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I love no roast, says John Still, in "Gammer Gurton's Needle," "I love no rost, but a nut-browne torte, And a crab layde in the fyre; A lytle bread shall do me stead, Much bread I not desire." In the bibulous days of Shakespeare, the peg tankard, a species of wassail or wish-health bowl, was still in use.
As for the little 'nut-browne mayd' who studied destiny in the fire, she merely glanced up at him in answer to this appeal; and with a shake of the head as if fairy tales and he were indeed hopelessly disconnected, returned to her musings. Then suddenly burst forth 'I am so puzzled about the colour of my new travelling dress!
She teased him, and Gotham bore it mastiff-wise; shaking his head, and wincing, and when he could bear it no longer going off. Wych Hazel? yes, she was that. And how did she win her name? Well, in the first place, "the nut-browne mayd" and she were near of kin.
Spence Watson, "I am sorry for you!" The "Nut-browne Mayde" is supposed to have been a Lady Margaret Percy, who lived in the reign of Henry VIII.; and the lover to whom she was so faithful, notwithstanding his trial of her love by declaring that he was an outlaw, and "must to the greenwood go, alone, a banished man," was Henry Clifford, son of the Earl of Westmoreland.
And they found fair lasses, too, in time, who, like Torfrida and Maid Marian, would answer to their warnings against the outlaw life, with the nut-browne maid, that
What an ill compliment to this lovely wood." And the eyes of the "nut-browne mayde" were a little mischievous. John looked preternaturally grave, as he said, "I trust you do not object to my coming?" She smiled so merrily, that his slight haughtiness evaporated like mist before the sunbeams. "I was obliged to startle you by jumping through the bushes; for I heard my own name.
Very soon so soon that our novel position seemed like an adventure out of the Arabian Nights we found ourselves established under the apple-tree, between whose branches the low sun stole in, kissing into red chestnut colour the hair of the "nut-browne mayde," as she sat, bareheaded, pouring into small white china cups that dainty luxury, tea.
For, at the doorway, entering with Mrs. Jessop, was a tall girl in deep mourning. We knew her we both knew her our dream at Enderley our Nut-browne Mayde. John was near to the door their eyes met. She bowed he returned it. He was very pale. For Miss March, her face and neck were all in a glow. Neither spoke, nor offered more than this passing acknowledgment, and she moved on.
I love no roast, says John Still, in "Gammer Gurton's Needle," "I love no rost, but a nut-browne torte, And a crab layde in the fyre; A lytle bread shall do me stead, Much bread I not desire." In the bibulous days of Shakespeare, the peg tankard, a species of wassail or wish-health bowl, was still in use.
It was very beautiful to see what a demure, soft, meek matronliness had come over the high spirit of the "Nut-browne Mayde." "May I read?" she said, peeping over him. "Of course you may, little one." A comical pet name for him to give her, who was anything but small. I could have smiled, remembering the time when John Halifax bowed to the stately and dignified young gentlewoman who stood at Mrs.