« AnteriorContinuar »
MILK AND HONEY, OR THE LAND OF PROMISE.
MISS LYDIA BARROW TO MISS KITTY BROWN.
“ Moving Accidents by Flood”–Neptune enemy to Female Attire-Castle of
Otranto-Guy's Hospital-Mrs. Jordan_Mrs. Monsoon's Boarding-schoolLogier's System-Family Pride-Balaam Monument-yard and Jerusalem Bonaparte-Hone's Wood-cute-Major Cartwright and Billy Austin-Ings, the Butcher-His Mode of changing an Administration-Princess in Fleet. street-Habeas, but not Corpus; and why-Parting Benediction.
On, Kitty! such bawling, such trampling of decks!
Such tales of sea-monsters, tornadoes, and wrecks!
My puce-colour'd cloak is soak'd through with the rain:
You never would know my green bonnet again ;
The silk is all cover'd with spots, and the feather
Flaps down like a lily in boisterous weather:
The lining 's not hurt, so I mean to unrip it;
But the surge has quite ruin'd my white-spotted tippet;
And the waves of the ocean, like ill-natured brutes,
Have rotted the fur on my blue leather boots.
In short, what with monsters who hauld my portmanteau
Ashore, half as big as the man in Otranto;
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,
Ten beds in a room, like the patients at Guy's:
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:
Where I gave a nod to Tom Osborne, and you,
A smile to George Hughes, in the opposite pew:
Who in the same keiro-plast play'd the same tunes,
The two aptest scholars, at Mrs. Monsoon's;
Little dreamt of the day when whole mountains should frown
Between Lyddy Barrow and Catherine Brown.
Papa, entre nous, rides a hobby, my dear,
That is rather too high to be canter'd on here :
How strange in a cit! he has taken a pride
In his family-tree, by the grandmother's side,
And thinks all plain Misters should give him a salam,
Ever since his late Majesty dubb’d him Sir Balaam.
He proves his ascent, through the Knight who sold soap
Close to Monument-yard, and is mention'd in Pope,
Up to him who a donkey bestrid in Jerusalem ;
Then boasts that our house is as old as Methusalem.
Dick calls this “a rum kind of swell in old dad,"
Who turn'd, as Dick calls it, “a regular Rad
Ever since fall of trade to a Clapham cot pinn'd us,
And forced us to send back the carriage to Windus.
In vain I cry “Fiddle de dee;" it will fix
In his gizzard, and make him as cross as two sticks.
He now rips up grievances old as Queen Anne,
And lays all the blame on poor Chancellor Van.
He buys Bonapartes enamell'd in bone;
He frames and he glazes the wood-cuts of Hone,
And hangs them supported by Queen Caroline, or
Old Cartwright the Major and Austin the Minor:
Nay, over the mantel-piece what, of all things,
Do you think he had stuck up!--the portrait of Ings,
The Carnaby hero, who meant to "shew fight,"
A bag in his left hand, a knife in his right:
With these he to Cato-street went, being very
Resolved to decapitate Lord Londonderry.
How shocking! -Heaven grant that his Majesty may sbun
That method of changing an Administration.
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-
Two lions that make all the passengers stop.
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;
Depend on it, Lyddy, it's not a bad spec.'
Like a dutiful daughter I did depend on it,
Went up to my bed-room to put on my bonnet,
And, as the sun promised a morning of dryness,
I walk'd, without pattens, to wait on her Highness.
A man oped the door, in a coat which, I think,
Was dyed, like the rest of the Family's, pink.
But when Papa ask'd if the Royal Princess
Was at home, and the Chamberlain answer'd him “ “Yes,"
And civilly told us to walk up together,
A child might have knock'd me 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
Her countenance drew all the people away;
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!
MR. RICHARD BARROW TO MR. ROBERT BRIGGS,
Specimen of Fascr Rhetoric-Slang, like Madeira, improved by Sea Voyages
Atlantic Adventureg-Reference to White Bait at Blackwalk-Twickenham
Steam Vessel- Chelsea Reach Name objectionable, and why- Thomas
Inkle-Disasters of Tacking Swan with Two Necks ; Lad with One
Sabrina- Latin and Commodore Rogers--- Lydia and Don Juan -Sandy
Hook Action at Law-Spick and another, versus Barrow the Younger-
Coronation at both Houses--President AdamsTea and turn out,
HERE I am : right and tight, Bob ; pulld up at New York,
As brisk as a bee, and as light as a cork:
Though half the pool over I lay like a log,
Quite fabber-de-gasky'd, as sick as a dog!
How odd! for you know I ail'd nothing at all,
When, to grub upon white bait, we row'd to Blackwall:
'Tis true, I wax'd rum, on returning by Greenwich,
But that was because I had eat too much spinage.
When we steam'd it to Twick'nam, I stuck like a leech
To the deck, till the vessel approach'd Chelsea Reach ;
There, I own, I was seiz'd with a qualm and a hiccup,
And felt in my Victualling-office a kick-up:
All along of the place: Chelsea Reach? 'a vile name!
Columbus himself would have felt just the same.
But, Zounds! Bob, the Thames cannot give you a notion
“ Of all the rude dangers in crossing the ocean."
(Mem. that's a quotation; and serves for a sprinkle
Of learning: like Sabby: I stole it from Inkle.)
The first thing that posed me was, when I should bob,
To hinder the gib-boom from scuttling my nob.
How to hit the thing right was the devil's own poser,
Three times had the end of it tipp'd me a noser.
The fat of a steersman sung out-"Helm a lee !"
Round swung the long pole, made no bones of poor me,
And sent my hat Aying a mile out to sea.
My stars! how my knowledge-box whizz'd round about!
In short, my dear Bob, 'twas a proper serve-out.
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,
So low is the gateway, so high is the coach,
You'll add, before coachee his vehicle checks,
The lad with no head to the Swan with two Necks.
I since wore a cap, made of sealskin and leather,
Which seems to cry Noli-me-tan to the weather.
I civilly spoke to the Captain my wish
For a rod, hook, and line, to astonish the fish;
I got 'em and bobb’d: had a bite from a shark:
But the double-tooth'd cull was not up to the mark :
Again I gave bait, on a hook worse for wearing,
And caught-damn the hoaxers--a salted herring :
The sailors, like spoonies, all laugh'd at the trick,
And nick-named me Lubber and Salt-water Dick.
Sabrina kept stalking the deck in all weathers,
In purple pellisse, a Leghorn hat and feathers,
She now and then puzzled, with Latin, the codgers,
Which sounded like Hebrew to Commodore Rodgers.
She muttered “O navis : infelix puella,"
And cried, when it blew, “aquilone procella."
Old dad braved the spray of the sea like a new one!
While Lyd, in the cabin, was reading Don Juan.
A boy on the top-mast, who kept a sharp look-out,
Now, from his potatoe-trap, bawld “Sandy hook" out,
Two words that we English did not understand,
But I guess "Sandy hook" is the Yankee for “ Land;"
For while we were wondering what he could say,
The pilot had floated us into the Bay,
MODERN PILGRIMAGES.-NO. II.
“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 cruise 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 Moril. liah, 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 described 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 Avon more. 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