London Pride, Or, When the World Was YoungerBraddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
History
London Pride, Or, When the World Was Younger
Braddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
Great Britain -- History -- Charles II, 1660-1685 -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction
Whatever Sir Denzil’s ideas might be upon the question of creed—and he
did not scruple to tell Angela that he thought every Papist foredoomed
to everlasting punishment—he showed so much pleasure in her society as
to be at Chilton Abbey, and the sharer of her walks and rides, as often
as possible. Lady Fareham encouraged his visits, and was always
gracious to him. She discovered that he possessed the gift of music,
though not in the same remarkable degree as Henri de Malfort, who
played the guitar exquisitely, and into whose hands you had but to put
a musical instrument for him to extract sweetness from it. Lute or
theorbo, viola or viol di gamba, treble or bass, came alike to his hand
and ear. Some instruments he had studied; with some his skill came by
intuition.
Denzil Warner performed very creditably upon the organ. He had played
on John Milton’s organ in St. Bride’s Church, when he was a boy, and he
had played of late in the church at Chalfont St. Giles, where he had
visited Milton frequently, since the poet had left his lodgings in
Artillery Walk, carrying his family and his books to that sequestered
village in the shelter of the hills between Uxbridge and Beaconsfield.
Here from the lips of his sometime tutor the Puritan had heard such
stories of the Court as made him hourly expectant of exterminating
fires. Doubtless the fire would have come, as it came upon Sodom and
Gomorrah, but for those righteous lives of the Nonconformists, which
redeemed the time; quiet, god-fearing lives in dull old city houses, in
streets almost as narrow as those which Milton remembered in his
beloved Italy; streets where the sun looked in for an hour, shooting
golden arrows down upon the diamond-paned casements, and deepening the
shadow of the massive timbers that held up the overlapping stories,
looked in and bade “good night” within an hour or so, leaving an
atmosphere of sober grey, cool, and quiet, and dull, in those obscure
streets and alleys where the great traffic of Cheapside or Ludgate
sounded like the murmur of a far-off sea.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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