LETTER I.

These did the ruler of the deep ordain,
To build proud navies and to rule the main. 
                       Pope, Homer’s Iliad.

Such scenes has Deptford, navy-building town,
Woolwich and Wapping, smelling strong of pitch;
Such Lambeth, envy of each band and gown,
And Twickenham such, which fairer scenes enrich. 
                     Pope, Imitation of Spencer.

. . . . . . . . . . .  Et cum coelestibus undis
Aequoreae miscentur aquae:   caret ignibus aether,
Caecaque nox premitur tenebris hiemisque suisque;
Discutient tamen has, praebentque micantia lumen
Fulmina:   fulmineis ardescunt ignibus undae. 
Ovid, Metamorphoses.

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General description.

The Difficulty of describing Town Scenery—­A Comparison with certain Views in the Country—­The River and Quay—­The Shipping and Business--Shipbuilding—­Sea-Boys and Port-Views—­Village and Town Scenery again compared—­Walks from Town—­Cottage and adjoining Heath, &c.—­ House of Sunday Entertainment—­The Sea:  a Summer and Winter View—­A Shipwreck at Night, and its Effects on Shore—­Evening Amusements in the Borough—­An Apology for the imperfect View which can be given of these Subjects.

“Describe the Borough”—­though our idle tribe
May love description, can we so describe,
That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace,
And all that gives distinction to a place? 
This cannot be; yet moved by your request
A part I paint—­let Fancy form the rest. 
   Cities and towns, the various haunts of men,
Require the pencil; they defy the pen: 
Could he who sang so well the Grecian fleet,
So well have sung of alley, lane, or street? 
Can measured lines these various buildings show,
The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row? 
Can I the seats of wealth and want explore,
And lengthen out my lays from door to door? 
   Then let thy Fancy aid me—­I repair
From this tall mansion of our last year’s Mayor,
Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach,
And these half-buried buildings next the beach,
Where hang at open doors the net and cork,
While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work;
Till comes the hour when fishing through the tide
The weary husband throws his freight aside;
A living mass which now demands the wife,
Th’ alternate labours of their humble life. 
   Can scenes like these withdraw thee from thy wood,
Thy upland forest, or thy valley’s flood? 
Seek then thy garden’s shrubby bound, and look,
As it steals by, upon the bordering brook;
That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering slow,
Where the reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow;
Where in the midst, upon a throne of green,
Sits the large Lily as the water’s queen;
And makes the current, forced awhile to stay,
Murmur and bubble as it shoots away;