OUR VILLAGE. Have these words any power to arrest the glance of some roving eye, searching these pages in quest of amusement? Do they awaken happy memories of home, and early youth-time spent amid loving faces, and it may be, in one of those charming villages that are the glory of an English landscape? If so, dear reader, crush all such recollections in the bud; for believe me, mine is far too prosaic a sketch to kindle any hallowed reveries into life. My self-imposed task is to give a few historical particulars to the world, relative to the former life of what is now a somewhat uninteresting village on the outskirts of London; an episode of the days of quaint ruffs, and still quainter language-those days when the most profound ignorance prevailed regarding the mystic words "omnibus" and "railway," and before the little place was invested with such a conscious air of bustle and self-importance. Some thirty years ago, before invaded by suspension-bridge on the one hand, or railway on the other, Barnes was as rural a spot as could well be met with on a summer's day; communicating only by ferry-boat to Chiswick with its great neighbour the metropolis, and apparently pursuing the even tenor of its way, very regardless of the sayings and doings of any other place. | and given place to a sombre red-brick building of Queen Ann's days, or thereabouts. Thither, during Walsingham's life, it was the pleasure of Elizabeth and her court occasionally to repair; and many doubtless were the groaning feasts and cumbrous revels held for her especial delight and edification. But the noontide meal well over, and wearied of the crowded rooms, may we not imagine the courtly train winding amid the trees, or exploring in merry groups the shady walks of the "pleasaunce,' where the air resounded with the pleasant minstrelsy of birds?—or see them, attracted by the beauty of the water, betake them to their barges and enliven the scene with their gailypainted craft, and the music of laughter-loving voices? pening to be buried that day in the church-yard opposite, the bereaved husband was in no condition to entertain his royal mistress, who, upon learning the cause, very considerately excused him and returned. Some of the oldest and knottiest of the elms in the park are said to have been planted by the hand of " good Queen Bess" herself. She may have possessed another tie to the place in Essex House, the property of the hapless favourite. It stood near the church, at the entrance of the village. Probably it was during one of these visits that the Queen, whose faith in Dr. Dee's astrological powers was so firm as to stand the test of time and many calls upon her for assistance, went to see him at Mortlake, where he lived. The gateway of his Possessing some natural beauties, added to its house is still remaining, but forms the entrance great retirement, it was chosen as a residence by to a coal-wharf, instead of the sanctum of the several genteel families, who lived upon the hap-man of crucibles! Unfortunately his wife happiest terms of unrestrained intercourse, so as to be perfectly unchecked in their visits to each other by any thoughts of head-gear; for in those primitive times it was a rare occurrence to encounter a stranger's face. Now an entirely new state of things has dawned upon us, with our advanced civilization; and I beg to assure my readers that as a body we are as conventional and as strictly decorous in our demeanour as any one could desire to see. But in the reign of Elizabeth, when our village first begins to take a conspicuous part in local topography, exclusive gentility, or modern progression, were alike undreamt of; although it would be difficult to say what existed in their stead. It would seem, however, that the whole of the fields (of course including many since built upon) formed a compact estate, belonging to the residents at the mansion, or Barn-Elms, as it is usually called, on the bank of the Thames. Nothing is known of this house previous to the Queen bestowing it upon her trusty servant, Sir Francis Walsingham, although it may probably have existed from an earlier date, and might then be rebuilt in the Tudor style, when it would form an imposing structure standing in its tolerablysized park; but, however skilful the hand of the architect, all has long since crumbled into dust, Before his death Barn-Elms passed from the hands of Sir Francis Walsingham into those of the Hoare family; who continued for generations in quiet enjoyment of the place, and were themselves I believe descendants of the identical youth who came to seek his fortune in London, with but his leathern bottle for companion. After this change of proprietorship nothing occurred to disturb the monotony of the secluded village (for that it was so we know from Buckingham proposing Barn-Elms as a suitable spot for a duel in "Peveril of the Peak") until about the Restoration, when Cowley the poet lived here for a while, previous to his removal to Chertsey, where he so pathetically describes the horrors of the country; and in an old-fashioned summer-house in the most sequestered part of the grounds, close by a little stream and rustic bridge, interlaced with honeysuckle and roses (a spot so full of calm tranquillity as to be wellbefitting a poet's wayward mood), it is said he wrote many of his works. Later still, the famous Kit Cat club (so called N from the name of its originator, Christopher Cat) held its meetings in a large deserted room of the old house; and with this, the last feeble ray of its glory disappears. Its owners have now long since changed, and it has sunk into so respectable and withal so monotonous an old age, that the variety of its youthful experiences is seldom suspected. The date of the church is generally fixed in Elizabeth's reign, although it is probable it existed before, and that the tower was then added to it. Much of the history of a place may frequently be gathered from the monuments of its dead. But here nothing particular presents itself, save one to the memory of "Dame Margaret Hoare," and one in commemoration of a Mr. Squire, a former rector. After giving his name and parentage, it runs thus : "He was invested in this care, September, 1660; He was divested of all care, December, 1667." We pore over the mossy grave-stones to find some honoured name, but vainly; though we would fain not be distanced by Chiswick and Twickenham, whose boast it is that the venerated dust of Hogarth and Pope rest there. There is certainly an indescribably soothing influence in a country church-yard-" God's acre," as Longfellow beautifully calls it. How lovingly the yew-tree seems to wave its arms, and the old church to keep its watch over the silent dead! For them the moving to and fro, and the restlessness of this busy earnest world, are over; they have borne their part in the strife of the great arena, and, like wearied combatants, have laid down their arms to rest. May I crave your patience yet a moment, kind reader, whilst I speak, with the garrulity of age, of the village-green? with its pond and weeping willow, and its pretty school, rendering it the very type of what a village-green should be. And if you chance to pass at noon, the burst of glee that will assail your ears from those merry little souls that have been pent up all the morning will give you a refreshing picture of life, and make you thank God that childhood, like the daisy, is always springing up anew. The scene forms an apt illustration of poor Henry Kirke White's early lines: "Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er, What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were seen, In various postures scattering o'er the green!" It is almost the only remnant of the picturesque now left us, but it is an enduring one; for, happily no age, let it be ever so utilitarian, can ob us of the poetry of childhood! THE FAMILY CIRCLE. Have you seen the nimble Rabbit Down the green-lane, where the hedges O'er the stile, and through the woodland, Or the soft coo of the dove, Out into the open sunshine, Where the common stretches wide, Dotted o'er with stunted blackthorns, Golden with the gorse's pride; Swelling rise the sandy ridges, Close unto the woodland's marge, And the banks are crowned with thistles, And with grasses long and large. Hist! step back amid the bushes, Creep along behind the bank, Where the bracken groweth freely, And the herbage is most rank: Softly, not a leaf must rustle; Crouch behind the hillock--come! Now look down into the hollow, And behold the Rabbit's home! SONNET. FORGET-ME-NOTS. Preaches yon Grandam, grey as highway stone Cary'd XC on its wrinkles in the sun, "Forget Him not, dear babes, when I am gone." God stays by her, though off her darlings run. Eyes blue as heaven!" said one that uttered folly, "Forget me not". . . and lo, to-morrow morning Left and forgot her who lived melancholy Henceforth on memory of that tender warning. From death-bed wrote, "Forget me not in death, Make some one plant these blooms above my face, Come once... . my dust will know it underneath, Stoop, dear, just once, and kiss the blossom'd place As 'twere these constant eyes. . . once more you'll Them blue as heaven, nor from my earth will think shrink." MARY BROTHERTON. |