A History of the Cries of London Part 28

Haec tria nil recte faciunt si verbera cessant.

Adducitur a cognato, est temen novum."--MARTIAL.

"_Sam_.... Why he's married, beates his wife, and has two or three children by her: for you must note, that any woman beares the more when she is beaten."--_A Yorks.h.i.+re Tragedy_: "Not so New, as Lamentable and true--1608," edition 1619.--Signature, _A. Verso_.

"_Flamineo._--Why do you kick her, say?

Do you think that she's like a walnut tree?

Must she be cudgell'd ere she bear good fruit?"

--Webster's "_White Devil_," 1612. iv. 4. (Works, edited by W. C.

Hazlitt, II. 105.)

Now all these statements are at once unkind and erroneous all round. We know what is declared of the "man who, save in the way of kindness, lays his hand upon a woman," to say nothing of the punishment awaiting him at the adjacent police court.[15] As to dogs, those who respect the calves of their legs had best beware of the danger of applying this recipe to any but low-spirited animals. In the case of the walnut-tree, the recommendation is again distinctly false, and the results mis-described.

Possibly there are walnut-trees, as there are women, dogs, and horses, who seem none the worse for the stick; but, as a general rule, kindly treatment, for vegetable and animal alike, is the best, and, in the long run, the wisest.

In "_The Miller's Daughter_," one of the most homely and charming poems ever penned by the Poet Laureate, occurs a quatrain, spoken by an old gentleman addressing his faithful spouse:--

"So sweet it seems with thee to talk, And once again to woo thee mine; 'Tis like an after-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE CHRISTMAS HOLLY.

"The Holly! the Holly! oh, twine it with bay-- Come give the Holly a song; For it helps to drive stern Winter away, With his garments so sombre and long.

It peeps through the trees with its berries so red, And its leaves of burnished green, When the flowers and fruits have long been dead, And not even the daisy is seen.

Then sing to the Holly, the Christmas Holly, That hangs over the peasant and king: While we laugh and carouse 'neath its glittering boughs, To the Christmas Holly we'll sing."

_Eliza Cook._

In London a large sale is carried on in "Christmasing," or in the sale of holly, ivy, laurel, evergreens, bay, and mistletoe, for Christmas sports and decorations, by the family greengrocer and the costermongers. The latter of whom make the streets ring with their stentorian cry of:--

Holly! Holly!! Holly, oh!!! Christmas Holly, oh!

OLD CRIES.

BY MISS ELIZA COOK.

Oh! dearly do I love "Old Cries"

That touch my heart and bid me look On "Bough-pots" plucked 'neath summer skies, And "Watercresses" from the brook.

It may be vain, it may be weak, To list when common voices speak; But rivers with their broad, deep course, Pour from a mean and unmarked source: And so my warmest tide of soul From strange, unheeded spring will roll.

"Old Cries," "Old Cries"--there is not one But hath a mystic tissue spun Around it, flinging on the ear A magic mantle rich and dear, From "Hautboys," pottled in the sun, To the loud wish that cometh when The tune of midnight waits is done With "A merry Christmas, gentlemen, And a Happy New Year--Past one- O'clock, and a frosty morning!"

And there was a "cry" in the days gone by, That ever came when my pillow was nigh; When, tired and spent I was pa.s.sively led By a mother's hand, to my own sweet bed-- My lids grew heavy, and my glance was dim, As I yawned in the midst of a cradle hymn-- When the watchman's echo lulled me quite, With "Past ten o'clock, and a starlight night!"

Well I remember the hideous dream, When I struggled in terror, and strove to scream, As I took a wild leap o'er the precipice steep, And convulsively flung off the incubus sleep.

How I loved to behold the moons.h.i.+ne cold Illume each well-known curtain-fold; And how I was soothed by the watchman's warning, Of "Past three o'clock, and a moonlight morning!"

Oh, there was music in this "old cry,"

Whose deep, rough tones will never die: No rare serenade will put to flight The chant that proclaimed a "stormy night."

The "watchmen of the city" are gone, The church-bell speaketh, but speaketh alone; We hear no voice at the wintry dawning, With "Past five o'clock, and a cloudy morning!"

Ah, well-a-day! it hath pa.s.sed away, But I sadly miss the cry That told in the night when the stars were bright, Or the rain-cloud veiled the sky.

Watchmen, Watchmen, ye are among The bygone things that will haunt me long.

"Three bunches a penny, Primroses!"

Oh, dear is the greeting of Spring; When she offers her dew-spangled posies; The fairest Creation can bring.

"Three bunches a penny, Primroses!"

The echo resounds in the mart; And the simple "cry" often uncloses The worldly bars grating man's heart.

We reflect, we contrive, and we reckon How best we can gather up wealth; We go where bright finger-posts beckon, Till we wander from Nature and Health.

But the "old cry," shall burst on our scheming, The song of "Primroses" shall flow, And "Three bunches a penny" set dreaming Of all that we loved long ago.

It brings visions of meadow and mountain, Of valley, and streamlet, and hill, When Life's ocean but played in a fountain-- Ah, would that it sparkled so still!

It conjures back shadowless hours, When we threaded the dark, forest ways; When our own hand went seeking the flowers, And our own lips were shouting their praise.

The perfume and tint of the blossom; Are as fresh in vale, dingle, and glen; But say, is the pulse of our bosom As warm and as bounding as then?

"Three bunches a penny,--Primroses!"

"Three bunches a penny,--come, buy!"

A blessing on all the sweet posies, And good-will to the poor ones who cry.

"Lavender, sweet Lavender!"

With "Cherry Ripe!" is coming; While the droning beetles whirr, And merry bees are humming.

"Lavender, sweet Lavender!"

Oh, pleasant is the crying; While the rose-leaves scarcely stir, And downy moths are flying,

Oh, dearly do I love "Old Cries,"

Your "Lilies all a-blowing!"

Your blossoms blue, still wet with dew, "Sweet Violets all a-growing!"

Oh, happy were the days, methinks, In truth the best of any; When "Periwinkles, winkle, winks!"

Allured my last, lone penny.

Oh, what had I to do with cares That bring the frown and furrow, When "Walnuts" and "Fine mellow Pears"

Beat Catalani thorough.

Full dearly do I love "Old Cries,"

And always turn to hear them; And though they cause me some few sighs, Those sighs do but endear them.

My heart is like the fair sea-sh.e.l.l, There's music ever in it; Though bleak the sh.o.r.e where it may dwell, Some power still lives to win it.

When music fills the sh.e.l.l no more, 'Twill be all crushed and scattered; And when this heart's deep tone is o'er, 'Twill be all cold and shattered.

Oh, vain will be the hope to break Its last and dreamless slumbers; When "Old Cries" come, and fail to wake Its deep and fairy numbers!