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proceeds on the false theory, which has been so often applied to poetry and the Fine Arts, that the whole is not made up of the particulars. If our author, according to Dr. Johnson's account of him, could only have treated epic, high-sounding subjects, he would not have been what he was, but another Sir Richard Blackmore.—I may conclude with observing, that I have
often wished that Milton had lived to see the Revolution of 1688. This would have been a triumph worthy of him, and which he would have earned by faith and hope. He would then have been old, but would not have lived in vain to see it, and might have celebrated the event in one more undying strain !
MILK AND HONEY, OR THE LAND OF PROMISE.
Miss SABRINA BARROW to Miss FANNY FADE.
Reminiscences of Ring-dropping.–“ Parcius junctas quatiunt fenestras.”
Lady Harriot Butler and Miss Ponsonby.- Emperor Charles.- Invocations to American Independence.—Bohea and Souchong.--Generals Washington and Burgoyne.-Niagara - Lord Cornwallis. -Colossus at Rhodes-American Authors.—Mr. Southey's Fingers.- Belzoni in a Boat.-The Bonassus.-Titans in Type.-Eastbourne and Kirk, booksellers.-Parr's Wig.---Liberty Hall.-Literature neat as imported.-London Booksellers. ---Poets at Wapping.
My gentle co-partner, astride on a Muse,
To charge Phæbus' heights, at the head of the Blues ;
Who, with thy Sabrina, the beaten church path,
A summer at Brighton, a winter at Bath,
An autumu at Tunbridge, ring-tilting, hast trod,
By the will-o'-wisp light of the torch-bearing god :
Since suitors more sparingly tap at our windows,
And Cupid cares for us no more than a pin does,
And man, fickle man, is as false as Iscariot:
Let me be Miss Ponsonby, thee Lady Harriot :
Like them, fly from Paphos, its scandals and snarls,
Abjuring two crowns, like the Emperor Charles,
And smile, like two mariners tost upon dry land-
But first read this letter; it comes from York Island..
The first thing I did, at New York, was to stop
At the door of a well-looking bookseller's shop.
Oh realm," I exclaim'd to myself, “proudly free,
Who, in seventy-five, spurn’d the tax on bohea,
Who, led on by Washington, sounded the gong
Of Mars, with the war cry of Death or souchong ;'
Who plus in adversity, minus in coin,
Yet caught in a trap the
Bade loud Niagara repeat war's alarms,
And forced Lord Cornwallis to lay down his arms.
Now striding o'er seas, like the giant of Rhodes,
Of whom there's a very good likeness at Coade's,
In arts, as in arms, thou art doubtless full grown,
And happy in verse and in prose of thine own.
Some females are thine, who, with quill Aleet as Gurney's,
Out-publish our Edgeworths, and Opies, and Burneys;
Some western Sir Walters, some quakers in drab,
Who write home-heroics much better than Crabbe ;
Some Southeys whose fingers no blisters environ,
Not having yet handled a red-hot Lord Byron ;
Some Anna Marias, like her of Thames Ditton :
I wonder their names never reach'd us in Britain.
Ye bards, who stalk over these mountainous glebes,
With heads twice as big as young Memnon's at Thebes,
(Which cost brave Belzoni, who went in a boat,
Such trouble and money to set it afloat :)
Ye poets, whose Pegasi galloping pass us,
As big and as bluff as the London Bonassus;
Ye Brobdignags, trampling our Lilliput tribes,
Atlantic sky-proppers, Leviathan scribes,
Goliahs in print; how I long for your works”—
So saying, I stept into Eustlourne and Kirk's.
The man of the shop, in a buzz wig like Parr's,
Sat kicking the counter and smoaking cigars :
He saw us approach, with a gape and a stare,
But never once ofler'd to reach me a chair.
Papa, as, astonish’d, I drew on my shawl,
Said, “Never mind, child, this is Liberty-hall.”
To all my objections this hint put a stop:
But, Fanny, the next time I go to a shop,
With Liberty parlour I mean to make bold,
For Liberty-hall is uncommonly cold.
I civilly said, “ If you please, Mr. Kirk,
I wani some good native American work.”
“ Good native !” he cried with a grin, “ yonder rows,
you all I have got; look at those.”
I felt as amazed, when I look'd at their backs,
As if you had chopp'd off my head with an axe !
Ye Colburns, ye Murrays, whose wares glide so fleet
From your counters in Conduit and Albemarle Street ;
Ye Rivington brothers, ye Longmans, whose Co.
Would reach, if pull’d out, half the length of “the Row,"
Suspend for a while, what ye part with at high rates,
Your Sardanapali, your Cains and your Pirates,
And list, while my Muse is obliged to consess
What springs from this native American press,
The Shipwreck by Falconer, Poems by Tickell,
Swift's Lemuel Gulliver, Peregrine Pickle,
Tom Brown, The Old Bachelor, Brodum on Chyle,
Moll Flanders, Charles Phillips's Emerald Isle,
Hugh Trevor, Theatrical Album, Tighe's Psyche,
The Bruiser, or Memoirs of Pig, christen'd Ei Key,
Little Jack, George Ann Bellamy, Fielding's Tom Jones,
The Family Shakspeare cut down from Malone's;
Hunt's Radical Coffee, or Dregs at the Top,
Webbe Hall's hint to Farmers to look to their crop,
John Bunyan, Wat Tyler, and Hone's Slap at Slop!
“What?” cried I amazed, “have you no bards who court
The Muse ?”-“ No, not one; what we want we import.
At present we think of pounds, shillings, and pence,
Time enough for Belles Lettres a hundred years hence :
Our people, I guess, have employment enough
In cocoa, rum, cotton, tobacco and snuff,
In digging, land-clearing, board-sawing, log-chopping-
Pray how inany poets have you got at Wapping
MR. RICHARD BARROW to Mr. Robert Briggs.
CONTENTS. Farther Specimens of Fancy Rhetoric. — America angry, and why:- Affecting
Memoir of Major André.–Tom Pipes and Peregrine Pickle.-Dis-interment of Paine by Cobbett.- Quotation from King Lear.--By-standers in dudgeon.Cobbett's Reasons satisfactory.—The Tyrant Mezentius.–Fashion spreads.-London Radicals disinter each other.-American Tax upon Grave-digging.— Its financial Effects.
BOB, Jonathan's queer : he is mizzled a ration,
He does not half stomach a late ex-humation ;
Some culls, here, have taken to grubbing the clay
That tucks up the body of Major André.
resurrectionists, that is not very
Unusual, who dig up as fast as you bury,
And charge iron coffins the devil's own fee-
(Lord Stowel there buried the
But here, Bob, the gubies have not come to that.
Would you fancy it? Jonathan's yet
such a flat
As to think, when a corpse has been waked by a train
Of mourners, 'tis wisked to wake it again.
Methinks you're for asking me who André was?
(Book-learning and you, Bob, ar'n't cronies, that's pos.)
Ì'll tell you. André, urged by arguments weighty,
Went out to New York, Anno Domini 80.
He quitted the land of his fathers to bleed
In war, all along of his love for Miss Sneyd ;
But, finding his name not enroll'd in a high line
Of rank for promotion, he took to the Spy-line.
He sew'd in his stocking a letter from Arnold:
A sentinel nabV'd it—why didn't the darn hold?
Or why, when he stitch'd it up, did not he put
The letter between his sole-leather and foot?
By mashing it, then, he had 'scaped all disaster,
As Pipes mash'd the letter of Pickle his master.
Within the lines taken, a prisoner brought off,
They troubled him with a line more than he thought of;
For, finding the young man's dispatches not trim,
To shorten my story, Bob, they dispatch'd hiin.
He long might have slept—with the ci-devant crew,
As soundly as here other buried men do ;
But fashion, as somebody says on the stage,
In words and in periwigs will have her rage.
The notion of bringing dead people away
Began upon Paine, and went on to André:
The Yankees thought Cobbett was digging for dils,
But when out he trundled a thigh-bone and ribs,
They did not half like it : and cried with a groan,
“ Since poor Tom's a-cold, why not leave him alone?”-
“ I mean, Sirs,” said Cobbett, who stood on the bank,
“ To také Mister Paine, in a box, to Sir Frank;
'Twill shew that I'm not quite unworthy of trust,
For this way, at least, I can down with the dust.
I next mean to ask of “The Powers that be,'
To let Tom go home, as he fled, duly-free,
And pick John Bull's heart by a skeleton key.
Thus England may for her past errors atone,
By making America bone of her bone.”
This argument told: cheek-by-jowl off they sped,
Like the friends of Mezentius, one living, one dead.
The Fashion 's afloat; and, now, stop it who can!
Your Liberty bucks will be loned to a man.
Already young Watson's for digging up Priestley,
Which Sabby and Lyddy denominate beastly,
Sir Bob, of the Borough, has learnt the spade's art right,
To dig up, at Midsuinmer, old Major Cartwright.
How sharp after Waithman looks Alderman Wood!
And Waithman, I know, would have Wood if he could.
Sir Francis, at Putney, will scratch like a rook,
In the field where he doubled-up Johnny Horne Tooke.
Gale Jones has an eye to Hone's carcase, and Hone's
Quite on the qui vive for a dig at Gale Jones,
Who's “ not by no means” in a hurry to rise,
Remembering the adage—"Lie still if you 're wise."
And Wooller, with pick-axes, cracking his shell-wall,
Will nab the quid restat of Lecturer Thelwall.
Church-yards will be 'tatoe-fields—two-pence a pound:
They won't leave a radical plant under ground.
For my part, I don't like the scheme, Mr. Briggs,
I'll tell it to Congress : I will, please the pīgs.
To nien of my gumption, you can't think how sad 's
The thought of this grand resurrection of Rads;
For if all the great dead-wigs thus bolt from below,
Who knows what may happen, when you and I go?
prove that a tax upon bones will atone For the tax on new rum, at a dollar a bone. Nay, I hope they'll extend it to mattock and spade, And make resurrection a contraband trade. The Act, when once past, by Dick Barrow's assistance, Will make you rum customers,“ keep your yard's distance,” From live or dead nuisances keep the coast clear, And dub it “ not lawful to shoot rubbish here."
“ Perchè con sì sottile acuto raggio." Why com'st thou, Cynthia, with thine eyes of light
To pry into the darkness of the grové,
Where, placed with me beneath the beech, my love
Sits in the welcome shadow of the night?
Perhaps offended at thy shepherd's slight,
Whose loitering steps for thee too slowly niove,
Here dost thou seek him from thy realms above, And hovering in the heaven suspend'st thy flight. If thus thou fear'st this stolen embrace of mine,
Vain is the foolish terror that alarms, Deeming me him who fired that breast divine
Not for Endymion from these circling arms Would Phillis move, nor I my love resign
For thee, with all thy more than mortal charms.
« The waies through which my weary steps I guide,
Are sprinckled with such sweet variety
Of all that pleasant is to eare or eye,
That I, nigh ravisht with rare thoughts delight,
My tedious travell doe forget thereby :
And when I'gin to feele decay of might,
It strength to me supplies, and chears my dullied spright.”
No one feels a keener enjoyment than I do in a rich and beautiful country, of corn-fields, woods, meadows, and gentle rivers, ' where every tree and every blade of grass attains its full luxuriant growth ; but to wander among bleak and barren mountains is, “all the world to nothing,” to me a greater pleasure. Here my
feet my knapsack never heavy." He must be dull indeed who cannot acknowledge the influence of these gigantic scenes.
With such a man, an Epic would be but a tedious waste of words ;-let him sit, with a ballad of his own rhyming, under a peacock-shaped box-tree, and go sleep.
My visits have hitherto been paid to the British mountains only; but those I thoroughly know.
The best months in three summers have been devoted to them, and I have walked among them as many thousand miles. Switzerland is to come next; but Switzerland, I fear, will not be to my taste so much as Norway. North Wales, with its uniformity of outline and monotony of colour, rather disappointed me. The vales and the lakes of Cumberland, and the Highland glens and lochs, are my favourites. Were I asked to which I owed a preference, I would say, without hesitation, to the latter. The Highlands are on a mightier scale : they excel in wildness and sublimity. There a traveller is the worse for a companion: he wants to commune with none but his own soul; the awful wonders occupy his mind to fulness; his thoughts are solemn, and must not be distracted. On the other hand, our English lakes surpass them in brilliancy and beauty. While strolling on their banks, I have wished for a friend at my side to join in my pleasures, to point out new charms in the scene, and observe on every thing to which I directed his attention. A man may read Spenser aloud to a party, and perhaps understand him the better; but if he would enjoy Milton, he must ponder over him in silence and solitude. I regretted there was cultivation about Loch Tay, for the wild suits best with the sublime. But at Ulleswater the farmer's work is welcome; without it, the beauty of some points in the view would be lessened. Yet both the Lakes and the Highlands afford me the highest enjoyment, though in a different way: with the former I am captivated, and full of wonder ; with the latter I am astonished, and full of contemplation. This is speaking of them generally; for they sometimes exchange characters, each reminding me of the other, and creating a corresponding sentiment.
It is in vain for those who are unacquainted with mountain scenery to doubt its influence. I have been told that magnitude is nothing, beauty every thing. This is not my creed; besides, may they not meet together? One of these misbelievers (but he will not long be so) once said to me—“Shew me a mountain of any height you please