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ment of the society thy famous leyes conviviales. Here too did the wits of Queen Anne's day sometimes congregate. “I dined to-day,” says Swift, in his Journal to Stella, or with Dr. Garth and Mr. Addison, at the Devil Tavern, near Temple-bar, and Garth treated.”— This tavern took its name from the sign which was suspended before it, of St. Dunstan tweaking the nose of the Evil one with a pair of hot tongs. I don't think that even St. George ever performed so valorous an exploit.

On entering the Strand, the first literary recollection that struck me, was the account Dean Swift has left of the accident which he here met with. Let me give the Dean's own words.

“ Coming home this evening I broke my shin in the Strand, over a tub of sand, left just in the way. I got home dirty enough, and went straight to bed, where I have been cooking it with gold-beater's skin, and have been peevish enough with Patrick, who was near an hour bringing a rag from next door." I would willingly have been soused over head in a bed of mud, could I but have seen that trip of Jonathan’s-it must have been a glorious thing to have beheld the Dean in a passion with the tub of sand. His broken shin was, however, very refractory, and refused to get well. In one of his letters he says, “ I walked too much yesterday for a man with a broken shin;" and again : “ This sore shin ruins me in coach-hire ; it cost me no less than two shillings, &c. &c.” At the conclusion of the same letter, we meet with the following elegant passage respecting this accident. “ I dined with Sir John Perceval, and saw his lady sitting in the bed in the forms of a lying-in woman; and coming home, my sore shin itched, &c. but I am now got to bed, and have put on alum-curd, and it is almost well.” I would not have been Patrick, the Dean's valet, while his shin was thus afflicted, no, not even for the brilliant gold-laced hat, the price of which his master stopped in his wages.

What author ever excited such sympathies in the hearts of his countrymen as Sbakspeare? The place of his birth, and the scenes of his dramas, are hallowed ground. I need only mention the Boar'shead in Eastcheap, in which such pleasant visions have been created by the genius of Goldsmith and of Washington Irvine. So many of Shakspeare's plays are laid in London, that a geography of them would be really entertaining. Clement's Inn, near the Strand, has a peculiar charm for me—it was once the residence of Justice Shallow ! * I was once of Clement's Inn, where I think they will talk of mad Shallow yet.” Who can pass the entrance without remembering how “ Jack Falstaff broke Skogan's head at the court-gate when he was a crack not thus high.” How, on the same day, the Justice did fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray's Inn. Poor Shallow! Clement's Inn seems to bave been to him the “i green spot” to which his memory ever reverted with pride and with pleasure. The very name conjured up the recollections of his youthful days, when he heard the chimes at midnight, lay all night in the Windmill in St. George's fields. Though the fat knight would insinuate something against the veracity of the Justice,-“ this same starved Justice hath done nothing but prate to me of the wildness of his youth, and

VOL. IV. NO, XIII.

D

the feats he hath done about Turnbull-street, and every third word a lie duer paid to the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do remember him at Clement's Inn, like a man made after supper of a cheeseparing.”

“Ah!" I exclaimed, as I reached the corner of Arundel-street, “am I then walking in the footsteps of the learned Selden ?" Yes, hither that austere scholar bent his willing steps, to examine the famous marbles which had lately arrived from the East, and which then lay in the Arundel-gardens, from whence they afterwards derived their appellation. And with him came his learned companions, Patrick Young (Patricius Junius) the Royal Librarian, and Richard James, who was “ critically seen both in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin.” It will be some time ere such a trio shall again pace the flags of the Strand.

As I wandered on, I reached the site of those celebrated literary games which are described in the second book of the Dunciad. The emulous authors

“ took their stand
Where the tall May-pole once o’erlook”d the Strand;
But now (so Anne and piety ordain)

A Church collects the saints of Drury-lane.”
Who can forget the race between Curll and“ huge Lintot ?"

“ Wide as a windmill all his figure spread,

With arms expanded Bernard rows his state,

And left-legg'd Jacob seems to emulate.” The Strand, no doubt, would furnish a thousand curious recollections, both historical and literary. Our chief nobility used to reside between it and the Thames, as the names of the various streets yet sufficiently testify. But the skies threatened a shower, and I hastened forward. I could not, however, avoid casting a glance up Lancaster-court, as I passed, where the wise and witty Porson used to pay visits to his brother-in-law, who resided there, and on whom he made the philological epigram, which the Sexagenarian has given on his brother's “ taking a medicine of names not a few,” which I shall however forbear transcribing. By the by, the Cider-cellar, in Maidenlane, was a favourite resort with the Professor, after visiting the Dean of Westminster or Bennet Langton.—As the drops now began to descend, I spurred on “my Bayard of ten-toes," as an old writer says, and arriving

“Where branching streets from Charing-cross divide,” I took refuge in Mr. Colnaghi's print-shop.

R.

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

Otranto.-Guy's Hospital.-Mrs. Jordan.--Mrs. Monsoon's Boarding-school..
Logier's System.--Family Pride.–Balaam.—Monument-yard and Jerusalem.-
Bonaparte.- Hone's Wood-cuts.- 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.

OH, 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 haul'd 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 turu'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.

D?

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 shun
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 answerd him “ Yes,"
And civilly told us to walk up together,
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 haleas,
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 callid 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.-
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 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 Adams.-Tea 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 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 Black wall:
'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 Rench 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 pozer,
Three times had the end of it tipp'd me a noser.
The flat of a steersman sung out “Helm a lea!”
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,

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