_(For the Mirror.)_
The crowded yachts were anchor'd in the roads,
To view the contest for a kingly prize;
Voluptuous beauty smil'd on Britain's lords,
And fashion dazzled with her thousand dyes;
And far away the rival barks were seen,
(The ample wind expanding every sail)
To climb the billows of the watery green,
As stream'd their pennons on the favouring gale:
The victor vessel gain'd the sovereign boon;
The gothic palace and the gay saloon,
Begemm'd with eyes that pierc'd the hiding veil,
Echoed to music and its merry glee
And cannon roll'd its thunder o'er the sea,
To greet that vessel for her gallant sail.
_Sonnets on Isle of Wight Scenery._
To those readers of the MIRROR who have not witnessed an Isle of Wight
Regatta, a description of that _fête_ may not be uninteresting. From the
days assigned to the nautical contest, we will select that on which his
Majesty's Cup was sailed for, on Monday, the 13th of August, 1827, as the
most copious illustration of the scene; beginning with Newport, the _fons
et origo_ of the "doings" of that remembered day. Dramatically speaking,
the _scene_ High-street, the _time_ "we may suppose near ten o'clock,"
A.M.; all silent as the woods which skirt the river Medina, so that to
hazard a gloomy analogy, you might presume that some plague had swept away
the population from the sunny streets; the deathlike calm being only
broken by the sounds of sundry sashes, lifted by the dust-exterminating
housemaid; or the clattering of the boots and spurs of some lonely ensign
issuing from the portals of the Literary Institution, condemned to lounge
away his hours in High-street. The solitary adjuncts of the deserted
promenade may be comprised in the loitering waiter at the Bugle, amusing
himself with his watch-chain, and anxiously listening for the roll of some
welcome carriage--the sullen urchin, reluctantly wending his way to school,
whilst
"His eyes
Are with his heart, and that is far away;"
amidst the assemblage of yachts and boats, and dukes and lords, and
oranges and gingerbread, at Cowes Regatta.
But where is all Newport? Why, on the road to Cowes, to be sure; for who
dreams of staying at home on the day of sailing for the King's Cup? If the
"courteous reader" will accompany us, we will descant on the scenery
presented on the road, as well as the numerous vehicles and thronging
pedestrians will permit us. Leaving the town-like extent of the Albany
Barracks, the prospect on the left is the Medina, graced with gently
gliding boats and barges, and skirted by fine woods. Opposite is the
wood-embosomed village of Whippingham, from which peers the "time-worn
tower" of the little church. Passing another romantic hamlet (Northwood)
the river approaching its mighty mother, the sea, widens into laky breadth;
and here the prospect is almost incomparable. On a lofty and woody hill
stands the fine modern castellated residence of John Nash, Esq. an
erection worthy of the baronial era, lifting its ponderous turrets in the
gleaming sunshine; and on another elevation contiguous to the sea, is the
castle of the eccentric Lord Henry Seymour, a venerable pile of antique
beauty. Here the spectator, however critical in landscape scenery, cannot
fail to be gratified; the blended and harmonizing shades of wood, rock,
and water; the diversities of architecture, displayed in castle, cottage,
and villa; the far-off heights of St. George's and St. Catherine's
overtopping the valley; the fine harbour of Cowes, filled with the sails
of divers countries, and studded with anchored yachts, decked in their
distinguishing flags; and around, the illimitable waters of the ocean
encircling the island, form an interesting _coup d'oeil_ of scenery which
might almost rival the imaginary magnificence of _Arcadia_.
Approaching Cowes by the rural by-road adjoining Northwood Park, the
residence of George Ward, Esq. the ocean scenery is sublimely beautiful.
In the distance is seen the opposite shores, with Calshot Castle, backed
by the New Forest, and one side of it, divided by Southampton Water, and
the woods of Netley Abbey. Here we descried the contending yachts,
ploughing their way in the direction of the Needles; but as our
acquaintance with the sailing regulations of the Royal Yacht Club will not
admit of our awarding the precedence to one or the other, we will descend
from the elevation of Northwood, amidst the din of music from the Club
House, and the hum of promenaders on the beach, and ensconce ourselves in
the snug parlour of "mine host" Paddy White, whom we used to denominate
the Falstaff of the island. Though from the land of shillelaghs and
whiskey, Paddy is entirely devoid of that gunpowder temperament which
characterizes his country; and his genuine humour, ample obesity, and
originality of delivery, entitle him to honourable identification with
"Sir John." Now, by the soul of Momus! who ever beheld a woe-begone face
at Paddy White's? Even our own, remarkable for "loathed melancholy," has
changed its moody contour into the lineaments of mirth, while listening to
him. View him holding forth to his auditors between the intervening whiffs
of his soothing pipe, and you see written in wreaths of humour on his
jolly countenance, the spirit of Falstaff's interrogatory, "What, shall I
not take mine ease _at mine inn_?" The most serious moods he evinces are,
when after detailing the local chronology of Cowes, and relating the
obituary of "the bar," consisting of the deaths of dram-drinking
landladies, and dropsical landlords, he pathetically relaxes the rotundity
of his cheeks, and exclaims, "Poor Tom! he was _a good un_." But we must
to the beach, and glance at the motley concourse assembled to behold the
nautical contest.
Was there ever a happier scene than Cowes presented on that day? But to
begin with the splendid patrons of the festival, we must turn our eyes to
the elegant Club House, built at the expense of George Ward, Esq. Before
it are arranged the numerous and efficient band of the Irish Fusileers,
and behind them, standing in graceful groups, are many of the illustrious
members of the club. That elderly personage, arrayed in ship habiliments,
is the noble Commodore, Lord Yarborough; he is in conversation with the
blithe and mustachioed Earl of Belfast. To the right of them is the
Marquess of Anglesey, in marine metamorphose; his face bespeaking the
polished noble, whilst his dress betokens the gallant sea captain. There
is the fine portly figure of Lord Grantham, bowing to George Ward, Esq.;
who, in quakerlike coat and homely gaiters, with an umbrella beneath his
arm, presents a fine picture of a speculator "on 'Change." To the left is
Richard Stephens, Esq., Secretary to the Royal Yacht Club, and Master of
the Ceremonies. He is engaged in the enviable task of introducing a party
of ladies to view the richly-adorned cups; and the smile of gallantry
which plays upon his countenance belies the versatility of his talent,
which can blow a storm on the officers of a Custom House cutter more to be
dreaded than the blusterings of old Boreas. That beautiful Gothic villa
adjoining the Club House, late the residence of the Marquess of Anglesey,
is occupied by the ladies of some of the noble members of the club,
forming as elegant and fashionable a circle as any ball-room in the
metropolis would be proud to boast of. But it is time to speak of the
crowd on the beach--lords and ladies--peers and plebeians--civilians and
soldiers--swells and sailors--respectable tradesmen and men of no
trade--coaches and carriages, and "last, not least," the Bards of the
Regatta--
"Eternal blessings be upon their heads!
The poets--"
singing the deeds of the contested day in strains neither Doric nor
Sapphic, but in such rhythm and measure as Aristotle has overlooked in the
compilation of his Poetic Rules; and to such music as might raise the
shade of Handel from its "cerements." Surely the Earl of Belfast must feel
himself highly flattered by the vocal compliment--
"And as for the Earl of Belfast, he's a nobleman outright,
They all say this, both high and low, all through the _Iley Wight_."
Reverting to the aquatic scenery, the most prominent object amidst the
"myriad convoy," is the Commodore's fine ship, the _Falcon_, 351 tons,
lying out a mile and a half to sea. Contrasting her proportions with the
numerous yachts around her, we might compare her commanding appearance to
that of some mountain giant, seated on a precipice, and watching the trial
for mastery amongst a crowd of pigmies below. Her state cabin has been
decorated in a style of magnificence for a ball in the evening, at which
200 of the nobility and gentry are expected to be present. But all eyes
are anxiously turned to the race. "Huzza for the _Arrow_," is the
acclamation from the crowd; and certain enough the swift _Arrow_, of 85
tons, Joseph Weld, Esq., has left her opponents, even the favourite
_Miranda_ spreads all sail in vain--the _Arrow_ flies too swiftly,
outstripping the _Therese_, 112 tons; the _Menai_, 163 tons; the _Swallow_,
124 tons; the _Scorpion_, 110 tons; the _Pearl_, 113 tons; the _Dolphin_,
58 tons; and the _Harriet_, 112 tons. Now she nears the starting vessel,
gliding swiftly round it--the cannons on the battlements of Cowes Castle
proclaim the victory--the music breaks forth "with its voluptuous swell,"
amidst the applause of the multitude,--and his Majesty's Cup is awarded to
the _Arrow_.
The assemblage dispersing, we will adjourn to Paddy White's, and refresh
ourselves with a cup of his Bohea, rendered more agreeable by the company's
critiques on the sailing match. At this moment Cowes contains half the
world; and every villa, and assembly-room, and tavern, and pot-house, from
the superb club-house, with its metamorphosed lords, to the Sun tap, with
its boisterous barge-men, are as happy as mortals can be. Just before oar
departure for Newport, we will to the harbour, and take a farewell peep of
the "finish" of Cowes' Regatta. Though unwelcome night has prematurely
interrupted the enjoyments of the multitude, it engenders a social
pleasure to behold the numerous lights, forming almost a concentrated
blaze--to hear the expiring cadence of the jovial song, excited by the
second bottle--and to join in the bustle of the beach, where the company
of the _Falcon_ are embarking. But good bye to Cowes--we are already on
the road to Newport; and the lateness of the hour may be conceived by the
inmates of the rural inn, the Flower Pot, drawing the white curtains of
each bed-room window. Reader, a word at parting. Art thou tired of the
commercial monotony of the city, and wearied with its eternal aspect of
brick? Has the efflorescence of thy youth been "sicklied o'er" by the
wasting turmoil of the town?--leave its precincts for one month of the
fervid summer, and forget thy cares and toils in the embowered Isle of
Wight. Let thy taste be ever so fastidious, there it may be gratified. If
thou art in love with sentimental ease and elegance, take up thy residence
amongst the library-visiting fashionables at Ryde--if thou hast a taste
for the terrific and sublime, thou canst meditate amidst the solemn and
sea-worn cliffs of Chale, and regale thine ears with the watery thunders
of the Black Gang Chine--if any veneration for antiquity lights up thy
feelings, enjoy thy dream beneath the Saxon battlements of Carisbrooke,
and poetize amidst the "sinking relics" of Quam Abbey--if geology is thy
passion, visit the "wild and wondrous" rocks of Freshwater, where thou
canst feast thine eyes with relics of the antediluvian world, and enrich
thy collection with shells of every hue--if thou longest to dissolve thy
heart in pastoral tears, _à la Keates_, adjourn to Arreton, the sweetly
secluded scene of the "Dairyman's Daughter;" where thou mayest "with
flowers commune;" or if thou hast the prevailing characteristics of a
cheerful citizen, take up thy abode amongst the life-cherishing
_bon-vivants_ of Newport--but, above all, forego not the pleasures of a
Cowes Regatta! * * H.
* * * * *