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Do you often get similar epistles?
O, every month a heap, but I seldom notice them.
Have you any more?
See this white bag lettered Scan. Mag., i. e.,
Give us a specimen.
Take the first that comes to hand.
Here is
Peruse.
The first article which caught my eye upon, opening your Magazine for this month was,
“
It is, not, however, for any of these reasons I am induced to notice the article in
question, but merely in reference to a critique on the same gentleman’s performance in the
number for March, 1818, the consistency of which two articles I shall presently show you by a few
extracts from both. How it obtained insertion I cannot conceive, except, indeed, you mean
practically to illustrate an article on “Memory” in your last, of whose efforts
I’ve an idea you have formed a wholly erroneous estimate. It is no part of my intention to
canvass the merits of
And I might say again, and again, and again, but I have neither
time nor patience; the hasty and random extracts I have made may “give some few touches of the
thing;” but to form any adequate idea of the whole, it is necessary to read the two articles,
which whoever does,
There is some fun in that fellow, but he is rather spoony in imagining that the contributor of 1824 is bound to follow the opinions of him of 1818.
It needs no ghost to tell us who the 24 man is. Who is the 18 pounder? Pounder, I
may well call him; for never did paviour put in lumps of two years old into Pall Mall as he puts the
puff into
Poor
O, ay, Wictoire. Well-chosen name, as we should say, my
I have never seen him. I am by far too old to go to plays, and, besides, I do not
like to disturb my recollections of
There are several left.
Bales.—Take another.
Here:
Sir,—I have been a subscriber to your magazine for some years, but of late I have come to the determination of discontinuing being so. The chief reason—for I think it always best to be quite candid—that I have for this, is the fact, that your magazine does not contain good articles. You appear to be chiefly filled up with abuse of the periodical publications, written by the first men of the age—Mr. Jeffrey ,Mr. Place ,Mr. Campbell ,Mr. Bentham , and others, as if any body whatever cares about your abuse of these eminent men. Whoever writes under the name ofT. Tickler ,—of course, a fictitious name,—has been so offensive in this way, that the magazines containing his vapid lucubrations have been ejected from at least three of by far the most decent libraries hereabouts.However, as I like your politics, I shall not absolutely give you up, but occasionally buy your book, and therefore advise you to make it better. Could you not give us Tales—or Travels—or Memoirs—or Histories—or something else amusing and miscellaneous-like, just such as the other magazines? Because, though I am not so great a fool as to imagine that the accusation of personality, and other similar charges, is so true as some clever men,—who
areclever, though your partiality may deny it,—could wish to have believed; yet I must say, that if you go on as you go on now,you will be but a stupid concern.I am, Sir, Your humble servant, A. B. Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square.
Are you sure of that signature? Show it to me.
Yes, quite sure—here it is for you.
A blackguard; that’s the word, sir. He is—but I shall not lose my
temper for such an evident ass—a blockhead, sir. Ring the bell—A mean ass,
sir.—Curse the waiter—ring the bell, Doctor—A very donkey, sir. (Enter Waiter.) What brings you here,
Sir?
You bade me ring.
Did I? Nothing, Exit Richard, with a
bow.) Why, sir, that is a blackguard letter. So Tickler is a fictitious name, and
Two quarts of porter, sir.
Put them down—thank you—vanish. [Exit
Richard
.] Sir, I am sorry that
Ne sævi, magne sacerdos. Cool yourself with the narcotic of porter.
So I am not like the other magazines. Heaven forfend! What, sir, am I to have such
things as—“tallow. His visits to his sister in Norton Falgate were
complete epochs in the family. The genteelest fish in the market was bought on the occasion, and the
pudding was composed with double care. Then
“
Fill your glass, at all events, which is much more to the purpose now than your Magazine.
Am I to fill it, I say, with——
“Idealism, as explained by
Fiddle-faddle. Is this to be the staple commodity of my Magazine? I should see it
down at the bottom of the Firth of Forth first, with a copy of the
Nay, I think you have got into a fret for nothing. Nobody can think less of these
magazine people than I do; but you know that the real complaint against you is not want of
vis, but a too strong direction of it every now and then.
Personality, Doctor is it that ye are driving at? Why, I have discussed that so
often, that it would be quite a bore if I were to bring it in by the head and shoulders now. But
first listen for a minute.—The people who blame my Magazine very generally praise the
I do not read the Dromedarian lucubrations, so I cannot say whether you are right or not.
I read all the periodicals, you know; and, sir, I must say, that for downright
personal scurrility, there never yet were articles in any periodical equal to those which
Who is he?
Pho! a young Irish lawyer, who wrote some trash of plays for
But,
Neither should I, my dear fellow, but for this, that yon hear well-minded poor
bodies every now and then puffing up the gentility, and elegance, and freedom from scurrility, of
such compositions, whereas the truth is, that their wit is vulgarity, their taste frivolity, and
that their supposed exemption from personal abuse is owing to their efforts, however malignant in
intention and blackguard in execution, being so weak in their effects as to escape observation. You
see how I squabashed the
Squabashed! extinguished it. Why, a Newfoundland dog never displayed his superiority over a mangy cur in a more complete and contemptuous fashion.
Change the subject—give us a stave.
Here’s, then, to the honor and glory of Sings.)
Like prongs, like prongs, your bristles rear— Arise, nor linger stuffing, dining— Lo! blockheads drive in full career, And Common Sense away is pining. They come—in ruffian ranks they come— Rage, rags, and ruin heave in sight; Haste—earth throws up her dirtiest scum— Ho! Maga, to the fight. Truth stood erect in ancient days, And over Falsehood’s jaw went ploughing; Now Faction in the sunshine strays, While Loyalty her neck is bowing: Power reigns with Ambrose in the halls,And Fancy high, and Frolic light, Hark! ’tis the voice of reason calls— Ho! Maga, to the fight! Shepherd of Ettrick , ho! arise—Haste, Tickler , to the fierce pursuing;North ! dash the cobwebs from your eyes—Are ye asleep when war is brewing! Lo! dunces crown Parnassus high, With yellow breeches gleaming bright; Haste, drive the grunters to the sty— Ho! Maga, to the fight! Look forth upon the toothless curs, On fools and dunces, Hunts andHazlitts ,Who think themselves eternal stars, Although but stinking, sparkling gas-lights— Haste, homewards send them to Cockaigne, To sup on egg and lettuce white; Haste, how can ye the knout refrain?— Ho! Maga, to tha fight! And Whigs are now so lost, so low, A miracle could scarce restore them; They fall in droves at every blow, And dust and dirt are spattered o’er them; Religion, Liberty and Law, In thee repose their sole delight; Who against thee dares wag a paw?— Ho! Maga, to the fight!
Brawly sung, Doctor. Is’t your ain?
Yes.
Od, man, but ye are getting on finely—in time ye may be as good a hand at it
as
Here are two articles;
Who wrote them?
You are always a modest hand at the catechising. However, they are both old friends
of some truth about the
business.
Ay, ay, some truth, and many lies, I do suppose.
Thou hast said it. I don’t mean to call
quoad
the things that were.
A got-up concern entirely?—A mere bookseller’s business?
I wish I could be quite sure that some part of the beastliness of the book is not
mere bookseller’s business—I mean as to its sins of omission. You
have seen from the newspapers that anent our good friend, whom
Ha! ha! ha!—Weel, there’s anither good alias!
Why, it certainly did occur to me as rather odd, that although Maga
Pooh, pooh! man—
Why, yes,
You having, in point of fact, fallen asleep over the concern. But no matter, Doctor.
Sic things will happen in the best regulated families.
I observe,
Oo, aye, man—I thought Byron a very nice laud. Did ye no ken
Not I; I never saw him in my life except once, and that was in
The
Come, this is a little too much,
Me a Muir him.
Well, well,
We were just as thick as weavers in no time. You see I was had been jauntin about in
the country for tway three weeks, seeing
So you shook hands immediately, of course?
Shook! Od, he had a good wrist of his ain; yet, I trow, I garred the shackle-bane o’ him dinnle.
August moment! Little did you then foresee either
Potation!—we had every thing that was in the house—Claret, and Port, and
ale, and ginger-beer, and brandy-wine, and toddy, and twist, an’ a’; we just made a
night on’t. O, man, wasna this a different kind of behaviour frae that proud
What was this?—I don’t recollect to have heard it,
Toots! a’body has heard it!—I never made ony concealment of his cauld,
dirty-like behaviour. But, to be sure, it was a’ naething but envy—just clean envy. Ye
see I had never foregathered wi’ “Lord keep us
a’!” says I, “Godswhittle, my man, there’s nae want of poets here the
day, at ony rate.”
Wi’ that “
Confound him! I doubt if he would have
allowed even PoetS!” quo’ he, (deil mean him!)—“poetS,
Mr. Hogg?—Pray, where are they, sir?”
Pooh! we all know
They had never met when
D—n the Lakers!
Ditto! ditto!
O fie! fie, gentlemen! How often must I remind you that no personality is permitted here. Look around you, gentlemen; look around this neat, and even elegant apartment, rich in all the appliances of mundane comfort and repose, living with gas, bright with pictures, resplendent with the concentrated radiance of intellect-exalting recollections—look around this beautiful chamber, and recollect with what feelings it is destined to be visited years and lustres hence by the enthusiastic lovers of wit and wisdom, and Toryism and——
Toddy.
Have done—have done, and consider for a moment how jarring must be the
contrast between the general influence breathed from the very surface of this haunted place, and the
specific, particular, individual influence of the baser moods of which you, in the wantonness and
levity of madly exhilarated spirits, are planting
pabula plus—quam—futura.
Bore ideal, you mean. Go on.
On?—
Are you at this bottle, or this, my dawtie? Fill up your tumbler.
To say the truth,
soi-disant
adherents. I commiserate you both from my soul of souls, Who will ever believe that the one of
you did not write
and the other“ Michael’s dinner —Michael’s dinner,”
“ Pericles to call the man?”
Rax me the black bottle. I say,
O dear!—Well, declaration signed by “dearest duck”
one I
mean—should really be forthcoming, if her Ladyship’s friends wish to stand fair
coram populo
I dinna like to be interrupting ye,
There, Porker. These things are part and parcel of the chatter of every
bookseller’s shop,
à fortiori
of every drawing-room in Mayfair. Can the matter stop here? Can a great man’s memory be
permitted to incur damnation, while these saving clauses are afloat any where uncontradicted? I
think not. I think, since the
Faith, and it cannot be denied but what there’s something very like reason in
what you say,
Shall I confess the truth to you? turk!”
He was mair like Captain MacTurk his ain sell, I’m thinking.
This conduct, and the great and successful efforts
Yes, and I must say, there are some parts of the Colonel’s behaviour which appear to me explicable only on the supposition of his being as devoid of sense and memory, as his book shows him to be of education and knowledge.
Education?
Ay, education. The man cannot even spell English. He writes, in the very letter
authorizing the publication of his correspondence with croud for crowd,
council for counsel.
Pooh! he’s but a soldier.
Yes, and in his answer to his King;” which last is to me a puzzler, I must own.
As how, Kit?
Why, you see
Of course he was. We all know that.
Very well. Now reach me the last number of the
“In America he saw the great mass of the population earning from thirty to forty shillings a-week, furnished with all the necessaries of life, and absolutely exempt from want; in America, he saw a clergy, voluntarily paid by the people, performing their duties with zeal and ability; the various functions of government performed much better than in Europe, and at less than a twentieth ot the expense; the people orderly, provident, and improving, without libel-law, vice-societies, or constitutional associations; no lords or squires driving their dependants to the poll, or commanding votes by influence, that is, by terror—by apprehension of loss if the vote be withheld; no lords or squires turned by means of this influence into what are called representatives, and then combining to make corn dear, or voting away millions, for the support of their own children or friends, money extorted in the shape of taxation from needy wretches, who had not even a share in the mockery of being compelled to give a free vote for their member.“In the British dominions he sees the great mass of the agricultural laborers starving on eight shillings a-week; he sees a clergy enormously paid by taxation of the whole community, for rendering slender service, in one portion of the empire to about a fourteenth part of the population, and in other parts to little more than a third; he sees discussion repressed, the investigation of truth punished by fine and imprisonment for life, and the judges themselves so hostile to the press, as to prohibit, during the course of a trial, when its appearance is most likely to be beneficial to all parties, any printed statement of what passes in court; he sees
a gang of about a hundred and eighty families converting all the functions of government into means of a provision for themselves and their dependants, and for that purpose steadily upholding and promoting every species of abuse, and steadily opposing every attempt at political improvement: all this and more he sees in Britain only, and yet, with this before his eyes, the ignorant and puling sentimentalist has a manifest preference for British institutions! In a man of ordinary penetration and ordinary benevolence, such a preference could never be found; but the penetration and benevolence of your genuine sentimentalist are not of the ordinary kind;his perverse fecundity of imagination fills him with apprehension where no danger exists; his individual attachments and associations preclude him from entertaining any general regard for his species. In the check which every well-regulated community ought to possess against misconduct on the part of its rulers, he sees nothing but visions of anarchy, rapine, and bloodshed;in uncontrolled power on the part of the government, and the consequent pillage and privation to which the many are subjected for the benefit of the few,he sees nothing but the natural, and as he deems it, amiable weakness of human institutions. He can weep at a tale of disappointed love, and sigh over a dying leaf, but the slaughter of thousands at the nod of the successful conqueror, the pain and privation inflicted on millions to support the conqueror’s career, will not cost him a regret, or a single exertion of thought as to the means by which the world may be ridden of such detestable vermin. InGeoffrey’s sentimentalism there is also something antiquarian and romantic. America has no buildings nor institutions that have not the demerit of being new; in England we have Gothiccathedralsand Norman castles; and who would not submit to, or allow the Nobodys to submit toa world of actual evil,to enjoy the edifying associations which thesight of these venerable edifices, these strongholds of ignorance and superstition,are sure to excite! How Geoffrey came to acquire and cultivate the tastes of these Somebodys, it is not difficult to divine.”
Stop there.—Pretty well for one specimen, I think. The whole of that article
is the most genuine effusion of the ignorant malevolence of the tailorly tribe, that I have as yet
met with; but it is not worth while to talk of that.—I only wished to let you have the
opportunity of comparing this avowal of the true
They say twenty thousand pounds by the Greek Loan. Some folks, at least, are no
fools, if that be true.
Ay, ay—I guessed what the bursting of the bubble would reveal. Well,
They are a neat set altogether. What a fine thing they would make of it were they in power! Then they might sing—
I. When the Church and Crown are tumbled down By Bentham and his band,When Taylor Place shall wield the mace,Torn from old Eldon’s hand;When Joseph Hume fillsCanning’s room,And Hone supplantsMagee ;When Brougham looks big inCopley’s wig,Then hey, boys, up go we. II. When Waithman’s face inSutton’s place,As Speaker, we behold; When Sir James Mac shall hold the sackWhich keeps the nation’s gold; When Croker’s quill thy fist shall fill,Dear Secretary Leigh ,When Bowring’s tongue singsSouthey’s song,Then hey, boys, up go we, III. When Cobbett turns our home concerns,In place of murdered Peel ;When glowring Grey shall feel his way,To guide the common weal; When murky Mill our trade shall drill,On continent and sea; When the grim Stot the Mint has got,Then hey, boys, up go we. IV. When Stanhope’s hand greatYork’s commandWith frenzied gripe shall seize; When Wilson’s tread the laurelled headOf Wellington shall squeeze;When Cochrane’s flag shall proudly wag,Where Nelson’s wont to be;When Hob we greet inMelville’s seat,Then hey, boys, up go we. V. When fire shall gleam o’er Isis stream, And Cam with blood shall flow; When base Carlile shall scowling smile,O’er Lambeth crumbled low; When Westminster in ceaseless whirr Shall spinning-jennies see; When Preston stalls in fair St. Paul’s,Then hey, boys, up go we. VI. When Jeremy shall sit on high,Where Bradshaw sat of yore;When shall stand with hat in hand, GeorgeHis hatted judge before; When Prince and Peer, ’mid scorn and jeer, Ascend the gallows tree; When Honor dies and Justice flies, Then hey, boys, up go we.
I admit that
A new idea,
Po! None of your mysteries now.—Put
Not so fast, old one—I could build a theory on the Shepherd’s notion. Suppose, for example, that there has been another rebellion among the angels, and that they have been cast upon the earth, and entered into human forms—may not Byron have been the Satan of this secret insurrection?
If what
Really ye’re vera comical the night, sansculotte, and accept the challenge.”
Mind your glass,
And there was another funny thing o’ his, till a queer looking lad, one
O, I remember it—I was there myself—
Weel, ye see—being there as a misfortunate nun, he was cleekit wi’ my
Good bye—good bye—I’m off in half an hour per coach, and have not time to say more.
Sit down while you are here, at all events. Fill your glass.
Small need of advising that.
Give us a parting chaunt.
With all my spirit.
Farewell, farewell, beggarly Scotland—
Vera civil, that. My certie, lad, ye’re no blate.
Bleat—grunt. Hold your tongue.
1. Farewell, farewell, beggarly Scotland,Cold and beggarly poor countrie; If ever I cross thy border again, The muckle deil must carry me. There’s but one tree in a’ the land, And that’s the bonny gallows tree; The very nowte look to the south, And wish that they had wings to flee. 2. Farewell, farewell, beggarly Scotland, Brose and Bannocks, crowdy and kale! Welcome, welcome, jolly old England, Laughing lasses and foaming ale! ’Twas when I came to merry Carlisle, That out I laughed loud laughters three, And if I cross the Sark again, The muckle deil maun carry me. 3. Farewell, farewell, beggarly Scotland, Kilted kimmers, wi’ carroty hair, Pipers, who beg that your honors would buy A bawbee’s worth of their famished air. I’d rather keep Cadwallader’s goats,And feast upon toasted cheese and leeks, Than go back again to the beggarly North, To herd ’mang loons with bottomless breeks.
A very polite ditty, I must say—but ’pon honor, as a sturdy Scot, I had
rather hear such things as that, than the idiot talk about the Modern Athens. What are you going to
do in London,
Business, diplomatic and deep. Have you any commands?
Nothing particular. Stir up the lads for me.
Poz. I shall certainly mention you at the Pig and Whistle.
Le cochon et souffle.
Whaur’s that?
In a certain spot. It is the great resort of the eminent literary men of
London—you meet them all there and at
opus magnum. It is at present the greatest desideratum in our literature.
Do you go through Leeds?
Yes. Why?
You will, of course, call on
I know the ground. Leeds is a dirty town; but the devil’s in the dice, if you could not raise a tumbler of twist somewhere or other in it.
Tell Literary Souvenir.
Is it good?
Some of our friends—
Yes, I wrote some havers about fairies.
No,
Yes,
Haud your tongue anent bonny Scotland, after the blackguard sang ye hae just blethered out.
Do not be angry, Shepherd, and I shall make you blessed by a French song in praise
of it; written by
Oo, ay,
1. Valedico, Scotia, tibi, Mendica, egens, frigida gens; Diabolus me reportet ibi Si unquam tibi sum rediens. Arbor unus nascitur ibi, Isque patibulus est decens. Bos ipse Austrum suspicit, sibi Alas ut fugeret cupiens. 2. Vale, vale, Scotia mendica, Avenæ, siliquæ, crambe, far! Ridentes virgines, Anglia antiqua, Salvete, et zythum cui nil est par! Cum redirem Carlilam lætam Risu excepi effuso ter, Si unquam Sarcam rediens petam Diabole ingens! tu me fer! 3. Vale popellus tunicatus Crinibus crassis, et cum his Tibicen precans si quid alliatus Famelici emere asse vis! Capros pascerem Cadwalladero, Cui cibus ex cepis et caseo fit, Potius quam degam cum populo fero, Cui vestis sine fundo sit.
Ay, there is something in that. The remark about popular fair,
O, in the last line amaist, is very gude indeed.
Get married,
Yes, faith, but not all with equal luck.
I am sorry to hear it, for I like that lad
There’s a gayish song on the subject. Shall I sing it?
By all means.
ThroughBritain’s isle asHymen stray’dUpon his ambling pony, With Buller sage, in wig array’d,To act as cicerone, To them full many a spouse forlorn Complain’d of guineas squander’d, Of visage torn and breeches worn, And thus his godship ponder’d— Oh, the Crabstick! the green immortal Crabstick! I’ll ensure A lasting cure In Russia’s native Crabstick! With magic wand he struck the earth, And straight his conjuration Gave that same wholesome sapling birth, The husband’s consolation; Dispense, quoth he, thou legal man, This new-discover’d treasure, And let thy thumb’s capacious span Henceforward fix its measure. Oh, the Crabstick! the green immortal Crabstick! Long essay’d On jilt and jade Be Buller’s magic Crabstick! The olive branch, Minerva’s boon,Betokens peace and quiet, But ’tis sage Hymen’s gift alone Can quell domestic riot; For ’tis a maxim long maintain’d By doctors and logicians, That peace is most securely gain’d By armed politicians. Oh, the Crabstick! the green immortal Crabstick! Its vigorous shoot Quells all dispute, The wonder-working Crabstick! In idleness and youthful hours, When graver thoughts seem stupid, Men fly to rose and myrtle bowers To worship tiny Cupid ;But spliced for life, and wiser grown, Dog-sick of sighs and rhyming, They haunt the crab-tree bower alone, The leafy shrine of Hymen. Oh, the Crabstick! the green immortal Crabstick! Love bestows The useless rose, But Hymen gives the Crabstick!
Bravo! Very well, indeed. I hope, however, that he will have no need of using his specific.
I can’t stay another minute. Good bye. Keep up the fun, my old fellows, and console yourselves as well as you can.
Take care of yourself,
Have not time to hear a sermon. Adieu.