Читать книгу Legends of Lancashire - Peter Landreth - Страница 5

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The Chronicler of the forthcoming “Legends” is, perhaps, more of an Antiquary, in disposition and habits, than many whose names are well known in Societies, which have been formed for objects of interesting research. He inhabits an old castellated building, which was both a fortress and a mansion, in some former age. Time has passed roughly over its proportions: he has even broken the dial, which marked out his own flight. Still, many relics of the past are left: and limbs of warlike images, and rude inscriptions, partly effaced, may yet be seen. The chisel, or even the plaster of modern art, have never approached its walls. No flower has sought shelter amidst its mantling ivy:—shelter, it should never find—it would instantly be rooted up. Within, no partitions have been erected, to silence the sacred echoes of the spacious hall. The spirits of sound, which tenant the dwelling, would take flight upon the slightest change. No carpet of richest manufacture, has dared to cover the silent footsteps of the fair and the brave, who once to the minstrel’s harp, and the sigh of love, trod many a gallant measure in the dance. The windows on the terrace, when opened, receive no sound from the distance, save the old echo of the lover’s lute, greeting the maiden as she listened in her chamber, with fluttering heart, to the fond tale. When seen from without, her handkerchief seems to float—the signal of peace and hope. To the Chronicler, there is no silence in these deserted scenes. From him, the sixteenth century has never departed. The echoes are still of merriment and war. Knights and squires, successful in wooing or fighting, move before him. He mingles, with the delight of reality, in the banquet and the dance—and then rushes to the siege and the battle. Could the reader obtain admission to his apartment he would, as by a flash of lightning, be favoured with a glance—it might be transient to his eye, but it could never be darkened in his mind—of olden times. He would converse with one, who has never lived for modern change, and in whose white locks, and obsolete dress, he should behold a living specimen of a former century, as if it had literally descended from that time. The Chronicler must be excused for speaking of himself. Who could forbid any of the followers of Cromwell, or Charles, to arise—the one to recite with solemn countenance and lengthened drawl; and the other with a dissipated air of pleasant vice—their respective achievements, whilst their manner, and costume are thoroughly scanned? What cavalier would ban the Protector, even Nol with his nose and ominous wart, from again appearing, to reveal to us those stern and inflexible features, and to discourse to us, in one of those intricate speeches, which none could understand—for, like his own dark and wily spirit, they baffled all knowledge? Or what republican could say “nay,” as the king’s court was brought into view, with the handsome, though melancholy martyr, at its head, surrounded as he was, unfortunately, by gilded butterflies? In like manner, the Chronicler hopes, that no one can be inclined to prevent a specimen of these times from intruding himself, for a little on the attention of his readers.

He is now seated, writing from an inkhorn said to have been the property of General Fairfax; and leaning on a table, once heavily laden with a feast, of which royalists and republicans alike partook, on a day of truce. Other relics of that time are around him; but there is one dearer than all besides—a lovely daughter—a descendant, by the mother’s side, of an ancient family of distinction, from whom Charles II., during his wanderings, received shelter, and subsequently, assistance to mount the throne. She sings to him the ballads of other days, and they revive again in the echo of her music. For her, as well as for her father, this is but the sixteenth century; and though only in her seventeenth summer, she rejects all the amusements of more modern times. He has resolved, out of fondness for the days that are gone, as well as affection for his daughter, that no lover fresh from the approbation of his tailor, and the flattery of his mirror, practised in bows and compliments acquired at the theatre—shall ever find admission to his beloved Jane. He would sooner give her to an ourang-outang than a fop. The favoured suitor must, indeed, be handsome, learned, and brave; he must breathe a song of love in the good old style, beneath her lattice, when the moon and stars are shedding their light over the old mansion. Nor must he be an Antiquary, in the modern sense of the word. He may enter with the long essay, which he read to the British Association, in his pocket, peeping out instead of the handkerchief of the dandy; he may drag behind his name, all the letters of the alphabet, as honorary titles; the Chronicler shall lead him to the door by a way, to detail the curiosities of which, must obtain for him additional laurels. He shall, to a certainty, likewise qualify him for describing the strength of an oak cudgel. Nor must he be a silly Poet, a thing distilled of sighs, flames, water, and earth, who should have lived in the moon to address sonnets to her, and not on earth, since the envious clouds prevent her from seeing and reading them, as well as the brown paper of a garret window. Should any such find his way here, the Chronicler promises to compliment his head with a salutation from a good round of old England’s beef. No, no, the favoured suitor must be of a different genus; and his lute, moreover, must have no resemblance to the sighing guitar of Venice, or the rude whistle of England. And the Chronicler has sometimes been of opinion, that his daughter has made the same resolution. Of late, he has caught the sound of a manly serenade, and he has observed her blush, and occasionally leave the room. Nay, he has met her rambling through the adjoining thickets, with the son of an old friend, whose romance is in the past, and he has blessed them both. Yes, handsome and talented is——. He had written the name, when Jane, looking over his shoulder in womanly curiosity, beheld it. Shrieking, she immediately snatched the pen from his hand, and scratched through it the above stroke, and gave her fond old father a playful blow: yet now she seems thoughtful and sorry for having violated that dear name, by blotting it, and is half inclined to rewrite it herself. Fear not! Fate will draw no such ominous mark over it, and all that binds it to you is love and happiness.

To confide a secret to the reader, since the last sentence was written, the Chronicler has received a hint that the proof sheets of the following “Legends” may be read by his son-in-law! Nay, this very night, the lovers shall be formally betrothed, over a Bible, which has been stained by the blood of its former possessor—a holy martyr—and the sword of an old English patriot shall be placed in the young man’s hand; therewith to defend religion—a wife—and a country.

The ceremony is performed, and both press the old man to read the first Legend. He gives his assent, and, at the same time, orders chairs to be set for his dear friends, the Public; whom he has respectfully invited, and whose attention he now humbly craves to