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LETTER VII.

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.
With you 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 poor Patentee.)
But here, Bob, the gabies 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.)
I'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 nabb'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 him.

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 dibs,
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 take 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, duty-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."

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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 boned 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 Midsummer, 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 "ot 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 pigs.
To men 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?
I'll 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."

SONNET.

CELIO MAGNO.

"Perchè con sì sottile acuto raggio."

WHY Com'st thou, Cynthia, with thine eyes of light
To pry into the darkness of the grove,

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 move,
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,

R. B.

MOUNTAIN SCENERY.

"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."

FAERY QUEENE.

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 are seldom weary, 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

and I will imagine it ten times higher; then what becomes of your tithe of a hill?" This is a mistake. Allowing that he could so far stretch his imagination, the object would be utterly changed. He may spread his canvass larger, but how is he to fill up the picture? As well it might be said,-" Shew me the most beautiful rose, and I will make it poor, by imagining a flower far more beautiful.” The flower, then, cannot be a rose. But is magnitude nothing? Had the colossal Jupiter of Phidias been diminished to a pigmy's stature, would it have been considered one of the wonders of the world? Suppose you had a model of St. Paul's, complete in all its parts, but small enough to lie within the palm of your hand, and would you compare it to its massive prototype? The model, indeed, may exhibit the same architectural skill, but it will want majesty; and cannot be, like all stu- ́ pendous works of art, an evidence of power. In the same manner do these mighty works of Nature speak aloud of omnipotence. Nor is it one mountain's height alone, but where they " each on others throng," together with their grand accompaniments, which affect the mind so intensely the fearful precipice, the overhanging rocks, now dimly seen through a passing vapour, or hidden for a while behind some sweeping cloud; the roar of many waters, contrasted with the quiet silvery lake below: then the variety, the harmony of form and colour, from the valley to the topmost crag, where you may chance to see "Jove's harness-bearing bird," between two parted clouds, returning to his native citadel. The beauty of gently-sloping meadows, of" tall trees with leaves apparelled," of every flower that blooms, is as evanescent as it is fresh, vivid, and luxuriant: they are more mortal than ourselves, the modern fair ones of the day, and decay and death await them on the morrow. But the unchanged, the everlasting rocks, the ruins, they may be, of a former world, these are God's antiquities, the emblems of eternity! The soul is bowed down before them, and our imaginations are carried back, aye, even to a date before the creation of man!

::

The defective vision and the advanced age of Dr. Johnson are, in my mind, ample apologies for the want of enthusiasm in his "Tour to the Hebrides;" notwithstanding he happened to say, that the finest prospect in the world was the one up Fleet-street. Even had he been younger, and with every sense complete, he might have felt the inefficiency of language, and forborne to make the effort, as beyond his grasp. Here the Poet himself is baffled. Such grandeur will form, will elevate his genius, but must not be the subject of his Muse. The worst poems Burns ever wrote are those in which he attempts, as an eye-witness, to describe certain situations in the Highlands. Gray knew better his letters shew how true a feeling he had for these scenes, and that was enough for the world, while the remembrance of them was enough for himself, without vainly daring to do more. Terror, according to Burke, is "the ruling principle," "the common stock of every thing that is sublime;" and the natural timidity of Gray enhanced his enjoyment of it. "In our little journey up to the Grande Chartreuse," he writes to his friend West, "I do not remember to have gone ten paces without an exclamation that there was no restraining." And again-"You have death perpetually before your eyes; only so far removed, as to compose the mind without frighting it." When in the North of England, speaking of a cataract, he says: "I stayed there,

not without shuddering, a quarter of an hour, and thought my trouble richly paid; for the impression will last for life." Indeed that thrilling emotion, felt in the midst of awful and appalling objects, while, at the same time, we are undisturbed by fears of a personal nature, is the highest mental pleasure, received immediately through the senses, of which we are capable.

In these mysterious and romantic regions there are no insensible beings, except mercantile travellers. They, unhappy men! jog on doggedly with horse and gig, intent upon "red-lined accounts," their serious thoughts employed on nothing but perilous bills at six months after date, out of humour at the steepness of the roads, and despising a country with so few green fields, because it makes the article of hay too chargeable. These are " people with one idea," and the attempt to foist another upon them is vain. Yet that it should be so, is (as Candide says) all for the best; for, were they once to taste of the enchanted cup, business would be at an end, the shops unprovided, and their employers in despair.

It is remarked, that mountaineers are not unimpassioned and selfish. If we believe that an equal proportion is born among them of dull and cold perceptions, then we may likewise believe that, owing to their imaginations being so powerfully assailed, they are changed into better men. How many among the inhabitants of our pleasant plains are found to be incapable of looking on the beauties of nature, otherwise than with filmed eyes. These are creatures of sensation, not of sentiment; and require a stronger excitement, a contemplation of the sublime, in order to release the mind from the trammels of the body, and to give life to their existence. This is effected, I contend, by mountain scenery. An appeal to the passions, by aid of the imagination, is the cure of selfishness. Besides, a man gazing about him in this solitary world, where his way is trackless, and his eyes unblessed by the sight of a fellow being, ceases to think only of himself, and becomes kindly towards his kind. At such a time his bitterest enemy is regarded with love, for even he wears a human form. We can love nobody in a crowd, because every body jostles us. In solitude, and surrounded by the majestic works of the Creator, we cannot but be affectionate towards all mankind. Unfortunately, there is no atrocity which man has not committed, or I should doubt the tale of those cold, premeditated, treacherous murders at Glencoe.

Of our summer-tourists in the North I know little. What I have learnt has tended to confirm my faith. A young Collegian, one of those beings of dull and cold perceptions, had made his hasty way into the heart of the Highlands, and told me he never saw so wretched a country, with nothing to repay him for his toil. This was true, insomuch as he had come by a dreary road, and through clouds and rain. However, I was piqued, and resolved to try if he was "made of penetrable stuff." In the mean time I discovered that his memory had been laboriously tutored, while his intellect had not been taught to beget an idea of its own, according to our remorseless system of education. Had you plucked a wild flower, and spoken of it with feeling, he would have understood your words, but not their sense, for as yet he was incapable of sympathy with the creation. On the following morning I led him, without preparation, into the midst of a wild romantic glen; and as I walked by his side, I affected

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