Blackwood's Magazine/Volume 2/Issue 12
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No XII. MARCH 1818. Vol. II
Contents.
TO CORRESPONDENTS.
The Review of Captain Tuckey's interesting Narrative shall appear in our next Number.
The Letter from Berkshire has been received by us as a very particular favour. The practice of which our friend disapproves, has not, we assure him, been adopted without considerable reflection, and now that it is fairly established, we feel unwilling to depart from it.—The Essays on Italian Literature, and particularly on the Modern Italian Drama, which he expresses so much anxiety to see, are in an advanced state of preparation, and shall make their appearance in the course of our next Volume. Any communications from our respected correspondent will be most acceptable.
"Cambria" is unavoidably deferred till next Number. We hope the promised communications from the same quarter may arrive in time to bear it company in our next.
The "Critique on Mr Yates" (the new actor), and the "Remarks suggested by the Dinner given in this City to Mr Kemble," have come too late for this Number. Nothing would give us greater pleasure than to insert a regular account of the "Acted Drama in Edinburgh," nor do we know any person to whom we could more willingly intrust it than our correspondent. We agree with him in thinking that the present condition of our Scottish Theatricals reflects great discredit, not on our actors (for these are good, and would become much better were their exertions properly stimulated or rewarded), but upon the corrupt and effeminate taste of the public, who seem to have pretty nearly lost all relish for the rational amusements of the preceding generation.
The "Essay on Party Spirit" soon. Also the "Testimonia."
The Remarks on the Lyrical Poets of the Old Testament, if possible, in No XIV.
We hope the Author of the Account of the Kraken will pursue his interesting speculations.
We shall at all times be most happy to insert the communications of Y. whose abilities we highly respect, when they do not accidently interfere (as in the case of his criticism on Dryden's Dramatic genius), with arrangements previously made with other correspondents.
"Answers to Queries on the Poor Laws, &c." in our next. This correspondent's communications shall always meet with attention.
Want of room prevents us from noticing, at present, the communications of a vast number of other correspondents.
A friend whom we permitted, for a different purpose, to have access to our Cabinet of Communications, has amused himself by drawing up the humorous "Notices" on the opposite page. We do not insert them, as he wished us to do, by way of serious answers to our correspondents; but merely because we wished our readers to partake in a jeu d'esprit, which afforded so much pleasure to ourselves. Subscribers can either drop or retain the pages as they please, when they send their sets to the binder.
NOTICES.
Our honoured Correspondents one and all,
Ye who in Blackwood's shop are never seen,
And ye who once per diem use to call.
Some will seem grim among you, and some gay;
Joyous the scribblers who have found a nook,
Gruff those deferred till April or till May.
'Twould ruin Ebony to print the whole;
The veiled Conductor your forbearance begs;
We can't afford twelve sheets, upon our soul!
Each several man, we much approve thy article;
We laugh'd at thine, friend S. (you wicked wretch!)
But fear we dare not print a single particle.
A few good things, exactly to your gout,
They threw the prudish back-shop into fits,
And made even Cognoscenti to look blue.
A journal which such tinker-stories tells;
And now the winter's o'er, the Magazine
Can't walk perdue in muff of modest belles.
From the exactest and most nice morale;
Even Constable's wise herd shall not preserve
Such parlour-window ethics as we shall.
Decorous, issuing from that lordly shop;
Which gentle Bob, in vain attempts to sell,
While in his trim boudoir blue stockings stop.
One moment on your charms we pause with joy;
That back-shop is the Muse's airy lobby,
And her most graceful usher, thou, my boy!
'Mid the tall folios of his dungeon drear;
Let shirtless students tolerate the smoke
Of grim Carfrae's putrescent atmosphere;
In Constable's dark den their fingers cool;
Let jocund Johnny's sale-room still secure
The tea-pot buying, missal-gazing fool;
Let Theologians haunt the Bailie's still;
Dim Antiquarians croak with Jamieson,
And Dilettanti prate with Peter Hill.
In circles sit where much-lov'd Miller bows;
There let us lounge the idler hours away,
And chase the wrinkles from our critic brows.)
Thy yet unrifled treasures, Peu-de-mots,
Nor shall we scruple, Beppo (sink the scandal)
To analyze thine exquisite morçeau.
Since charming Pulci and thy Lafontaine;
If the Suppression get thee in their clutch,
Ne'er shalt thou sing Venetian Dames again.
Sure thou, Philemon, art the most obtuse,
Of articles our Blackwood must be scarce,
E'er we waste paper upon such a muse.
May do some good to boys with inky fingers;
Mysterious is the change from Hogg to Grahame
Yet not behind our next the paper lingers.
At Timothy;—and why indeed should he?
Genius is coupled well with manly sense;
Kilmeny's Bard may bear all jokes with glee.
But thee "Philander" we with scorn dismiss.
"Juridicus" has sent us perfect lumber;
"The Florist" does not suit a work like this.
We much suspect, "Alpina," in last Number,
Was written by a Master—not a Miss.
We've two small questions, worthy buck, to ask ye:
Will fewer personalities not serve you?
Why do you always quiz our friends in Glasgow?
To pay attention to our friendly hint,
We can't insert your Life of John Carnegie,
Unless he authorises us to print.
Y., of thine essays on the plays of Dryden;
But H. M., all our English stage will do, man,
Thou surely giv'st the Bard too sore a hiding.
Our friend with moderate pleasure we peruse.
A.Z., when Kean's or Shakspear's praise inditing,
Seems to have caught the flame of either's muse.
And thanks to thee, our young friend, who dost render him:
It seldom happens, that, when Britons err,
Their German allies sapient counsel tender 'em.
We send him back his papers with our thanks,
"Scots Worthies, Number One, Kincaid Mackenzie,"
And Number Two, Sir John Marjoribanks.
The ancient Editors have lodged their summons
'Gainst Blackwood (that devout and ill-used Tory);
'Mong wits such measures certainly are rum ones.
And few, few roses lift their heads among 'em,
Yet where the lovely stranger flowers are found,
V.P. believe us, Scottish eyes don't wrong 'em.
To mould us men: we do solicit thee,
From darkness to promote us into day,
The prayer is bold.—Yet our Prometheus be!
Why we've dismissed the primitive arrangement,
He hates, he says, from verse to prose to blunder,
Our quick transitions seem to him derangement.
To mix the dulce with the utile,
And think it has in fact a charming air
Such different things in the same page to see.
Chalmers, Rob Roy, Divorce-law, the New Play,
Next (our divan, amid their toils to cheer)
Some squib upon our neighbours o'er the way.
"Repository," "Notice Analytical,"
And whomsoever such omissions fret,
We must say we esteem him hypercritical.
We own do most immensely tickle us;
We never saw, or Corporal or Colonel,
Make of such little things so great a fuss.
Some patch from Hazlitt's lectures (see our notice of 'em,
Translations from French Journals, don't deceive one,
We hope themselves are sensible, how low 'tis of 'em.
Copied per favour of our good friend Sandy;
Dry jokes by the great Author of Petralogy,
And ballads to the tune of Jack-a-dandy.
The Old Bohemian Gypsey cuts a figure,
And now the hag in Constable's appears,
And sits by Maga's side in youthful vigour.
In D. from old wives tales this one to single,
To send it to us for insertion here,
And lest we smok'd him, to cheat Mr Pringle.
A decent reputable plundering book;
We don't think Cleghorn's prose, or Pringle's rhyme,
Will ever give the work a better look.
What hinders them from taking in James Graham?
Malthus, Clieshbotham, Bentham can aver
How great Helvidius heaped them all with shame.
If with keen eye the stream of time we scan,
A Bacon, Newton, or James Grahame, appears
To renovate the intellect of man.
At the bright radiance of thy rising day,
Pursue thy heaven-decreed sublime career,
Be not discouraged though thy works don't pay.
Trains and refreshes the immortal soul;
Far wiser ink consume than whisky-toddy—
A proof-sheet's better than a flowing bowl.
And Oliver and Boyd themselves perplexed,
With our learned paper on that monstrous Kraken,
By the same hand the "Sea Snake" in our next.
Maintains the thing's a sort of allegory.
We burn'd to-day the "Sonnet to the Morn,"
And likewise made short work of a "Long Story."
While Belles are beautiful, Beaux will be civil.
"Satan Avaunt" is humorous enough;
But we much fear, would vex our printers' devil.
And thank him for his poem called "The Race."
The doctor uses nimbly hand and heel.
The "Weel-faur'd Hizzie" shall not want a place.
Did you think we should not detect your humming?
Why hear we not more frequently from you,
D.I.? We hope Sir Thomas Craig is coming.
And the "Young Lady" like an old one writes.
This Number of our Work completes the year,
P. will observe. Pray where have prick'd "The Knights
"T.C. on Shakspeare" doth himself surpass.
B's correspondence we would wish to shun.
The man who writes "On Baxter" is an ass.
Than a barbarian savage tinkler tale.
Our friend who on the Gypsies writes in Fife,
We verily believe, promotes our sale.
A certain Baronet is waxing wroth,
So we incline, ere long, to cool his blood,
And give the Knight some salt unto his broth.
Thine essay, "Crito," is, we frankly tell ye,
Quite otherwise with three ingenious papers,
Named "Rembrandt, Galileo, Machiavelli."
Unto its author we are grateful debtors;
Though things anonymous our tempers vex,
On this occasion, thank ye, "Man of Letters."
Not fudge the whole of these appalling rumours;
A deep and bigot horror, it would seem,
Some brethren have conceived 'gainst Blackwood's humours.
Even Pat, we hear, upon his last sale dinner,
Tipped Bill a hint in private, not to come,
The pious can't eat salt with such a sinner.
Some jokes that should on no account be lost;
What think ye of our Prince of Pisos, swearing
That Blackwood should to Beelzebub be tost?
For publishing "a parody profane."
How think ye will his own offences pass?
Does the Review a Christian air maintain?
Should any searcher take the pains to peer,
How easily could he prove, my worthy fellow,
That all your wits against the Gospel sneer!
Next Number shall grace April's 20th day,
By May the 1st they'll be in Baldwin's shop.
To the Publisher.
ON HIGH A PARIAN STATUE TO THY FAME,
RIGHT AT DUNEDIN'S CROSS. THERE MEN SHOULD GAZE,
AND WITH THEIR JUST AND HONOURABLE PRAISE
SHOULD CONSECRATE THY MEMORABLE NAME.
AND YET SUCH TOIL WERE VAIN. FOR IN THE PAGE
OF THINE OWN MAGAZINE SHALL IT GO DOWN
TO DISTANT GENERATIONS. MANY AN AGE,
FAR IN THE WOMB OF TIME, THY BROWS SHALL CROWN
WITH LEAVES OF DEATHLESS LAUREL. GAY AND SAGE,
AND YOUNG AND OLD, AND MAID, AND MATRON HOAR,
DO COUNT UPON THEIR FINGERS THROUGH THE LAND,
AND WHEN THE TWENTIETH OF THE MOON'S AT HAND,
ONE BREATHLESS HUSH EXPECTANT REIGNS FROM SHORE TO SHORE.
James Hogg.