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Shigleys Mechanical Engineering Design 8th Edition by Richard Budynas,

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 “Amidst the cold graves of the coffin’d dead
Is the table deck’d and the banquet spread;
Then haste thee thither without delay,
For nigh is the time, away! away!”
“Then be it as you wish,” said the boy, in some slight degree
resuming his courage; “go; I will follow.” On hearing this the soldier
departed, and Kitchen watched his figure till it was wholly lost in the
mists of the night.
* * * * *
At a short distance from Kirby Malhamdale church, on the banks
of the Aire, was a small cottage, the residence of the Rev. Mr. ——,
the rector of the parish, [General Bibo mentioned his name, but I
shall not, for if I did some of his descendants might address
themselves to the Table Book, and contradict the story of their
ancestor having been engaged in so strange an adventure as that
contained in the sequel of this legend.] Mr. —— had from his earliest
years been addicted to scientific and literary pursuits, and was
generally in his study till a late hour. On this eventful night he was
sitting at a table strewed with divers ancient tomes, intently
perusing an old Genevan edition of the Institutes of John Calvin.
While thus employed, and buried in profound meditation, the awful
and death-like stillness was broken, and he was roused from his
reverie by a hurried and violent knocking at the door. He started
from his chair, and rushing out to ascertain the cause of this strange
interruption, beheld Kitchen with a face as pale as a winding-sheet.
“Kitchen, what brings you here at this untimely hour?” asked the
clergyman. The boy was silent, and appeared under the influence of
extreme terror. Mr. ——, on repeating the question, had a confused
and indistinct account given him of all the circumstances. The
relation finished, Mr. —— looked at the boy, and thus addressed him:
“Yes, I thought some evil would come of your misdeeds; for some
time past your conduct has been very disorderly, you having long set
a bad example to the lads of Malhamdale. But this is no time for
upbraiding. I will accompany you, and together we will abide the
result of your rash engagement.”
 Mr. —— and the boy left the rectory, and proceeded along the
road leading to the church-yard; as they entered the sacred precinct,
the clock of the venerable pile told the hour of midnight. It was a
beautiful night—scarcely a cloud broke the cerulean appearance of
the heavens—countless stars studded heaven’s deep blue vault—the
moon was glowing in her highest lustre, and shed a clear light on
the old grey church tower and the distant hills—scarcely a breeze
stirred the trees, then in their fullest foliage—every inmate of the
village-inn[134] was at rest—there was not a sound, save the
murmuring of the lone mountain river, and the deep-toned baying of
the watchful sheep-dog.
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.
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.

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.

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.
*

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?”
House at Kirkby-Moorside, Yorkshire
 House at Kirkby-Moorside, Yorkshire,
WHEREIN THE SECOND DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM DIED.

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.

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.

Literature.
“Servian popular Poetry, translated by John Bowring,” 1827.
It is an item of “Foreign Occurrences,” in the “Gentleman’s
Magazine,” July, 1807, that a firman of the grand signior sentenced
the whole Servian nation to extermination, without distinction of age
or sex; if any escaped the sword, they were to be reduced to
slavery. Every plain matter-of-fact man knew from his Gazetteer that
Servia was a province of Turkey in Europe, bounded on the north by
the Danube and Save, which separate it from Hungary, on the east
by Bulgaria, on the west by Bosnia, and on the south by Albania and
Macedonia; of course, he presumed that fire and sword had passed
upon the country within these boundaries, and that the remaining
natives had been deported; and consequently, to render the map of
Turkey in Europe perfectly correct, he took his pen, and blotted out
“Servia.” It appears, however, that by one of those accidents, which
defeat certain purposes of state policy, and which are quite as
common to inhuman affairs, in “sublime” as in Christian cabinets,
there was a change of heads in the Turkish administration. The
Janizaries becoming displeased with their new uniforms, and with
the ministers of Selim, the best of grand signiors, his sublime
majesty was graciously pleased to mistake the objects of their
displeasure, and send them the heads of Mahmud Effendi, and a few
ex-ministers, who were obnoxious to himself, instead of the heads of
Achmet Effendi, and others of his household; the discontented
therefore immediately decapitated the latter themselves; and,
further, presumed to depose Selim, and elevate Mustapha to the
Turkish throne. According to an ancient custom, the deposed despot
threw himself at the feet of his successor, kissed the border of his
garment, retired to that department of the seraglio occupied by the
princes of the blood who cease to reign, and Mustapha, girded with
the sword of the prophet, was the best of grand signiors in his
stead. This state of affairs at the court of Constantinople rendered it
inconvenient to divert the energies of the faithful to so
inconsiderable an object as the extinction of the Servian nation; and
thus Servia owes its existence to the Janizaries’ dislike of innovation
on their dress; and we are consequently indebted to that respectable
prejudice for the volume of “Servian popular Poetry,” published by
Mr. Bowring. We might otherwise have read, as a dry matter of
history, that the Servian people were exterminated A. D. 1807, and
have passed to our graves without suspecting that they had songs
and bards, and were quite as respectable as their ferocious and
powerful destroyers.
Mr. Bowring’s “Introduction” to his specimens of “Servian popular
Poetry,” is a rapid sketch of the political and literary history of Servia.
“The Servians must be reckoned among those races who vibrated
between the north and the east; possessing to-day, dispossessed to-
morrow; now fixed, and now wandering: having their head-quarters
in Sarmatia for many generations, in Macedonia for following ones,
and settling in Servia at last. But to trace their history, as to trace
their course, is impossible. At last the eye fixes them between the
Sava and the Danube, and Belgrade grows up as the central point
round which the power of Servia gathers itself together, and
stretches itself along the right bank of the former river, southwards
to the range of mountains which spread to the Adriatic and to the
verge of Montengro. Looking yet closer, we observe the influence of
the Venetians and the Hungarians on the character and the literature
of the Servians. We track their connection now as allies, and now as
masters; once the receivers of tribute from, and anon as tributaries
to, the Grecian empire; and in more modern times the slaves of the
Turkish yoke. Every species of vicissitude marks the Servian annals—
annals represented only by those poetical productions of which these
are specimens. The question of their veracity is a far more
interesting one than that of their antiquity. Few of them narrate
events previous to the invasion of Europe by the Turks in 1355, but
some refer to facts coeval with the Mussulman empire in Adrianople.
More numerous are the records of the struggle between the Moslem
and the Christian parties at a later period; and last of all, they
represent the quiet and friendly intercourse between the two
religions, if not blended in social affections, at least associated in
constant communion.”
Respecting the subject more immediately interesting, Mr. Bowring
says—
“The earliest poetry of the Servians has a heathenish character;
that which follows is leagued with Christian legends. But holy deeds
are always made the condition of salvation. The whole nation, to use
the idea of Göthe, is imaged in poetical superstition. Events are
brought about by the agency of angels, but the footsteps of Satan
can be nowhere traced; the dead are often summoned from their
tombs; awful warnings, prophecies, and birds of evil omen, bear
terror to the minds of the most courageous.
“Over all is spread the influence of a remarkable, and, no doubt,
antique mythology. An omnipresent spirit—airy and fanciful—making
its dwelling in solitudes—and ruling over mountains and forests—a
being called the Vila, is heard to issue its irresistible mandates, and
pour forth its prophetic inspiration: sometimes in a form of female
beauty—sometimes a wilder Diana—now a goddess, gathering or
dispersing the clouds—and now an owl, among ruins and ivy. The
Vila, always capricious, and frequently malevolent, is a most
important actor in all the popular poetry of Servia. The Trica Polonica
is sacred to her. She is equally renowned for the beauty of her
person and the swiftness of her step:—‘Fair as the mountain Vila,’ is
the highest compliment to a Servian lady—‘Swift as the Vila,’ is the
most eloquent eulogium on a Servian steed.
“Of the amatory poems of the Servians, Göthe justly remarks,
that, when viewed all together, they cannot but be deemed of
singular beauty; they exhibit the expressions of passionate,
overflowing, and contented affection; they are full of shrewdness
and spirit; delight and surprise are admirably portrayed; and there
is, in all, a marvellous sagacity in subduing difficulties, and in
obtaining an end; a natural, but at the same time vigorous and
energetic tone; sympathies and sensibilities, without wordy
exaggeration, but which, notwithstanding, are decorated with
poetical imagery and imaginative beauty; a correct picture of Servian
life and manners—every thing, in short, which gives to passion the
force of truth, and to external scenery the character of reality.
“The poetry of Servia was wholly traditional, until within a very
few years. It had never found a pen to record it, but has been
preserved by the people, and principally by those of the lower
classes, who had been accustomed to listen and to sing these
interesting compositions to the sound of a simple three-stringed
instrument, called a Gusle; and it is mentioned by Göthe, that when
some Servians who had visited Vienna were requested to write down
the songs they had sung, they expressed the greatest surprise that
such simple poetry and music as theirs should possess any interest
for intelligent and cultivated minds. They apprehended, they said,
that the artless compositions of their country would be the subject of
scorn or ridicule to those whose poetry was so polished and so
sublime. And this feeling must have been ministered to by the
employment, even in Servia, of a language no longer spoken; for the
productions of literature, though it is certain the natural affections,
the every-day thoughts and associations could not find fit expression
in the old church dialect:—
 “The talk
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
Of the mind’s business, is the undoubted stalk
‘True song’ doth grow on.”
“The collection of popular songs, Narodne srpske pjesme, from
which most of those which occupy this volume are taken, was made
by Vuk, and committed to paper either from early recollections, or
from the repetition of Servian minstrels. These, he informs us, and
his statement is corroborated by every intelligent traveller, form a
very small portion of the treasure of song which exists unrecorded
among the peasantry. How so much of beautiful anonymous poetry
should have been created in so perfect a form, is a subject well
worthy of inquiry. Among a people who look to music and song as a
source of enjoyment, the habit of improvisation grows up
imperceptibly, and engages all the fertilities of imagination in its
exercise. The thought which first finds vent in a poetical form, if
worth preservation, is polished and perfected as it passes from lip to
lip, till it receives the stamp of popular approval, and becomes as it
were a national possession. There is no text-book, no authentic
record, to which it can be referred, whose authority should interfere
with its improvement. The poetry of a people is a common
inheritance, which one generation transfers sanctioned and amended
to another. Political adversity, too, strengthens the attachment of a
nation to the records of its ancient prosperous days. The harps may
be hung on the willows for a while, during the storm and the
struggle, but when the tumult is over, they will be strung again to
repeat the old songs, and recall the time gone by.
“The historical ballads, which are in lines composed of five
trochaics, are always sung with the accompaniment of the Gusle. At
the end of every verse, the singer drops his voice, and mutters a
short cadence. The emphatic passages are chanted in a louder tone.
‘I cannot describe,’ says Wessely, ‘the pathos with which these songs
are sometimes sung. I have witnessed crowds surrounding a blind
old singer, and every cheek was wet with tears—it was not the
music, it was the words which affected them.’ As this simple
instrument, the Gusle, is never used but to accompany the poetry of
the Servians, and as it is difficult to find a Servian who does not play
upon it, the universality of their popular ballads may be well
imagined.”
While Mr. Bowring pays cheerful homage to a rhyme translation
of a Servian ballad, in the Quarterly Review, No. LXIX. p. 71, he
adds, that it is greatly embellished, and offers a version, in blank
verse, more faithful to the original, and therefore more interesting to
the critical inquirer. The following specimen of Mr. Bowring’s
translation may be compared with the corresponding passage in the
Review.
She was lovely—nothing e’er was lovelier;
She was tall and slender as the pine tree;
White her cheeks, but tinged with rosy blushes,
As if morning’s beam had shone
Till that beam had reach’d its high meridian;
And her eyes, they were two precious jewels;
And her eyebrows, leeches from the ocean;
And her eyelids, they were wings of swallows;
Silken tufts the maiden’s flaxen ringlets;
And her sweet mouth was a sugar casket;
And her teeth were pearls array’d in order;
White her bosom, like two snowy dovelets;
And her voice was like the dovelet’s cooing;
And her smiles were like the glowing sunshine.
On the eyebrows of the bride, described as “leeches from the
ocean,” it is observable that, with the word leech in Servian poetry,
there is no disagreeable association. “It is the name usually
employed to describe the beauty of the eyebrows, as swallows’
wings are the simile used for eyelashes.” A lover inquires
“Hast thou wandered near the ocean?
Has thou seen the pijavitza?[139]
Like it are the maiden’s eyebrows.”
There is a stronger illustration of the simile in
 The Brotherless Sisters.
Two solitary sisters, who
A brother’s fondness never knew.
Agreed, poor girls, with one another.
That they would make themselves a brother.
They cut them silk, as snow-drops white;
And silk, as richest rubies bright;
They carved his body from a bough
Of box-tree from the mountain’s brow;
Two jewels dark for eyes they gave;
For eyebrows, from the ocean’s wave
They took two leeches; and for teeth
Fix’d pearls above, and pearls beneath;
For food they gave him honey sweet.
And said, “Now live, and speak, and eat.”
The tenderness of Servian poetry is prettily exemplified in
another of Mr. Bowring’s translations.
 Farewell.
Against white Buda’s walls, a vine
Doth its white branches fondly twine:
O no! it was no vine-tree there
It was a fond, a faithful pair,
Bound each to each in earliest vow—
And, O! they must be severed now!
And these their farewell words:—“We part—
Break from my bosom—break—my heart!
Go to a garden—go, and see,
Some rose-branch blushing on the tree;
And from that branch a rose-flower tear,
Then place it on thy bosom bare;
And as its leavelets fade and pine,
So fades my sinking heart in thine.”
And thus the other spoke: “My love!
A few short paces backward move,
And to the verdant forest go;
There’s a fresh water-fount below;
And in the fount a marble stone,
Which a gold cup reposes on;
And in the cup a ball of snow—
Love! take that ball of snow to rest
Upon thine heart within thy breast,
And as it melts unnoticed there,
So melts my heart in thine, my dear!”
One other poem may suffice for a specimen of the delicacy of
feeling in a Servian bosom, influenced by the master-passion.
 The Young Shepherds.
The sheep, beneath old Buda’s wall,
Their wonted quiet rest enjoy;
But ah! rude stony fragments fall.
And many a silk-wool’d sheep destroy;
Two youthful shepherds perish there,
The golden George, and Mark the fair.
For Mark, O many a friend grew sad,
And father, mother wept for him:
George—father, friend, nor mother had,
For him no tender eye grew dim:
Save one—a maiden far away,
She wept—and thus I heard her say:
“My golden George—and shall a song,
A song of grief be sung for thee—
’Twould go from lip to lip—ere long
By careless lips profaned to be;
Unhallow’d thoughts might soon defame
The purity of woman’s name.
“Or shall I take thy picture fair,
And fix that picture in my sleeve?
Ah! time will soon the vestment tear.
And not a shade, nor fragment leave:
I’ll not give him I love so well
To what is so corruptible.
“I’ll write thy name within a book;
That book will pass from hand to hand.
And many an eager eye will look,
But ah! how few will understand!—
And who their holiest thoughts can shroud
From the cold insults of the crowd?”

[139] The leech.

GRETNA GREEN.

For the Table Book.

 This celebrated scene of matrimonial mockery is situated in
Dumfrieshire, near the mouth of the river Esk, nine miles north-west
from Carlisle.
Mr. Pennant, in his journey to Scotland, speaks in the following
terms of Gretna, or, as he calls it, Gretna Green. By some persons it
is written Graitney Green, according to the pronunciation of the
person from whom they hear it:—
“At a short distance from the bridge, stop at the little village of
Gretna—the resort of all amorous couples, whose union the
prudence of parents or guardians prohibits. Here the young pair may
be instantly united by a fisherman, a joiner, or a blacksmith, who
marry from two guineas a job, to a dram of whiskey. But the price is
generally adjusted by the information of the postilions from Carlisle,
who are in pay of one or other of the above worthies; but even the
drivers, in case of necessity, have been known to undertake the
sacerdotal office. This place is distinguished from afar by a small
plantation of firs, the Cyprian grove of the place—a sort of landmark
for fugitive lovers. As I had a great desire to see the high-priest, by
stratagem I succeeded. He appeared in the form of a fisherman, a
stout fellow in a blue coat, rolling round his solemn chaps a quid of
tobacco of no common size. One of our party was supposed to come
to explore the coast; we questioned him about the price, which,
after eying us attentively, he left to our honour. The church of
Scotland does what it can to prevent these clandestine matches, but
in vain; for these infamous couplers despise the fulmination of the
kirk, and excommunication is the only penalty it can inflict.”
The “Statistical Account of Scotland” gives the subsequent
particulars:—“The persons who follow this illicit practice are mere
impostors—priests of their own creation, who have no right
whatever either to marry, or exercise any part of the clerical
function. There are at present more than one of this description in
this place; but the greatest part of the trade is monopolized by a
man who was originally a tobacconist, and not a blacksmith, as is
generally believed. He is a fellow without education, without
principle, without morals, and without manners. His life is a
continued scene of drunkenness: his irregular conduct has rendered
him an object of detestation to all the sober and virtuous part of the
neighbourhood. Such is the man (and the description is not
exaggerated) who has had the honour to join in the sacred bonds of
wedlock many people of great rank and fortune from all parts of
England. It is forty years and upwards since marriages of this kind
began to be celebrated here. At the lowest computation, about sixty
are supposed to be solemnized annually in this place.”
Copy Certificate of a Gretna Green Marriage.
“Gretnay Green Febry 17 1784
“This is to Sertfay to all persons that may be Cunserned that
William Geades from the Cuntey of Bamph in thee parish of Crumdell
and Nelley Patterson from the Sitey of Ednbrough Both Comes
before me and Declares them Selvese to be Both Single persons and
New Mareid by thee way of thee Church of Englond And Now maried
by thee way of thee Church of Scotland as Day and Deat abuv
menchned by me
David M‘Farson
his
William Geades
Mark
Nelly Patorson
Witness
Danell Morad”
By the canons and statutes of the church of Scotland, all
marriages performed under the circumstances usually attending
them at Gretna Green, are clearly illegal; for although it may be
performed by a layman, or a person out of orders, yet, as in
England, bans or license are necessary, and those who marry parties
clandestinely are subject to heavy fine and severe imprisonment.
Therefore, though Gretna Green be just out of the limits of the
English Marriage Act, that is not sufficient, unless the forms of the
Scottish church are complied with.
H. M. Lander.
 SCOTCH ADAM AND EVE.
The first record for marriage entered into the session-book of the
West Parish of Greenock, commences with Adam and Eve, being the
Christian names of the first couple who were married after the book
was prepared. The worthy Greenockians can boast therefore of an
ancient origin, but traces of Paradise or the Garden of Eden in their
bleak regions defy research.

BOA CONSTRICTOR.
Jerome speaks of “a dragon of wonderful magnitude, which the
Dalmatians in their native language call boas, because they are so
large that they can swallow oxen.” Hence it should seem, that the
boa-snake may have given birth to the fiction of dragons.[140]

[140] Fosbroke’s British Monachism.

Varia.
PIOUS DIRECTION POST.
Under this title, in a west-country paper of the present year,
(1827) there is the following statement:—
On the highway near Bicton, in Devonshire, the seat of the right
hon. lord Rolle, in the centre of four cross roads, is a directing post
with the following inscriptions, by an attention to which the traveller
learns the condition of the roads over which he has to pass, and at
the same time is furnished with food for meditation:—
To Woodbury, Topsham, Exeter.—Her ways are ways of
pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.
To Brixton, Ottery, Honiton.—O hold up our goings in thy paths
that our footsteps slip not.
To Otterton, Sidmouth, Culliton, A. D. 1743.—O that our ways
were made to direct that we might keep thy statutes.
 To Budleigh.—Make us to go in the paths of thy commandments,
for therein is our desire.

MARSEILLES.
The history of Marseilles is full of interest. Its origin borders on
romance. Six hundred years before the Christian era, a band of
piratical adventurers from Ionia, in Asia Minor, by dint of superior
skill in navigation, pushed their discoveries to the mouth of the
Rhone. Charmed with the white cliffs, green vales, blue waters, and
bright skies, which they here found, they returned to their native
country, and persuaded a colony to follow them to the barbarous
shores of Gaul, bearing with them their religion, language, manners,
and customs. On the very day of their arrival, so says tradition, the
daughter of the native chief was to choose a husband, and her
affections were placed upon one of the leaders of the polished
emigrants. The friendship of the aborigines was conciliated by
marriage, and their rude manners were softened by the refinement
of their new allies in war, their new associates in peace. In arts and
arms the emigrants soon acquired the ascendancy, and the most
musical of all the Greek dialects became the prevailing language of
the colony.[141]

[141] American paper.

Law.
 CHANCERY.
Unhappy Chremes, neighbour to a peer.
Kept half his lordship’s sheep, and half his deer;
Each day his gates thrown down, his fences broke.
And injur’d still the more, the more he spoke;
At last resolved his potent foe to awe,
And guard his right by statute and by law—
A suit in Chancery the wretch begun;
Nine happy terms through bill and answer run,
Obtain’d his cause and costs, and was undone.

A DECLARATION IN LAW.
Fee simple and a simple fee.
And all the fees in tail.
Are nothing when compared to thee,
Thou best of fees—fe-male.

LAW AND PHYSIC.

It has been ascertained from the almanacs of the different
departments and of Paris, that there are in France no less than
seventeen hundred thousand eight hundred and forty-three medical
men. There are, according to another calculation, fourteen hundred
thousand six hundred and fifty-one patients. Turning to another class
of public men, we find that there are nineteen hundred thousand
four hundred and three pleaders, and upon the rolls there are only
nine hundred and ninety-eight thousand causes; so that unless the
nine hundred and two thousand four hundred and three superfluous
lawyers see fit to fall sick of a lack of fees and employment, there
must remain three hundred thousand one hundred and ninety-two
doctors, with nothing to do but sit with their arms across.[142]

[142] Furet.

“THE NAUGHTY PLACE.”

 A Scotch pastor recognised one of his female parishioners sitting
by the side of the road, a little fuddled. “Will you just help me up
with my bundle, gude mon?” said she, as he stopped.—“Fie, fie,
Janet,” cried the pastor, “to see the like o’ you in sic a plight: do you
know where all drunkards go?”—“Ay, sure,” said Janet, “they just go
whar a drap o’ gude drink is to be got.”
Vol. I.—18.
May-Day at Lynn in Norfolk.

May-Day at Lynn in Norfolk.

For the Table Book.
Where May-day is still observed, many forms of commemoration
remain, the rude and imperfect outlines of former splendour,
blended with local peculiarities. The festival appears to have
originated about A. M. 3760, and before Christ 242 years, in
consequence of a celebrated courtezan, named Flora, having
bequeathed her fortune to the people of Rome, that they should at
this time, yearly, celebrate her memory, in singing, dancing,
drinking, and other excesses; from whence these revels were called
Floralia, or May-games.[143] After some years, the senate of Rome
exalted Flora amongst their thirty thousand deities, as the goddess
of flowers, and commanded her to be worshipped, that she might
protect their flowers, fruits, and herbs.[144] During the Catholic age,
a great portion of extraneous ceremony was infused into the
celebration, but that the excesses and lawless misrule attributed to
this Floralian festival, by the fanatic enthusiasts of the Cromwellian
age, ever existed, is indeed greatly to be doubted. It was celebrated
as a national festival, an universal expression of joy and adoration,
at the commencement of a season, when nature developes her
beauties, dispenses her bounties, and wafts her “spicy gales,” rich
with voluptuous fragrance, to exhilarate man, and enliven the scenes
around him.
In no place where the custom of celebrating May-day still
continues does it present so close a resemblance to its Roman origin
as at Lynn. This perhaps may be attributed to the circumstance of a
colony of Romans having settled there, about the time of the
introduction of Christianity into Britain, and projected the
improvement and drainage of the marsh land and fens, to whom
Lynn owes its origin, as the mother town of the district.[145] That
they brought with them their domestic habits and customs we know;
and hence the festival of May-day partakes of the character of the
Roman celebrations.
Early on the auspicious morn, a spirit of emulation is generally
excited among the juveniles of Lynn, in striving who shall be first to
arise and welcome “sweet May-day,” by opening the door to admit
the genial presence of the tutelary goddess,
———— borne on Auroral zephyrs
And deck’d in spangled, pearly, dew-drop gems.
The task of gathering flowers from the fields and gardens for the
intended garland succeeds, and the gatherers frequently fasten the
doors of drowsy acquaintances, by driving a large nail through the
handle of the snack into the door-post, though, with the
disappearance of thumb-snacks, that peculiarity of usage is of
course disappearing too.
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