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.




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