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MY FIRST VISIT TO THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

Or all the islands that it has ever been my lot to visit, the Isle of Wight is certainly the most beautiful-that is, if you happen to see it on a fine day, which fine day, in the dark humid climate of Hampshire, occurs about once every two or three months. In this blessed county, the visits of the sun are something like the appearances of a comet in other parts of the world, a matter for speculation, and the good people of Vectis would do well to have an almanack of their own, in which such rare events might be calculated after the fashion of eclipses; as thus-"on such a day, there will be a cloudless sky, and the sun will make his first and only appearance for the spring quarter," whereupon the islanders should all turn out to give him welcome as a stranger who comes but seldom, and is likely to make but a brief stay amongst them.

But, though I abhor these days of drizzle-drizzle—drizzle, in which Dame Nature may be compared to a great sulky schoolboy, blubbering over his bread and butter, with red eyes, and dirty streaked face, I have no objection whatever to a thorough storm, which lends a grandeur to the scene, superior perhaps to the quiet beauty of a bright blue sky. And just such a day it was, about the time of the autumnal equinox, when I paid my first visit to Vectis. Cowes, Newport, Ryde, and all the more inhabited portions, which are completely summer pictures, appeared dreary enough; but once upon the high downs the scene was glorious beyond description. Certainly, a hill is not a mountain, nor can a little slip of salt water be dignified into an ocean by any one except a cockney; and yet, for all that, the scenery of the Island, as the natives term it, may, under certain aspects of the season, be called sublime. When, on a rough winter's morning, you stand upon one of these downs and look around you, it is with the same sort of feeling that you gaze upon a painted landscape, which, in its image of desolation, awakens all the ideas of the sublime without any of the dangers that belong to the reality. It may seem an odd way to describe the Isle of Wight, and VOL. X.-NO. III.-MARCH 1837.

perhaps, after all, it does not exactly convey to others my feelings on the subject,— but I would say, that it is a miniature resemblance of all that is beautiful in many countries, combining in itself their various attributes. To see it in this point of view, however, you must burn your guide-book, and break the neck of your guide if he is not to be got rid of on easier terms; the moment you take a companion either in the shape of a human being, or of a book, the whole beauty of this, as of every scene, vanishes after a fashion truly marvellous. The fact is, you may teach a man, or at least some men, to reason, but to teach them to admire is a thing not to be thought of.

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The back of the island is, as I have just observed, the only place for a winter excursion; and this, notwithstanding the many villages that figure in the map, is as pretty a piece of desolation as a reasonable traveller would desire. I should have walked over all these villages in broad daylight, without being aware of their existence, but from the natural spirit of enquiry excited by hunger; then, indeed, I found that some half dozen hovels, placed tolerably close to each other, constituted a village; so on I went, famishing and edified, but in high good humour with the whole course of the Undercliff, which comprehends somewhat more than half the way from Shanklin Chine to Black Gang Chine. It is astonishing how many, and how different from each other, are the objects to be seen in this short space; and if the walk be extended to Freshwater, the route will be complete. I will not stop to describe all of them, nor will I take those described in their actual order; but will present them to my readers, as the halffaded images brighten and revive upon the recollection. And how singularly, in reverting to the past, does one idea act like a talisman in calling up another. A little while since, before I took the pen into my hand, not a single image of the island was present to memory, yet now, in an instant, a veil seems to have dropped away from between the past and present, and I remember a thousand minute circumstances that

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bubble up, as it were, from the waves of time. From Saint Catherine's Tower to Saint Lawrence's Church is a jump, somewhat after Macbeth's fashion, when he proposed to "jump the life to come;" yet, though recollection started with the former, in the next moment come before me, as freshly as ever, little Mary, the janitress of Saint Lawrence; how proud she was of her church, and of its celebrity as being the smallest in the world! it might, indeed, have served for the king of Lilliput, and magnates of some kind there must have been in the neighbourhood; for the cockleshell had pews, and these, as every reader knows, were confined in the good old times to persons of the first rank. Apropos de bottes. In the reign of Elizabeth flourished a Sir John Townley, who thus expresses himself in regard to pews:"My man Shuttleworth, of Hacking, made this form, and here will I sit when I come; and my cousin Howell may make one behind me if he please, and my sonne Sherburne shall make one on the other side, and Mr. Catterall, another behind him; and for the residue, the use shall be, first come first speed, and that will make the proud wives of Whalley rise betimes to come to church." Much cannot be said for the gallantry of the doughty knight, but he seems to have hit upon a most happy expedient to ensure the early attendance of the female part of his congregation.

On leaving Saint Lawrence, my attention was attracted by a handsome building, the very reverse of the Saint's domicile in point of size. "What house is that?" asked I; and the little Mary replied with a curtesy, “The Great House, Sir."-" And who lives there?"-A second curtesy, and a look of infinite surprise-" The Great People, Sir," I never like to spoil a good story, or a good reply, by impertinent questions, so the "Great People" must remain to the reader, as to myself, a profound mystery.

Steephill.-There is a sort of quaint beauty about this spot, which it would be exceedingly difficult to convey an idea of by description. The Picturesque Pocket Companion discreetly observes, "It is a place of little consequence, except for its scenery." Many thanks for the information !—and what the plague, should give it a consequence, if not its scenery? Oh, Mr. Kidd! Mr. Kidd! the plates of your neat little volume are really beautiful; but do, pray,

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in your next edition, follow the Queen's excellent advice to old Polonius, and give us more matter with less art.' A guidebook should not be altogether like a very pretty woman with a very silly head, and for this obvious reason-a lady's lips may make amends for the faults of her tongue, but the unlucky book has no such advantage.

In this Eden, the Earl of Dysart had a cottage when I first visited the island; but the property has passed away into other hands, and, as a natural consequence, the cottage has been suffered to fall into decay. There is something exceedingly mortifying to human vanity in such changes; they seem to hint how little posterity, to whom your neglected gentlemen are in the habit of addressing themselves, is likely to think of us or our concerns. Indeed, if he listened to all our complaints, he would have no time to attend to his own affairs.

The Sand Rock Spring finds an honourable mention in the Guide-books-why, the compilers of such trivia best know themselves. For my part, I only mention this quackery to caution my readers against being deceived by it. The chalybeate was discovered-so say its admirers-by one Waterworth, an obscure apothecary, and, it is to be presumed, of little practice, or he would not have found time for springhunting. Be this as it may, the spring had been known for years to all the old women of the island, as well as to their mothers and grandmothers before them, but, not having the worldly craft of the pill-vendor, the simple souls never thought of bottling up a filthy, useless fluid, and puffing it off as a real elixir vitæ. Bile tumet jecur-my bile rises at the thought, as it once did at the taste of this abomination.

Black-Gang Chine.—This is one of the most remarkable features in the island. It is an immense, savage-looking chasm, torn out of the solid rock,-or, to speak correctly, the cliff; for the precipice, which is here about five hundred feet above the level of the sea, has neither stone nor chalk in its rugged sides. From the top splashes, or rather creeps, a thin, discoloured stream; and, following this in its descent, I had nearly tumbled over a second declivity when I fancied myself already on a level with the shore. Having luckily escaped from this awkward chance, I blundered on through mud and mire to the

sands, or rather to the shingle, for the whole beach consists of nothing better. It was a glorious sight to one who loves the sea. The waves were coming in six feet abreast, and bursting with a noise to which the thunder of an English storm is as nothing. I could have dreamed over such a scene for ever-which means as long as my legs and my appetite would let me. Really, there is something very delightful in these day-dreams, this mental intoxication, which has all the exhilarating effects of wine, without the intolerable head-ache of the next morning. To be sure, it is sometimes followed by the heart-ache, when the wandering spirit returns from its silent and blissful communings with Nature to the harsh realities of life. In my case, however, there was somewhat less than the usual chance of this invisible and unacknowledged malady, inasmuch as I narrowly missed breaking my neck in my attempt to re-ascend the cliff. By this time, it was well nigh dusk, and, before I had got halfway up the rock, I had missed the usual path, if path it could be called, and was with no little difficulty clambering up a cliff that every moment grew more and more perpendicular. My early days in Kent had somewhat accustomed me to this sort of work; yet, still I did not feel too comfortable. The wind, moreover, which had indulged in a lull for the last two or three hours, was rising fast; and suddenly a squall came whistling and bellowing about my ears, that, had it reached me a minute sooner, must infallibly have ended all my troubles in this world. Just as the blast began to strike me, I had got to an open rift or channel in the rock leading upward; into this I flung myself at once, regardless of the mud and brambles; and lucky it was for me that I did so; nothing could have stood up against the beating of those iron wings, which for full ten minutes lashed at me with uncontrollable violence. By that time its fury ceased, though the wind was still high enough to have torn a mill-sail to pieces, and great was my joy when I found myself safe again on the top of the precipice. It must be exceedingly unpleasant, that same breaking of the neck, I calculate a thing to be eschewed if possible; unless, indeed, you happen to be in love, and I-alas the day! -was only married.

Not far from here is Scratchell's Bay, remarkable for its fossils, but the account of

them belongs to another time and another place. There is, however, an anecdote connected with this spot, that may prove useful to the married portion of his Majesty's lieges, though I must cross the Solent, rough as the evening is, for the commencement of my tale. In the register of the church of Lymington, is a memorandum under the year 1736, “Samuel Baldwyn, Esq. sojourner of this parish, was immersed, without the Needles, in Scratchell's Bay, sans ceremonie, May 20th." This was performed in consequence of an earnest wish he expressed to that effect a little before his dissolution; and what reason dost thou think, reader, could urge him to have his body cast into the ocean, rather than quietly committed to the earth? no motive of erring superstition, no whim of bewildered reason, but a determination to disappoint the intention of an affectionate wife, who had repeatedly assured him in their domestic squabbles, which were very frequent, that if Providence permitted her to survive him, she would revenge her conjugal sufferings by occasionally dancing over the turf that covered his remains.

Such is the grave relation of the Hampshire historian, who no doubt thought it a serious matter, or he would not have introduced it into so solemn a work as his ponderous quartos. Peace be to the manes of Squire Baldwyn !—Poor fellow! his living body must have had a sad time of it, or his last will and testament lied most abominably. Has the spirit of his lady any thing to do, I wonder, with this wild weather-with the howling of the wind and the roaring of the waters? Heaven bless me! I am getting sentimental, when the best thing I can do is to get home, for the shades of evening are closing round

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The lights from Yarmouth-not the Yarmouth so celebrated for its fine herrings and its bad roadstead, but a snug little town so named-gleamed invitingly from the distance. But the spirit of Mr. Baldwyn, I suppose, urged me on in spite of weary limbs and the encroaching darkness; and, like a Paladin of old, I resolved to brave fatigue and night, and return by the same way I had come. This plan, commenced in freak, I would seriously advise my readers to pursue in their next visit to the island, abating always the absurdity of clambering up rocks, where no one

has any business that I know of, except the sea-gulls and the puffins. What I mean is, commence your trip a little after the sun has risen, while every thing yet wears its morning face, and return by the same road when the shadows of night begin to fall. The change, arising from the different aspect of the hour, will be more striking than any that could be gained from the change of route. At least, I have always found it so in all my excursions, whether at home or abroad.

The Under Cliff at Evening.-The rocks loomed out larger from the twilight; the hills looked blacker and loftier; the sea rolled more darkly, more coldly; 'and the waves seemed, like some wild beasts, to have grown bolder from the absence of day. In one part of the road, or rather way,for road there was none, in the civilized meaning of the word,-I could almost have fancied myself approaching the remains of some ancient city-one of those primæval ruins, that, like the ruins in America, we can only account for by supposing they existed before the deluge. The ground was covered with rocky fragments of all sizes, some bare, but discoloured by time, some covered with moss, others again half hid by shrubs and weeds; but all bearing, more or less, a fanciful resemblance to broken capitals and disjointed pillars. The way itself was a broad ledge, many feet in width, closed in on one side by a perpendicular wall of rock, while below, at the distance of many feet, lay a second rugged strip, or platform, which was beaten by the roaring waters of the Solent, While I was still wrapt in my own fancies, fashioning more strange shapes from the dark ness than ever child imagined in the burning embers of a coal-fire, the moon suddenly burst forth from the clouds that had oppressed her, and in her doubtful light the landscape put on another form. It was as if the whole scene had been touched by the rod of some fairy-and by the bye the elves, when they were allowed to exist at all, were particularly fond of the island. Below, at no very great distance, lay Puckaster Cove, which the antiquarians assert has derived its name from the tricksy spirit; and about Gad's Hill still clings the traditionary legend of fairy opposition to the erection of a church on any site but the one they had themselves chosen. Then too there is Pock Pool-but that is far off; and so too is my little inn, and it is getting

late. Via, my friends, for the most curious adventure of the twenty-four hours is yet to come.

Heartily glad was I to find myself once again in my temporary home, snugly seated before a comfortable fire, with certain necessary accompaniments upon the table, in the shape of cold ham, fowl, beef, ale, and brandy. If I had toiled hard for an appetite, I had fully achieved my object, as the poultry relics, the elongated bone of the ham, and the empty jug, soon bore a sufficing testimony. Now, there are some folks who pretend to be mightily indifferent to such matters; if they are sincere, they are blockheads; if not, they are hypocrites.

Next to the luxury of a good supper is a good bed; but, somehow, even a bed is not always one of roses, as I was doomed to experience on this eventful night. Such dreams!—such horrid dreams! I was tossing on the ocean, and as the vessel plunged and tore through the water, I felt all the hurry and dizziness of an inexperienced rider, when his horse runs away with him for the first time. It was like any thing but sailing. The speed of the ship was preternatural, and the cloths snorted, rather than flapped, when the wind dragged them from the bolt-ropes. Then the crew mutinied; but they were like no crew that had ever been seen before. They had vizarded themselves from all manner of wild beasts; some wore the face of the wolf, some of the tiger, others again of the jackall, and not a few growled about me as lions, or chattered at me with the heads of monkeys. The ludicrous never was so horrible, or the horrible so ludicrous. By a strange transition, I escaped from these monsters to the cliff by Black-Gang Chine, and dreamed over again the perils of the evening. But now I knew it was a dream; I had an indistinct consciousness that if I would only let go my hold and fling myself down at once, I should wake, or at all events this painful vision would pass away. With no little difficulty I accomplished this and awoke. I had far better have continued in my uneasy sleep. By the side of my bed sate a venerable but stern old man, whose eyes were fixed upon me with a severe gaze, while the forefinger of his right hand pointed to the page of a volume that lay open in his left. As the window was opposite to the foot of the bed, and the curtains had remained undrawn, the broad

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