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النشر الإلكتروني

LETTER IV.

MR. RICHARD BARROW TO MR. ROBERT BRIGGS.

CONTENTS.

Specimen of FANCY Rhetoric-Slang, like Madeira, improved by Sea Voyage--Atlantic Adventures-Reference to White Bait at Blackwall-Twickenham Steam Vessel-Chelsea Reach-Name objectionable, and why-Thomas Inkle--Disasters of Tacking-Swan with Two Necks; Lad with OneSabrina--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 Adams-Tea and turn out.

HERE I am right and tight, Bob; pull'd 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 flabber-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 flat of a steersman sung out-" Helm a lee !"
Round swung the long pole, made no bones of poor me,
And sent my hat flying 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 red 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, bawl'd “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.

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 show'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 :
They bolted a Davy, and took out a writ.
Nunky finch'd: it was no use applying to him;
So, finding the stumpy decidedly slim,
I thought it was best to be offish with dad,
And show that Dick Barrow was not to be had.

Now do, there's a dear, draw a quill upon paper,
And tell us the news.-Is the needful still taper?
Kean bolted off here in a huff: does he bring,
Like Harris's Empress and Elliston's King?

Or, are you still dosed with stars, ribands, and garters,
Cars, cream-colour'd horses, poles, platforms, and Tartars?
We can't come it here like your Viscounts and Madams

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,
Short bite for Jonathan: if for good prog any

Visiter gapes, why the bigger flat he:

The President comes down with nothing but tea:
For which, if the Yankees know what they're about,
They'll treat him, next Caucus, with tea and turn out.
But pen cries peccavi, and paper is narrow,

So, Bob, I'm your humble cum dumble,

R. BARROW

MODERN PILGRIMAGES.-NO. II.

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 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 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 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 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 other hand, they never verge upon the ridiculous. Mrs. Henry Tighe's poem of "Psyche" is elegant and tender-languidly poetical like the mind of its author, which pined under the wasting disease of a slow consumption. There was not vigour enough in that delicate frame for a continued poem; but in her minor effusions, the momentary sparks of inspiration, we see the pathetic and spirited muse, that sickness undermined and at length destroyed. Its tone, as well as fate, reminds one of that of Henry Kirke White, save that in hers, who in birth and life was of the first rank in society, that refinement and elegance was natural, which in his was acquired. His, too, was the earlier fate; the flower of female genius and beauty was not cut off till it had lived its short but fragrant suminer.

We would not seem to jest, in remarking that consumption is a poetical malady; besides the interesting appearance it gives the frame and countenance, it is consonant with our physical ideas, that genius should waste the body it inhabits,

"And o'erinform its tenement of clay."

Besides, the plaintive thoughts and prayers to which it gives birth, are generally of that mild, resigned, and angelic character, which the heart must be worse than dull if it can resist. The victims do not lament imaginary woes, nor gather interminable grief from their own querulous fantasies. It is the slow and awful hand of death they feel approaching, which is mingled with every sensation, and called up by every object;-it is a gloom we must all appreciate, because we must all feel it.

Such are the associations that shed an interest over the vale of Rossanna, The house, though extensive, is not elegant; it is shaded, and almost concealed by clumps of luxuriant chesnut-trees, whose extended branches are reflected in the river that flows beneath them. A sonnet of Mrs. Tighe's, by no means the best of her productions, alludes to them;

"Dear chesnut bower! I hail thy secret shade,

Image of tranquil life! escaped yon throng,
Who weave the dance and swell the choral song,

And all the summer's day have wanton play'd,

I bless thy kindly form in silence laid :

What though no prospects gay to thee belong,

Yet here I heed nor showers, nor sunbeams strong," &c.

The fair poet has informed us, that her sorrows were alleviated by the visitings of the Muse-she has rendered it the means of alleviating the sorrows of others. By her will the produce of the publication of her poems was directed to be applied to the establishment of an additional ward in Wicklow Hospital. It has been carried into effect, and her bequest goes by the name of the Psyche Ward.

It is to Mrs. Tighe that Moore is supposed to allude in the following beautiful lines:

"I saw thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!

Yet still thy features wore that light

Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er look'd more purely bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams, that run o'er golden mines,
With modest murmur glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!
So, veil'd beneath a simple guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,"

And that, which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left thy sphere;
Or could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,

To live with them is far less sweet,
Than to remember thee, Mary!*

R.

A CHAPTER ON "TIME."

BEING AN ATTEMPT TO THROW NEW LIGHT ON AN OLD SUBJECT.

"We know what we are," said poor Ophelia, "but we know not what we may be." Perhaps she would have spoken with a nicer accuracy had she said, "we know what we have been." Of our present state we can, strictly speaking, know nothing. The act of meditation on ourselves, however quick and subtle, must refer to the past, in which alone we can truly be said to live. Even in the moments of intensest enjoyment, our pleasures are multiplied by the quick-revolving images of thought; we feel the past and future in each fragment of the instant, as the flavour of every drop of some delicious liquid is heightened and prolonged on the lips. It is the past only which we really enjoy as soon as we become sensible of duration. Each by-gone instant of delight becomes rapidly present to us, and "bears a glass which shows us many more." This is the great privilege of a meditative being-never properly to have any sense of the present, but to feel the great realities as they pass away, casting their delicate shadows on the future.

Time, then, is only a notion-unfelt in its passage a mere measure given by the mind to its own past emotions. Is there, then,

* The elegant poet here quoted has perhaps unconsciously translated one of the most beautiful of modern Latin epitaphs.

Ah, Maria!

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