Souchong-Generals Washington and Burgoyne-Niagara-Lord Cornwallis-Colossus at Rhodes-American

Authors-Mr. Southey's Fingers-Belzoni in a Boat-The Bonassus-Titans in Type-Eastbourne and Kirk, Booksellers-Parr's Wig-Liberty Hall-Literature, neat as imported-London Booksellers Poets at Wapping.

My gentle co-partner, astride on a muse,

To charge Phoebus' heights, at the head of the blues ;
Who, with thy Sabrina, the beaten church path,
A summer at Brighton, a winter at Bath,

An autumn at Tunbridge, ring tilting has trod,
By the will-o'-wisp light of the torch-bearing god;
Since suitors more sparingly tap at our windows,
And Cupid cares for us no more than a pin does,
And man, fickle man, is as false as Iscariot :
Let me be Miss Ponsonby, thee Lady Harriot,
Like them, fly from Paphos, its scandal and snarls,
Abjuring two crowns, like the emperor Charles,
And smile like two mariners toss'd upon dry land-
But first read this letter; it comes from York Island.
The first thing I did at New York, was to stop.
At the door of a well-looking bookseller's shop.
"Oh realm," I exclaimed to myself, "proudly free,
Who, in seventy-five, spurn'd the tax on bohea,
Who, led on by Washington, sounded the gong
Of Mars, with the war-cry of Death or souchong;'
Who plus in adversity, minus in coin,

Yet caught in a trap the redoubted Burgoyne,
Bade loud Niagara repeat war's alarms,

And forced lord Cornwallis to lay down his arms.
Now striding o'er seas, like the giant of Rhodes,
Of whom there 's a very good likeness at Coade's,
In arts, as in arms, thou art doubtless full grown,
And happy in verse and in prose of thine own.
Some females are thine, who, with quill fleet as Gurney's,
Out-publish our Edgeworths, and Opies, and Burneys ;
Some western sir Walters, some quakers in drab,
Who write home-heroics much better than Crabbe;
Some Southeys whose fingers no blisters environ,
Not having yet handled a red-hot lord Byron ;

Some Anna Marias, like her of Thames Ditton :
I wonder their names never reach'd us in Britain.
Ye bards, who stalk over these mountainous glebes,
With heads twice as big as young Memnon's at Thebes,
(Which cost brave Belzoni, who went in a boat,
Such trouble and money to set it afloat:)
Ye poets, whose Pegasi galloping pass us,
As big and as bluff as the London Bonassus
Ye Brobdignags, trampling our Lilliput tribes,
Atlantic sky-proppers, Leviathan scribes,
Goliahs in print, how I long for your works!"
So saying, I stept into Eastbourne and Kirk's.

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The man of the shop, in a buzz wig like Parr's, Sat kicking the counter, and smoking cigars : He saw us approach with a gape and a stare, But never once offer'd to reach me a chair. Papa, as astonish'd I drew on my shawl, Said, "Never mind, child,-this is Liberty-hall." To all my objections this hint put a stop: But, Fanny, the next time I go to a shop, With Liberty-parlour I mean to make bold, For Liberty-hall is uncommonly cold. I civilly said, "If you please, Mr. Kirk, I want some good native American work." "Good native!" he cried with a grin ; yonder rows, I guess, show you all I have got look at those." I felt as amazed, when I look'd at their backs, As if you had chopp'd off my head with an axe! Ye Colburns, ye Murrays, whose wares glide so fleet From your counters in Conduit and Albemarle-street; Ye Rivington brothers, ye Longmans, whose Co. Would reach, if pull'd out, half the length of " the Row," Suspend for a while, what ye part with at high rates, Your Sardanapali, your Cains, and your Pirates, And list, while my muse is obliged to confess. What springs from this native American press. The Shipwreck, by Falconer; Poems, by Tickell Swift's Lemuel Gulliver, Peregrine Pickle,

:

;

Tom Brown, the Old Bachelor, Brodum on Chyle,
Moll Flanders, Charles Phillips's Emerald Isle,
Hugh Trevor, Theatrical Album, Tighe's Psyche,
The Bruiser, or Memoirs of Pig, christen'd Ei Key,
Little Jack, George Ann Bellamy, Fielding's Tom Jones,
The Family Shakspeare, cut down from Malone's;
Hunt's Radical Coffee, or Dregs at the Top;
Webbe Hall's Hint to Farmers to look to their crop,
John Bunyan, Wat Tyler, and Hone's Slap at Slop!

"What!" cried I, amazed, "have you no bards who

court

The Muse?"-"No, not one; what we want we import.
At present we think of pounds, shillings, and pence,
Time enough for Belles-Lettres a hundred years hence:
Our people, I guess, have employment enough
In cocoa, rum, cotton, tobacco, and snuff,

In digging, land-clearing, board-sawing, log-chopping-
Pray how many poets have you got at Wapping?"

But papa is come home from the city hotel, And asks for Sabrina; so, Fanny, farewell!

LETTER VII.

Mr. Richard Barrow to Mr. Robert Briggs.

CONTENTS.

Farther Specimens of Fancy Rhetoric-America angry, and whyAffecting Memoir of Major André-Tom Pipes and Peregrine Pickle-Dis-interment of Paine by Cobbett-Quotation from King Lear-Bystanders in Dudgeon-Cobbett's Reasons satisfactoryThe 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 wicked 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 did'n'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 despatches not trim, To shorten my story, Bob, they despatch'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 show 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."

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 Liddy 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 carcass, and Hone's
Quite on the qui vive for a dig at Gale Jones,
Who's "not 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.
Churchyards 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 bones will atone that a tax upon prove 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.