Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 002.djvu/633

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NOTICES.

Contributors to Blackwood's Magazine,
Our honoured Correspondents one and all,
Ye who in Blackwood's shop are never seen,
And ye who once per diem use to call.

When thro' the following pages ye shall look,
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.

Necessity, quoth Horace, hath no legs!
'Twould ruin Ebony to print the whole;
The veiled Conductor your forbearance begs;
We can't afford twelve sheets, upon our soul!

E., N., T.R., A.P., L., F., and H.,
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.

Last month we ventured on some savoury bits,
A few good things, exactly to your gout,
They threw the prudish back-shop into fits,
And made even Cognoscenti to look blue.

My lady swears she will no more take in
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.

Therefore we henceforth purpose ne'er to swerve
From the exactest and most nice morale;
Even Constable's wise herd shall not preserve
Such parlour-window ethics as we shall.

No—not that journal, most unlaughable
Decorous, issuing from that lordly shop;
Which gentle Bob, in vain attempts to sell,
While in his trim boudoir blue stockings stop.

(Divine boudoir, and kind obliging Bobby!
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!

Let Musty Laing a pedant crowd convoke,
'Mid the tall folios of his dungeon drear;
Let shirtless students tolerate the smoke
Of grim Carfrae's putrescent atmosphere;

Let prosing Gazetteer and smart Reviewer,
In Constable's dark den their fingers cool;
Let jocund Johnny's sale-room still secure
The tea-pot buying, missal-gazing fool;

Let solemn Dominies to Skelly run,
Let Theologians haunt the Bailie's still;
Dim Antiquarians croak with Jamieson,
And Dilettanti prate with Peter Hill.

But while the young, the beauteous, and the gay,
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.)

But to return—next month we mean to handle
Thy yet unrifled treasures, Peu-de-mots,
Nor shall we scruple, Beppo (sink the scandal)
To analyze thine exquisite morçeau.

Take care, Guiseppé, times are altered much,
Since charming Pulci and thy Lafontaine;
If the Suppression get thee in their clutch,
Ne'er shalt thou sing Venetian Dames again.

Of all the blockheads that have sent us verse,
Sure thou, Philemon, art the most obtuse,
Of articles our Blackwood must be scarce,
E'er we waste paper upon such a muse.

Tickler! thy letters, full of point and flame,
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.

We're glad to see that Hogg takes no offence
At Timothy;—and why indeed should he?
Genius is coupled well with manly sense;
Kilmeny's Bard may bear all jokes with glee.

We'll soon insert the letter, dated "Humber,"
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.

Best thanks and compliments to Dr Jarvie—
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 Good "Civis Glasguensis," we must beg ye
To pay attention to our friendly hint,
We can't insert your Life of John Carnegie,
Unless he authorises us to print.

We much admire the genius and acumen,
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.

Of pimpled Hazlitt's coxcomb lectures writing,
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.

Thanks to thee, Lauerwinkel, thanks Mein-herr,
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.

Euphrastes, we declare, is in a phrenzy,
We send him back his papers with our thanks,
"Scots Worthies, Number One, Kincaid Mackenzie,"
And Number Two, Sir John Marjoribanks.

Dear Cambrian friend! you've heard a genuine story,
The ancient Editors have lodged their summons
'Gainst Blackwood (that devout and ill-used Tory);
'Mong wits such measures certainly are rum ones.

Tho' thistles spring profuse on Scottish ground,
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.

We do request thee, Maker, from our clay,
To mould us men: we do solicit thee,
From darkness to promote us into day,
The prayer is bold.—Yet our Prometheus be!

A Berkshire Rector has been pleased to wonder
Why we've dismissed the primitive arrangement,
He hates, he says, from verse to prose to blunder,
Our quick transitions seem to him derangement.

Begging our good friend's pardon, we prefer
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.