RURAL FUNERALS.
Here's a few flowers! but about midnight more:
The herbs that have oil them cold dew o' the night Are strewings fitt'st for graves---- You were as flowers now withered; even so These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. CYMBELINE.
AMONG the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life which stilllinger in some parts of England are those of strewing flowers before thefunerals and planting them at the graves of departed friends. These, itis said, are the remains of some of the rites of the primitive Church;but they are of still higher antiquity, having been observed among theGreeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned by their writers, and wereno doubt the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection, originatinglong before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song or storyit on the monument. They are now only to be met with in the most distantand retired places of the kingdom, where fashion and innovation have notbeen able to throng in and trample out all the curious and interestingtraces of the olden time.
In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse lies iscovered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild andplaintive ditties of Ophelia:
White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded all with sweet flowers; Which be-wept to the grave did go, With true love showers.
There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in some ofthe remote villages of the south at the funeral of a female who hasdied young and unmarried. A chaplet of white flowers is borne beforethe corpse by a young girl nearest in age, size, and resemblance, andis afterwards hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of thedeceased. These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, in imitationof flowers, and inside of them is generally a pair of white gloves. Theyare intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the crown ofglory which she has received in heaven.
In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the gravewith the singing of psalms and hymns--a kind of triumph, "to show," saysBourne, "that they have finished their course with joy, and are becomeconquerors." This, I am informed, is observed in some of the northerncounties, particularly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing, thoughmelancholy effect to hear of a still evening in some lonely countryscene the mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance,and to see the train slowly moving along the landscape.
Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round Thy harmless and unhaunted ground, And as we sing thy dirge, we will, The daffodill And other flowers lay upon The altar of our love, thy stone. HERRICK.
There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the passingfuneral in these sequestered places; for such spectacles, occurringamong the quiet abodes of Nature, sink deep into the soul. As themourning train approaches he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by; he thenfollows silently in the rear; sometimes quite to the grave, at othertimes for a few hundred yards, and, having paid this tribute of respectto the deceased, turns and resumes his journey.
The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English character,and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling graces, is finelyevidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the solicitude shown by thecommon people for an honored and a peaceful grave. The humblest peasant,whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that some littlerespect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the"faire and happy milkmaid," observes, "thus lives she, and all her careis, that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stuckeupon her winding-sheet." The poets, too, who always breathe the feelingof a nation, continually advert to this fond solicitude about the grave.In The Maid's Tragedy, by Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautifulinstance of the kind describing the capricious melancholy of abroken-hearted girl:
When she sees a bank Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell Her servants, what a pretty place it were To bury lovers in; and made her maids Bluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse.
The custom of decorating graves was once universally prevalent: osierswere carefully bent over them to keep the turf uninjured, and aboutthem were planted evergreens and flowers. "We adorn their graves," saysEvelyn, in his Sylva, "with flowers and redolent plants, just emblemsof the life of man, which has been compared in Holy Scriptures to thosefading beauties whose roots, being buried in dishonor, rise, again inglory." This usage has now become extremely rare in England; but itmay still be met with in the churchyards of retired villages, among theWelsh mountains; and I recollect an instance of it at the small town ofRuthven, which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I havebeen told also by a friend, who was present at the funeral of a younggirl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants had their aprons fullof flowers, which, as soon as the body was interred, they stuck aboutthe grave.
He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the same manner.As the flowers had been merely stuck in the ground, and not planted,they had soon withered, and might be seen in various states of decay;some drooping, others quite perished. They were afterwards to besupplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens, which on somegraves had grown to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tombstones.
There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrangement of theserustic offerings, that had something in it truly poetical. The rosewas sometimes blended with the lily, to form a general emblem of frailmortality. "This sweet flower," said Evelyn, "borne on a branch set withthorns and accompanied with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of ourfugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory life, which, making sofair a show for a time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses." Thenature and color of the flowers, and of the ribbons with which they weretied, had often a particular reference to the qualities or story of thedeceased, or were expressive of the feelings of the mourner. In anold poem, entitled "Corydon's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies thedecorations he intends to use:
A garland shall be framed By art and nature's skill, Of sundry-colored flowers, In token of good-will.
And sundry-colored ribbons On it I will bestow; But chiefly blacke and yellowe With her to grave shall go.
I'll deck her tomb with flowers The rarest ever seen; And with my tears as showers I'll keep them fresh and green.
The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a virgin; herchaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token of her spotless innocence,though sometimes black ribbons were intermingled, to bespeak the griefof the survivors. The red rose was occasionally used, in remembrance ofsuch as had been remarkable for benevolence; but roses in general wereappropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the customwas not altogether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the countyof Surrey, "where the maidens yearly planted and decked the gravesof their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes." And Camden likewiseremarks, in his Britannia: "Here is also a certain custom, observed timeout of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially by theyoung men and maids who have lost their loves; so that this churchyardis now full of them."
When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems of a moregloomy character were used, such as the yew and cypress, and if flowerswere strewn, they were of the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems byThomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the following stanza:
Yet strew Upon my dismall grave Such offerings as you have, Forsaken cypresse and yewe; For kinder flowers can take no birth Or growth from such unhappy earth.
In The Maid's Tragedy, a pathetic little air, is introduced,illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females who hadbeen disappointed in love:
Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismall yew, Maidens, willow branches wear, Say I died true.
My love was f
alse, but I was firm, From my hour of birth; Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth.
The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and elevatethe mind; and we have a proof of it in the purity of sentiment and theunaffected elegance of thought which pervaded the whole of thesefuneral observances. Thus it was an especial precaution that none butsweet-scented evergreens and flowers should be employed. The intentionseems to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile themind from brooding over the disgraces of perishing mortality, andto associate the memory of the deceased with the most delicate andbeautiful objects in nature. There is a dismal process going on in thegrave, ere dust can return to its kindred dust, which the imaginationshrinks from contemplating; and we seek still to think of the formwe have loved, with those refined associations which it awakened whenblooming before us in youth and beauty. "Lay her i' the earth," saysLaertes, of his virgin sister,
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring.
Herrick, also, in his "Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fragrant flowof poetical thought and image, which in a manner embalms the dead in therecollections of the living.
Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make this place all Paradise: May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence Fat frankincense.
Let balme and cassia send their scent From out thy maiden monument. * * * * * May all shie maids at wonted hours Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers! May virgins, when they come to mourn Male incense burn Upon thine altar! then return And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.
I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British poets, whowrote when these rites were more prevalent, and delighted frequentlyto allude to them; but I have already quoted more than is necessary. Icannot, however, refrain from giving a passage from Shakespeare, eventhough it should appear trite, which illustrates the emblematicalmeaning often conveyed in these floral tributes, and at the same timepossesses that magic of language and appositeness of imagery for whichhe stands pre-eminent.
With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azured harebell like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander, Outsweetened not thy breath.
There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt andspontaneous offerings of Nature than in the most costly monuments ofart; the hand strews the flower while the heart is warm, and the tearfalls on the grave as affection is binding the osier round the sod; butpathos expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled amongthe cold conceits of sculptured marble.
It is greatly to be regretted that a custom so truly elegant andtouching has disappeared from general use, and exists only in the mostremote and insignificant villages. But it seems as if poetical customalways shuns the walks of cultivated society. In proportion as peoplegrow polite they cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry, but theyhave learnt to check its free impulses, to distrust its sallyingemotions, and to supply its most affecting and picturesque usages bystudied form and pompous ceremonial. Few pageants can be more statelyand frigid than an English funeral in town. It is made up of show andgloomy parade: mourning carriages, mourning horses, mourning plumes,and hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief. "There is a gravedigged," says Jeremy Taylor, "and a solemn mourning, and a great talkin the neighborhood, and when the daies are finished, they shall be, andthey shall be remembered no more." The associate in the gay and crowdedcity is soon forgotten; the hurrying succession of new intimates and newpleasures effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles inwhich he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the countryare solemnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider space inthe village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil uniformityof rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every ear; it stealswith its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all thelandscape.
The fixed and unchanging features of the country also perpetuatethe memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed them, who was thecompanion of our most retired walks, and gave animation to every lonelyscene. His idea is associated with every charm of Nature; we hear hisvoice in the echo which he once delighted to awaken; his spirit hauntsthe grove which he once frequented; we think of him in the wild uplandsolitude or amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In the freshness ofjoyous morning we remember his beaming smiles and bounding gayety;and when sober evening returns with its gathering shadows and subduingquiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk andsweet-souled melancholy.
Each lonely place shall him restore, For him the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourn'd till pity's self be dead.
Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased in the countryis that the grave is more immediately in sight of the survivors. Theypass it on their way to prayer; it meets their eyes when their heartsare softened by the exercises of devotion; they linger about it onthe Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares and mostdisposed to turn aside from present pleasures and present loves andto sit down among the solemn mementos of the past. In North Wales thepeasantry kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friendsfor several Sundays after the interment; and where the tender rite ofstrewing and planting flowers is still practised, it is always renewedon Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the season bringsthe companion of former festivity more vividly to mind. It is alsoinvariably performed by the nearest relatives and friends; no menialsnor hirelings are employed, and if a neighbor yields assistance, itwould be deemed an insult to offer compensation.
I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because as it is one ofthe last, so is it one of the holiest, offices of love. The grave isthe ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine passion of thesoul manifests its superiority to the instinctive impulse of mere animalattachment. The latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive bythe presence of its object, but the love that is seated in the soul canlive on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense languish anddecline with the charms which excited them, and turn with shudderingdisgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb; but it is thence thattruly spiritual affection rises, purified from every sensual desire, andreturns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of thesurvivor.
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to bedivorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other afflictionto forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open, thisaffliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the motherwho would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom fromher arms though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child thatwould willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember bebut to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friendover whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remainsof her he most loved, when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed inthe closing of its portal, would accept of consolation that must bebought by forgetfulness? No, the love which survives the tomb is one ofthe noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewiseits delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmedinto the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and theconvulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved issoftened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days ofits loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Thoughit may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety,or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who wouldexchange it even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry? No,there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembranceof the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh,the grave! the grave! It buries every error, co
vers every defect,extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none butfond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the graveeven of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he should everhave warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering beforehim?
But the grave of those we loved--what a place for meditation! Thereit is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtueand gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almostunheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwellupon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness, of the partingscene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs--its noiselessattendance--its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimoniesof expiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling--oh, howthrilling!--pressure of the hand! The faint, faltering accents,struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! The lastfond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold ofexistence!
Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate! There settle theaccount with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited--everypast endearment unregarded, of that departed being who cannever-never--never return to be soothed by thy contrition!
If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul or afurrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art ahusband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its wholehappiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth;if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought or word or deed,the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, andhast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now liescold and still beneath thy feet,--then be sure that every unkind look,every ungracious word, every ungentle action will come thronging backupon thy memory and knocking dolefully at thy soul: then be sure thatthou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utterthe unheard groan and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitterbecause unheard and unavailing.
Then weave thy chaplet of flowers and strew the beauties of Nature aboutthe grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tenderyet futile tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness ofthis thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be morefaithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.
* * * * *
In writing the preceding article it was not intended to give a fulldetail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but merely tofurnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of particular rites, tobe appended, by way of note, to another paper, which has been withheld.The article swelled insensibly into its present form, and this ismentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a notice of these usagesafter they have been amply and learnedly investigated in other works.
I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this custom of adorninggraves with flowers prevails in other countries besides England. Indeed,in some it is much more general, and is observed even by the rich andfashionable; but it is then apt to lose its simplicity and to degenerateinto affectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells ofmonuments of marble and recesses formed for retirement, with seatsplaced among bowers of greenhouse plants, and that the graves generallyare covered with the gayest flowers of the season. He gives a casualpicture of filial piety which I cannot but transcribe; for I trust it isas useful as it is delightful to illustrate the amiable virtues of thesex. "When I was at Berlin," says he, "I followed the celebrated Ifflandto the grave. Mingled with some pomp you might trace much real feeling.In the midst of the ceremony my attention was attracted by a youngwoman who stood on a mound of earth newly covered with turf, which sheanxiously protected from the feet of the passing crowd. It was the tombof her parent; and the figure of this affectionate daughter presented amonument more striking than the most costly work of art."
I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I oncemet with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at the village ofGersau, which stands on the borders of the Lake of Lucerne, at the footof Mount Rigi. It was once the capital of a miniature republic shut upbetween the Alps and the lake, and accessible on the land side only byfootpaths. The whole force of the republic did not exceed six hundredfighting men, and a few miles of circumference, scooped out as it werefrom the bosom of the mountains, comprised its territory. The villageof Gersau seemed separated from the rest of the world, and retainedthe golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a small church, with aburying-ground adjoining. At the heads of the graves were placed crossesof wood or iron. On some were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, butevidently attempts at likenesses of the deceased. On the crosseswere hung chaplets of flowers, some withering others fresh, as ifoccasionally renewed. I paused with interest at this scene: I feltthat I was at the source of poetical description, for these were thebeautiful but unaffected offerings of the heart which poets are fain torecord. In a gayer and more populous place I should have suspected themto have been suggested by factitious sentiment derived from books; butthe good people of Gersau knew little of books; there was not a novelnor a love-poem in the village, and I question whether any peasant ofthe place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave ofhis mistress, that he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites ofpoetical devotion, and that he was practically a poet.
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