Lily of the Valley. Convallaria majalis.
Dedicated to St. Selena.
Canonbury Tower.
Canonbury Tower.
People methinks are better, but the scenes
Wherein my youth delighted are no more.
I wander out in search of them, and find
A sad deformity in all I see.
Strong recollections of my former pleasures,
And knowledge that they never can return,
Are causes of my sombre mindedness:
I pray you then bear with my discontent.
*
A walk out of London is, to me, an event; I have an every-day desire to bring it about, but weeks elapse before the time arrives whereon I can sally forth. In my boyhood, I had only to obtain parental permission, and stroll in fields now no more,—to scenes now deformed, or that I have been wholly robbed of, by “the spirit of improvement.” Five and thirty years have altered every thing—myself with the rest. I am obliged to “ask leave to go out,” of time and circumstance; or to wait till the only enemy I cannot openly face has ceased from before me—the north-east wind—or to brave that foe and get the worst of it. I did so yesterday. “This is the time,” I said, to an artist, “when we Londoners begin to get our walks; we will go to a place or two that I knew many years ago, and see how they look now; and first to Canonbury-house.”
Having crossed the back Islington-road, we found ourselves in the rear of the Pied Bull. Ah! I know this spot well: this stagnant pool was a “famous” carp pond among boys. How dreary the place seems! the yard and pens were formerly filled with sheep and cattle for Smithfield market; graziers and drovers were busied about them; a high barred gate was constantly closed; now all is thrown open and neglected, and not a living thing to be seen. We went round to the front, the house was shut up, and nobody answered to the knocking. It had been the residence of the gallant sir Walter Raleigh, who threw down his court mantle for queen Elizabeth to walk on, that she might not damp her feet; he, whose achievements in Virginia secured immense revenue to his country; whose individual enterprise in South America carried terror to the recreant heart of Spain; who lost years of his life within the walls of the Tower, where he wrote the “History of the World,” and better than all, its inimitable preface; and who finally lost his life on a scaffold for his courage and services. By a door in the rear we got into “the best parlour;” this was on the ground-floor; it had been Raleigh’s dining-room. Here the arms of sir John Miller are painted on glass in the end window; and we found Mr. John Cleghorn sketching them. This gentleman, who lives in the neighbourhood, and whose talents as a draftsman and engraver are well known, was obligingly communicative; and we condoled on the decaying memorials of past greatness. On the ceiling of this room are stuccoed the five senses; Feeling in an oval centre, and the other four in the scroll-work around. The chimney-piece of carved oak, painted white, represents Charity, supported by Faith on her right, and Hope on her left. Taking leave of Mr. Cleghorn, we hastily passed through the other apartments, and gave a last farewell look at sir Walter’s house; yet we bade not adieu to it till my accompanying friend expressed a wish, that as sir Walter, according to tradition, had there smoked the first pipe of tobacco drawn in Islington, so he might have been able to smoke the last whiff within the walls that would in a few weeks be levelled to the ground.
We got to Canonbury. Geoffrey Crayon’s “Poor Devil Author” sojourned here:—