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قراءة كتاب The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction Volume 14, No. 397, November 7, 1829
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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction Volume 14, No. 397, November 7, 1829
THE MIRROR
OF
LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
| Vol. XIV. No. 397.] | SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1829. | [PRICE 2d. |
Burleigh, Northamptonshire.
The above is a view of the grand screen and entrance lodges to Burleigh, or Burghley, the seat of the Cecil family, and now the property of the Marquess of Exeter. The house and principal part of the demesne, are within the parish of Stamford St. Martin, in the church of which are some costly monuments to several eminent persons of the Cecil family; and this estate gave title to William Cecil, Baron Burleigh, in 1570. The park was formed, and the mansion, which is one of the most splendid in the kingdom, was mostly built by the great Lord Treasurer, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and the following inscription, over one of the entrances, within a central court, records the era of this work:—"W. DOM. DE BVRGHLEY, 1577." Beneath the turret is the date of 1585, when some grand additions were made to the mansion; and the above Grand Entrance, towards the north, appears to have been added in 1587. Since these dates, several material alterations and additions have been made by subsequent possessors; and the whole, as a building, with its vast and varied collection of works of art, is one of the most magnificent show-houses in England. The spacious and finely wooded park and large lake are also very fine. The house surrounds a square court, to the east of which is the great hall, kitchen, various domestic offices, with spacious stables, coach-houses, &c.—all indicative of the splendid hospitalities of the Elizabethean age and old English character. The south front commands a fine sloping lawn, with a broad sheet of water, formed by Brown, together with some interesting park-scenery; the western side has nearly the same views, with the advantage of distant objects in Rutlandshire, Lincolnshire, and the spires of Stamford. From the north front the ground gradually slopes to the river Welland. A complete list of the pictures and valuable curiosities of Burleigh will be found in a Guide published by the ingenious Mr. Drakard, bookseller, of Stamford, as well as in that gentleman's excellent History of Stamford.
About two miles west of Burleigh, are the ruins of Wothorp, or Worthorp House. According to Camden, a mansion of considerable size was erected here by Thomas Cecil, the first Earl of Burleigh, who jocularly said, "he built it only to retire to out of the dust, while his great house at Burleigh was sweeping." After the Restoration the Duke of Buckingham resided here for some years.
THE LION'S ROAR.
(For the Mirror.)
Sad is my grief, and violent my rage,
Furious I knock my head against the rail,
That damns me to this miserable cage;
Fierce as a Jack Tar with his well chew'd tail,
I dash my spittle on the ground, and roar
Loud as the trump to bid us be no more.
I am the doughty, the illustrious beast,
Called Leo, father of the Panther young,
Tho' last begotten, not belov'd the least,
You all know I have a roast beef tongue:
Then, hear my John Bull clamour, hear my shout!
Why, why the d——, roust we all tarn out?
Did I not keep a beef-eater below
To show the ladies to my monarch cave?
I kept a constant levee day of show,
And seldom monarchs so polite behave!
You paid far less for seeing me, I ken,
Than porterage for seeing noble men.
Did I not eat my supper in your presence.
And gnaw the beef bone with a greedy tusk?
Did you not shudder at the marrow's essence,
Not quite so beautiful or sweet as musk?
Did I not ope my lion fauces wider
Than is the difference 'twixt Moore and Ryder?
Then, why the d——?—I'm obliged to swear!
Must we turn out, to grace the monarch's mews,
From the thronged Strand which seemed our native air,
And, where as thick as piety in pews,
We growl'd within our dens, nor hop'd to change,
Nor wish'd, Instead of Exeter, a change.
Sweet lovely corner, neighb'ring the Lyceum,
Lord of whose showy board I used to crow.
Frighting my brethren when folks came to see 'em,
Or cutlery of Mr. Clarke below;
I mourn thee in the King's Mews, Mr. Cross
Get Mr. Southey's muse to sing my loss.
Yes, I am chang'd, like shillings from the Mint
Sent forth to find another one's protection!
Chang'd as palaver which the members print
And do not follow after their election!
Ah! Mr. Cross, your gratitude is low,
You might have ask'd me where I wish'd to go.
Since we have turn'd out, like a minister
Whose day of residence on loaves and fishes,
Finding himself unable to defer,
He offers up, as if 'twere to his wishes;
Listen, tho' lately coming, to my moan,
And then I'll tell you where we should have gone.
The Monkeys should have dwelt in the Arcade,
And join'd their fellows, and their brethren Ape
Sat in the shop where clothes are ready made,
To show how elegant they fit the shape!
The Bears gone westward also, ne'er to range
The city, lest they got upon the Change.
The Tigers, with their talons might have got
A place as blood letters to Dr. Brooks!
The Ounces found themselves a cosy spot
In a confectioner's or pastrycook's,
And yet I question howsoe'er they bake,
That sixteen ounces make not a pound-cake.
And, O, you Elephant!—I beg your pardon!
Dead Chunee! listen to my grave petition,
And take your ivory to Covent Garden;
That they may furnish me a free admission,
And you, you Lynx, you ought to out, and sally
The Winter Theatres, or dark blind alley.
The lovely Zebra, Asia's painted ass,
'Stead of a den, and bed of straw possessor,
Down to old Cambridge should have had a pass,
To fill the office of some wise professor;
Then, had he shown each antiquated quiz,
His Zebra auricles were long as his.
Thus had we all obtained a proper station,
'Twere in one day of happiness to cruise.
And I had never written my vexation
At being palac'd in the Royal Mews.
The reason for which conduct I'm at loss,
O, Mr. Cross, 'tay'nt you, but I am cross.
I really thought thou had'st been much genteeler,
Polite-o was thy grandfather, remember
Thou wert a Merchant Tailor, and a stealer
To school in younger days, in cold December,
Then did thy fingers, shiv'ring like a Russ,
Make thee to feel—thou could'st not feel for us.