STATELY JULIAA STORY OF ENCHANTMENTS

(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 amemento 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?—thepoet 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 voiceAs, could they hear, the damned would make no noise,But listen to thee walking in thy chamber,Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.”

“TO A LADY SINGING

“So smooth, so sweet, so silvery is thy voiceAs, could they hear, the damned would make no noise,But listen to thee walking in thy chamber,Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.”

“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 layIt chanced a bee did fly that way.For some rich flower he took the lipOf Julia, and began to sip.But when he felt he sucked from thenceHoney (and in the quintessence)He drank so much he scarce could stirAnd Julia took the pilferer!“Sweet Lady-flower, I never broughtHither the least one thieving thought.But taking those rare lips of yoursFor some fresh fragrant luscious flowers,I thought I there might take a tasteWhere so much sirop ran to waste.Besides, know this,—‘I never stingThe flower that gives me nourishing.’This said, he laid his little scripOf 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 goAnd take his bag; but this much knowWhen next he came a-pilfering so,He should from her full lips deriveHoney enough to fill his hive.”

“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 broughtHither the least one thieving thought.But taking those rare lips of yoursFor some fresh fragrant luscious flowers,I thought I there might take a tasteWhere so much sirop ran to waste.Besides, know this,—‘I never stingThe flower that gives me nourishing.’This said, he laid his little scripOf 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 goAnd take his bag; but this much knowWhen next he came a-pilfering so,He should from her full lips deriveHoney enough to fill his hive.”

“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 brightThan this great dawn my dial doth invite,And as the gnomon’s shadow doth inclineTo tread his steps, let my sprite follow thine.”

“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 andhaut goutvery 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 oilAdd but a bit of flesh to boil,And Thou my pipkinet shalt seeGive a wave-offering unto Thee.”

“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 entertainThe gentle beams from Julia’s lightTo mine eyes levelled opposite,O thing admired!—there did appearA curious rainbow smiling there,Which was the covenant that sheNo more would drown mine eyes or me.”

“THE CURIOUS COVENANT

“Mine eyes like clouds were drizzling rain,And as they thus did entertainThe gentle beams from Julia’s lightTo mine eyes levelled opposite,O thing admired!—there did appearA curious rainbow smiling there,Which was the covenant that sheNo more would drown mine eyes or me.”

“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 himTo depart her presence so,With a thousand tongues to allure himAnd but one to bid him go.When lips delight and eyes invite,And cheeks as fresh as rose in JunePersuade delay, what boots she say:‘Forego me now; come to me soon.’ ”

“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 shoesHe looked like a gentleman born, he did!Ay, he did! Sure he did!He looked like a gentleman born, he did.”“And—”

“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 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 teachWhat the times of old did preach.Rosamund was in a bowerKept, as Danae in a tower.But yet Love who subtle is,Crept to that, and came to this!Be ye lockèd up like theseOr the rich Hesperides,Or those babies in your eyesIn their crystal nunneries,Notwithstanding Love will winOr else force a passage in.”

“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 allFor tincture wonder at,—”

“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 skinWhite and heaven-like crystalline,”—

“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.”

“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 forestI will track my fairy Queen,Of her foot the flying footprint,Of her locks the flying sheen.”

“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 hurledBy dreams, each one into a several world.’

“ ‘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.

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