“Queen Elizabeth was wont to say, upon the commission of _sales_, that
the commissioners used her like _strawberry_-wives, that laid two or
three great strawberries at the mouth of their pottle, and all the rest
were little ones; so they made her two or three great prices of the
first particulars, but fell straightways.”[56]
[56] Apophthegms Antiq.
Vol. I.--8.
[Illustration: ~Blind Hannah.~]
Sightless, and gently led her unseen round,
She daily creeps, and draws a soothing sound
Of Psalmody, from out her viol’ strings,
To company some plaintive words she sings.
*
This young woman sojourns in the neighbourhood of the ancient scene of
the “Pretty Bessee” and her old father, the “Blind Beggar of
Bethnal-green”--
“His marks and his tokens were known full well,
He always was led with a dog and a bell.”
Her name is Hannah Brentford. She is an inhabitant of Bunhill-row,
twenty-four years old, and has been blind from the time she had the
small-pox, two and twenty years ago. She sings hymns, and accompanies
herself on the violin. Her manner is to “give out” two lines of words,
and chant them to “a quiet tune;” and then she gives out another two
lines; and so she proceeds till the composition is finished. Her voice,
and the imitative strains of her instrument, are one chord of ’plaining
sound, beautifully touching. She supports herself, and an aged mother,
on the alms of passengers in the streets of Finsbury, who “please to
bestow their charity on the _blind_”--“the _poor_ blind.” They who are
not pierced by her “sightless eye-balls” have no sight: they who are
unmoved by her virginal melody have “ears, and they hear not.” Her eyes
are of agate--she is one of the “poor _stone_ blind”--
“most musical, most melancholy.”
* * * * *
~Garrick Plays.~
No. V.
[From “Arden of Feversham his true and lamentable Tragedy,” Author
unknown. 1592.]
_Alice Arden with Mosbie her Paramour conspire the murder of her
Husband._
_Mos._ How now, Alice, what sad and passionate?
Make me partaker of thy pensiveness;
Fire divided burns with lesser force.
_Al._ But I will dam that fire in my breast,
Till by the force thereof my part consume.
Ah Mosbie!
_Mos._ Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon’s burst,
Discharged against a ruinated wall,
Breaks my relenting heart in thousand pieces.
Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore;
Thou know’st it will, and ’tis thy policy
To forge distressful looks, to wound a breast
Where lies a heart which dies when thou art sad.
It is not Love that loves to anger Love.
_Al._ It is not Love that loves to murther Love.
_Mos._ How mean you that?
_Al._ Thou know’st how dearly Arden loved me.
_Mos._ And then----
_Al._ And then--conceal the rest, for ’tis too bad,
Lest that my words be carried to the wind,
And publish’d in the world to both our shames.
I pray thee, Mosbie, let our springtime wither;
Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds.
Forget, I pray thee, what has past betwixt us;
For now I blush and tremble at the thoughts.
_Mos._ What, are you changed?
_Al._ Aye, to my former happy life again;
From title of an odious strumpet’s name
To honest Arden’s wife, not Arden’s honest wife--
Ha Mosbie! ’tis thou hast rifled me of that,
And made me slanderous to all my kin.
Even in my forehead is thy name engraven,
A mean Artificer, that low-born name!
I was bewitcht; woe-worth the hapless hour
And all the causes that enchanted me.
_Mos._ Nay, if thou ban, let me breathe curses forth;
And if you stand so nicely at your fame,
Let me repent the credit I have lost.
I have neglected matters of import,
That would have ’stated me above thy state;
For-slow’d advantages, and spurn’d at time;
Aye, Fortune’s right hand Mosbie hath forsook,
To take a wanton giglot by the left.
I left the marriage of an honest maid,
Whose dowry would have weigh’d down all thy wealth;
Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee.
This certain good I lost for changing bad,
And wrapt my credit in thy company.
I was bewitcht; that is no theme of thine;
And thou unhallow’d hast enchanted me.
But I will break thy spells and exorcisms,
And put another sight upon these eyes,
That shew’d my heart a raven for a dove.
Thou art not fair; I view’d thee not till now:
Thou art not kind; till now I knew thee not:
And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt,
Thy worthless copper shews thee counterfeit.
It grieves me not to see how foul thou art,
But mads me that ever I thought thee fair.
Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds;
I am too good to be thy favourite.
_Al._ Aye, now I see, and too soon find it true,
Which often hath been told me by my friends,
That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth;
Which too incredulous I ne’er believed.
Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two;
I’ll bite my tongue if I speak bitterly.
Look on me, Mosbie, or else I’ll kill myself.
Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look;
If thou cry War, there is no Peace for me.
I will do penance for offending thee;
And burn this Prayer Book, which I here use,
The Holy Word that has converted me.
See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves,
And all the leaves; and in this golden Cover
Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell,
And thereon will I chiefly meditate,
And hold no other sect but such devotion.
Wilt thou not look? is all thy Love o’erwhelm’d?
Wilt thou not hear? what malice stops thy ears?
Why speakst thou not? what silence ties thy tongue?
Thou hast been sighted as the Eagle is,
And heard as quickly as the fearful Hare
And spoke as smoothly as an Orator,
When I have bid thee hear, or see, or speak:
And art thou sensible in none of these?
Weigh all thy good turns with this little fault,
And I deserve not Mosbie’s muddy looks.
A fence of trouble is not thicken’d still;
Be clear again; I’ll ne’er more trouble thee.
_Mos._ O fie, no; I’m a base artificer;
My wings are feather’d for a lowly flight.
Mosbie, fie, no; not for a thousand pound
Make love to you; why, tis unpardonable.
We Beggars must not breathe, where Gentiles are.
_Al._ Sweet Mosbie is as Gentle as a King,
And I too blind to judge him otherwise.
Flowers sometimes spring in fallow lands;
Weeds in gardens, Roses grow on thorns:
So, whatsoe’er my Mosbie’s father was,
Himself is valued Gentle by his worth.
_Mos._ Ah how you women can insinuate,
And clear a trespass with your sweet set tongue.
I will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice,
Provided I’ll be tempted so no more.
* * * * *
_Arden, with his friend Franklin, travelling at night to Arden’s house
at Feversham, where he is lain in wait for by Ruffians, hired by Alice
and Mosbie to murder him; Franklin is interrupted in a story he was
beginning to tell by the way of a_ BAD WIFE, _by an indisposition,
ominous of the impending danger of his friend_.
_Arden._ Come, Master Franklin, onwards with your tale.
_Frank._ I’ll assure you, Sir, you task me much.
A heavy blood is gather’d at my heart;
And on the sudden is my wind so short,
As hindereth the passage of my speech.
So fierce a qualm yet ne’er assailed me.
_Arden._ Come, Master Franklin, let us go on softly;
The annoyance of the dust, or else some meat
You ate at dinner cannot brook with you.
I have been often so, and soon amended.
_Frank._ Do you remember where my tale did leave?
_Arden._ Aye, where the Gentleman did check his wife--
_Frank._ She being reprehended for the fact,
Witness produced that took her with the fact,
Her glove brought in which there she left behind,
And many other assured arguments,
Her Husband ask’d her whether it were not so--
_Arden._ Her answer then? I wonder how she look’d,
Having forsworn it with so vehement oaths,
And at the instant so approved upon her.
_Frank._ First did she cast her eyes down on the earth,
Watching the drops that fell amain from thence;
Then softly draws she out her handkercher,
And modestly she wipes her tear-stain’d face:
Then hemm’d she out (to clear her voice it should seem),
And with a majesty addrest herself
To encounter all their accusations--
Pardon me, Master Arden, I can no more;
This fighting at my heart makes short my wind.
_Arden._ Come, we are almost now at Raynum Down;
Your pretty tale beguiles the weary way,
I would you were in case to tell it out.
[_They are set upon by the Ruffians._]
* * * * *
~Music.~
_For the Table Book._