Far in the windings of the vale,
Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of health and peace,
A humble cottage stood.
There beauteous Emma nourished fair,
Beneath a mother’s eye;
Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her blest and die.
Long had she filled each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair,
And though by all a wonder owned,
Yet knew not she was fair.
Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A soul devoid of art;
And from whose eyes, serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.
We are told that Edwin’s father and sister were bitterly opposed to their love. The poor youth pined away. When he was dying Emma, was permitted to see him, but the cruel sister would scarcely allow her to bid him a word of farewell. Returning home, she heard the passing bell toll for the death of her lover—
Just then she reached, with trembling step,
Her aged mother’s door—
“He’s gone!” she cried, “and I shall see
That angel face no more!”
“I feel, I feel this breaking heart
Beat high against my side”—
From her white arm down sunk her head;
She, shivering, sighed, and died.
The lovers were buried the same day and in the same grave. In the year 1848, Dr. F. Dinsdale, F.S.A., editor of the “Ballads and Songs of David Mallet,” etc., erected a simple but tasteful monument to the memory of the lovers, bearing the following inscription:—
Rodger Wrightson, junr., and Martha Railton, both of Bowes; buried in one grave. He died in a fever, and upon tolling his passing bell, she cry’d out My heart is broke, and in a few hours expired, purely thro’ love, March 15, 1714-15. Such is the brief and touching record contained in the parish register of burials. It has been handed down by unvarying tradition that the grave was at the west end of the church, directly beneath the bells. The sad history of these true and faithful lovers forms the subject of Mallet’s pathetic ballad of “Edwin and Emma.”[2]
In St. Peter’s churchyard, Barton-on-Humber, there is a tombstone with the following strange inscription:—
Doom’d to receive half my soul held dear,
The other half with grief, she left me here.
Ask not her name, for she was true and just;
Once a fine woman, but now a heap of dust.
As may be inferred, no name is given; the date is 1777. A curious and romantic legend attaches to the epitaph. In the above year an unknown lady of great beauty, who is conjectured to have loved “not wisely, but too well,” came to reside in the town. She was accompanied by a gentleman, who left her after making lavish arrangements for her comfort. She was proudly reserved in her manners, frequently took long solitary walks, and studiously avoided all intercourse. In giving birth to a child she died, and did not disclose her name or family connections. After her decease, the gentleman who came with her arrived, and was overwhelmed with grief at the intelligence which awaited him. He took the child away without unravelling the secret, having first ordered the stone to be erected, and delivered into the mason’s hands the verse, which is at once a mystery and a memento. Such are the particulars gathered from “The Social History and Antiquities of Barton-on-Humber,” by H. W. Ball, issued in 1856. Since the publication of Mr. Ball’s book, we have received from him the following notes, which mar somewhat the romantic story as above related. We are informed that the person referred to in the epitaph was the wife of a man named Jonathan Burkitt, who came from the neighbourhood of Grantham. He had been valet de chambre to some gentleman or nobleman, who gave him a large sum of money on his marrying the lady. They came to reside at Barton, where she died in childbirth. Burkitt, after the death of his wife, left the town, taking the infant (a boy), who survived. In about three years he returned, and married a Miss Ostler, daughter of an apothecary at Barton. He there kept the King’s Head, a public-house at that time. The man got through about £2000 between leaving Grantham and marrying his second wife.
On the north wall of the chancel of Southam Church is a slab to the memory of the Rev. Samuel Sands, who, being embarrassed in consequence of his extensive liberality, committed suicide in his study (now the hall of the rectory). The peculiarity of the inscription, instead of suppressing inquiry, invariably raises curiosity respecting it:—
Near this place was deposited, on the 23rd April, 1815, the remains of S. S., 38 years rector of this parish.