“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 bright