A crowd was gathered at the mairie and the church to see the pretty bride. We must describe her dress, it became her so well. Her clean muslin cap, embroidered all over, had lappets trimmed with lace; a white kerchief, modestly crossed in front, left visible only the delicate outline of a neck rounded like that of a dove; her dress of fine green cloth set off her pretty figure; and she wore an apron of violet silk, with the bavette or bib, which the village lasses have since then foolishly given up.
At the ceremony of the offrande, Germain, according to custom, placed the treizaine—that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver—in the hand of his bride, and slipped on her finger a silver ring of a peculiar form, which had existed unchanged for ages, but which has now been replaced by the alliance d'or.
We pass over the ceremony of the wedding. The party remounted their steeds, and returned home at a rapid pace. The feast was splendid, and lasted till midnight, interspersed with song and dance. The old folks did not quit the table for fourteen hours. The grave-digger superintended the cuisine, and filled his part to admiration; in fact, he was famous in this line, and between the services, he left his cooking and joined in the dance and song. He was strong, fresh, and gay as a lark. On leaving a wedding-party, he would go and dig a grave, or nail down a coffin—a task of which he acquitted himself with pious care.
We now come to the third and most curious day of the nuptials, which is still strictly observed. As the ceremony of the livrées is the symbol of taking possession of the heart and home of the bride, that of the chou is the type of the fecundity of marriage. After breakfast the next morning, this performance commenced—a custom of ancient Gallic origin, which became gradually a sort of Mystery or Morality of the middle ages. Two lads disappear during the breakfast, go and dress themselves up, and then return, accompanied by music, dogs, children, and firing of pistols. They represent a couple of beggars—husband and wife—covered with rags: they are called the gardener and his wife (le jardinier and la jardinière), and give out that they have the charge and the cultivation of the sacred cabbage. The man's face is bedaubed with soot and wine-lees, or sometimes covered with a grotesque mask. A broken pot or an old shoe, suspended to his belt with a bit of string, serves him to beg for and collect the offerings of wine. No one refuses; and he pretends to drink, and then pours the wine on the ground, in token of libation. He now feigns to be tipsy, and rolls in the mud; whilst his poor wife runs after him, reproaching him pathetically, and calling for help. A handbarrow is now brought, on which is placed the gardener, with a spade, a cord, and a large basket. Four strong men carry him on their shoulders. His wife follows on foot, and the old folks come after with a grave and pensive air; then the nuptial procession march two by two to the measure of the music. The firing of pistols recommences, the dogs bark more loudly than ever at the sight of the gardener thus borne in triumph, and the children jeer him as he passes. The procession arrives at the bride's dwelling, and enters the garden. There a fine cabbage is selected—a matter which is not effected in a hurry, for the old folks hold a council, each one pleading for some favourite cabbage. Votes are taken; and when the choice is made, the gardener ties his cord round the stalk, and retreats to the further end of the garden, whilst the other actors in the comedy—the flaxdresser, the grave-digger, the carpenter, and the shoemaker—all stand round the cabbage. One digs a trench, advances, recedes, makes a plan, spies at the others through a pair of spectacles; and, in short, after various difficulties and mummeries, the gardener pulls the cord, his wife spreads her apron, and the cabbage falls majestically amidst the hurrahs of the spectators. The basket is then brought, the two gardeners plant the cabbage in it with all sorts of precautions; fresh earth is put round its root, it is propped with sticks, and carefully tied up. Rosy apples on the end of sticks, branches of thyme, sage, and laurel are stuck all round it, and the whole is decked with ribbons and streamers. The trophy is then replaced on the handbarrow with the gardener, who has to hold it upright, and prevent any accident. Lastly, the procession leaves the garden in good order, and to a measured march. On coming, however, to the gate, and again when they enter the court-yard of the bridegroom's house, an imaginary obstacle opposes their passage. The bearers of the burden stumble, raise a great outcry, draw back, advance again, and, as if repelled by some invincible force, pretend to give way under their load. Meantime the bystanders keep exclaiming, to excite and encourage the bearers: 'Bravo!' 'Well done, my boys!' 'Courage!' 'Have a care!' 'Patience!' 'Stoop now; the gate is too low!' 'To the left—now to the right!' 'Look sharp now!' 'Now you're through!'
On reaching the court-yard of the bridegroom, the cabbage is lifted off the barrow, and carried to the highest point of the house—whether a chimney, a gable, or a pigeon-house. The gardener plants it there, and waters it with a large pitcher of wine, whilst a salvo of pistol-shots, and the joyous contortions of the jardinière, announce its inauguration. The same ceremony is immediately recommenced: another cabbage is removed from the bridegroom's garden, and carried with the same formalities to the roof of the house which his wife has just quitted. These trophies remain there, until the wind and rain destroy the baskets, and carry away the plants; but they generally remain long enough to verify the predictions of the village dames, that ere their removal, the new-married couple shall be blessed with a pretty little addition to their domestic happiness.
The day is far advanced when these ceremonies are accomplished, and all that remains, is to escort with music the parents of the young couple to their homes. There they have a dance, and all is over.
NOBLE INSTANCE OF TURKISH GENEROSITY AND HONESTY.
I happened, a short time ago, to be in company with a retired shipmaster in Liverpool, who, after spending forty-five years of his life chiefly in command of vessels from that port, had retired to enjoy the fruits of a well-deserved competency. The conversation turned upon the difficulty, nay, almost the impossibility, of being able, in this highly-civilised and moral country, in the ordinary business of life, to trust only to the word or honour of the contracting parties. The Ancient Mariner fully agreed with me in my opinions, and said, that during a long intercourse with his species in every quarter of the globe, the only men he had met with whose words were equal to their bonds, or whose honesty would stand the test of being trusted with untold gold, were—the Turks. On my expressing surprise at this unqualified encomium in favour of a set of men on whom, as a nation, we have generally been accustomed to look with distrust and suspicion, the old gentleman said: 'I will give you an account of the circumstances which first led me to form this opinion, and leave you to judge for yourself;' and added, that during an occasional intercourse with them, extending over a period of twenty years, he had had it only the more strengthened and confirmed. He then said: 'It is now upwards of thirty years since I had, for the first time, any intercourse with the Mediterranean: our vessel was chartered to Constantinople; and one of the principal owners, a Liverpool merchant, was aboard acting as his own supercargo. Although it was my first acquaintance with the Turks, it was not his, as the sequel will shew.