sleeps voluptuously:—within, all is cleanness and rest. There is none of the running and racketing of the busy week-day: the pressing of curds, and shaping and turning of cheese; the rolling of the barrel-churn; the scouring of pails; the pumping, and slopping, and working, and chattering, and singing, and scolding of dairymaids. All that can be dispensed with, is, and what must be done is done quietly, and is early away. There is a clean, cool parlour; the open window lets in the odour of the garden—the yet cool and delicious odour, and the hum of bees. Flowers stand in their pots in the window; gathered flowers stand on the breakfast table; and the farmer’s comely wife, already dressed for the day, as she sees him come in, sits down to pour out his coffee. Over the croft-gate the labourers are leaning, talking of the last week’s achievements, and those of the week to come; and in many a cottage garden the cottagers, with their wives and children, are wandering up and down, admiring the growth of this and that; and every one settles in his own mind, that his cabbages, and peas, and beans are the best in the whole country; and that as for currants, gooseberries, apricots, and strawberries, there never were such crops since trees and bushes grew.
But the bells ring out from the old church tower. The pastor is already issuing from his pleasant parsonage; groups of peasantry are already seen streaming over the uplands towards the village. In the lanes, gay ribbons and Sunday-gowns glance from between the trees, and every house sends forth its inhabitants to worship. Blessings on those old grey fabrics, that stand on many a hill and in many a lowly hollow, all over this beloved country; for much as we reprobate that system of private or political patronage by which unqualified, unholy, and unchristian men have sometimes been thrust into their ancient pulpits, I am of Sir Walter Scott’s opinion, that no places are so congenial to the holy simplicity of Christian worship as they are. They have an air of antiquity about them—a shaded sanctity, and stand so venerably amid the most English scenes, and the tombs of generations of the dead, that we cannot enter them without having our imaginations and our heartspowerfully impressed with every feeling and thought that can make us love our country, and yet feel that it is not our abiding place. Those antique arches, those low massy doors, were raised in days that are long gone by; around these walls, nay, beneath our very feet, sleep those who, in their generations, helped, each in his little sphere, to build up England to her present pitch of greatness. We catch glimpses of that deep veneration, of that unambitious simplicity of mind and manner that we would fain hold fast amid our growing knowledge, and its inevitable remodelling of the whole framework of society. We are made to feel earnestly the desire to pluck the spirit of faith, the integrity of character, and the whole heart of love to kin and country, out of the ignorance and blind subjection of the past. Therefore is it that I have always loved the village church, that I have delighted to stroll far through the summer fields; and hear still onward its bells ringing happily; to enter and sit down amongst its rustic congregation,—better pleased with their murmur of responses, and their artless but earnest chant, than with all the splendour and parade of more lofty fabrics. Therefore is it that I long to see the people rescued from the thraldom of aristocratic patronage, that they may select at their own will, the pious and pure hearted to fill every pulpit in the land, and station in every parish a lover of God, a lover of the country, and a lover of the poor.
But Sunday morning is past: the afternoon is rolling away; but it shall not roll away without its dower of happiness shed on every down, and into every beautiful vale of this fair kingdom. Closed are the doors of the church, but opened are those of thousands and tens of thousands of dwellings to receive friends and kindred. And around the pleasant tea-table, happy groups are gathering in each other’s houses, freed from the clinging, pressing, enslaving cares of the six days; and sweetly, and full of renewing strength to the heart, does the evening there roll away. And does it not roll as sweetly where, by many a cottage-door, the aged grandfather and grandmother sit with two generations about them, and bask in another glorious Sabbath sunset? And is it not sweet where friends stroll through the delicious fields, in high or cheerful talk; along the green lane, or broom-engoldened hill-side; or down into the woodland valley, where the waters run clear andchimingly, amid the dipping grass and the brooklime; and the yellow beams of the descending sun glance serenely amongst the trees? And is it not sweet where, on some sequestered stile, sit two happy lovers, or where they stray along some twilight path, and the woodbine and the wild-rose are drooping their flowery boughs over them, while earth and heaven, supremely lovely in themselves, take new and divine hues from their own passionate spirits; and youth and truth are theirs: the present is theirs in love, the future is theirs in high confidence: all that makes glorious the life of angels is theirs for the time. Yes! all through the breadth of this great land,—through its cities, its villages, its fair fields, its liberated millions are walking in the eye of heaven, drinking in its sublime calm, refreshed by its gales, soothed by the peaceful beauty of the earth. There is a pause of profound, holy tranquillity, in which twilight drops down upon innumerable roofs, and prayers ascend from countless hearths in city and in field, on heath and mountain,—and then, ’tis gone; and the Sabbath is ended.
But blessings, and ten thousand blessings be upon that day; and let myriads of thanks stream up to the Throne of God, for this divine and regenerating gift to man. As I have sate in some flowery dale, with the sweetness of May around me, on a week-day, I have thought of all the millions of immortal creatures toiling for their daily life in factories and shops, amid the whirl of machinery and the greedy cravings of mercantile gain, and suddenly this golden interval of time has lain before me in all its brightness,—a time, and a perpetually recurring time, in which the iron grasp of earthly tyranny is loosed, and Peace, Faith, and Freedom, the angels of God, come down and walk once more amongst men!
Ten thousand blessings on this day, the friend of man and beast. The bigot would rob it of its healthful freedom, on the one hand, and coop man up in his work-a-day dungeons, and cause him to walk with downcast eyes and demure steps; and the libertine would desecrate all its sober decorum on the other. God, and the sound heart and sterling sense of Englishmen, preserve it from both these evils! Let us still avoid Puritan rigidity, and French dissipation. Let our children and our servants, and those who toil forus in vaults, and shops, and factories, between the intervals of solemn worship have freedom to walk in the face of heaven and the beauty of earth, for in the great temple of nature stand together, Health and Piety. For myself, I speak from experience, it has always been my delight to go out on a Sunday, and like Isaac, meditate in the fields, and especially, in the sweet tranquillity and amid the gathering shadows of evening; and never in temple or in closet, did more hallowed influences fall upon my heart. With the twilight and the hush of earth, a tenderness has stolen upon me; a desire for every thing pure and holy; a love for every creature on which God has stamped the wonder of his handiwork; but especially for every child of humanity; and then have I been made to feel that there is no Oratory like that which has heaven itself for its roof, and no teaching like the teaching of theSpiritwhich created, and still overshadows the world with its Infinite wings.
Bird-catching
To the real lover of the country there needs no great events, no exciting circumstances to effect his happiness. The freshness of the country, and the profoundness of its quiet, are to him full of happiness. The whole round of the seasons, the passage of every day, the still walk amongst fields and woods, and by running waters, are to him sources of perpetual pleasures. When “the winter is over and gone,” he sees with joy the increased light amongst the breaking clouds and dispersing fogs; he feels with delight the milder temperature; he passes by, and observes the first bursting from the warm southern banks of green, luxuriant plants,—the arum, the mercury, the crisp chervil, the wrinkled leaves of the primrose, the blossomed branch of the apricot and peach on the sunny walls of the cottage, and the almond in the garden and shrubbery, like a tree of rosy sunshine, ere a leaf is yet seen; these things he sees with a feeling that has more true delight in it than ever was known to city drawing-room or palace. To me, the most ordinary walk in the country is, and always has been a luxury. I remember what joy these things gave me when a boy, and now they give me again a boy’s heart. I remember the enjoyment I experienced, when an old sportsman used to take his gun on his arm on a Saturday afternoon, when my village school made holiday, and led me up long lanes, between high mossy banks, where the little runnels come rushing and chiming along, between high, overhanginghedges; and through wide, still, shady woods; and across fields deep with greenest grass, and bright with sunshine, and all the glory of spring; and everywhere pointed out to me the nests of birds, each built in its peculiar situation; the robin and the yellow-hammer on the bank; blackbirds and throstles in the hedges, or under the roots of some old tree overhanging a stream, or set amongst the boughs of the young fir-trees in the plantations. I remember how I used to delight in the depth of rich grass and flowery weeds in the open fields and along the sunshiny hedges; in the hedges themselves, all clad in their young leaves, sprinkled with glittering morning dews, and perhaps waving with the utmost prodigality of hawthorn bloom. I remember too, with what earnest delight I used to gaze on the bushes of the wild-rose briar, and admire the singular beauty of its finely-cut and emerald-green leaves, amongst which the whitethroat framed its gauzy nest. All this I remember: and while I think of it, I seem to hear the lark singing in the clear air above me, as he used to do, with a
Joy we never can come near:
Joy we never can come near:
and I now see more clearly what it was that produced such an effect upon me. It was that beauty, that wide-spreading, cheering, heart-strengthening beauty—which God hath showered on the face of the earth, to make us feel his presence in his works; and to learn to love him as we go along the most solitary paths, and to rejoice in his goodness, where the world comes not between us and the perception of it. It was that beauty, which is indeed a revelation from heaven, that then made itself felt in my young heart, and has only grown more dear to me every year and every day, and I trust has not been wanting of all that good effect which it is intended it should produce, by weaning us from worldly pleasures, by bringing us to feel habitually the presence of love, and providence, and divine purity, as we go along in solitude and thought; in short, in keeping alive in our hearts the freshness of their feelings and the strength of their better hopes. All this I remember, and it is like the light of a perpetual summer morning in the far-off horizon of memory; and I say, all these delicious feelings have gone with me through life, and do, and will, go with all those who love nature with a filial love.
The first glimpses of spring have in our eyes and hearts an indescribable charm. There is a freshness and a mellowness in the earth then, after the frosts and rains of winter, that give a beauty to it that it possesses at no other period of the year. I never see it, and smell the odour of the upturned soil, without seeming to feel renewed our ancient kinship with the earth whence we sprung, which gives us such manifold blessings all our natural lives, and takes us to its peaceful bosom when we lie down wearied, wasted, and heart-worn. When the labourer cuts his ditches, and piles up his banks anew, there is a beauty in the dark, clear, smooth earth, which his spade cleaves so shiningly. As the children of the village hunt over the steep banks for violets or snail-shells, or the early robin’s nest, your eye is made conscious of the beauty of those banks, with their crumbling mould and springing plants. As the drainer cuts his drain in the greensward of the meadows; as the ploughman turns up the broad lea, all is rich and beautiful. And then, as the hedges and trees clothe themselves in their new and delicate foliage; as the winds come singing sonorously; as the grass and flowers spring beneath your feet; as April now smiles out joyously and bright, and now broods still and beneficent, with a gloom in its sky so unlike the gloom of autumn or winter—a gloom casting a dark shade on the distant landscape, while, in other quarters, the light comes bursting and gushing through the thinner places of the clouds; and fields lie hushed amid light mists, and scattered with a silvery dew in such a living, prolific greenness, that you feel that the birth of millions of flowers is rapidly maturing; that violetsmustbe springing in legions along the hedges and in the copses; and that the old, yellow English daffodil is nodding in tufts in village crofts, and over the margins of mossy wells.
At such times, so deeply do we feel the entrancing influence of spring, that we cannot help breaking out into an affectionate apostrophe in praise of her:
All sadness from my heart is gone—All sadness, and all fears,Till I forget that thou art oneWho metest out our years.
All sadness from my heart is gone—All sadness, and all fears,Till I forget that thou art oneWho metest out our years.
And then, when May comes in, and we walk abroad some fine, sunshiny, breezy, yet balmy day,—balmy in hollows and dells, andalong southern uplands; fresh blowing on the ridges of the downs—breezy in the forest glades; and hear the ringing notes of the blackbird and thrush, and the lark calling to high heaven itself in uncontrolable joy; and see peasants out in fields and gardens, women, from the lady of the hall to the dame of the cottage, drawn out to be genial lookers-on, and directors in the renewal of flower-borders, in the sowing of seeds and planting of shrubs; and see old men sitting on stone or wooden benches on the warm side of the house, or leading some little child by the hand down the lane,—two links come strangely together, from the extremities of the chain of human life; one not having yet arrived at the troubles of humanity, the other past them; yet what a wide, dark care-land lying between them!—to see groups of children scattered here and there over the happy fields, tracing the hedge-sides, or the clear streams, or running to secure the first cowslips, while their clear voices come ringing from the distant steeps and hill-tops, why—there is happiness to the nature-loving and man-loving spirit, that is as far beyond the power of human expression, as God’s goodness is beyond mortal comprehension.
There is a season of early spring marked by a succession of flowers that has something in it to me more tenderly poetical than any other part of the year. It is that between the appearance of the snowdrop and the cowslip, with all the intermediate links of the crocus, the violet, the primrose, the anemone, and the bluebell. They have, in themselves, such delicate grace, and are surrounded in our minds by so many poetical associations, and they mark the fleet passing of a period of so much anticipation, that they are seen with a delight at their re-appearance, and a regret that they must so soon be gone by. Then, too, they have the world almost all to themselves. They are the few beloved children of the early time. All their more gorgeous and joyous kindred are still slumbering in the earth. They come forth and salute us amid the naked landscape, amid wild, chill winds and beating rain. When the cowslip disappears it is no longer so; all is greenness and sunshine; a thousand blossoms hang on the forest bough, or flutter on the earth; and the delicacy of our perceptions is lost in the profusion of beauty.
But then, in that calmer season, when May has put on all itswealth and splendour; when the fields are deep with grass, and golden and purple with flowers; when the hawthorn is a miracle of beauty and sweetness, perfuming the whole air, what paradises of delight are gardens—warm, flowery, odorous—happy with the hum of bees: and old orchards, where you may witness what Coleridge so feelingly describes in a noble blank-verse letter to hisbrother:—
As now, on some delicious eve,We in our sweet sequestered orchard plotSit on the tree crooked earthward; whose old boughs,That hang above us in an arborous roof,Stirred by the faint gale of departing May,Send their loose blossoms slanting o’er our heads!
As now, on some delicious eve,We in our sweet sequestered orchard plotSit on the tree crooked earthward; whose old boughs,That hang above us in an arborous roof,Stirred by the faint gale of departing May,Send their loose blossoms slanting o’er our heads!
And thus it is through every season. In June and July, the glow and perpetual beauty of the country; the abundance of grass and flowers; the charm of river sides, of angling in woodland streams; the magnificence of thunder-storms; the breaking out of coolness and freshness after them; the delights of running waters; bathing and sailing; the fragrance of fields and gardens; the beauty of summer moonlight; the picturesque cheerfulness of hay-harvest; the enjoyment of rich mountain scenery; rambling amongst the brightness of morning dews, along valleys, past the outstretched feet of heathy hills; lying on some moorland slope conscious of all the singular hush and glow of noon; watching all the varying lights and hues, listening to the varied sounds of evening in glens, now basking in the yellow calm sunshine, now deep in gloom; amid towering crags, by the dash of waters, or on some airy ridge that catches the last glow of heaven, taking in a vast stretch of scenes that defy alike the power of pen and pencil.
Ah! slowly sinkBehind the western ridge, thou glorious sun!Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds!Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves!And kindle, thou blue ocean! So my friendStruck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing roundOn the wild landscape, gaze till all doth seemLess gross than bodily; a living thingWhich acts upon the mind, and with such huesAs clothe the Almighty Spirit when he makesSpirits perceive his presence.Coleridge.
Ah! slowly sinkBehind the western ridge, thou glorious sun!Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds!Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves!And kindle, thou blue ocean! So my friendStruck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing roundOn the wild landscape, gaze till all doth seemLess gross than bodily; a living thingWhich acts upon the mind, and with such huesAs clothe the Almighty Spirit when he makesSpirits perceive his presence.
Coleridge.
And then the corn-harvest, with all its happy human groups, and rich colours; the calm, steady splendour of autumn days; the deepening silence of the decaying year, its returning storms and pictorial tints; the very gloom and awfulness with which the year retreats, sending the spirit inwards. In all these scenes and changes, the soul of the lover of Nature luxuriates; and even finds beauty and strength in the stern visitations of winter. He goes with Nature in all her rounds, and rejoices with her in all. There needs for him no great event, no combination of stirring circumstances; it is not even necessary to him that he be poet, or painter, or sportsman; if he have not the skill or faculty of any, he has the spirit of all. For him there are spread out in earth and heaven, pictures such as never graced the galleries of art. He sees splendours, and scenes painted by the hand of the Almighty, for whose faintest imitations the connoisseur would pay the price of an estate. To him every landscape presents beauty; to him every gale breathes pleasure; and every change of scene or season is a new unfolding of enjoyment. He knows nothing of the heart-burnings and jealousies which infest crowded places. He is not saddened by the sight of wickedness, or the experience of ingratitude and deceit. He is exempt from theennuiof polished society; the sneers of its unkindly criticism; and the hollowness of its professions. He converses with the Great Spirit which lives through the universe, and fills the hearts that open to its influence with purity, humanity, the sweetest sympathies, the most holy desires; and overshadows them with that profound peace and that inward satisfaction, which are themselves the most substantial happiness.
That these are no vain imaginations, but positive realities, scattered abroad for universal acceptance as much as the blessings of air and sunshine, we have only to open the works of our best writers to be convinced of;—to see how the expression of their happiness breaks from them continually. It is this overflowing and irrepressible gladness of a heart resting on nature which givessuch a charm to the writings of White and Evelyn, and good old Izaak Walton. And the poets—they are full of it. Listen to them, and then consider the nobility of their views, and the lofty purity of their souls, and then admit the power and depth of that influence which lives in Nature and speaks in Christianity.
So shalt thou see and hearThe lovely shapes and sounds intelligibleOf that eternal language which thy GodUtters; who from eternity doth teachHimself in all, and all things in himself.Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,—Whether the summer clothe the genial earthWith greenness, or the redbreast sit and singBetwixt the turfs of snow in the bare branchOf mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatchSmokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall,Heard only in the traces of the blast;Or if the secret ministry of frostShall hang them up in silent icicles,Quietly shining to the quiet moon.Coleridge.
So shalt thou see and hearThe lovely shapes and sounds intelligibleOf that eternal language which thy GodUtters; who from eternity doth teachHimself in all, and all things in himself.Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,—Whether the summer clothe the genial earthWith greenness, or the redbreast sit and singBetwixt the turfs of snow in the bare branchOf mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatchSmokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall,Heard only in the traces of the blast;Or if the secret ministry of frostShall hang them up in silent icicles,Quietly shining to the quiet moon.
Coleridge.
And for the cordial, substantial, heart-filling contentment which is gathered from the quietness of rural life, hear what Sir Henry Wotton, a most accomplished man, who had seen much of court life, both at home and abroad, says,
Would the world now adopt me for her heir;Would beauty’s queen entitle me the fair;Fame speak me Fortune’s minion; could I vieAngels[31]with India; with a speaking eye,Command bare heads, bowed knees; strike justice dumb.As well as blind and lame; or give a tongueTo stones by epitaphs; be called “great master”In the loose rhymes of every poetaster—Could I be more than any man that lives,Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives;Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,Than ever fortune would have made them mine;And hold one minute of this holy leisureBeyond the riches of this empty pleasure.Welcome pure thoughts! welcome ye silent groves!These guests, these courts my soul most dearly loves.Now the winged people of the sky shall singMy cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring;A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,In which I will adore sweet virtue’s face.Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares,No broken vows dwell here, no pale-faced fears;Then here I’ll sit, and sigh my hot love’s folly,And learn to affect a holy melancholy:And if contentment be a stranger then,I’ll ne’er look for it but in heaven again.
Would the world now adopt me for her heir;Would beauty’s queen entitle me the fair;Fame speak me Fortune’s minion; could I vieAngels[31]with India; with a speaking eye,Command bare heads, bowed knees; strike justice dumb.As well as blind and lame; or give a tongueTo stones by epitaphs; be called “great master”In the loose rhymes of every poetaster—Could I be more than any man that lives,Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives;Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,Than ever fortune would have made them mine;And hold one minute of this holy leisureBeyond the riches of this empty pleasure.
Welcome pure thoughts! welcome ye silent groves!These guests, these courts my soul most dearly loves.Now the winged people of the sky shall singMy cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring;A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,In which I will adore sweet virtue’s face.Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares,No broken vows dwell here, no pale-faced fears;Then here I’ll sit, and sigh my hot love’s folly,And learn to affect a holy melancholy:And if contentment be a stranger then,I’ll ne’er look for it but in heaven again.
[31]Piece of money value ten shillings.
[31]Piece of money value ten shillings.
Such are the pleasures that lie in the path of the lover of the country; pleasures like the blessings of the Gospel, to be had without money, and without price. There are many, no doubt, who will deem them dull and insignificant; but the peace which they bring “passeth understanding,” and we can make a triumphant appeal from the frivolous and the dissipated, to the wise and noble of every country and age.
Many precious ritesAnd customs of our rural ancestryAre gone, or stealing from us.Wordsworth.
Many precious ritesAnd customs of our rural ancestryAre gone, or stealing from us.
Wordsworth.
How rapidly is the fashion of the ancient rural life of England disappearing! Every one who lived in the country in his youth, and looks back to that period now, feels how much is lost! How many of the beautiful old customs, the hearty old customs, the poetical old customs, are gone! Modern ambition, modern wealth, modern notions of social proprieties, modern education, are all hewing at the root of the poetical and picturesque, the simple and cordial in rural life; and what are they substituting in their stead? We will endeavour, anon, to shew what they are doing, and what they are leaving undone; just now let us try to seize on the fluttering apparition of primitive custom, and bid it a hearty good-bye, before it is gone for ever. I have, in another place, shewn how all the more fanciful and refined of our village festal habits have vanished. The May-day dances, and gathering of May-branches—the scattering of flowers on holiday occasions in village streets, and about our houses. Even the planting of flowers about the graves in our village churchyards, once so common in England, is now rarely to be seen. Camden in his Britannia, and John Evelyn mention that it was the custom of their times in Surrey, but who in Surrey sees anything of thekind now?[32]You may meet with a solitary shrub, or with graves bound down with withes and briars; but nothing of that general planting of flowering shrubs which you see in Wales. It is the fate of champaign countries, to have their rustic customs sooner obliterated than those of mountain regions. The Scotch still retain their penny-weddings and Halloweens, the Welsh their singular wedding customs, and funeral customs as singular; but how wonderfully have the simple customs on these occasions of our English hamlets dwindled in our days! Washington Irving, in an interesting paper in the Sketch-Book, speaks of a practice in some villages of hanging up in the churches at the funeral of a maiden, gloves and garlands cut in paper. In what church is that done now-a-days? And yet, though I never saw a funeral in which so beautiful and appropriate a practice was retained, I well recollect seeing those gloves and garlands hanging in the church of my native village in Derbyshire; and I have heard my mother say, that in her younger days she has helped to cut and prepare them for the funeral of young women of the place. The garlands were originally of actual flowers—lilies and roses—and the gloves of white kid. For these had become substituted simple white paper. There was a garland then, of imitative roses and lilies wreathed round a bow of peeled willow—a pair of gloves cut in paper, and a white handkerchief of the same material on which was written some texts of Scripture, or some stanzas of poetry applicable to the occasion, and to the hope of immortality in the deceased; and these were not unfrequently chosen for the purpose by the dying maiden herself. These emblems of purity and evanescent youth were laid on the coffin during the funeral procession, as the sword and cap of the soldier on his, and were then suspended in the body of the church; and there hung, till they fell through time, or till all who had an interest in the deceased were dead or departed. In all the village churches into which I have been in various parts of the kingdom, I do not recollect seeing any of those maiden trophies, except in this one; and they, on the coming of a new incumbent, were removed in a general church-cleaning many years ago.
[32]In John Evelyn’s own churchyard at Wootten, there is now not the least trace of this beautiful custom.
[32]In John Evelyn’s own churchyard at Wootten, there is now not the least trace of this beautiful custom.
And yet, where is it that our old customs, and the impress of past times and generations, linger so strongly as about our village churches in England! Entering one of them in some retired district on a Sunday, you seem to step back into a past age. The quaint old place—its rude and ancient pillars and arches—its oaken pews and pulpit, grown almost black with years; the massy font, the grim, grotesque human heads for corbels, every one differing from the other, where the mason seems to have indulged his humorous fancy without regard to the sacred character of the house in which they were to figure—the contrasting, though often faded splendour of the squire’s pew; the heavy tombs, with procumbent effigies of knight and dame—the mural tablets to the memory of departed rectors; the hatchment in sign of some once important personage gone to his long home—and the half-worn stones on which you tread,
Where many a holy text around is strewn,To teach the rustic moralist to die.
Where many a holy text around is strewn,To teach the rustic moralist to die.
And then, the simple congregation! All in their best attire, in cut and texture guiltless of modern fashion: the clergyman, who with the air of a gentleman, has probably caught somewhat of the Doric air of the region; and the old clerk with his long coat, and long hair combed over his shoulders, doling out his responses with a peculiar twang, to which an ancient parish clerk can only attain. Then the little music-loft, with its musicians, consisting of a bass-viol, a bassoon, and hautboy, and the whole congregation singing with all their heart and soul. These are remnants of antiquity that are nowhere else to be found. There is a paper in Blackwood’s Magazine for April 1838, called “Church Music and other Parochials,” which gives you a picture of things which everybody who has gone to a thoroughly old-fashioned country church has seen over and over. The old clerk, the writer says, always reads Cheberims and Sepherims, and most unequivocally—“I am a Lion to my mother’s children,” and truly he sometimes looks not unlike one: and when told by the clergyman that he must take him to task to teach him to read and give the responses differently, he replies—“Why, sir, if I must read just like you there wouldn’t be a bit of difference between us.”
Such is the peculiar elocution of the true old parish clerk, that even a dog is sensible of it. I wandered into a rustic church where I accidentally saw the congregation collecting, having at my heels a little favourite spaniel. The church stood in the middle of a field at some distance from the hamlet, and I did not see where to secure the dog during the service; I therefore trusted to his general good behaviour, and made him lie down under the seat. Here he slept very quietly for some time; but at the very first sound of the clerk’s voice, which was of the genuine traditional tone, up he jumped and began to bark most vociferously. I kicked him with my heel; menaced him with look and hand; set my foot on him; held his mouth—but all was in vain. While the clergyman, who, I must confess, shewed great forbearance, perceiving that I was a stranger, and who moreover betrayed by a suppressed smile that he also perceived the true cause of the dog’s irritation, was reading the lessons, the dog was perfectly still; again the clerk said, “amen,” and again up started Fido and barked as loud as ever. The case was hopeless—nothing remained but to retire.
In some of these rustic temples you sometimes see things that would electrify a city audience with surprise. I once saw a venerable clergyman on the edge of Yorkshire perpetrate a pun in the midst of the service with all gravity. As he was reading the morning lessons, a fellow who had probably been a little elated over-night, or notimprobably the same morning, suddenly cried out—“Arise and shine!”—The rector paused and said, “Who was that?” “It was Joseph Twigg, sir,” responded some one. “Thentwighim out!” rejoined the rector, as glibly and yet as gravely as possible. A smile, and indeed a general display of open mouths and grinning teeth appeared in his congregation—but Joseph Twigg was twigged out, and the rector went on.
Around these old buildings cling all the ancient superstitions. They are as much haunted as ever. They are as prolific of stories of ghosts and apparitions as ever. There are yet young people who go and watch in those old porches on St. Mark’s-eve to see whom they shall marry, and will sow hempseed backward at midnight round the whole church for the same purpose. In many parts of the country none will be buried on the north side of the church; and accordingly that side of the churchyard is commonly one unbrokenlevel of greensward, although all the rest be crowded to excess with graves. The north side of the church, by immemorial custom, is the allotted portion of the suicide and the outcast. Accordingly, in many churchyards, that part is purposely very small. It is in many so little visited, that it is a wilderness, grown in summer breast-high with mallows, nettles, chervil, elder bushes,
Hemlocks and darnels dank.
Hemlocks and darnels dank.
The writer of the article in Blackwood’s Magazine just mentioned, says, “I have often tried to make out the exact ideas the poor people have of angels—for they talk a great deal about them. The best that I can make of it is, that they are children, or children’s heads and shoulders winged, as represented in church paintings, and in plaster-of-Paris on ceilings. We have a goodly row of them all the length of one ceiling, and it cost the parish, or rather the then minister, I believe, who indulged them, no trifle to have the eyes blacked, and nostrils, and a touch of light red in the cheeks. It is notorious and scriptural, they think, that thebodydies, but nothing being said about the head and shoulders, they have a sort of belief that they are preserved to angels—which are no other than dead young children.” There is no doubt that nearly all the idea which many country people possess of cherubims and angels is derived from these plaster heads, or from those cherubims with full-blown cheeks and gilded wings, and those gilded angels with long trumpets depicted on gravestones. Ministers preach about angels and spirits as things which everybody comprehends, but which they have no actual conception of, only as they see them represented by the chisels and gold-leaf of country masons; and the story of the country fellow who had shot an owl, and was thus accosted by his wife—“Don’t thee know what thee hast done? Why, thee hast killed one of ar parson’s cherabums!” is not sooutréas it might appear to many.
But we must leave these superstitions to the winter fireside of the hamlet. More of the old customs connected with funerals than with any other events, remain in primitive districts. In Derbyshire, when the body is laid out, the nurse who attended the deceased, and has performed this last office, goes round to “bid to the berrin” (funeral). The names of the parties to be invited aregiven to her, and away she trudges from house to house, over hill and dale, sometimes to a considerable distance. She delivers her message, and names the day and hour. Refreshments are forthwith set before her. However she may protest that she wants nothing—can eat nothing—out come, at least, the sweet loaf, and currant or ginger wine. The family gathers round as she sits, to hear all particulars of the illness; how it came on; what doctor was employed; all the progress of the complaint; which leads probably to whole histories of similar illnesses whichtheyhave known,—all the sayings of the deceased; the end he made, which is generally described by saying, “he died like a lamb!”—“What sort of a corpse is it?” which generally is answered by the information, that “he looks just like himself for all the world—with a most heavenly smile on his countenance.” All these matters are drunk in with great interest, and with many solemn wishes that they may all make as comfortable an end. Some trifle, sixpence or thereabout, is given to the nurse, and on she trudges to the next place. There is no doubt but that the death of an individual in one of these rustic places is felt ten times as much by his acquaintance as that of a citizen by his. The bustle of persons and events in city life so break down the force of the event, and so much sooner elbow it out of mind. In the country, the moment a passing bell is heard to toll, you see every individual all attention; every one cries “hush.” They stand in the attitude of profound listeners. The bell, by some signals which they all understand, proclaims to them the sex, and married or single state of the deceased, and then counts out his or her age.[33]Having ascertained these particulars, they begin to speculate, for they already know everybody that is ill in the parish, and thus generally discover pretty certainly before any other intelligence reaches them, whose bell it is. That bell is sufficient text for the discourse of the day. They run over all the biography of the individual, and bring up many an anecdote of him and his cotemporaries, which had longslept in their minds. When those invited to the funeral arrive, a substantial meal is often given, followed by wine and cake: and besides the customary distribution of scarfs, hatbands and gloves, a packet of sponge-cake made on purpose, of a prescriptive size and shape, and called “berrin-cake,” is delivered to every one before the setting out of the funeral, to take home with him, wrapped in fine writing paper, and sealed with black wax. Nothing can be more solemn than the behaviour of all the spectators as the train passes along the road, all passengers stopping till the funeral is gone by; all taking off their hats, and watching its onward course in silence. In some places the old custom of chanting a psalm as they proceed towards the churchyard is still kept up, and nothing can be more impressive than the effect of that chant, as it comes mingled with the solemn tolling of the bell over some neighbouring hill, or along a quiet valley, of a summer’s evening. When the train reaches the churchyard-gate, it halts, and if the clergyman be not ready to receive it, the coffin is sometimes set down upon trestles or chairs, and the company waits till the clergyman appears. It seems to be looked upon as an established mark of respect for the clergyman to meet the funeral at the gate, and it is beautiful to see the serious and unhurried manner in which the country clergyman of the more pure and primitive districts goes forth to receive the dead to its resting-place, repeating aloud as he precedes the funeral to the church, a portion of the service for the occasion.