Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 002.djvu/634

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To Correspondents.

A sonnet there, a good grave essay here,
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.

We leave to Mr Constable's wise set,
"Repository," "Notice Analytical,"
And whomsoever such omissions fret,
We must say we esteem him hypercritical.

The pompous airs of that exploded journal,
We own do most immensely tickle us;
We never saw, or Corporal or Colonel,
Make of such little things so great a fuss.

Touches original they say they give one!
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.

Then comes some song from Albion's Anthology,
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.

In all the Magazines for twenty years
The Old Bohemian Gypsey cuts a figure,
And now the hag in Constable's appears,
And sits by Maga's side in youthful vigour.

We mention this, because it was not fair,
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.

The old Scots Magazine was, in its time,
A decent reputable plundering book;
We don't think Cleghorn's prose, or Pringle's rhyme,
Will ever give the work a better look.

But if they really wish to make a stir,
What hinders them from taking in James Graham?
Malthus, Clieshbotham, Bentham can aver
How great Helvidius heaped them all with shame.

Just here and there, in a few hundred years,
If with keen eye the stream of time we scan,
A Bacon, Newton, or James Grahame, appears
To renovate the intellect of man.

Illustrious youth, though envious dulness sneer
At the bright radiance of thy rising day,
Pursue thy heaven-decreed sublime career,
Be not discouraged though thy works don't pay.

The midnight oil that wastes thy feeble body
Trains and refreshes the immortal soul;
Far wiser ink consume than whisky-toddy—
A proof-sheet's better than a flowing bowl.

Printer, Compositor, Pressman, are quaking,
And Oliver and Boyd themselves perplexed,
With our learned paper on that monstrous Kraken,
By the same hand the "Sea Snake" in our next.

The "Feræ" make sad work, but Dr Horn
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."

"Bess on Flirtation" is but sorry stuff,
While Belles are beautiful, Beaux will be civil.
"Satan Avaunt" is humorous enough;
But we much fear, would vex our printers' devil.

We send our best respects to Dr Chiel,
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.

But this is nothing to the purpose—Q,
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.

The "Necromancer" is no witch, we fear,
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

Errant? They should not stop with Number one.
"T.C. on Shakspeare" doth himself surpass.
B's correspondence we would wish to shun.
The man who writes "On Baxter" is an ass.

Few things more sweetly vary civil life
Than a barbarian savage tinkler tale.
Our friend who on the Gypsies writes in Fife,
We verily believe, promotes our sale.

From various quarters we have understood,
A certain Baronet is waxing wroth,
So we incline, ere long, to cool his blood,
And give the Knight some salt unto his broth.

Fitted to give an Editor the vapours,
Thine essay, "Crito," is, we frankly tell ye,
Quite otherwise with three ingenious papers,
Named "Rembrandt, Galileo, Machiavelli."

The last of these our present Number decks;
Unto its author we are grateful debtors;
Though things anonymous our tempers vex,
On this occasion, thank ye, "Man of Letters."

"Bibliopola Londinensis," deem
Not fudge the whole of these appalling rumours;
A deep and bigot horror, it would seem,
Some brethren have conceived 'gainst Blackwood's humours.

The most are sadly under one huge thumb—
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.

There are some things that do one good in hearing,
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?

And why? O portent rare of matchless brass!
For publishing "a parody profane."
How think ye will his own offences pass?
Does the Review a Christian air maintain?

Among those pamphlets stitched in blue and yellow,
Should any searcher take the pains to peer,
How easily could he prove, my worthy fellow,
That all your wits against the Gospel sneer!

And now, in the old business style to stop,
Next Number shall grace April's 20th day,
By May the 1st they'll be in Baldwin's shop.

⁂ To Correspondents—Pray the postage pay.