And ’tis a house delightful to the fancy, in a very small garden set with a few sombre trees, enlightened with clove-gilly flowers and roses, and box hedges with winding walks among the turf. Within, deep-windowed, with grave and handsome plenishing and great store of books clothing the walls, and all of a sober discretion that bespeaks a gentleman of lineage and parts. And over it towers the cathedral church the which (looking upward) appears to swim in the blue as though native to the skies, and sheds from its mighty bells a voice of warning over the clustering city with every passing hour, for a memento mori.
A place indeed for the feeding of pensive musing and the relishing of the fair-zoned Muses even as in the groves of Academe.
So, business concluded, ’twas the habit of Mr. Delander and myself to sit in the oriel commanding the cathedral and to hold sweet discourse, with a flagon of right Canary between us, and from one of these exchanges sprang my delay.
For he, talking of the writing of the rare Master Ben Jonson, spoke as follows:
“A poet indeed, but sure Mr. Tylliol, being a lover of verse and a trafficker in its niceties, knows we have here in this rude Devonshire a poet—nay, what say I?—the poet of women and flowers and elves that skip by moonlight, with like delights of the phantasy, such as rare Ben or even the rarer Master Shakespeare cannot excel?”
“Lord, sir!” says I. “I stand amazed. I knew it not. Who may the gentleman be?”
“I would not have you think,” he responded, “that this gentleman hath the choir note of our young Milton, nor yet the plenteous invention of Will Shakespeare. ’Tis a country Muse, but exquisite. A muse withal that hath been to town and drest her lovely limbs in lawns and silks, and wears pomander beads in her bosom. A Muse whose blush is claret and cream commingled. And as I said, exquisite. A voice of Castaly.”
“And what does the gentleman in the wilds and what is he?” asked I, a-tip-toe with curiosity, for well you know my passion for these rarities. And hastily I added:
“Hath your honour any taste or relish of his verse at hand to whet my appetite? For with poetry as with manners—from one can all be told.”
He mused a moment smiling, then recited thus: