Part 49
Mr. ---- looked around, but, seeing no one, said to the boy, “Surely you have been dreaming--your tale is some illusion, some chimera of the brain. The occurrences of the day have been embodied in your visions, and the over excitement created by the scene at the tomb has worked upon your imagination.”
“Oh no, sir!” said Kitchen, “but his eyes which glared so fearfully upon me could not have been a deception. I saw his tall figure, and heard his hollow sepulchral voice sing those too well-remembered lines, but--Heavens! did you not see it?” He started, and drawing nearer to the priest, pointed to the eastern window of the edifice. Mr. ---- looked in the direction, and saw a dark shadowy form gliding amid the tombstones. It approached, and as its outline became more distinctly marked, he recognised the mysterious being described to him in his study by the terrified boy.--The figure stopped, and looking long and earnestly at them said, “One! two! How is this? I have one more guest than I invited; but it matters not, all is ready, follow me--
“Amidst the cold graves of the coffin’d dead, Is the table deck’d and the banquet spread.”
The figure waved its arm impatiently, and beckoning them to follow moved on in the precise and measured step of an old soldier. Having reached the eastern window, it turned the corner of the building, and proceeded directly to the old green stone, near Thompson’s grave. The thick branches of an aged yew-tree partially shaded the spot from the silver moonlight, which was peacefully falling on the neighbouring graves, and gave to this particular one a more sombre and melancholy character than the rest. Here was, indeed, a table spread, and its festive preparations formed a striking contrast with the awful mementos strewed around. Never in the splendid and baronial halls of De Clifford,[135] never in the feudal mansion of the Nortons,[136] nor in the refectory of the monks of Sawley, had a more substantial banquet been spread. Nothing was wanting there of roast or boiled--the stone was plentifully decked; yet it was a fearful sight to see, where till now but the earthworm had ever revelled, a banquet prepared as for revelry. The boy looked on the stone, and as he gazed on the smoking viands a strange thought crossed his brow--at what fire were those provisions cooked. The seats placed around were coffins, and Kitchen every instant seemed to dread lest their owners should appear, and join the sepulchral banquet. Their ghostly host having placed himself at the head of the table, motioned his guests to do the same, and they did so accordingly. Mr. ---- then in his clerical character rose to ask the accustomed blessing, when he was interrupted. “It cannot be,” said the stranger as he rose; “I cannot hear at my board a protestant grace. When I trod the earth as a mortal, the catholic religion was the religion of the land! It was the blessed faith of my forefathers, and it was mine. Within those walls I have often listened to the solemnization of the mass, but now how different! listen!” He ceased. The moon was overcast by a passing cloud, the great bell tolled, a screech-owl flew from the tower, lights were seen in the building, and through one of the windows Mr. ---- beheld distinctly the bearings of the various hatchments, and a lambent flame playing over the monument of the Lamberts--music swelled through the aisles, and unseen beings with voices wilder than the unmeasured notes
Of that strange lyre, whose strings The genii of the breezes sweep,
chanted not a Gratias agimus, but a De Profundis. All was again still, and the stranger spoke, “What you have heard is my grace. Is not a De Profundis the most proper one to be chanted at the banquet of the dead?”
Mr. ----, who was rather an epicure, now glanced his eye over the board, and finding that that necessary appendage to a good supper, _salt_, was wanting, said, in an astonished tone, “Why, where’s the _salt_?” when immediately the stranger and his feast vanished, and of all that splendid banquet nothing remained, save the mossy stone whereon it was spread.
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Such was the purport of general Bibo’s tale; and why those simple words had so wondrous an effect has long been a subject of dispute with the illuminati of Skipton and Malhamdale. Many are the conjectures, but the most probable one is this,--the spectre on hearing the word _salt_ was perhaps reminded of the Red Sea, and having, like all sensible ghosts, a dislike to that awful and tremendous gulf, thought the best way to avoid being laid there was to make as precipitate a retreat as possible.
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Kirby, or as it is frequently called, Kirby _Malhamdale_, from the name of the beautiful valley in which it is situate, is one of the most sequestered villages in Craven, and well worthy of the attention of the tourist, from the loveliness of its surrounding scenery and its elegant church, which hitherto modern barbarity has left unprofaned by decorations and ornaments, as churchwardens and parish officers style those acts of Vandalism, by which too many of the Craven churches have been spoiled, and on which Dr. Whitaker has animadverted in pretty severe language. That excellent historian and most amiable man, whose memory will ever be dear to the inhabitants of Craven, speaking of Kirby church, says, “It is a large, handsome, and uniform building of red stone, probably of the age of Henry VII. It has one ornament peculiar, as far as I recollect, to the churches in Craven, to which the Tempests were benefactors. Most of the columns have in the west side, facing the congregation as they turned to the altar, an elegant niche and tabernacle, once containing the statue of a saint. In the nave lies a grave-stone, with a cross fleury in high relief, of much greater antiquity than the present church, and probably covering one of the canons of Dereham.”[137]
At the west end of the church, on each side of the singer’s gallery, are two emblematical figures, of modern erection, painted on wood; one of them, Time with his scythe, and this inscription, “Make use of time;” the other is a skeleton, with the inscription “Remember death.” With all due deference to the taste of the parishioners, it is my opinion that these paintings are both unsuited to a Christian temple, and the sooner they are removed the better. The gloomy mythology of the Heathens ill accords with the enlightened theology of Christianity.
At the east end of the church are monumental inscriptions to the memory of John Lambert, the son, and John Lambert, the grandson of the well-known general Lambert, of roundhead notoriety. The residence of the Lamberts was Calton-hall, in the neighbourhood; and at Winterburn, a village about two miles from Calton, is one of the oldest Independent chapels in the kingdom, having been erected and endowed by the Lamberts during the usurpation of Cromwell; it is still in possession of this once powerful sect, and _was_ a picturesque object: it _had_ something of sturdy non-conformity in its appearance, but alas! modern barbarism has been at work on it, and given it the appearance of a respectable barn. The deacons, who “repaired and beautified” it, ought to place their names over the door of the chapel, in characters readable at a mile’s distance, that the traveller may be informed by whom the chapel erected by the Lamberts was deformed.
I often have lamented, that ministers of religion have so little to do with the repairs of places of worship. The clergy of all denominations are, in general, men of cultivated minds and refined tastes, and certainly better qualified to superintend alterations than country churchwardens and parish officers, who, though great pretenders to knowledge, are usually ignorant destroyers of the beauty of the edifices confided to their care.
T. Q. M.
_April, 1827._
[132] The Saint Giles’s of Skipton, where the lower order of inhabitants generally reside.
[133] Should any reader of this day find fault with the inelegant manner in which the dialogue is carried on between Kitchen and the soldier, in defence I beg leave to say, the dialogue is told as general Bibo related it, and though in many parts of the tale I have made so many alterations, that I should not be guilty of any impropriety in calling it an original: I do not consider myself authorized to change the dialogues occasionally introduced.
[134] In Kirby Malhamdale church-yard is a public house, verifying the lines of the satirist:--
Where God erects a house of prayer, The devil builds a chapel there.
[135] Skipton-castle.
[136] Rylstone-hall. See Wordsworth’s beautiful poem the White Doe.
[137] History of Craven.
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SALT.
The conjecture of T. Q. M. concerning the disappearance of the spectre-host, and the breaking up of the nocturnal banquet, in the church-yard of Kirby Malhamdale, is ingenious, and entitled to the notice of the curious in spectral learning: but it may be as well to consider whether the _point_ of the legend may not be further illustrated.
According to Moresin, _salt_ not being liable to putrefaction, and preserving things seasoned with it from decay, was the emblem of eternity and immortality, and mightily abhorred by infernal spirits. “In reference to this symbolical explication, how beautiful,” says Mr. Brand, “is that expression applied to the righteous, ‘Ye are the _salt_ of the earth!’”
On the custom in Ireland of placing a plate of _salt_ over the heart of a dead person, Dr. Campbell supposes, in agreement with Moresin’s remark, that the salt was considered the emblem of the incorruptible part; “the body itself,” says he, “being the type of corruption.”
It likewise appears from Mr. Pennant, that, on the death of a highlander, the friends laid on the breast of the deceased a wooden platter, containing a small quantity of _salt_ and earth, separate and unmixed; the earth an emblem of the corruptible body--the salt an emblem of the immortal spirit.
The body’s _salt_ the soul is, which when gone The flesh soone sucks in putrefaction.
_Herrick._
The custom of placing a plate of _salt_ upon the dead, Mr. Douce says, is still retained in many parts of England, and particularly in Leicestershire; but the pewter plate and salt are laid with an intent to hinder air from getting into the body and distending it, so as to occasion bursting or inconvenience in closing the coffin. Though this be the reason for the usage at present, yet it is doubtful whether the practice is not a vulgar continuation of the ancient symbolical usage; otherwise, why is _salt_ selected?
To these instances of the relation that _salt_ bore to the dead, should be annexed Bodin’s affirmation, cited by Reginald Scot; namely, that as _salt_ “is a sign of eternity, and used by divine commandment in all sacrifices,” so “_the devil loveth no_ SALT _in his meat_.”--This saying is of itself, perhaps, sufficient to account for the sudden flight of the spectre, and the vanishing of the feast in the church-yard of Kirby Malhamdale on the call for the _salt_.
Finally may be added, _salt_ from the “Hesperides” of Herrick:--
TO PERILLA.
Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see Me, day by day, to steale away from thee? Age cals me hence, and my gray haires bid come And haste away to mine eternal home; ’Twill not be long, Perilla, after this, That I must give thee the supremest kisse: Dead when I am, first cast in _salt_, and bring Part of the creame from that religious spring, With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet; That done, then wind me in that very sheet Which wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst plore The gods protection but the night before; Follow me weeping to my turfe, and there Let fall a primrose, and with it a teare: Then, lastly, let some weekly strewings be Devoted to the memory of me; Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep Still in the cold and silent shades of sleep.
*
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A CORPORATION.
Mr. Howel Walsh, in a corporation case tried at the Tralee assizes, observed, that “a corporation cannot blush. It was a body it was true; had certainly a head--a new one every year--an annual acquisition of intelligence in every new lord mayor. Arms he supposed it had, and long ones too, for it could reach at any thing. Legs, of course, when it made such long strides. A throat to swallow the rights of the community, and a stomach to digest them! But whoever yet discovered, in the anatomy of any corporation, either bowels, or a heart?”
In the worst inn’s worst room, with mat half-hung, The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-bed, but repair’d with straw, With tape-ty’d curtains, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, Great _Villiers_ lies--alas! how chang’d from him, That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim! Gallant and gay, in Cliveden’s proud alcove. The bow’r of wanton Shrewsbury and Love: Or just as gay at council, in a ring Of mimick’d Statesmen, and their merry King. No wit to flatter, ’reft of all his store! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more! There victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame; this lord of useless thousands ends.
_Pope._
In an amusing and informing topographical tract, written and published by Mr. John Cole of Scarborough, there is the preceding representation of the deathbed-house of the witty and dissipated nobleman, whose name is recorded beneath the engraving. From this, and a brief notice of the duke in a work possessed by most of the readers of the _Table Book_,[138] with some extracts from documents, accompanying Mr. Cole’s print, an interesting idea may be formed of this nobleman’s last thoughts, and the scene wherein he closed his eyes.
The room wherein he died is marked above by a star * near the window.
Kirkby-Moorside is a market town, about twenty-six miles distant from Scarborough, seated on the river Rye. It was formerly part of the extensive possessions of Villiers, the first duke of Buckingham, who was killed by Felton, from whom it descended with his title to his son, who, after a profligate career, wherein he had wasted his brilliant talents and immense property, repaired to Kirkby-Moorside, and died there in disease and distress.
In a letter to bishop Spratt, dated “Kerby-moor Syde, April 17, 1687,” the earl of Arran relates that, being accidentally at York on a journey towards Scotland, and hearing of the duke of Buckingham’s illness, he visited him. “He had been long ill of an ague, which had made him weak; but his understanding was as good as ever, and his noble parts were so entire, that though I saw death in his looks at first sight, he would by no means think of it.--I confess it made my heart bleed to see the duke of Buckingham in so pitiful a place, and in so bad a condition.--The doctors told me his case was desperate, and though he enjoyed the free exercise of his senses, that in a day or two at most it would kill him, but they durst not tell him of it; so they put a hard part on me to pronounce death to him, which I saw approaching so fast, that I thought it was high time for him to think of another world.--After having plainly told him his condition, I asked him whom I should send for to be assistant to him during the small time he had to live: he would make me no answer, which made me conjecture, and having formerly heard that he had been inclining to be a Roman Catholic, I asked him if I should send for a priest; for I thought any act that could be like a Christian, was what his condition now wanted most; but he positively told me that he was not of that persuasion, and so would not hear any more of that subject, for he was of the church of England.--After some time, beginning to feel his distemper mount, he desired me to send for the parson of this parish, who said prayers for him, which he joined in very freely, but still did not think he should die; though this was yesterday, at seven in the morning, and he died about eleven at night.
“I have ordered the corpse to be embalmed and carried to Helmsley castle, and there to remain till my lady duchess her pleasure shall be known. There must be speedy care taken: for there is nothing here but confusion, not to be expressed. Though his stewards have received vast sums, there is not so much as one farthing, as they tell me, for defraying the least expense. But I have ordered his intestines to be buried at Helmsley, where his body is to remain till farther orders. Being the nearest kinsman upon the place, I have taken the liberty to give his majesty an account of his death, and sent his George and blue ribbon to be disposed as his majesty shall think fit. I have addressed it under cover to my lord president, to whom I beg you would carry the bearer the minute he arrives.”
A letter, in Mr. Cole’s publication, written by the dying duke, confesses his ill-spent life, and expresses sincere remorse for the prostitution of his brilliant talents.
“FROM THE YOUNGER VILLIERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, ON HIS DEATHBED TO DR. W----
“Dear doctor,
“I always looked upon you to be a person of true virtue, and know you to have a sound understanding; for, however I have acted in opposition to the principles of religion, or the dictates of reason, I can honestly assure you I have always had the highest veneration for both. The world and I shake hands; for I dare affirm, we are heartily weary of each other. O, what a prodigal have I been of that most valuable of all possessions, _Time_! I have squandered it away with a profusion unparalleled; and now, when the enjoyment of a few days would be worth the world, I cannot flatter myself with the prospect of half a dozen hours. How despicable, my dear friend, is that man who never prays to his God, but in the time of distress. In what manner can he supplicate that Omnipotent Being, in his afflictions, whom, in the time of his prosperity, he never remembered with reverence.
“Do not brand me with infidelity, when I tell you, that I am almost ashamed to offer up my petitions at the throne of Grace, or to implore that divine mercy in the next world which I have so scandalously abused in this.
“Shall ingratitude to man be looked upon as the blackest of crimes, and not ingratitude to God? Shall an insult offered to a king be looked upon in the most offensive light, and yet no notice (be) taken when the King of kings is treated with indignity and disrespect?
“The companions of my former libertinism would scarcely believe their eyes, were you to show this epistle. They would laugh at me as a dreaming enthusiast, or pity me as a timorous wretch, who was shocked at the appearance of futurity; but whoever laughs at me for being right, or pities me for being sensible of my errors, is more entitled to my compassion than resentment. A future state may well enough strike terror into any man who has not acted well in this life; and he must have an uncommon share of courage indeed who does not shrink at the presence of God. The apprehensions of death will soon bring the most profligate to a proper use of his understanding. To what a situation am I now reduced! Is this odious _little hut_ a suitable lodging for a prince? Is this anxiety of mind becoming the character of a Christian? From my rank I might have expected affluence to wait upon my life; from religion and understanding, peace to smile upon my end: instead of which I am afflicted with poverty, and haunted with remorse, despised by my country, and, I fear, forsaken by my God.
“There is nothing so dangerous as extraordinary abilities. I cannot be accused of vanity now, by being sensible that I was once possessed of uncommon qualifications, especially as I sincerely regret that I ever had them. My rank in life made these accomplishments still more conspicuous, and fascinated by the general applause which they procured, I never considered the proper means by which they should be displayed. Hence, to procure a smile from a blockhead whom I despised, I have frequently treated the virtues with disrespect; and sported with the holy name of Heaven, to obtain a laugh from a parcel of fools, who were entitled to nothing but contempt.
“Your men of wit generally look upon themselves as discharged from the duties of religion, and confine the doctrines of the gospel to meaner understandings. It is a sort of derogation, in their opinion, to comply with the rules of Christianity; and they reckon that man possessed of a narrow genius, who studies to be good.
“What a pity that the holy writings are not made the criterion of true judgment; or that any person should pass for a fine gentleman in this world, but he that appears solicitous about his happiness in the next.
“I am forsaken by all my acquaintance, utterly neglected by the friend of my bosom, and the dependants on my bounty; but no matter! I am not fit to converse with the former, and have no ability to serve the latter. Let me not, however, be wholly cast off by the good. Favour me with a visit as soon as possible. Writing to you gives me some ease, especially on a subject I could talk of for ever.
“I am of opinion this is the last visit I shall ever solicit from you; my distemper is powerful; come and pray for the departing spirit of the poor unhappy
“BUCKINGHAM.”
The following is from the parish register of Kirkby Moorside.
COPY.
_buried in the yeare of our Lord [1687.]_
_April ye 17._
_Gorges uiluas Lord dooke of bookingam, etc._
This vulgar entry is the only public memorial of the death of a nobleman, whose abuse of faculties of the highest order, subjected him to public contempt, and the neglect of his associates in his deepest distress. If any lesson can reach the sensualist he may read it in the duke’s fate and repentant letter.
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The publication of such a tract as Mr. Cole’s, from a provincial press, is an agreeable surprise. It is in octavo, and bears the quaint title of the “Antiquarian Trio,” because it describes, 1. The house wherein the duke of Buckingham died. 2. Rudston church and obelisk. 3. A monumental effigy in the old town-hall, Scarborough, with a communication to Mr. Cole from the Rev. J. L. Lisson, expressing his opinion, that it represents John de Mowbray, who was constable of Scarborough castle in the reign of Edward II. Engravings illustrate these descriptions, and there is another on wood of the church of Hunmanby, with a poem, for which Mr. Cole is indebted to the pen of “the present incumbent, the Rev. Archdeacon Wrangham, M. A. F. R. S.”
[138] The _Every-Day Book_.
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~Literature.~
“SERVIAN POPULAR POETRY, translated by JOHN BOWRING,” 1827.