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The princess Amelia relieved the in- Girl. You may depend on iny never digent friends of three infant females from

tare, as to their wants, by fostering them forsaking you as long as I can be your

at her own expense. She caused them to , . « ... .,.

be educated, and placed them out to fnen(L NothinS but not businesses, by learning which they might being what it ought to be, can make me acquire the means of gaining their subsistence in comfort. and respectability, give you up. Forget you, I never could. They occasionally visited her, and to one

of them she was peculiarly attached; Believe me, nothing shall be wanting, on

a^taftSJSS? JT^S; !* ^ t0 » ^ you

In this situation were; but you must be honest, open,

"long she flourished, -' 'f >

Grew sweet to sense and lovely to the eye, and true. Make Mrs. K---- , who is so

Until at length the cruel spoiler came,'

Pluck 'd this fair flow'r and rifled all its sincerely your wellwisher, your friend, sweetness

Then flung it like a loathsome weed away." Conceal nothing from her, and believe

The seduction of this young female me, much as it may cost you, at the deeply afflicted the princess's feelings;

and she addressed a letter to her, written moment, to speak out, you will find relief throughout by her own hand, which - , . T , . ." marks her reverence for virtue, and her ^rwuds, and I trust it may enable us pity for one who diverged from its pre- t0 make ou end d happiIy. scriptions. It is in the possession of the rr editor, and because it has never been To Mrs. Bingley, and all with her, you published, he places it to note the anniversary of her royal highness's birth in Ilever can sufficiently feel grateful. Her

Saw SwSh; has been *« kindest

ler high principles and affectionate dispo- mother and friend, and, I trust, such tition.

(copy) friends you will ever try to preserve; for, The accounts I have received of you, if with propriety they'can continue their Jy poor Mary, from Mrs. Bingley, have kindness to you, it will be an everlasting iven me the greatest concern, and have blessing for you: but, after all that has surprised me as well as hurt me; as I happened, My dear Mary, I cannot conad hoped you were worthy of the kind- sent to leaving you there. Though I ess you experienced from Mrs. Bingley trust, from all I ,hear, your conduct id were not undeserving of all that had now is proper, and will continue so, yet, >en done for you. for the sake of the other young people, it Much as you have erred, I am willing must be wrong, and if you possess that hope, My poor Girl, that those reli- feeling, and repent, as I hope you do, ous principles you possessed are still you cannot but think I am right. I trust m, and that they will, with the good- you feel all your errors, and with the ss of God, show you your faults, and assistance of God you will live to make like you to repent, and return to what I amends; yet your conduct must be made ped you were—a good audvirtuous an example-of. The misfortune of turnip out of the right path, cannot be too renew all our feelings of regard for her,

strongly impressed oo the minds of all and, that I shall have the comfort to bear

young people.—Alas! you now know it many good accounts of your conduct and

from experience. All I say I feel doubly, health. Unless your mind is at ease you

from wishing you well. cannot enjoy health.

Be open and true, and whatever can »«ured I shall be happy to find I

t>e- done, to make you happy, will. H reason, always, to subscribe my

Truth is one of the most necessary Vie self,
tues, and whoever deviate* from that,
runs from one error into another—not to
Say Vice. I have heard you accused
Ms. Bingley of harshness; that I con-

teive to be utterly impossible; but I So wrote one of the daughters oc

- , . . . . ., England. We hail her a child of the ns

attribute your saying so to a mind in the ££[ by her affian£e tQ the

greatest affliction, and not knowing what *>{ our moral grandeur, and the preserver

pf our national dignity. Private virtue a you were about. I pity you from my the stability of states.

In the princess Amelia's letter there a heart, but you have brought this on your- a natural union of powerful sense and it

self, and you must now pray to God, for 1uisite. sensibil*y t it has Ht easy, » '3 v 3 'mon-place air, but a mind that examine

his assistance, to enable you to return to tne grounds, and searches into the WK

sons of things, will discover the "root of

the right path. the matter." Comment upon it is ab

• _, , ,, , ,r „ _ , stained from, that it may be read tai

Why should you fear Me 7 I do not studied.

Reserve it, and your feeling the force of . The crim,e of Ruction is feshiooaNe.

° * because hitherto fashion has been Ctoe

your own faultt can only occasion it; for with impunity. The selfish destroyf

of female innocence, can prevail on scat

I feel I am, andVish to be, a friend to wives and mothers by varnish of manse.

% ■, ., , , , and foroefulness of wealth, to the dern

three young people I have the charge of, dation of smcixo^ his entertainma*

and to make them fit to gain their own >* their presence. Like the fabled *t*er tree of Java, he lives a deadly poises *'

bread, and assist their families. For you 'wither and destroy all within his shad:*

Uneasiness from a lash of small cords I I have felt particularly, being an orphan, a feeble hand, he retaliates by a hoot

whip: monstrous sensualist* must be p

and I had never had cause to regret the wished by scourges of flame from

V T t, s ir . L arms, and be hunted by hue and en.

charge I had. Your poor parents have m ^ find \B some ^

been saved a heavy blow. Conceive hiding-place for blood-guiltiness. A what their affliction must have been, had

. * FI01UL T)HirCTORY.

they lived to know of your conduct. I 1^mmm Amaranth. Jmaranthu0 V

trust, my poor Mary mat: yet live to chondriactu.

Dedicated to St. Cajetan*

'SU. Cyriaeui, Largui, Smaragdut, and their Companions, Martyrs, A. J>. 303. St. Hormitdat.

FUNERALS IN CUMBERLAND.

To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.

Sir,

The, variety of funeral-rites and ceremonies, prevalent in different ages and countries, has been so great as to forbid any attempt to enumerate them; but it is consistent with the character and design of the Every-Day Book, to record the peculiar-customs which have existed in different districts of our native land: for although your motto from old Herrick, does not refer to any thing of a serious kind, yet, in the number of those which you promis* the world to " tell of" I perceive that such matters are sometimes related. I proceed, therefore, to detail the circumstances which preceded and attended the interment of the dead in the county of Cumberland, within the last twenty years: they are now discontinued, except, perhaps, in some of the smaller villages, or amongst the humblest class in society. Whether the customs I am about to describe, have been observed in the southern parts of England, I know not; I shall, therefore, confine myself to what has frequently passed under my own observation in my native town.

No sooner had the passing-bell intimated to the inhabitants that an acquaintance or neighbour had departed for that ** bourne whence no traveller returns," than they began to contemplate a call at the " Corse-n'ouse," (for such was the denomination of the house of mourning,) within which preparations were made by the domestics to receive all who might come. To this end all the apartments were prepared for the reception of visitors with the exception of the chamber of death: one for the seclusion of the survivors of the family, and the domestic offices.

The interval between the death and the interment' is at present, I believe, extended beyond what was usual at the ti me I refer to: it was then two days and two nights, varying accordingly as the demise took place in the early or latter part of the day.

The assemblage at the Corse-house, •was most numerous during the evening; at which time many persons, who were engaged during the day m their several

avocations, found leisure to be present: many of the females made their call, however, during the afternoon. The concourse of visitors rendered the house like ■a tavern; their noise arid tumult being little restrained, and their employment being the drinking of wine or spirits with the smoking of tobacco; and if only some made use of the " stinking herb," all partook of the juice of the grape. Instances *ould be adduced in which moderation -gave way to excess.

The conversation turned, often upon the character of the deceased, at least when generally respected; "de mortuis nil nisi bonum;" the ordinary topics of the day were discussed: perhaps the Irish people were ridiculed for their barbarism in waking their dead: and each individual as inclination prompted him, retired to make room for another, thus maintaining a pretty rapid succession of arrivals and departures, with the exception of, perhaps, one or two who embraced so favourable an opportunity for economical indulgence. "Where the carcase is there will the eagles be gathered together."

I must, however, observe in justice to the good taste of my townsmen, that many of them rather assented to the custom than approved it; but an omission to attend a Corse-house, with the occupants of which you were even slightly acquainted, was considered a mark of disrespect to the memory of the dead, and the feelings of the survivors.

It happened, however, that a gentleman {a stranger to this custom,) settled in the town I refer to, and, after a short residence, a death occurred in his family: he at once resolved to deviate from a practice which he did not approve. The first visitors to his house observed that no preparations were made for their reception, and were respectfully told by a servant, that open house would not be kept on the occasion: the news soon spread, and so did the example; a native of the town soon followed it, and a custom fell into desuetude, which the warmest admirers of ancient practices could scarcely desire to perpetuate. Originating probably in the exercise of the social affections, and of that hospitality which was convenient enough in periods when population was thin and widely scattered, they degenerated from their original use, and were "more honoured in the breach than the observance." Antiquity might, perhaps, plead m their defence. The.ancient Jews made great use of music in -their funeral rites; before Christ exerted his power in the restoration of the ruler's daughter, who was supposed to be dead, he caused to be put forth " the minstrels and the people making a noise." Matt, c. 9, T. 23, et seq.

The ceremonies, which I am now going to describe, are still in existence; and evince no symptoms of decay. On the evening preceding the day appointed for the interment, the parish-clerk perambulates the town, carrying a deep and solemn-toned bell, by means of which he announces his approach to various places at which he is accustomed to stop, and give utterance to his mournful message. Well do I remember the deep interest with which I and my youthful associates listened to the melancholy tones of hit sepulchral voice, whilst toys were disregarded, and trifling for a moment suspended! As the sounds of the " Deathbell" died away, it was proclaimed thus: "All friends and neighbours are desired

'to attend the funeral of —— from

street, to Mary's Chapel: the corpse to be ,taken up at — o'clock." What crowds .of little urchins feeling a mixed sensation of fear and curiosity were congregated! What casements were half-opened whilst mute attention lent her willing ear to seize upon the name of the departed, and the hour of burial!

I have known a party at ." a round game" hushed into silence: and a whist party thrown into a sort of reverie, and there remain till Mrs. What-d'ye-call-'era asked Mrs. What's-her-name, if clubs were trumps? or chid her partner for being guilty of a revoke on account of so common a thing as the " Death-bell."

On the following day the clerk proceeds to the Corse-house, about an hour before the procession is formed. A small table covered with a white napkin, on which are placed wines and spirits, is put at the door of the house within and around which the people assemble: the clerk takes his place by the table, to assist to a glass of liquor, any person who may approach it. The coffin being brought forth, the clerk takes his place in front of the procession, and" is usually attended by a number of those who form the choir on Sunday, all being uncovered. A psalm is sung as the cavalcade moves slowly through the streets. The rest of the *' friends and neighbours" follow the corpse to the church, where the ordinary

services conclude; "and thus concludes the " strange eventful history," related by, sir, Yours faithfully,

I LORAL DIRECTORY.

Love lies bleeding. Amarantkut pTO* eumbeiu. Dedicated to St. Hormitda*.

august 9.

St. Romanus. St. Nathy, or David, A. 6. 530. St. Fedlemid, or Felimy, Bp. oi KiJmore, 6th Cent.

'floral Directory.

Jacobsan Ragweed. Senecio jacobea. Dedicated to Sr. Romantu.

The Willow. According to T. N., a Cambridge correspondent, this tree is, in that county, called the Cambridge oak. Old Fuller calls it " a sad tree, whereof such who have lost their love make their mourning garlands; and we know that exiles hung up their harps upon such doleful supporters. The twigs hereof are physick to drive out the folly of children. This tree delighteth in moist places, and is triumphant in the hie of Ely, where the roots strengthen their banks, and top affords fuell for their fire. It groweth incredibly fast, it being a by-word in this County, that the profit by willows will buy the owner a horse before that by other trees will pay for his saddle. Let me add, that if green athe may buy me before a queen, withered willow may be allowed to burne before a lady." The old saying, "She is in her willows" is here illustrated; it implies the mourning of a female for her lost mate.

The milow (Salix).

In Sylvan Sketches, to an account of the willow, elegant poetical illustrations are attached, from whence are extracted the subjoined agreeable notices.

According to some botanists, there art more than fifty British willows only. The sweet, or bay-leaved willow, talis pentasr dria, is much used in Yorkshire for making baskets; its leaves afford a yellow dye. Baskets are also made from the osier, w hich belongs to this genus; but of the willows, the bitter purple willow, «aiir purpurea, is the best adapted for the fines; basket-work." The common, or white willow, salix alba, takes its specific name from the white silken surface of the leaves on the under side. The bark is used to tan leather, and to dye yarn of a cinnamon colour. It is one of the trees to which the necessitous Kamtschatdales are often obliged to recur foe their daily bread, which they make of the inner bark, ground into flour. The bark of this willow has in some cases been found a good substitute for the Peruvian bark. The grey willow, or sallow, talix cinerca, grows from six to twelve feet high. In many parts of England, children gather the flowering branches of this tree on Palm Sunday, and call them palms. With the bark, the inhabitants of the Highlands and the Hebrides tan leather. The wood, which is soft, white, and flexible, is made into handles for hatchets, spades, &c. It also furnishes shoemakers with their cutting-boards, and whettingboards to smooth the edges of their knives upon.

The weeping willow, salix Babylonica, a native of the Levant, was not cultivated in this country till 1730. This tree, with its long, slender, pendulous branches, is one of the most elegant ornaments of English scenery. The situation which it affects, also, on the margins of brooks or rivers, increases its beauty; like Narcissus, it often seems to bend over the water for the purpose of admiring the reflection:—

——" Shadowy trees, that lean
So elegantly o'er the water's brim."

There is a fine weeping willow in a garden near the Paddington end of the . New Road, and a most magnificent one, also, in a garden on the banks of the Thames, just before Richmond-bridge, on the Richmond side of the river. Several of the arms of this tree are so large, that one of them would in itself form a fine tree. They ate propped by a number of stout poles; and the tree appears in a flourishing condition. If that tree be, as it is said, no more than ninety-five years old, the quickness of its growth is indeed astonishing.

Martyn relates an interesting anecdote, which he gives on the authority of the St. James's Chronicle, for August, 1801:

** The famous and admired weeping •willow played by Pope, which has lately been felled to the ground, came from Spain, enclosing a present for lady SufNo. 35.

folk. Mr. Pope was in company when the covering was taken off; he observed that the pieces of stick appeared as if they had some vegetation; and added, 'Perhaps they may produce something we have not in England.' Under this idea, he planted it in his garden, and it roduced the willow-tree that has given irth to so many others." It is said, that the destruction of this tree was caused by the eager curiosity of the admirers of the poet, who, by their numbers, so disturbed the quiet and fatigued the patience of tha possessor, with applications to be permitted to see this precious relic, that to put an end to the trouble at once and for ever, sh6 gave orders that it should be felled to the ground.

The weeping willow, in addition to the pensive, drooping appearance of its branches, weeps little drops of water, which, stand like fallen tears upon the leaves. It will grow in any but a dry soil, but most delights, and best thrives,"in the immediate neighbourhood of water. The willow, in poetical language, commonly introduces a stream, or a forsaken lover:—

"We pass a gulph, in whichthe willows dip r Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink." Couper.

Chatterton describes

*' The willow, shadowing the bubbling brook."

Churchill mentions, among other trees,

"The willow weeping o'er the fatal wave," Where many a lover finds a watery grave; The cypress, sacred held when lovers mourn

Their true love snatched away."1

Besides Shakspeare's beautiful mention of the willow on the death of Ophelia, and notices of it by various other poets, there are several songs in which despairing lovers call upon the willow-tree:—'

"Ah, willow! willow 1
The willow shall be
A garland for me,
Ah, willow' willow!"

Chatterton has one, of which the butthen runs—

"Mie lore ys decide,
Gon to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree."

In the " Two Noble Kinsmen," said to have been written by Shakspeare and

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