MILK AND HONEY, OR THE LAND OF PROMISE. LETTER III. MISS LYDIA BARROW TO MISS KITTY BROWN. CONTENTS. "Moving Accidents by Flood."-Neptune enemy to Female Attire. Castle of Он, Kitty! such bawling, such trampling of decks! But the surge has quite ruin'd my white-spotted tippet; Have rotted the fur on my blue leather boots. In short, what with monsters who haul'd my portmanteau Grim figures in trowsers, who quiz our noblesse, And say, when they mean to be certain, they guess; And inns, where the folks, cheek-by-jowl, close their eyes, I'm like Mrs. Jordan, unable to tell If I'm dead or alive, Lady Loverule, or Nell! You and I, arm in arm, ever destined to grapple, When the school, two by two, walk'd on Sunday to Chapel : Who in the same keiro-plast play'd the same tunes, Little dreamt of the day when whole mountains should frown Papa, entre nous, rides a hobby, my dear, And thinks all plain Misters should give him a salam, In vain I cry "Fiddle de dee;" it will fix In his gizzard, and make him as cross as two sticks. He frames and he glazes the wood-cuts of Hone, you How shocking!-Heaven grant that his Majesty may shun But don't let me lose what I meant to express, Before I left England I saw a Princess! She lodges in Fleet-street, next door to Hone's shop- Papa and "The Ex" think her case very hard; Says he to me, "Lyddy, we'll both leave a card; Two Kings are her cousins! girl, hold up your neck; Was at home, and the Chamberlain answer'd him "Yes," A child might have knock'd ine down flat with a feather! Her Highness, sweet soul! made us sit on two chairs, And let us, at once, into all her affairs. She told us, her foes held her there by a capias, She meant, as she told us, to move for her habeas, But has not-perhaps on account of the corpus, For her's, entre nous, is as big as a porpus. She mention'd, with pride, how on last Lord Mayor's-day But own'd, while they dubb'd her the general charmer, It might be because there were no men in armour. Adieu! royal dame, falsely call'd Mrs. Serres, For you and your sire are as like as two cherries ;Farewell, injured daughter of Poniatowski, You soon should be let out if I held the house-key! L. B. LETTER IV. MR. RICHARD BARROW TO MR. ROBERT BRIGGS. CONTENTS. Specimen of FANCY Rhetoric.-Slang, like Madeira, improved by Sea Voyage.- HERE I am right and tight, Bob; pull'd up at New York, How odd! for you know I ail'd nothing at all, When, to grub upon white bait, we row'd to Blackwall: All along of the place: Chelsea Reach? a vile name! Of learning like Sabby: I stole it from Inkle.) : The first thing that posed me was, when I should bob, My stars! how my knowledge-box whizz'd round about! I hav'n't scored up such a pelt on the brain, Since, on a stage top, I was had in Lad-lane; Where, if you don't duck, when the turn you approach, You'll add, before coachee his vehicle checks, The lad with no head to the Swan with two Necks. For a rod, hook, and line, to astonish the fish ; She now and then puzzled, with Latin, the codgers, And cried, when it blew," aquilone procella." Lord! who would have thought to have seen Dicky Barrow Quit Chancery-lane for the Land of Pizarro. You and I were the prime ones:-the Fives-court, the Lobby, Were all Betty Martin without Dick and Bobby. Dad shew'd himself up, for a rank Johnny-Raw, In binding me 'prentice to follow the law. You know'd, Bob, I scorn'd such a spooney to be As to follow the law, so the law follow'd me. Spick and Span were my Schneiders: dead hits at a button; At running a bill up they found me a glutton; Spick call'd: not at home; and I told Mugs, my man, To bounce when he call'd again: ditto to Span. I thought they'd have stood it: the devil a bit : I thought it was best to be offish with dad, Now do, there's a dear, draw a quill upon paper, Or, are you still dosed with stars, ribbons, and garters, At Westminster-Abbey: our President Adams To sport a procession has no hidden hoards, I reckon he'd cut a shy show on the boards. When guests tuck their trotters beneath his mahogany, Visitor gapes, why the bigger flat he: The President comes down with nothing but tea: So, Bob, I'm your humble cum dumble, R. BARROW. MODERN PILGRIMAGES.-NO. 11. ROSSANNA. "One tear, one passing tribute, and I've done." THERE cannot be a more beautiful spot on earth than Rossanna, the domain of the Tighe family-not long since the residence of the lovely, the talented, the early summoned Muse of "Psyche." It is situated in the very Eden of Ireland, a few miles from the town of Wicklow. Many an evening have I wandered through the vale, ignorant that it possessed any latent charm of memory or association, and thought "How here the Muse should love to dwell." Often on the eminence of Broomfield, that overlooks it, have I stood for hours, contemplating the finest prospect that ever met my view-the ocean and sky mingling in vast and painful distance, over which the eye dilated with the consciousness of desolate and overpowering grandeur-the far promontory that broke upon the sea horizon, its gloom contrasted with the gay town that shone upon its side, and the fleet of fishing-smacks that bent upon their evening cruize under its protection-then the line of hills that rise beyond the wooded domain of Rossanna, and the immense vale, thirty miles in extent, so nobly terminating in the Croaghan, or Gold Mine Mountain; while the eye is relieved at intervals by some glittering spire or ambitious mansion that breaks the sameness and the vastness of the view. Towards the west rears itself the Carrig Morilliah, or Beautiful Rock, deservedly so called its extended summit, which is a perfect sierra, and graceful descent to the valleys that separate it from the chain of mountains, in the midst of which it stands perfectly isolated, make one of the most singular objects of the picturesque. From its summit, as well as from Cronroe, which is beneath, and of easier access, may be descried the celebrated Vale of Ovaca-" the meeting of the waters"-hallowed not only by having inspired the muse of Moore, but for having given to one of Ireland's noblest and most upright sons the title he so proudly merited the early friend of Curran, Lord Avonmore. Below the rock of Cronroe is the sweet cottage of Mont Alta, where the unfortunate Trotter composed the life of his friend and patron, Charles James Fox. And then, to conclude my panoramic enthusiasm, the sun sets behind the most beautiful and most terrific of ravines-the Devil's Glen: a torrent breaks into it in a cataract from the farther extremity, continues its furious course under the walls of Glenmore Castle, and recovers its tranquillity in the silent shades of Rossanna, where the fair minstrel of Psyche has immortalized it in the song, "Sweet are thy banks, O Vartree," &c. The highest rank of genius is not that which most commands our sympathy; its independent character rather represses such a feeling, its capriciousness and unamiability are too often revolting. Minds of inferior power, but still of genius, command more of our love, if not so much of our admiration; we understand their joys and sorrows, which, however heightened, are still those of sane and healthy feeling. The sentiments they excite are not the fiercest paroxysms; but, on the |