VOYAGE TO IRELAND." bowse, with no worse a man than good Master Mayor-and as far as we recollect, the following passage concludes with a new and good reason for wearing a nightcap. With his Staff of Command, yet the man was not lame, But he needed it more when he went, than he came; In his Specimens of English poetry, Mr Campbell makes some quotations from Cotton's "Voyage to Ireland in Burlesque," and remarks, that it probably furnished the hint of the peculiar style, spirit, and manner of the "Bath Guide.' There is occasional coarseness in this liveliest composition of a very lively writer, as, indeed, After three or four hours of friendly potation there is in all Charles Cotton's writings, except a few of his angling songs, and two or three poems of a serious cast-but we think that we can present our readers with most of the spirited passages, without any offence to a rational delicacy, and that they will be greatly amused with its good-humoured absurdity, and temporary forgetfulness of every thing sober and solemn in this world. He commences with some jocularities on that somewhat indefinite principle of our nature, that We took leave each of other in courteous fashion. Sets folk so a madding, And though I was bred 'mong the Wonders o' the Would have thrown away Money, and ventur'd my To have seen a great Hill, or a Rock, or a Cave, And thought there was nothing so pleasant and brave. He then gives us an agreeable picture of himself on starting. 'Twas now the most beautiful time of the year, And May, that fair Lady of splendid renown, When about some two hours and a half after Noon, too soon. With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart, Of over-grown, golden, and silver-scal'd Fishes: I've left none behind me can take 'em so surely; First night he sleeps at Congerton, and tells us that he had a comfortable of his hostess, and of her alone, for he That her king, as 'twas rumoured, by late pouring and joggs on about three miles to A Hay! quoth the foremost, Ho! who keeps the Which said, out an Host comes as brisk as a Louse, You shall streight, quoth he, and then calls out, Come quickly, and bring us a quart of Canary: early I never drink Liquor but what's made of Barley; admire, My Lordship was presently turn'd into Squire; Better, I sure am, ne'er blew out a stopple, I thank'd her, but told her, I then could not stay, She said she was sorry it fell out so odd, Should no where afford better accommodation: And call'd for a Bodkin, though he had a Fork; Look here, Sir, quoth he, both for Nap and for co- Sans bragging, I hate it, nor will I e'er do't, I defie Leek, and Lambith, and Sandwich to boot: And have drank so much Liquor has made me a In my days, that I know of, I never drank better; And then I conceiv'd it was time to be jogging. Cotton and his servant reach "Chester in the West" about two in the afternoon, and nothing can be more diverting than the important air with which he dismounts, as if he had performed a most formidable journey-and the comfortable and self-satisfied good humour with which he takes possession of his quarters. Our friend Cotton has no notion this day of being shook in his seat after dinner, so he sends his nag to the stable for the night, and begins to reflect on his own situation. And now in high time 'twas to call for some Meat, Though drinking does well, yet some time we must eat; And I'faith we had Vict'als both plenty and good, Go thy ways, Mistress Anderton, for a good Wo wan, Thy Guests shall by thee ne'er be turn'd to a Com- * * * And here I must stop the Career of my Muse, last ventures, on repeated solicitations After seven hours sleep, to commute for pains taken, When streight I perceived myself all on a fire; That a little Phlebotomy would doe me good; harm; But after my bleeding I soon understood It had cool'd my Devotion as well as my Bloud, I fell to my smoaking untill I grew dull; Having thus been cheated out of the morning service, he determined, on no account whatever, to miss that of the afternoon, so, With that starting up, for my man did I whistle, my Sword, Resolv'd now to go and attend on the word. We are sorry to be obliged to say, that we cannot think Mr Cotton was a very devout person this day in church, but we shall charitably suppose that he had a bad headach, and that, we all know, is a sad enemy to attention. We are led to conjecture, that he yawned much during the service, from the extreme alacrity with which he quitted the cathedral. The service No sooner was ended, but whir and away, Like Boys in a School when they've leave got to play, All save Master Mayor, who still gravely stays Mace: Then he and his Brethren in order appear, In this rev'rend order we marched from Pray'r; How he spent the time after an early dinner, and before going to bed, we are not told, but, somehow or other, the silence speaks of pipes and malt liquor, and the reader feels that the bard retired to the downs, somewhat the better of his tankard, at rather a late hour. We think we see him sitting in a little snug parlour, a threelegged table, with a circular top, at his elbow-covered, but not crowdedand, as he puffs away in solitary bliss, a gentle mist just dimming the bright- By which, though thick-scull'd, he must understand ness of the fire and candle light. Mrs Anderton perhaps comes smiling and finds courtseying in, to ask if he every thing quite comfortable; and at Fist, Till the Pavement, too hard, by my knuckles was kiss'd, this, That I was a most humble Servant of his; Resolving, it seems, to be better acquainted; I was scarce in my Quarters, and set down on Crupper, But his man was there too, to invite me to Supper. After many excuses offered in vain, the poet finds that to the mayor's he must go, and really we, who have supped with many mayors, cannot see that he was at all to be pitied. We never, in a borough, decline a meal with one of the council-but rejoice to breakfast with a Convener, to dine with a Provost, and sup with a Dean of Guild. No respectable Scotsman would act otherwise. At this After supper the Mayor's curiosity begins to awaken; and certainly, after giving his guest a capital supper, he is entitled to know something of his birth and parentage. Wherefore making me draw something nearer his He will'd and requir'd me there to declare With what I was going about now, and whither: time the Mayor of Chester was a prime That of Land, I had both sorts, some good, and magistrate indeed. As he sate in his Chair, he did not much vary, But whether his face was swell'd up with fat, One of those little Gentlemen brought from the And skrewing myself into Congeys and Cringes, me, Advanc'd a whole step and an half for to meet me; During supper a slight altercation occurs between Mistress May'ress and her Lord-for Straight with the look and the tone of a Scold, Mistress May'ress complained that the Pottage was cold, And all long of your fiddle-faddle, quoth she, Why, what then, Goody Two-shoes, what if it be? Hold you, if you can, your tittle tattle, quoth he. Charles is at a loss to know certainly, what conclusions to draw from this little connubial dialogue, as to the quarter in which authority is lodged in the mansion-house of Chester. And we can understand his perplexity. It is no uncommon thing, we are convinced, (we speak as bachelors) for man and wife to arrange before-hand, little argumentations and seeming bickerings, before company, in which each party behaves with so much self-possession, and disregard of each other's opinion or feelings, that it is quite impossible for a spectator to say whether or not the Lady be a Hen-pecker, and taps the hollow beech-tree. Mr Cotton makes the following judicious reflections on this incident. I was glad she was snapp'd thus, and guess'd by th' discourse, The May'r, not the gray Mare, was the better Horse; some evil, But that a great part on't was pawn'd to the Devil; That as for my Parts, they were such as he saw ; That indeed I had a small smatt'ring of Law, Which I lately had got more by practice than reading, By sitting o'th' Bench, whilst others were pleading; But that Arms I had ever more studi'd than Arts, And was now to a Captain rais'd by my deserts; That 'twas bus'ness which led me through Palatine ground Into Ireland, whither now I was bound; And in all other places where ever I came. He call'd to his man for some Bottles and Pipes. We believe that the conversation with men of authority after supper, would not, in general, make very pretty poetry, and so Cotton opined. To trouble you here with a longer Narration Of the several parts of our Confabulation, Perhaps would be tedious, I'll therefore remit ye Ev'n to the most rev'rend Records of the City, Where doubtless the Acts of the May'rs are record. ed, And if not more truly, yet much better worded. About one in the morning he takes leave of the Mayor, but not without making him the present of A certain fantastical box and a stopper, gifts being, to his certain knowledge, and to ours, always most acceptable to great men. Next morning he procures a guide to conduct him over the Welsh mountains, who rides upon the following horse. It certainly was the most ugly of Jades, His sides were two Ladders, well spur-gall'd withall; * * But the Lord of Flint Castle's no Lord worth a For he keeps ne'er a drop of good drink in his But in a small House near unto't there was store came; My Guide before prancing, his steed no more lame, Here he is anxious to pay a visit to the famous medicinal well, but not so I went into th' Kitchen, where Vict'als I saw, Of which to Saint Win. e'er my vows I had paid, Some naked. His description of the Well itself is very prettily written, and looks well, surrounded by the absurdity in which it is set. But the Fountain, in truth, is well worth the sight, Nay, none but she ever shed such a tear, In the bottom there lie certain stones that look white, But streak'd with pure red, as the Morning with light, Which they say is her bloud, and so it may be, Is enclos'd with a certain Octagonal Ring; Now 'twixt the two Angles, that fork to the North, Under ground is a place, where they bathe, as 'tis said, But now my Guide told me, it time was to go, They reach the banks of the Conway ere nightfall, and that somewhat lumpish Ruin seems to us well described in the line, But 'tis pretty'st Cob-Castle e'er I beheld. We regret that Cotton did not describe his feelings on waiting for a ferry-boat, which are not, in general, greatly relieved by the arrival of a set of insolent, ignorant, rash, cowardly, and drunken ferrymen. But he seems to have laid down a resolution not to lose his temper on any occasion whatever, and he takes leave of us with his wonted hilarity. Thus, The Sun now was going t' unharness his Steeds, Came in as good time, as good time could be, It is perhaps requisite to know, as well as we do, the character of Cotton, in many respects an interesting The beautifull Virgin's own tears not more bright; bounding jeu d'esprit. But, with or one, fully to enjoy the levity of this without that knowledge, every reader must be pleased with it. It gives one quite the feeling of being on a journey. No sentimentalist, Charles Cotton. He snuffs his dinner in the distant inn with a wolf-like-a vulturelike sagacity-and the moment he sits down in a parlour, he is determined on happiness. No allusion is ever made by him to the past or the future. There he is, and he is happy. He is equally at home with mine Host or Master Mayor. He has no secrets, and communicates freely his whole history to people, who, he knows, are never to see him again, and when he is gone, all remember him only the Captain." Short and easy stages are his delight, and though we part with him at Conway, we follow him, in imagination, day after day, till at last we think we see him shipped for Ireland" at the Head." He makes no statistical observations as he jogs along -long-horned cattle browse away unobserved by him-and Welsh mutton attracts his attention only when roasted, or in chops. He has no great eye even for the picturesque; and though he no doubt saw the trees, and fields, and vales, and mountains, as he rode along, he had something better to And 'tis true, for I heard Folks Teeth hack in their head. He quaffs a liberal glass of the sanctified water, flirts sprightlily, but tenderly, with the fair maiden who presents it to him, and then, true to his dinner, as the needle to the pole, he is attracted to his house of entertain ment. My dinner was ready, and to it I fell, Much against his inclination and usual practice, our poet ventures to sally forth in continuation after din ner. as think of, at the end of a stage-a snug room, a clear tankard, a broiled fowl, and a pretty landlady. His "Journey" is called a burlesque. For our own parts, we think it a misnomer; and were we wishing to read a burlesque, we would turn to Mrs Spence, or the Honourable Mrs Murray, or to the reverend Richard Warner of Bath, or, above all absurd people alive or dead, to-whom shall we say? why then-to-no-it would not be fair. So learn better manners and be quiet. REMARKS ON SOME OF OUR LATE NUMBERS; BY A LIBERAL WHIG. MR NORTH, I HAVE been amusing myself in the country with the late Numbers of your Magazine, and still more with Dr Morris. I do not think that the good people of Aberystwith and its vicinity will recognise their scula pius, or that Lady Johnes will admit his affinity, or give him credentials of such a nature as Perkin Warbeck received from his aunt of Burgundy. But the reception his work will afford him at Glasgow and Edinburgh, is probably of more importance to him than the impression it may make among his first and second cousins in Cardiganshire. However, I hope he means to publish his three new volumes before the gout has quite demolished him-a catastrophe to which he seems to be making rapid strides, notwithstanding his skill in medicine. He will die in good company; for, if the bulletins from the Tent are to be credited, there is not a man among the "Contributors who does not make vigorous efforts to partake his screwing and pricking honours, and share his fate. Certainly your Peter's Letters, and your Twelfth of August, are only part of a conspiracy, among the wine and brandy merchants, against the new school of water-drinkers-a school of which I would not, however, have you imagine that I am myself a disciple. " I do not much admire your criticisms on Lord Byron's new poem. I have lately read his formidable Don Juan; and, while I agree as to its transcendant merit, both as a work of imagination, and a general satire upon men and manners, I cannot subscribe to the overstrained and somewhat hypocritical tone of abhorrence which it is the fashion to adopt with respect to it, on the alleged scores of morality and religion. It contains many highwrought descriptions of the voluptuous kind, which may render it a dan gerous book in the hands of young and inflammable persons; and on that account, when one is inclined to be very serious, one may regret that it ever was written. But this is a charge to which it is obnoxious only in common with a great many other seductive works of fancy and genius, about which no such mighty stir has been made, and to which no such violent exception was ever taken, even though they might be accidentally found on the shelves of a young lady's library. It has also several very unorthodox hits at matters of faith; some indecent witticisms at the expense of Scriptural phrases and Scriptural histories; and (what is of graver moment) some doubts expressed as to a future state-doubts only, however, not denials-incidentally and not offensively introduced, and by no means of so objectionable a character as his celebrated stanzas in Childe Harold, about which no such fuss was made, according to the best of my remembrance. Upon the whole, I am convinced that the violent outcry raised against the book is not so much to be attributed to any thing in its actual design and tendency, as to the (I fear I may say) deserved unpopularity of the author's moral character and conduct, and the understanding which prevailed of its being accompanied, in MS. with a sort of personal allusions and assaults, reported to be of the most libellous nature, from which no man or woman, in any way notorious, could tell whether he or she might be safe, and the importance of which was magnified to an infinite degree by the absurd air of mystery which enveloped the publication of it. The levity with which the poet turns the terrors and sublimities of his own genius into ridicule, so far from converting into matter of serious charge against him, I consider with admiration, as affording the highest evidence |