NOTES AND QUERIES:

A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION FOR LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES, GENEALOGISTS, ETC.

"When found, make a note of."—Captain Cuttle.

CONTENTS.

THE GREAT EXHIBITION, NOTES AND QUERIES, AND CHAUCER'S PROPHETIC VIEW OF THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

The first of May, eighteen hundred and fifty-one, will be remembered in the Calendar for centuries after those who witnessed its glories shall have passed away. Its memory will endure with our language; and the Macaulays and Hallams of the time to come will add brilliancy to their pages by recounting the gorgeous yet touching ceremonial of this great Apotheosis of Peace. Peace has occasionally received some foretaste of that day's glory; but only at times, when the sense of its value had been purchased by the horrors which accompany even the most glorious warfare. But never until the reign of Victoria were its blessings thus recognised and thus celebrated, after they had been uninterruptedly enjoyed for upwards of a quarter of a century. Who then, among the thousands assembled around our Sovereign in that eventful scene, but felt his joy heightened by gratitude, that his lot had been cast in these happy days.

It was a proud day for Queen Victoria, for her Illustrious Consort, for all who had had "art or part" in the great work so happily conceived, so admirably executed. And we would add (even at the risk of reminding our readers of Dennis' energetic claim, "That's my Thunder!") that it was also a proud day for all who, like ourselves, desire to promote intercommunication between men of the same pursuits,—to bring them together in a spirit, not of envious rivalry, but of generous emulation,—to make their powers, faculties, and genius subservient to the common welfare of mankind. In our humble way we have striven earnestly to perform our share in this great mission; and although in the Crystal Palace cottons may take the place of comments, steam-engines of Shakspeare, the palpable creations of the sculptor of the super-sensual imaginings of the poet, the real of the ideal,—still the GREAT EXHIBITION OF THE INDUSTRY OF ALL NATIONS is, in more senses than one, merely a MONSTER NUMBER OF "Notes and Queries." So palpable, indeed, is this similarity, that, if the long-talked-of Order of Civil Merit should be instituted, (and certainly there was never a more fitting moment than the present for so honouring the cultivators of the peaceful arts), we make no doubt that "Notes and Queries" will not be forgotten. Should our prophecy be fulfilled, we need scarcely remind our readers of Captain Cuttle's injunction and our Motto.

And here, talking of prophecy, we would, first reminding our readers how, in the olden time, the Poet and the Prophet were looked upon as identical, call their attention to the following vision of our Queen in her Crystal Palace, which met the eye when in "fine phrensy rolling" of the Father of English Poetry, as he has recorded in his House of Fame. Had Chaucer attended the opening of the Exhibition as "Our own Reporter," could his description have been more exact?

THE TEMPLE Y-MADE OF GLAS.

A Prevision by Dan Chaucer, A.D. 1380.

Now hearken every manir man

That English understandè can,

And listeth to my dreme to here,

For nowe at erst shall ye lere:

O thought, that wrote al that I met

And in the tresorie it set

Of my braine, nowe shall men see

If any vertue in thee bee

To tellen al my dreme aright

Nowe kithe thy engine and thy might!

* * * * * *

But, as I slept, me mette I was

Within a temple ymade of glas,

In which there were mo images

Of gold, standing in sundry stages,

Sette in mo rich tabernacles,

And with perrie mo pinnacles,

And mo curious portraitures,

And queint manner of figures

Of gold worke, than I saw ever.

But all the men that been on live

Ne han the conning to descrive

The beaute of that ilke place,

Ne couden casten no compace

Soch another for to make,

That might of beauty be his make;

Ne so wonderly ywrought,

That it astonieth yet my thought,

And maketh all my witte to swinke

On this castel for to thinke,

So that the wondir great beautie

Caste, crafte, and curiositie,

Ne can I not to you devise,

My witte ne may not me suffise;

But nathelesse all the substaunce

I have yet in my remembraunce,

For why? Me thoughtin, by saint Gile,

All was of stone of berile,

Bothe the castel and the toure,

And eke the hall, and every boure;

Without peeces or joynings,

But many subtell compassings,

As barbicans and pinnacles,

Imageries and tabernacles;

I saw, and ful eke of windowes

As flakes fallen in great snowes;

And eke in each of the pinnacles

Weren sundry habitacles.

When I had seene all this sight

In this noble temple thus,

Hey, Lord, thought I, that madest us,

Yet never saw I such noblesse

Of images, nor such richesse

As I see graven in this church,

But nought wote I who did them worche,

Yet certaine as I further passe,

I wol you all the shape devise.

Yet I ententive was to see,

And for to poren wondre low,

If I could anywise yknow

What manner stone this castel was:

For it was like a limed glas,

But that it shone full more clere,

But of what congeled matere

It was, I n' iste redely,

But at the last espied I,

And found that it was every dele

A thing of yse and not of stele:

Thought I, "By Saint Thomas of Kent,

This were a feeble foundement

To builden on a place so hie;

He ought him little to glorifie

That hereon bilte, God so me save."

But, Lord, so faire it was to shewe,

For it was all with gold behewe:

Lo, how should I now tell all this,

Ne of the hall eke what need is?

But in I went, and that anone,

There met I crying many one

"A larges, a larges, hold up well!

God save the Lady of this pell!

Our owne gentill Lady Fame

And hem that willen to have a name."

For in this lustie and rich place

All on hie above a deis

Satte in a see imperiall

That made was of rubie royall

A feminine creature

That never formed by nature

Was soche another one I saie:

For alderfirst, soth to saie,

Me thought that she was so lite

That the length of a cubite

Was lenger than she seemed to be;

* * * * * *

Tho was I ware at the last

As mine eyen gan up cast

That this ilke noble queene

On her shoulders gan sustene

Both the armes and the name

Of tho that had large fame.

And thus found I sitting this goddesse

In noble honour and richesse

Of which I stinte a while now

Other thing to tellen you.

But Lord the perrie and the richesse,

I saw sitting on the goddesse,

And the heavenly melodie

Of songes full of armonie

I heard about her trone ysong

That all the palais wall rong.

Tho saw I standen hem behind

A farre from hem, all by hemselve

Many a thousand times twelve,

That made loud minstralcies,

In conemuse and shalmies,

And many another pipe,

That craftely began to pipe.

And Pursevauntes and Heraudes

That crien riche folkes laudes,

It weren, all and every man

Of hem, as I you tellen can,

Had on him throwe a vesture

Which men clepe a coate armure.

Then saw I in anothir place,

Standing in a large space,

Of hem that maken bloudy soun,

In trumpet, beme, and clarioun.

Then saw I stande on thother side

Streight downe to the doores wide,

From the deis many a pillere

Of metall, that shone not full clere,

But though ther were of no richesse

Yet were they made for great noblesse.

There saw I, and knew by name

That by such art done, men have fame.

There saw I Coll Tragetour

Upon a table of sicamour

Play an uncouth thing to tell,

I saw him carry a wind-mell

Under a walnote shale.

Then saw I sitting in other sees,

Playing upon sundrie other glees,

Of which I n' ill as now not rime,

For ease of you and losse of time,

For time ylost, this know ye,

By no way may recovered be.

What should I make longer tale?

Of all the people that I sey

I could not tell till domisdey.

Then gan I loke about and see

That there came entring into the hall

A right great company withall,

And that of sondry regions

Of all kind of condicions

That dwelle in yearth under the Moone,

Poore and riche; and all so soone

As they were come into the hall

They gan on knees doune to fall

Before this ilke noble queene.

"Madame," sayd they, "we bee

Folke that here besechen thee

That thou graunt us now good fame,

And let our workes have good name;

In full recompensacioun

Of good worke, give us good renoun."

And some of hem she graunted sone,

And some she warned well and faire,

And some she graunted the contraire.

Now certainly I ne wist how,

Ne where that Fame dwelled or now,

Ne eke of her descripcion,

Ne also her condicion,

Ne the order of her dome

Knew I not till I hider come.

* * * * * *

At the last I saw a man,

Which that I nought ne can,

But he semed for to bee,

A man of great auctoritie

And therewithall I abraide,

Out of my slepe halfe afraide,

Remembring well what I had sene,

And how hie and farre I had bene

In my gost, and had great wonder

Of that the God of thonder

Had let me knowen, and began to write

Like as you have herd me endite,

Wherefore to study and rede alway,

I purpose to do day by day.

Thus in dreaming and in game,

Endeth this litell booke of Fame.

We are indebted for this interesting communication to our correspondent A. E. B., whose admirable Illustrations of Chaucer in our columns have given so much pleasure to the admirers of the old poet. Our correspondent has sent it to us in the hope that it may be made available in helping forward the good work of restoring Chaucer's tomb. We trust it will. The Committee who have undertaken that task could, doubtless, raise the hundred pounds required, by asking those who have already come forward to help them, to change their Crown subscriptions into Pounds. With a right feeling for what is due to the poet, they prefer, however, accomplishing the end they have in view by small contributions from the admiring many, rather than by larger contributions from the few. As we doubt not we number among the readers of "Notes and Queries" many admirers of

"Old Dan Chaucer, in whose gentle spright,

The pure well-head of poetry did dwell,"

to them we appeal, that the monument which was erected by the affectionate respect of Nicholas Brigham, nearly three centuries ago, may not in our time be permitted to crumble into dust; reminding them, in Chaucer's own beautiful language,

"That they are gentle who do gentle dedes."

NOTES.

ON "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL."

I resume the subject commenced in the comments on "a Passage in Marmion," printed in No. 72., March 15, 1851; and I here propose to consider the groundwork and mechanism of the most original, though not quite the first production of Scott's muse, The Lay of the Last Minstrel. In the Introduction prefixed to this poem, nearly thirty years after its publication, Sir Walter Scott informs the world that the young Countess of Dalkeith, much interested and delighted with the wild Border tradition of the goblin called "Gilpin Horner" (which is given at length in the notes appended to the poem), enjoined on him the task of composing a ballad on the subject:

"And thus" (says Sir Walter) "the goblin story objected to by several critics as an excrescence upon the poem, was, in fact, the occasion of its being written."

Yes, and more than this; for, strange as it may appear to those who have not critically and minutely attempted to unravel the very artful and complicated plot of this singular poem, the Goblin Page is, as it were, the key-note to the whole composition, the agent through whose instrumentality the fortunes of the house of Branksome are built up anew by the pacification of ancient feud, and the union of the fair Margaret with Henry of Cranstoun. Yet, so deeply veiled is the plot, and so intricately contrived the machinery, that I question if this fact be apparent to one reader out of a thousand; and assuredly it has never been presented to my view by any one of the critics with whose comments I have become acquainted.

The Aristarchus of the Edinburgh Review, Mr. Jeffrey, who forsooth thought fit to regard the new and original creations of a mighty and inventive genius "as a misapplication, in some degree, of very extraordinary talents," and "conceived it his duty to make one strong effort to bring back the great apostle of this (literary) heresy to the wholesome creed of his instructor," seems not to have penetrated one inch below the surface. In his opinion "the Goblin Page is the capital deformity of the poem," "a perpetual burden to the poet and to the readers," "an undignified and improbable fiction, which excites neither terror, admiration, nor astonishment, but needlessly debases the strain of the whole work, and excites at once our incredulity and contempt."

Perhaps so, to the purblind vision of a pedantic formalist; but, nevertheless, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, that poem, whose varied imagery and vivid originality, combined with all its other beauties, have been, and ever will be, the delight and admiration of its readers, could not exist without this so-called "capital deformity." This I shall undertake to demonstrate, and in so doing to prove the "capital absurdity" of such criticism as I have cited.

Let us therefore begin with the beginning. The widowed Lady of Branksome, brooding over the outrage which had deprived her husband of life, meditates only vengeance upon all the parties concerned in this affray. The lovely Lady Margaret wept in wild despair, for her lover had stood in arms against her father's clan:

"And well she knew, her mother dread,

Before Lord Cranstoun she should wed,

Would see her on her dying bed."

The first Canto of the poem contains that singular episode, when—

"(The Ladye) sits in secret bower

In old Lord David's western tower,

And listens to a heavy sound

That moans the mossy turrets round," &c.

"From the sound of Teviot's tide

Chafing with the mountain side,

&c. &c.

The Ladye knew it well!

It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke,

And he called on the Spirit of the Fell."

And when the River Spirit asks concerning the fair Margaret, who had mingled her tears with his stream:

"What shall be the maiden's fate?

Who shall be the maiden's mate?"

the Mountain Spirit replies, that, amid the clouds and mist which veil the stars,—

"Ill may I read their high decree:

But no kind influence deign they shower

On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower,

Till pride be quelled, and love be free."

I must here transcribe the following Section xviii.:

"The unearthly voices ceased,

And the heavy sound was still;

It died on the river's breast,

It died on the side of the hill.

But round Lord David's tower,

The sound still floated near,

For it rung in the Ladye's bower,

And it rung in the Ladye's ear,

She raised her stately head,

And her heart throbbed high with pride:

'Your mountains shall bend,

And your streams ascend,

Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride!'"

In pursuance of this stern resolution, "the Ladye sought the lofty hall" where her retainers were assembled:

"And from amid the armed train

She called to her William of Deloraine."

She then gives him the commission, well remembered by every reader, to proceed on that night to Melrose Abbey to unclose the grave of Michael

Scott, and to rifle it of the magical volume which was accessible only on St. Michael's night, at the precise moment when the rays of the moon should throw the reflexion of the red cross emblazoned in the eastern oriel upon the wizard's monumental stone,—expecting that the possession of this "Book of Might" would enable her to direct the destiny of her daughter according to the dictates of her own imperious nature. "Dîs aliter visum." Fate and Michael Scott had willed it otherwise. And here I must beg my readers to take notice that this far-famed wizard, Michael Scott, although dead and buried, is supposed still to exert his influence from the world of spirits as the guardian genius of the house of Buccleuch; and he had been beforehand with the Ladye of Branksome in providing Henry of Cranstoun with one of his familiar spirits, in the shape of the Goblin Page, by whose agency alone (however unconscious the subordinate agent may be) a chain of events is linked together which results in the union of the two lovers. After this parenthesis I resume the thread of the narrative.

Deloraine rides to Melrose in the night, presents himself to the Monk of St. Mary's aisle, opens the sepulchre of the wizard, and presumes to take

"From the cold hand the Mighty Book,"

in spite of the ominous frown which darkened the countenance of the dead. He remounts his steed and wends his way homeward

"As the dawn of day

Began to brighten Cheviot gray;"

while the aged monk, having performed the last duty allotted to him in his earthly pilgrimage, retired to his cell and breathed his last in prayer and penitence before the cross.

Ere Deloraine could reach his journey's end, he encounters a feudal foeman in the person of Lord Cranstoun, attended by his Goblin Page, who is here first introduced to the reader. A conflict takes place, and Deloraine being struck down wounded and senseless, is left by his adversary to the charge of this elf, who in stripping off his corslet espied the "Mighty Book." With the curiosity of an imp he opens the iron-clasped volume by smearing the cover with the blood of the knight, and reads ONE SPELL, and one alone, by permission; for

"He had not read another spell,

When on his cheek a buffet fell,

So fierce, it stretched him on the plain

Beside the wounded Deloraine.

From the ground he rose dismayed,

And shook his huge and matted head;

One word he muttered, and no more,

'Man of age, thou smitest sore!'

&c. &c.

Now, if you ask who gave the stroke,

I cannot tell, so mot I thrive—

It was not given by man alive."

But he had read sufficient for the purposes of his mission, and we shall see how he applies the knowledge so marvellously acquired.

By the glamour of this spell he was empowered to make one thing assume the form of another.

"It had much of glamour might,

Could make a ladye seem a knight;

The cobwebs on a dungeon wall,

Seem tapestry in a lordly hall,"

&c. &c.

The first use he makes of his power is to convey the wounded knight, laid across his weary horse, into Branksome Hall

"Before the beards of the warders all;

And each did after swear and say,

There only passed a wain of hay."

Having deposited him at the door of the Ladye's bower, he repasses the outer court, and finding the young chief at play, entices him into the woods under the guise to him of a "comrade gay."

"Though on the drawbridge, the warders stout,

Saw a terrier and a lurcher passing out;"

and, leading him far away "o'er bank and fell," well nigh frightens the fair boy to death by resuming his own elvish shape.