(A letter from Mr. Amyand Tylliol to his friend, Mr. Endymion Porter at
the Court of his Majesty, King Charles the First.)
To my kind and constant friend, that lover of the Muses, Mr. Endymion
Porter, to whose understanding heart all confidences may be carried,
these presents to bring my news.
Since you marvel at the delay of your humble servant needs must I tell
you of a singular hap which hath befallen. Yet no hurt, therefore be not
distrest, for all is well. And truth it is that I have met a most
ingenious gentleman, and this is the marrow of what I would say.
For, prospering in my journey, I did reach Exeter, and there in the
shadow of the Cathedral Church, transacted my affair with Mr. Delander
as foreseen. And a right fair and noble church it is, rich beyond
imagining with images of kings and bishops, queens and holy martyrs.
From Mr. Stephen Delander (who quarters the arms of Tylliol with his own
from an alliance in the days of Queen Elizabeth of blessed memory, and
therefore calls cousin with me) have I received most hospitable
entertainment, and noble conversation enriched with such sparkling gems
of poesy and rhetoric as cannot be told in words. And hence is he become
my singular good friend and as such to be remembered and cherished. His
house lies in the Cathedral precincts and is by all the city known as
Domus Domini, the Lord’s House, since it belonged to the foundation of
the Cathedral in days now like to be forgot.
And ’tis a house delightful to the fancy, in a very small garden set
with a few sombre trees, enlightened with clove-gilly flowers and roses,
and box hedges with winding walks among the turf. Within, deep-windowed,
with grave and handsome plenishing and great store of books clothing the
walls, and all of a sober discretion that bespeaks a gentleman of
lineage and parts. And over it towers the cathedral church the which
(looking upward) appears to swim in the blue as though native to the
skies, and sheds from its mighty bells a voice of warning over the
clustering city with every passing hour, for a _memento mori_.
A place indeed for the feeding of pensive musing and the relishing of
the fair-zoned Muses even as in the groves of Academe.
So, business concluded, ’twas the habit of Mr. Delander and myself to
sit in the oriel commanding the cathedral and to hold sweet discourse,
with a flagon of right Canary between us, and from one of these
exchanges sprang my delay.
For he, talking of the writing of the rare Master Ben Jonson, spoke as
follows:
“A poet indeed, but sure Mr. Tylliol, being a lover of verse and a
trafficker in its niceties, knows we have here in this rude Devonshire a
poet—nay, what say I?—_the_ poet of women and flowers and elves that
skip by moonlight, with like delights of the phantasy, such as rare Ben
or even the rarer Master Shakespeare cannot excel?”
“Lord, sir!” says I. “I stand amazed. I knew it not. Who may the
gentleman be?”
“I would not have you think,” he responded, “that this gentleman hath
the choir note of our young Milton, nor yet the plenteous invention of
Will Shakespeare. ’Tis a country Muse, but exquisite. A muse withal that
hath been to town and drest her lovely limbs in lawns and silks, and
wears pomander beads in her bosom. A Muse whose blush is claret and
cream commingled. And as I said, exquisite. A voice of Castaly.”
“And what does the gentleman in the wilds and what is he?” asked I,
a-tip-toe with curiosity, for well you know my passion for these
rarities. And hastily I added:
“Hath your honour any taste or relish of his verse at hand to whet my
appetite? For with poetry as with manners—from one can all be told.”
He mused a moment smiling, then recited thus:
“TO A LADY SINGING
“So smooth, so sweet, so silvery is thy voice
As, could they hear, the damned would make no noise,
But listen to thee walking in thy chamber,
Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.”
“O rare!” cried I, clapping my hands. “A right music, like drops of
honey distilling from the comb. Was this a happy chance, or may the
gentleman summon the delicate Ariel when he will?”
He smiled, indulgent:
“Since you compare the lines with honey, hear yet again.” I sat elate.
“As Julia once a-sleeping lay
It chanced a bee did fly that way.
For some rich flower he took the lip
Of Julia, and began to sip.
But when he felt he sucked from thence
Honey (and in the quintessence)
He drank so much he scarce could stir
And Julia took the pilferer!
“Sweet Lady-flower, I never brought
Hither the least one thieving thought.
But taking those rare lips of yours
For some fresh fragrant luscious flowers,
I thought I there might take a taste
Where so much sirop ran to waste.
Besides, know this,—‘I never sting
The flower that gives me nourishing.’
This said, he laid his little scrip
Of honey ’fore her Ladyship,
And told her (as some tears did fall)
That this he took and that was all.
At which she smiled and bade him go
And take his bag; but this much know
When next he came a-pilfering so,
He should from her full lips derive
Honey enough to fill his hive.”
“’Tis a pure seed-pearl,” said I. “Small but Orient. And now, Mr.
Delander my worthy friend, tell me where hides this shepherd of the
enchanted pipe, for if, as you say, in Devon, then Devon I will not quit
till with these tickling ears have I listened to his sweet pipings. And
if Julia be his neighbour, as we may suppose— O, sir, speak by the
cards and tell me true!”
“There is,” he responded, “in this His Majesty’s shire of Devon, a very
savage forest, yet with no trees,—known as the Forest of Dartmoor. And
well may I call it savage, for there do savages harbour that would make
as little to slit a man’s throat and cast him in a slough as I to toss
this nut-shell. Of the roads to these parts, least said soonest
mended—sooner indeed than they. But know that around this execrable
miscreant of a Dartmoor lie little lovely villages full of a sweet
civility of flowers and hives of bees, and kine and pretty maids to milk
’em. And above all there is one called Dean Prior and of this the
spiritual shepherd is Mr. Robert Herrick.”
“Sure his crook is wreathed with roses and the pretty lambs of the flock
have nought to fear from their shepherd,” says I.
“I take your meaning, Mr. Tylliol, and yet—[he paused here with a
peculiar sweet smile]—though you might decipher much from his verses of
Julias, Dianemes, Perillas, and other charming ladies, and he is much
accused as a loose liver, ’tis possible to read his riddle wrong. Go
therefore and see him. I have known another who did this and returned
surprised. Yet cross not Dartmoor on your life, but go softly below it
where honest folk live. Also, a coach goes down two days hence within
two miles of the village and with it a riding guard. Take your stout
nag, and so God bless you and send you a happy meeting with a man not
commonly to be accosted.”
’Twas in vain for me to beshrew and becall myself for the veriest ass
between this and London, and doubtless I had flinched from so great an
enterprise but that Mr. Delander poured verses more and more mellifluous
into mine ears until at last I was as Ulysses, drunk with the fierce
wine of the Sirens’ voices, and there being no mast whereto to bind me
and Mr. Delander full of laughing incitements, I set forth to follow the
track of music as a bee the track of the unseen rose’s perfume.
Of the roads I forbear to speak, and the harbourage by the way would
willingly forget, but the air was sweet and fragrant with earliest
summer and the fields yet gilt with cowslips and I spied a few late
primroses lingering about the roots of trees in the shy copses. Also, an
exceeding delicate flower like a silver star, that made sweet
constellation in the lush grass. And could the courtesies of London be
imported I know not where a man might better fleet the hours than in
this warm and languid shire of Devon.
So, on the fourth day we observed a wild mountain stream, browner than
October ale, that rushing danced to meet us, breaking in a thousand
showers, spray, and rillets among its rocks—a lovely thing to see and
hear—the youngest surely of the bright nymphs of the hills.
“And this,” says the guard of the coach, “is the Dean Burn, and not far
off the Vicarage, and the few houses of the village are far down the
road where we shall presently come. So here, worshipful sir, we leave
you.”
Then, being arrived and the coach still standing to discharge certain
packets for the parson I spied a comely man in middle age coming to meet
us.
He was drest in hodden grey, clean but simple, his head bare and the
sunshine on it, and his eyes smiled with his mouth. And in that first
sight I gave my liking to Mr. Herrick, and so has it continued.
I presented my letter from Mr. Delander, and of the cordial of my
welcome need I not to speak.
“Nay, what favour?” said he. “Sure to a rustic that once knew London,
pinioned here to rude rocks and trees, ’tis like a scent of the kindly
civil streets to see an accomplished gentleman. Blush not, sir, for so I
have it under Mr. Delander’s hands and seal, and I know no better judge.
’Tis little I can give, but my pleasant maid, Prudence Baldwin, hath a
bed with sun-bleacht sheets in waiting for the traveller, and my roof is
weather-proof, and my little creeking hen, foreseeing a friend, hath
made shift to lay her long white egg, and this rascally riveret that I
have abused in verse, yet love, hath provided fresh-dewed cresses for
our meat. If with these and a very little more, my guest’s hunger can be
satiate, then welcome again—thrice welcome to Dean Prior.”
With gladness I accepted, for the welcome was as much in his eye as on
his lip, and so we came to the low house seated in a small garden gay
with gilliflowers, culver-keys, sops-in-wine, lad’s love, and all the
outspread courtiers that pay homage to the rose. And roses he had, great
store, both damask and white, and the party-coloured York and
Lancaster—to the which he drew my notice.
Lord, what a little house, and poor though neat, and yet with sparkles
of money here and there in a rich picture or two, and a settle and chest
carved by no ’prentice hand, and a worn but costly velvet cloak thrown
over the back. And a clock, grave as Time himself, with a dial curiously
illustrated with mottoes and cherubims. And before entering I took
notice that a sun-dial stood in the garden, with this verse engraved[2]
so as the gnomon should point the lesson:
[2] The inscription on the sun-dial is my own. L. Adams Beck.
-----
“Shine, Sun of Righteousness, with beam more bright
Than this great dawn my dial doth invite,
And as the gnomon’s shadow doth incline
To tread his steps, let my sprite follow thine.”
Which methought a devout reflection pleasing to Christian ears, and so I
said, but he smiling put it by.
And now with a handsome curtsey Mrs. Prue met us, coming from her
kitchen, a kindly buxom woman with flowered skirt pulled up through her
pockets, and a cap white as the foam on Dean Burn, and in her hospitable
hand a little server, she pressing us to drink a cup of ale before our
dinner served. And so showed me to my little cell with lavender stuck in
the windows, and sheets that might have wrapt the smooth limbs of the
divine Julia, though I dare to say they never did. And since the bed was
spread with down pulled from the Vicar’s own geese it invited a pure and
honest slumber.
But, marry! when we came to dine, that I thought should have been on
eggs and cresses at the best, here was a surprise.
For before Master Vicar were laid two smoking trouts, broiled to a turn
over sea-coals.
“And of these,” says mine host, “you may eat fearless, for they were
caught in Dean Burn, and of all clean livers commend me to the trout
that is indeed a dainty monsieur; and these inhabit in water clear as
crystal beams, unlike those degenerate fish that scavenge in Thames. And
moreover, these hands took them this morning, for I am a brother of the
rod, and love to sit a-angling and a-musing.”
And needs must I say that these trout with Mrs. Prue’s sauce, the rich
droppings of the fish mixed with fresh sweet butter and the yolk of an
egg, was a dish for feasting Gods.
’Twas followed by a bird trapt on the moor, of a reddish flesh and _haut
gout_ very delicious, and what should come after that but a junket with
nutmegs grated and clouted cream—so yellow, thick and mellow that I
praised and commended and Mr. Herrick heapt my platter until I cried
quarter.
“Cream of cowslips,” says he, “for the meadows whence it was drawn are
gilt with their fragrant blossoms and the leisurely cows lie among them
and crush their sweetness as well as devour it. And if you condescend
later to taste it with a crust of Mrs. Prue’s bread and her marmalet of
crab-apples, you shall say it is good honest country fare if simple.”
I rose content from a meal excelling all the varieties of rich men’s
tables, and on his proposal we sat a while under his honey-suckle bower
to look upon the prospect and digest our meat seemly, while Mrs. Prue
moved softly about the house clearing and cleansing.
And seeing the moment favourable, I adventured a question much in my
mind.
“Sir, in your divine and honey-golden verse, recited to me by our common
friend, Mr. Delander, you speak with opprobrium of this rude Devonshire.
Yet here I come and find you set amid delights of soul and body such as
a king might envy. Is it true that you, looking on these sweet hills and
meadows, this singing riveret and the hues and scents of your garden,
can wish yourself in the noise and foulness of towns? Resolve me this
doubt, for, trust me, it perplexes me.”
He smiled a little.
“Why, sir, is a poet wiser than another that he should not long for the
rainbow a field away? You are to take notice that when I lived in London
I abused the smells and sights and craved for country quiet. And now I
have it ’tis the other way about. But in all good soberness this is the
better life and I know it. Here is the eye enlarged to beauty, the ear
attuned to music celestial, and the company, though not choicely good,
is innocent, and if evil, hath no tinsel to hide its native ugliness.”
He paused a moment as though to digest his thoughts and added:
“Here we rise with Chanticleer and make the lamb our curfew, and the
day’s small cares ended and our souls committed to the Keeper who sleeps
not, we slumber discharged of griefs. And if our food be plain the
seasoning is thanks.
“God, to my little meal and oil
Add but a bit of flesh to boil,
And Thou my pipkinet shalt see
Give a wave-offering unto Thee.”
He smiled so cheerfully that I enquired:
“Your own verse, reverend sir?”
“My own. My Muse is not always concerned with ladies’ eyes nor with the
revels of Mab and Oberon whereof I have also delighted to write. She
kneels sometimes, face veiled. And these I call my Noble Numbers.”
There was a moment’s silence, so great that through the singing of the
water I might hear the cropping of Clover-lips, his red cow. ’Twas not
long however before I resumed.
“Then, sir, the country is now your choice preferred?”
“I said not so. Nay, I long sometimes for the town. But I know and
scarce know how, that my lot will be cast there again for some sad
years, and then I shall return here to lay my bones in peace among my
people.”
“Was this revealed to you in dream, sir? But this question is overbold.
Few men reveal their dreams.”
“Mine,” says he, “are so chaste as I dare tell them. Yes, in a dream.
Doubtless induced by the present discontents which will wreck our good
King Charles and many lesser with him.”
We discoursed of these, and with each word I liked mine host the better,
until his gentleness emboldened me so much that at the last I said;
“And where, worthy sir, are the houses of the lovely and wealthy ladies
who keep you good company in summer sunshine and winter snow? Where
dwells the stately Mistress Julia, bright and straight as a garden
tulip, a flower which I confess the Roman name of Julia calls always to
my sight. Where the sparkling-eyed lady Dianeme, the shy Anthea, the
delicate Perilla light as a woodland anemone, and all this shining
garden of sweets that your muse commends to our worship? Let me own nor
blush for’t, that my journey, though undertaken to their poet, was
seasoned also with the hope to kiss their feet.”
“Sir, you did well. The Hesperides are worth even a journey to Devon.
And doubtless you shall see the stately Julia, and the bright Anthea and
all the fair choir, but not yet. And now will I repeat you my latest
homage to one of these ladies, and then I must needs visit my sick while
you sit in the meadow and watch the milkmaid at her fragrant labour.
“THE CURIOUS COVENANT
“Mine eyes like clouds were drizzling rain,
And as they thus did entertain
The gentle beams from Julia’s light
To mine eyes levelled opposite,
O thing admired!—there did appear
A curious rainbow smiling there,
Which was the covenant that she
No more would drown mine eyes or me.”
“O exquisite felicity!” cried I with delight. “And did it not move your
empress to mercy?”
“It moved her, sir!” he answered with a subdued laughter. “And now must
I forth. Entertain yourself, I pray you.”
He went toward the village, bearing in his hand a well-stored panier
brought forth by Mrs. Prue, in the which I might espy little pots and
pipkins clearly bespeaking a charitable heart. And when he disappeared I
took in hand the rod he commended to me and did go a-angling in the Dean
Burn.
But the sun was bright and the water like dancing diamonds and its song
so dulcet that even with my good will I would fain leave the silly trout
in their crystal house, and so I e’en turned over in the short
sweet-smelling grass and there fell asleep and dreamed of Julia with her
smooth rubious lips and velvet cheek, and of the banquets of elves and
their midnight rejoicings, but dimly and with the sound of water in it
all, until I fell in the very deeps of slumber and dreamed no more.
Suddenly and soon as it seemed, but was not, I heard a voice soft as a
cushat’s call me, and looking up drowsily beheld a pretty milkmaid
summon Clover-lips and Pretty Primrose, and they responded slow but
obedient.
O charming sight, though the maiden wore but a homespun gown of blue and
had on her head nothing but a straw hat bought at the fair. For her skin
was cream with here and there a cowslip freckle, and she was
cherry-cheeked and had withal a soft black eye and two clear-marked
arches of brows, and lips that you would not have smile lest the perfect
bow unbend, nor smiling would have grave lest the quarrelet of pearls be
hidden. And about her neck and bosom was folded very modestly a
handkerchief tucked into her bodice.
So I rose to my feet and made my bow, for beauty, though but in a
milk-maiden, is native to the skies and enforces homage, and the pretty
maid blushing dropt so deep a curtsey that I thought she must take root
in the grass like a flower, so long was it before she lifted the stars
of her eyes to mine.
“I was bid by his Reverence, sir, to stroke you a syllabub,” says she.
“And will your Honour have it here and now, for I have the verjuice of
crab-apple and all needful?”
“Here and now if you’ll favour me,” says I enchanted, and sat down to
watch the lovely sight. Nor could I have departed if even she had bid
me;
“For in vain she did conjure him
To depart her presence so,
With a thousand tongues to allure him
And but one to bid him go.
When lips delight and eyes invite,
And cheeks as fresh as rose in June
Persuade delay, what boots she say:
‘Forego me now; come to me soon.’”
But indeed the lass was pleased I stayed, and dulcet her voice as she
rounded a song to coax the cows let down their milk.
“For ’tis known they always milk best to music,” says she, “and often I
would have Jan Holdsworthy to bring his pipe and please ’em.”
And thus I heard a Devon ballad, whereof a verse sticks in my head:
“So Robin put on his Sunday clothes,
Which were neither tattered nor torn,
With a bright yellow rose as well as his shoes
He looked like a gentleman born, he did!
Ay, he did! Sure he did!
He looked like a gentleman born, he did.”
“And—”
“Nay, but I won’t sing the next bit,” says she with her head against the
cow’s warm silken side, and one bright black eye regardant.
“And why, my pretty lass?”
“Because Robin went for to be uncivil and kiss the maid in the song. But
she would have none of it and serve him right, for—
“She gave him a smack in the face, she did!
Ay, she did! Sure she did!
She gave him a smack in the face, she did!”
She trilled it out, defiant as a thrush at dawn, and I could have
committed Robin’s crime but for respect to her innocence and Mr.
Herrick’s hospitality. And sure never was a syllabub so delicate and
warm as this, strained from the balm-breathing kine through sunburnt
hands fresh rinsed with sparkling water from Dean Burn.
I drank that wine of Nature’s brewing nor could be satisfied. And when
her pails foamed to the brim and Clover-lips and Pretty Primrose
returned disburdened to their cropping, says I:
“Tell me, my pretty one, where are the great houses about these parts
where dwell the fair and splendid ladies who excel you in nothing but
their wealth? And do they come to the church o’ Sundays?”
“Anan, sir?” says she, bewildered.
“The ladies in silks and lawns and jewels,” I insisted. “Of whom I have
read as shedding the lustre of their graces even on these wild and
solitary meads.”
Methinks my talk was too fine for her. She laught like one amazed.
“Ladies, your honour, I know of none, nor never saw silk nor lawn nor
lady, nor heard of such but in the ballads the chapmen bring to the
fair.”
“But sure there are great squires and lords in these parts and will have
their hunting and sports and their ladies to ride with them, and come to
church in coaches and on pillions a-Sundays?”
“No, your honour, no,” says she. “I would it were so. ’Twere fine to see
the young madams, gay as kingfishers on Dean Burn, but never saw I one,
nor look to. And now I must be going, with your leave, for I must sit at
my wheel or our dame will know the reason.”
And with another curtsey the fair pretty maid departed to her innocent
labour, and ’twas as though the sun went with her, so clear and lucid a
beam was she of youth and beauty.
But she left me musing, for where and how should Mr. Herrick meet with
his fair ladies unless indeed he took horse and rode abroad, and I
perpended and resolved to watch, being sharp-set to see his peerless
beauties if I died for it.
To grace our supper on Mr. Herrick’s return were the cresses from the
Dean Burn and little young radishes from the garden with a cream cheese
dewy in green leaves and a dish of eggs dressed in an amulet by Mrs.
Prue (and savoury meat they were) and a tansy pudding to follow. And if
I be charged with gluttony in thus citing I crave pardon, for I know not
how but the mind sat down with the body to the feast and both were
nourished.
Mrs. Prue, the prudent, brought us after a very little glass each of
surfeit-water and of such comfort that I would needs have her recipe,
the which she imparted very gravely:
“We take of red corn poppies a peck and put them in a dish with another
for cover, and so into the oven several times after the household bread
is drawn. We lay them in a quart of aqua vitæ [“And this,” interrupted
Mr. Herrick, “comes very good from the sea-covers by Plymouth, and is
brought to us on moor ponies.”] and thereto we add a race of ginger
sliced, nutmeg, cinnamon, mace, a handful of figs, raisins-of-the-sun,
aniseed, cardamom and fennel seeds, with a taste of lickorish. And so
lay some poppies in a great vessel and then the other ingredients and
more poppies and so continue till the vessel’s full. We then pour in our
aqua vitæ and let it so continue until very red with the poppies and
strong of the spice. We take from it what we need, adding more aqua
vitæ. And much good may it do your Honour for ’tis a known cordial.”
“It is so!” says I sipping, “and trust me, I am beholden to you, good
Mrs. Prudence, and will benefit.”
We left our glasses empty and betook ourselves to the bower in the
garden so twined and wreathed with the gold and amber horns of
honey-suckle spilling their fragrance that my soul was ravisht, and Mr.
Herrick fetching his lute saluted mine ears with strains celestial,
adding his voice thereto at moments, yet not loud but as if thinking
melodiously to himself in serene reverie in the deepening twilight.
“Hear, ye virgins, and I’ll teach
What the times of old did preach.
Rosamund was in a bower
Kept, as Danae in a tower.
But yet Love who subtle is,
Crept to that, and came to this!
Be ye lockèd up like these
Or the rich Hesperides,
Or those babies in your eyes
In their crystal nunneries,
Notwithstanding Love will win
Or else force a passage in.”
He plucked a few notes and was silent, for Philomel in a thorn beside
the Dean broke forth, amazing the night with harmony, and holding breath
we listened to the sweet delirium that hath enchanted the ages.
She stopt as suddenly as she began and flew to some more distant groves
to duel with another songster as lovely, the moon herself in rising
seeming to pause and listen ere she ascended her silver throne.
“Exquisite!” says he sighing. “How have I the rude audacity to match my
numbers with hers? Yet I too have my breast on a thorn and must sing or
die. And you assert that they please, Mr. Tylliol?”
“They enchant,” cried I eagerly. “But, O, Mr. Herrick, my good host and
worthy friend, I beseech you reveal to me where hide the Hesperides you
celebrate in verse that will not die like Philomel’s. Few are my days
here. Let me not return empty. With the most awful reverence will I
stand at a distance to admire, nor with a thought smirch the crystalline
lawn that veils the bosom of Madam Julia or the silks that rustle in
Dianeme’s going. What—what are the earthly names of these admired
ladies?”
“In one hour, when the moon is up and at full, then you shall meet
them,” says he. “For then they do use to give me gracious tryst beyond
Dean Burn at a certain place known to me and to them. And if their
beauty is not correspondent to your expectation, blame not them, but
consider rather the teaching of Plotinus his book wherein he writes:
‘That which sees must be kindred and similar to its object before it can
see it. Every man must partake of the divine nature before he can see
Divinity.’ So then, if they appear not lovely the fault is in the eye
that sees.”
“But, sir,” says I bewildered; “is this so also with the perishable
beauty of women which leads man into ways unallied indeed with
Divinity?”
He touched a few soft notes on the pensive strings, responding gravely:
“That man hath never beheld the beauty of woman whom it leads downward,
but only a shadow and simulacrum, as it were; the false Duessa, whereas
the true Una (the One) is crowned with stars and in its nature
heavenly.”
I have conversed, as is known to my friend, with many men counted high,
but, trust me, here with the world charmed by moonlight and the quiet
running of water, the voice of this man took on a quality unearthly and
you are to know that it moved me exceedingly as with something latent
and not to be exprest. Nor would I answer but sat attentive while he
pursued his thoughts aloud.
“For so says also the wisest man that ever wore flesh (setting aside
only the Bright and Orient Star) and these are his words: ‘Such a man
uses the beauties of earth as steps whereon he mounts, going from fair
forms to fair deeds, and from fair deeds to fair thoughts, and from fair
thoughts attains to the Idea of Absolute Beauty. And if a man have eyes
to see this true Beauty he becomes the friend of God and immortal.’”
And after this we both observed such a silence as when sweet music dies
and leaves the air ravisht and in ecstasy, and so sate I know not how
long until at last the moon glided over the trees and threw her light on
the Dean Burn. He then arose, still holding his lute.
“You would see my beauties, Mr. Tylliol, and that you shall! Come with
me now.”
And so led the way to a part where the water spread wide, glittering and
very shallow, and here great flat stepping-stones used by generations,
as he told me, and on these we crost and went on and up (our path clear
as day) until, it might be half a mile or more, we came to a singular
little amphitheatre (so I may call it) of turf, short and cropt and soft
as kings’ carpets, with thick bushes and trees and some rocks
surrounding it, very secret and secluded, enclosing it into a fair
pleasance but not large.
“And here I often sit,” he whispered. “But go very softly.”
And indeed a natural awe, of I know not what, fell on me and constrained
me into a breathless quiet, following him.
So presently we seated ourselves on a low rock cushioned with moss, and
then taking his lute he began to play gently, but with such a
penetrating sweetness as Orpheus himself, who with his music melted the
hearts of trees and rocks, could scarce, I think exceed, yet most simple
withal.
And the melody was singular, and with a delicate continuity like the
ceaseless running of rain or water, and after awhile it appeared to me
as if, like a revolving spinning wheel, it cast abroad silver threads
which mingling with the moonlight did dance and whirl and shape
themselves into changing forms (but I know not what) dissolving and
returning and re-shaping in a labyrinth that mazed me. And whether it
was my own brain that spun them (as in dream) I cannot tell, nor whether
they were real or imagined.
But presently a sweetly lovely face peeped from the boughs, finger on
lips, the pointed chin elfish as though the cap should be a flower, a
truant indeed from Fairyland. And “Silvia!” he whispered, continuing to
play. She, if she it were, listened, archly smiling, a face and no more,
and suddenly the leaves closed about her, and nothing there.
My breath stumbled in my throat, and I closed my eyes an instant, and
when again they opened, at the further end of the pleasance, but dim in
the moonlight as though in a mist of lawn and cobweb lace, I saw a lady
pace from one covert to the other. And myself this time, but whether
aloud I know not, said: “Madam Julia.”
For she moved imperial, but her beauty I cannot itemize, nor know now
whether I saw or dreamed her lips—
“Which rubies, corals, scarlets all
For tincture wonder at,—”
nor the black splendour of her hair, and the proud dark glance she cast
about her in passing, nor the splendid sweeping of her gown.
And even as she parted the boughs and Dian-like was hid among them, came
another following, but stepping lightly from behind a rock whereon a
tree laid leafy fingers of lucent green,—a creature of soft and
flower-wafting breezes, white and sunbeam-haired, and I dare swear the
ray of her eyes was blue, though see them I did not.
And Mr. Herrick, speaking as in time to his lute, seemed to say:
“Smooth Anthea for a skin
White and heaven-like crystalline,”—
and she waved a moonbeam hand as he whispered and, springing as lightly
between the rocks and boughs as a leaping stream, was gone.
Then suddenly his lute ceased as though to give place to a better and a
lady, robed in white, came cradling a lute to her bosom and singing—O
words melodious, melting into heavenly numbers—I believe I knew at the
blessed moment what they were but now have they slipt my gross
understanding. For ’twas indeed the choice Myrrha—O Music, O maid
divine, walking soundless as flowing water and bathing in her own sweet
harmonies as a Naiad in her native crystal.
And even as she past, unheeding her worshipper, Mr. Herrick’s lute
resumed the strain.
And now past two fair ladies, close entwined as Hermia and Helena,
whispering each in the other’s ear and casting oblique and tender looks
upon their poet, the one in a yellow robe like a spring daffodil and the
other in a most pure violet, perfume-breathing as the hue she wore. And
the first was crowned with may, white as ivory exprest in blossom, and
my heart said for me, “Corinna, who will go a-maying while the world
lasts.
“She that puts forth her foliage to be seen,
And comes forth like the spring-time fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora.”
And indeed she past me so near that I caught the almond-sweet breath of
her wreath.
And the other sure was the lady Dianeme, for I knew her by her dancing
shining eyes and the bough of blossomed laylock in her hand.
“Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes.”—
Yet what could she be but proud of what the world counts among its
jewels? And after them came running the delicate Perilla to join herself
to their garland, and so smoothly did she glide that I looked to see her
shod with the winged sandals of Hermes, for not a blade bent as she
past, and so she slipt across the moonlight.
And then a little crowd of sweet shadows—Perenna the lovely, Sappho
(but not she of the Leucadian rock), the Delaying Lady with handsome
sullen brows, and lips pouted in half disdain, the beloved Electra,
graceful as a harebell on a breeze, the reluctant Oenone and many
others, fair and Orient gems set in a carcanet for the Muse’s wearing.
And after them a young Cupid, kitten-eyed and mischievous with his bow
braced.
And at this the air filled suddenly with nimble laughters and little
cries flipt with merry breath in the trees above us, and small shapes
drunk with dew and moonlight dropt from the boughs like spiders sliding
down their threads, so many that they pelted quick as rain-drops on the
turf. And, lo you! ’twas a rabble of Oberon’s courtiers tripping across
to set their mushroom tables in the shade retired from the moon of
night, and indeed, methought the Lady Moon leaned her golden chin on a
bar of cloud to watch the silly shower and laugh at their follies.
But the voice of Mr. Herrick’s lute waxed faster and faster till it spun
a labyrinth of music wherein the fairies did flout and spin and stagger,
singing, and these words reached me but no more:
“Through the forest, through the forest
I will track my fairy Queen,
Of her foot the flying footprint,
Of her locks the flying sheen.”
And whether this was sung or danced I know not, for the moon dipt behind
a cloud, and all shapes from distinct became confused into a swift
murmur whether of sound or sight or the ripple of the Dean Burn I can
tell neither to myself nor others, only that presently there was
darkness and silence. Nor can I say whether hours or minutes had past
when Mr. Herrick laid his hand upon my arm and roused me from what I
took to be a deep meditation.
“Dear guest,” says he, “you have slept long, and every leaf is pearled
in dew, and the Night would be secret with her subjects. We intrude.
Therefore rouse yourself, for Mrs. Prue will think us strayed sheep if
she wake, and indeed I will bespeak your soft treading for she is but a
crazy sleeper and hath of late been sick, almost to be lunatic, with a
pain in her teeth.”
But I was stumbling as if heavy with sleep and could say naught, and so
we crost the shining water on the stones and returned wordless, and that
night I slept like a happy spirit in the dewy meads of heaven.
Not a word said the next day and Mr. Herrick almost distraught with
busyness for the riding post brought him letters from his rich London
kin and the news of growing troubles between King and Parliament very
piercing to his honest heart.
And on the day following my nag was saddled, and the coach returning on
its way to Exeter I was to ride with it for security, but still not a
word said on the matter nearest my soul.
Then as we waited for the wheels,—I having bid Mrs. Prue a kindly
farewell with a vail which but ill compensated her hospitable services,
Mr. Herrick said musingly:
“Once, Mr. Tylliol, I made a verse on Dreams, in the which this was
writ:
“‘Here are we all by day; by night we are hurled
By dreams, each one into a several world.’
“And I have read in ancient books that it is not impossible but a man
may be hurled into another man’s world or House of Dreams—not often
indeed but once in a great while. And if this be so and it seems to that
visitant a house of lunacies or moonstruck madness (as well it may),
shall there be pardon for his dream-host therein?”
And I:
“Sir, not a house of lunacies, but a house of enchantments whereof I
would I had the freehold! And if you had any part in unlocking the door
(whereof I know not what to think) take my loving and humble thanks and
again make me welcome when leagues lie between us. For dreams ask
neither wheels nor hoofs to carry them.”
And he smiling said:
“Come!”
So, lovingly we parted and the enchanted place grew small and dim,
receding behind me, and with fleshly eyes never again shall I see the
clear running of Dean Burn and the lush meadows where fair Margery
stroked me a syllabub of cowslip cream. But Mr. Herrick shall I see, for
his dreams are not as other men’s and he comes, I know, sooner or later,
to London.
Now what all this means, I cannot know but may guess, and on that I say
no more. Let each man read it as he can. But never again tell me that
Mr. Herrick is a loose liver because his Muse dwells like a dove in the
warmth of ladies’ bosoms, for I know better.
“Jocund his Muse was, but his life was chaste,” is the self-chosen Finis
to his book, and well it may.
And for a last gift he slipt into my hand at parting his latest verses
or effusion to Madam Julia, whose stately pacing haunts me yet and ever
will.
“This day, my Julia, thou must make
For Mistress Bride the wedding cake.
Knead but the dough and it will be
To paste of almonds turned by thee.
Or kiss it thou but once or twice
And for the bride-cake there’ll be spice.”
And to me those words will ever bring the scents and fragrance and the
dreams of Dean Prior, and as for the cake, ’twill be eat beyond Dean
Burn on the little mushroom tables of fay and ouphe and elf, and the
drink shall be a pearl of dew for each, served in the purple of a
pregnant violet.
And so ends my letter but much more and stranger things shall I tell
when I come to my friend.
THE ISLAND OF PEARLS
THE HIDDEN HEART OF CEYLON