The grey-hair’d matron rubb’d her eyes,
Then turn’d her glasses to the skies;
As if to catch some thought in cue,
To give them truth and laughter too.
Next, humbly beg’d for some Paste Eggs,
With leave to sit,—to rest her legs.
Then down she squats, and round they throng,
Impatient for some jokelike song;
Of eggs they brought her number nine,
All nicely mark’d, and colour’d fine,
One, was blacker than the sloe,
Another, white as driven snow.
Red, crimson, purple, azure, blue,
Green, pink, and yellow, rose to view.
She closely peel’d them, one by one,
Broke this, and that, till all were done.
Then shrugg’d her shoulders,—wav’d her head,
But not one syllable she said.
Amaz’d, at silence so profound;
The quality press closer round;
And gently urg’d her, more and more,
To answer what they ask’d before?
And how did one so ripe in years,
Estimate a life like theirs?
What semblance, worthy observation,
Suited the heirs of dissipation?
Whilst she, kept pressing up and down
As seeking how their wish to crown.
What had she apropos to say
Of persons so superbly gay?
In throth—quo’ she, I’m short and plain
Long speaking only gives me pain;
And faith I have ye, gentlefolks,
As clear in view, as whites or yokes,
So like those eggs—I can but smile,
In every cast of light and style.
Your transient colours, fleet as theirs,
Your flimsiness, in spite of airs;
In substance, scarce more rare or new,
Some parboil’d—some par-rotten too:
Of little worth, in wisdom’s eye,
And thrown, at last, like egg-shells by.
They heard—they frown’d—but fled the green,
As if a thunderbolt had been.
Lostwithiel Custom.
A very singular custom formerly prevailed at Lostwithiel, in Cornwall, on Easter Sunday. The freeholders of the town and manor having assembled together, either in person or by their deputies, one among them, each in his turn, gaily attired and gallantly mounted, with a sceptre in his hand, a crown on his head, and a sword borne before him, and respectfully attended by all the rest on horseback, rode through the principal street in solemn state to the church. At the churchyard stile, the curate, or other minister, approached to meet him in reverential pomp, and then conducted him to church to hear divine service. On leaving the church, he repaired, with the same pomp and retinue, to a house previously prepared for his reception. Here a feast, suited to the dignity he had assumed, awaited him and his suite; and, being placed at the head of the table, he was served, kneeling, with all the rites and ceremonies that a real prince might expect. This ceremony ended with the dinner; the prince being voluntarily disrobed, and descending from his momentary exaltation, to mix with common mortals. On the origin of this custom, but one opinion can be reasonably entertained, though it may be difficult to trace the precise period of its commencement. It seems to have originated in the actual appearance of the prince, who resided at Restormel castle in former ages; but on the removal of royalty, this mimic grandeur stepped forth as its shadowy representative, and continued for many generations as a memorial to posterity of the princely magnificence with which Lostwithiel had formerly been honoured.[106]