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Updated: June 16, 2025
The sooner the two poisoned lads recover the better, of course; yet the Benedictio Mensae need not remain unsung on account of their heedlessness, for little Hannibal showed me the best substitute." This promise flowed from Wolf's lips with such joyous confidence that the grave musician's sombre face brightened; but it swiftly darkened again, and he exclaimed, "We don't give such hasty work!"
"Iliad of rivers!" exclaimed my friend. "Yet unsung!" The Hudson must take a back seat now, and a good way back. One of the two or three great watercourses of the globe is before you. No other river, I imagine, carries such a volume of pure cold water to the sea. Nearly all its feeders are trout and salmon streams, and what an airing and what a bleaching it gets on its course!
Not front pages whose glaring headlines flaunted world-rumblings, politics, and the illness of rich men's dogs, but tiny cable-whispers from places far from the beaten track, places forgotten or unknown, whose very names breathed mystery; whispers that hinted briefly of life-tragedies, of action and the unsung deeds of men. And as she read, she mused.
Those angelic old men and old ladies have nearly all been immortalized in stories and songs, and the unsung remainder have nerves and notions and rheumatism and tongues sharpened by all the disappointments and sorrows of their long lives.
Rubrick mentioned some curious particulars, which reminded Waverley of a rhyme quoted By Edgar in KING LEAR; and Rose was called upon to sing a little legend, in which they had been interwoven by some village poet, Who, noteless as the race from which he sprung, Saved others' names, but left his own unsung.
The white stairs, the deep crimson of the carpet, and the light blue of the dress made an effective combination of colour to set off the delicate carnation of that face, which, after the first glance given to the whole person, drew irresistibly your gaze to itself by an indefinable quality of charm beyond all analysis and made you think of remote races, of strange generations, of the faces of women sculptured on immemorial monuments and of those lying unsung in their tombs.
The country, however, keeps its first purity of charm, a country of little hills and little valleys lined with little quick rivers. These beauties, indeed, have not gone unsung. Years ago a woman poet eased her heart of ecstasies about this Little Country.
For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung."
"In mortal court his deeds are not unsung, Such as a noble man mill show to men, Till all doth flit away, both life and light." A greater scop, looking at life through Saxon eyes, sings: "We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep." We must imagine the scop recalling vivid experiences to our early ancestors with this song of the sea:
There is no Goswell Street now, but Goswell Road a very noisy, clattering thoroughfare. Another remark to be made is this: how much do we owe to the vivifying power of Boz's descriptions of these old Towns, Inns, and Streets? The ordinary provincial town unsung and undescribed by him remains what it is and nothing more.
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