lingering customs.

many precious rites

and customs of our rural ancestry

are 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 the[583] kind 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.

[584]

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.

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.”

[585]

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 not improbably 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. “then twig him 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 unbroken[586] level 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.

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 the body dies, 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 so outré as 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 are[587] given 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 which they have 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 long[588] slept 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.

[33] the fourme of the trinity was founden in manne, that was adam our forefadir, of earth oon personne, and eve, of adam, the secunde persone; and of them both was the third persone. at the deth of a manne three bellis shulde be ronge, as his knyll, in worscheppe of the trinetie; and for a womanne, who was the secunde persone of the trinetee, two bellis should be rungen.—ancient homily.

the funeral of the young in the country has something particularly striking in it—the coffin being borne by six of the deceased’s own age. that of a young girl is more particularly so—the coffin being covered with a white pall, the six bearers being dressed in white with white hoods, the chief mourners in black with black hoods.

nothing can, in fact, be more widely different in feeling and effect than town and country funerals. in town a strange corpse passes along, amid thousands of strangers, and human nature seems shorn of that interest which it ought, especially in its last stage, to possess. in the country, every man, woman, and child goes down to the dust amid those who have known them from their youth, and all miss them from their place. nature seems,[589] in its silence to sympathise with the mourners. the green mound of the rural churchyard opens to receive the slumberer to a peaceful resting-place, and the yews or lindens which he climbed when a boy in pursuit of bird’s-nest, moth, or cockchaffer, overshadow, as it were, with a kindred feeling his grave.

the custom of strewing flowers before the houses at weddings, and on other occasions of rejoicing, is now nearly gone out, but at knutsford in cheshire, and probably at some few other places, they have a practice which seems to have sprung out of it. on all joyful occasions they sprinkle the ground before the houses of all those who are supposed to sympathise in the gladness, with red sand, and then taking a funnel, filled with white sand, sprinkle a pattern of flowers on the red ground. at weddings this is generally accompanied with a stanza or two of traditionary verse. as

long may they live,

happy may they be,

blest with content,

and from misfortune free.

long may they live,

happy may they be;

and blest with a numerous

pro-ge-ny.

in the north of england a curious practice prevails the first time a young child is sent out with the nurse. at every house of the parents’ friends, where the nurse calls, it receives an egg and some salt; and in northumberland it is so general, that they carry a basket for the purpose. the child of a friend of ours received from an old lady from the north, an egg, a penny loaf, and a bunch of matches. the meaning of which let the wise interpret as they can.

such customs linger northward more tenaciously than in the south, and are even too numerous for record here. in various northern counties, particularly lancashire, westmoreland, and cumberland, they keep up the ancient practice of rush-bearing; but instead of carrying rushes to strew the church floor, as their ancestors did, who had no other floor to the church, they now chiefly retain the gay garland of flowers carried by young women, and accompanied by the rustic minstrels. in lancashire and[590] cheshire they still eat simnel cake on mid-lent sunday, that is, a particular saffron cake, called after lambert simnel, who was a baker, and is supposed to have been famous for it. they ride stang,[34] that is, set a scolding wife on a lean old horse, with the face to the tail, and parade her through the village with a tremendous clamour of frying pans, and other noise. they hang bushes at each others’ doors on may morning which are expressive of each others’ characters. a sort of language des arbres established by antiquity, expressing either compliment or sincere criticism, as it may be. a branch of birch signifies a pretty girl; of alder or owler, as they call it, a scold; of oak, a good woman; of broom, a good housewife: but gorse, nettles, sawdust, or sycamore, cast the very worst imputations on a woman’s character, and vary according as she be girl, wife or widow. these are, it is said, not seldom used by the malicious to blast the character of the innocent. the girls wear little bags of dragon’s-blood upon their hearts to inspire their swains with love. they curtsey to the new moon and turn the money in their pockets, which ought to be doubled before the moon is old. they shut their eyes when they see a pie-ball horse, and wish a secret wish, taking care never to see the same horse again, or it would spoil the charm. with them the dog-rose is unlucky; if you give one, you will quarrel with the person, however dear to you; if you form a design near one it will come to nought. a shooting star is falling love in their eyes; and in their opinion the foxglove is not like other flowers, it has knowledge; it knows when a spirit passes, and always bows the head. they have, therefore, a secret awe of it. they are careful to have money in their pockets when they hear the first note of the cuckoo, for they will be rich or poor through the year accordingly. they believe also that whatever they chance to be doing when they first hear the cuckoo, they will do all the year. they have the firmest faith that no person can die on a bed in which are the feathers of pigeons or any wild birds. such are some of the simple chains with which ancient superstition bound the minds of our ancestors, and which education has not yet quite worn asunder.

[34] a stang means a pole, and probably the old custom was to use a pole instead of a horse.

[591]

there is, however, one good custom which the present age has rapidly obliterated—that of leaving open the country churchyard. in towns, there is perhaps less attraction to a churchyard in the mass of strange corpses which are there congregated, and the wilderness of bare flags which cover them; and there may be more cause for the vigilant prevention of the violation of the sanctity and decorum of the spot. but why must the country churchyard be shut up? why should that generally picturesque and quiet place be prohibited to the stranger or the mourner? some of the churchyards in these kingdoms are amongst the most romantic and lovely spots within them. what ancient, quiet, delicious spots have i seen of this kind amongst our mountains, and upon our coasts! what prospects, landward and seaward, do some of them give! how sweetly lies the rustic parsonage often along their side; its shrubbery lawn scarcely separated from the sacred ground. why should these be closed? “there have been depredations,” say the authorities. then let the beadle see to it; let the offenders be punished; let the parish school and the minister teach better manners; but let these haunts of the sad or the meditative, be open to our feet as they were to those of our fathers. i must confess that i strongly sympathise with my brother, richard howitt, in the feelings expressed in tait’s magazine for june 1836. “the yew trees, which adorned, with a solemn gracefulness, the churchyard of my native place, are cut down; the footpaths across it are closed; the walls are raised; for stiles, there are gates locked, and topped with iron spikes. a wider barrier than death is interposed betwixt the living and the dead. i must confess that i like it not. why should man destroy the sanctities of time and nature? beautiful is the picture drawn by crabbe:—

yes! there are real mourners. i have seen

a fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;

attention through the day her duties claimed,

and to be useful as resigned she aimed.

neatly she dressed, nor vainly seemed to expect

pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;

but when her wearied parents sank to sleep,

she sought her place to meditate and weep.

******

she placed a decent stone his grave above,[592]

neatly engraved—an offering of her love:

for that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,

awake alike to duty and the dead.

******

here will she come, and on the grave will sit,

folding her arms in long abstracted fit;

but if observer pass will take her round,

and careless seem, for she would not be found.

“where is now the free and uninterrupted admission for such mourners? grief is a retiring creature, who ‘would not be found,’ and will not knock at the door of the constituted authorities for the keys: she will look lingeringly at the impassable barriers and retire. easy of access were churchyards until lately, with their pleasant footpaths, lying, with the tranquillity of moonlight, in the bosom of towns and villages; old, simple, and venerable,—trodden, it may be, too frequently by unthinking feet—but able at all times to impress a feeling of sacredness—fraught as they were with the solemnities of life and death—on bosoms not over religious; and now, to a fanciful view, they seem more the prisons than the resting-places of the dead.”