To raise the ceiling's fretted height *, Each pannel in achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages, that lead to nothing. Full oft within the spacious walls, When he had fifty winters o'er him, The seals and maces danced before him. His bushy beard, and shoestrings green, His high crown'd hat and satin doublet, What, in the very first beginning! Shame of the versifying tribe! Huntingdon, and to the family of Hatton. On the death of Lady Cobham, 1760, the estate was purchased from her executors by the late Hon. Thomas Penn, Lord Proprietary of Pennsylvania: his son, the present John Penn, Esq. finding the interior of the ancient mansion in a state of considerable decay, it was taken down in the year 1789, with the exception of a wing, which was preserved, partly for the sake of its effect as a ruin, harmonizing with the churchyard, the poet's house, and the surrounding scenery. *The style of building called Queen Elizabeth's is here admirably described, both with regard to its beauties and defects; the third and fourth stanzas delineate the fantastic manners of the time with equal truth and humour. + Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing. Brawls were figure-dances then in fashion. A house there is (and that's enough), But rustling in their silks and tissues. The first came cap-a-pee from France*, The other amazon † kind heaven Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire; But Cobham had the polish given, And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature. To celebrate her eyes, her air— Coarse panegyrics would but tease her, Melissa is her "nom de guerre." Alas, who would not wish to please her! With bonnet blue and capuchine, And aprons long, they hid their armour; And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen, In pity to the country farmer. Fame, in the shape of Mr. Purt‡, (By this time all the parish know it) Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd A wicked imp they call a poet: *The Lady's husband, Sir Luke Schaub, had been ambassador at Paris some years before. + Miss Harriet Speed, Lady C.'s relation, afterwards married to the Count de Viry, Sardinian Envoy at the court of London. The Rev. Mr. Purt. tutor to the Duke of Bridgwater, then at Eton school. Who prowl'd the country far and near, Swore by her coronet and ermine, The heroines undertook the task, Through lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventured †, Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask, But bounce into the parlour enter'd. The trembling family they daunt, They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt, And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle: Each hole and cupboard they explore, Run hurry-skurry round the floor, ; * Henry the Fourth, in the fourth year of his reign, issued out the following commission against this species of vermin ;"And it is enacted, that no master-rimour, minstrel, or other vagabond, be in any wise sustained in the land of Wales to make commoiths, or gatherings upon the people there." + The walk from Stoke old mansion, to the house occupied by the poet's family, is peculiarly retired. The house is the property of Captain Salter, and it has belonged to his family for many generations. It is a charming spot for a summer residence, but has undergone great alterations and improvements since Gray gave it up in 1758. Into the drawers and china pry, Papers and books, a huge imbroglio! Under a teacup he might lie *, Or, creased, like dog's-ears, in a folio. On the first marching of the troops, So rumour says: (who will, believe?) *There is a very great similarity between the style of part of this poem, and Prior's Tale of the Dove :' as for instance in the following stanzas, which Gray must have had in his mind at the time. "With one great peal they rap the door, Like footmen on a visiting day: Folks at her house at such an hour, Lord! what will all the neighbours say? "Her keys he takes, her door unlocks, Through wardrobe and through closet bounces, Peeps into every chest and box, Turns all her furbelows and flounces. "I marvel much, she smiling said, Or may be in the tea-pot drown'd." Short was his joy. He little knew The words too eager to unriddle, So cunning was the apparatus, The powerful pot-hooks did so move him That, will he, nill he, to the great house, He went, as if the devil drove him. Yet on his way (no sign of grace, For folks in fear are apt to pray) To Phoebus he preferr'd his case, And begg'd his aid that dreadful day. The godhead would have back'd his quarrel; But with a blush, on recollection, Own'd that his quiver and his laurel 'Gainst four such eyes were no protection. The court was sat, the culprit there, Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping, The lady Janes and Joans repair, And from the gallery † stand peeping: * The note which the ladies left upon the table. The music-gallery, which overlooked the hall. |