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 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 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, 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 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.
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:—