LITTER FROM LONDON. Piccadilly, London, February 10, 1822. To C. NORTH, ESQ. EDINBURGH. MY DEAR SIR-Are we to see you in town this spring? or is the gout inexorable? I know not, however, with what grace or chance of acceptance I can invite you, after the specimen you had last year of the intolerable simplicity, the primeval artlessness of our table in Piccadilly. My aunt, in spite of some thousands per annum, is, to be sure, a bitter old housekeeper, and nothing ever gave me so unequivocal a proof of the endurance of your ancient friendship for our family, as the forbearance, nay, the positive good temper, with which you swallowed those things which affected to be original dinners, but which you, and all of us knew, were nothing more than impudent refacimentos of certain joints, which had for the two former days been ruined in character, and dared not appear in their own likeness. It is quite admirable to think how you stood all this! you, who are used to such ingenious and abundant living; and should I last longer than the old lady, who, I suppose, is scraping in this ineffable way for me, I trust you will permit me to indemnify you for allowing your consideration of my feelings to hinder you from often rushing out, and balancing matters at the opposite coffee-house, which, to your large praise be it said, you never once shewed the least symptom of doing. There is, however, as old Shakespeare has it," a soul of goodness in things evil." Your virtue was rewarded. You did not treat us with such delicate forbearance, or undergo so much abstinence for nothing; for I can declare, that "my young remembrance cannot parallel" such good looks in you, as you had on leaving London. The firmness and elasticity of your step was renewed-your eyes looked youthful, as well as critical-I could perceive something of that neat symmetry of ancle, which my late mother, when speaking of you, used occasionally to extol, but which I concluded was nothing more than an antique fiction, generated by that universal desire, which all old persons have of extolling every thing contemporary with their youth. I did not know that The gout had mark'd your ancles for its own, and had jealously concealed them with a thick veil. But though the austere discipline of our house in London had given you strength to shake off this tyrannical love, I feared for you when you should return to Edinburgh, and come again fairly within sight of the punch-bowls at Ambrose's; and I regret to see in the 58th Number of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, of which it seems you are the avowed Editor, (who would have thought at one time that our old friend, Mr North, would ever have resulted in an Editor?) that apprehensions are entertained by a person who signs himself" Morgan Odoherty," of the gout flying to your stomach. This shews what you have been at since we saw you in London, and gives likelihood to my distrust, of having your company here this year. All I hope is, that I shall not be informed some day that you have died of the disease which was fatal to Congreve, namely, "two bottles of port and an arm-chair." By the by, my dear Sir, you have puzzled me very much lately. I understand you not in your editorial capacity. You seem to be enveloped in conundrums, and inexplicable mysteries of whim. Who is this "Morgan Odoherty," who writes to you with such unrestrained familiarity? I never heard my aunt, nor either of my two deceased parents, speak of him; and considering the close conextion between you and my family, one would suppose, that so old and intimate a companion as Morgan" assumes to be, could not have been unknown or uninteresting to them. But, if I may speak out, I am not without my suspicions that there is no such person; and there are not wanting other incredulous individuals, who carry their scepticism a little farther, and even doubt your own existence; for were this not the case, I am convinced they never could bring their minds to address a respectable, real, elderly gentleman like yourself, in such terms as, "Dear Kit,’ "Cock of the North," "Jolly Old Buck,"-" Prime One," and others equally liberty-taking and low. You have no one to thank for these freedoms but yourself. Should the malady I dread keep you a prisoner in Edinburgh, the disap pointment will be no less to you than to myself; for I know you take a lively interest in whatever is going on here. You yearn to be occasionally among us; to make one in the nume rous stir and ferment in the metropolis; to partake of our public amusements, (more especially when there is a fresh importation of Mademoiselles for the ballet at the opera-house,) and to look a little into some of our new books before the freshness of their spirit shall have evaporated in a journey to Edinburgh. I shall, therefore, out of the desire I have for your recreation, write down, from time to time, all I know of London interest, and talk to you with my pen, if I am denied the pleasure of an oral communion with you. You must be careful how you wreak your disdain on the principles of Lord Byron's later poetry, as he will soon have it in his power to make fierce reprisals on you and the other dissenters. You have perhaps heard of the Journal which is to be written by him at Pisa, and sent over here for publication, in order that the balance of critical power may be restored, which has preponderated lately too much on the Tory side. In this great undertaking he has called to himself two allies, namely, Mr Bysshe Shelly and Mr Leigh Hunt, the latter of whom has abandoned his suburban villa, (No. 13, Lisson Grove North,) to brave, with his wife and "Little Johnnys," a perilous voyage on the un-cockney ocean. The sphere of this poet's experience will now be nobly enlarged. No one must twist him any more about "poplar rows" and "back gardens." He and his companions will now, like his own Nereids, << turn And toss upon the ocean's lifting billows, Feeling the sky; and some with sidelong O'er which the surface of the water slips." His lordship of Newstead has sent Leigh a subsidy, and has likewise prepared, in a costly way, the lower part of his Pisan residence for the reception of his London ally. This is certainly very noble on the part of Byron; and if the story be true about the deception he had recourse to the other day, in order to serve a celebrated brother poet, who was invincibly punctilious, it is impossible to extol too highly his munificence and delicacy. I am glad to behold him arming himself, and I hope we shall see a good fight." Southey does not go the right way to work with him. I have better con→ fidence in your judgment and mettle. Did it ever fall in your way to see a poem with this title, Epipsychi dion: Verses addressed to the noble and unfortunate Lady Emilia V, now imprisoned in the convent of This little pamphlet is a threefold curiosity, on account of the impenetrable mysticism of its greater portion, the delicious beauty of the rest, and the object of the whole, which I take to be an endeavour to set aside the divine prohibition, that a man may not marry his own sister.* The poem was published anonymously, but as people began to apply it to a certain individual, and make their own inferences, it was, I believe, suddenly withdrawn from circulation. There * Our readers will probably suspect, that our correspondent's intention is to attribute the poem in question to Lord Byron; but we venture to say, that there is nobody capable of wasting such poetry on such a theme, except only the unfortunate Mr Shelly. To this gentleman's genius we have always done justice; and hitherto we have really avoided what the Quarterly (that contained in one Number, a string of filthy stories about him, boy and man) has more recently had the audacity to say it has avoided the smallest allusion to his private character. But Percy Bysshe Shelly has now pub lished a long series of poems, the only object of which seems to be the promotion of ATHEISM and INCEST; and we can no longer hesitate to avow our belief, that he is as worthy of co-operating with the King of Cockaigne, as he is unworthy of co-opera. ting with Lord Byron. Shelly is a man of genius, but he has no sort of sense or judg. ment. He is merely "an inspired idiot!" Leigh Hunt is a man of talents, but vanity and vulgarity neutralize all his efforts to pollute the public mind. Lord Byron we regard as not only a man of lofty genius, but of great shrewdness and knowledge of the world. What can HE seriously hope from associating his name with such people as these? CAIN is in some parts a reprehensible performance, but what a gulf profound between it and Queen Mab, or the Cenci, or this Epipsychidion! Since we have mentioned Cain, we must say that the conduct of the Lord Chanceller, in regard to that poem, has filled us both with wonder and regret. The property LETTER FROM LONDON. Piccadilly, London, February 10, 1822. To C. NORTH, ESQ. EDINBURGH. MY DEAR SIR-Are we to see you in town this spring? or is the gout inexorable? I know not, however, with what grace or chance of acceptance I can invite you, after the specimen you had last year of the intolerable simplicity, the primeval artlessness of our table in Piccadilly. My aunt, in spite of some thousands per annum, is, to be sure, a bitter old housekeeper, and nothing ever gave me so unequivocal a proof of the endurance of your ancient friendship for our family, as the forbearance, nay, the positive good temper, with which you swallowed those things which affected to be original dinners, but which you, and all of us knew, were nothing more than impudent refacimentos of certain joints, which had for the two former days been ruined in character, and dared not appear in their own likeness. It is quite admirable to think how you stood all this! you, who are used to such ingenious and abundant living; and should I last longer than the old lady, who, I suppose, is scraping in this ineffable way for me, I trust you will permit me to indemnify you for allowing your consideration of my feelings to hinder you from often rushing out, and balancing matters at the opposite coffee-house, which, to your large praise be it said, you never once shewed the least symptom of doing. There is, however, as old Shakespeare has it, 66 a soul of goodness in things evil." Your virtue was rewarded. You did not treat us with such delicate forbearance, or undergo so much abstinence for nothing; for I can declare, that "my young remembrance cannot parallel" such good looks in you, as you had on leaving London. The firmness and elasticity of your step was renewed-your eyes looked youthful, as well as critical-I could perceive something of that neat symmetry of ancle, which my late mother, when speaking of you, used occasionally to extol, but which I concluded was nothing more than an antique fiction, generated by that universal desire, which all old persons have of extolling every thing contemporary with their youth. I did not know that The gout had mark'd your ancles for its own, 6 two and had jealously concealed them with a thick veil. But though the austere discipline of our house in London had given you strength to shake off thi tyrannical love, I feared for you when you should return to Edinburgh, and come again fairly within sight of the punch-bowls at Ambrose's; and I re gret to see in the 58th Number Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, which it seems you are the avowed Editor, (who would have thought one time that our old friend, M North, would ever have resulted an Editor?) that apprehensions are entertained by a person who sign himself “ Morgan Odoherty,” of the gout flying to your stomach. Thi shews what you have been at since saw you in London, and gives likeli hood to my distrust, of having you company here this year. All I hope is that I shall not be informed some day that you have died of the disease which was fatal to Congreve, namely, bottles of port and an arm-chair." By the by, my dear Sir, you have puzzled me very much lately. I understand you not in your editorial capacity You seem to be enveloped in conundrums, and inexplicable mysteries whim. Who is this "Morgan Odo herty," who writes to you with such unrestrained familiarity? I never heard my aunt, nor either of my two decea sed parents, speak of him; and considering the close conextion between you and my family, one would sup pose, that so old and intimate a companion as Morgan" assumes to be, could not have been unknown or un interesting to them. But, if I may speak out, I am not without my sus picions that there is no such person; and there are not wanting other incre dulous individuals, who carry their scepticism a little farther, and even doubt your own existence; for were this not the case, I am convinced they never could bring their minds to address a respectable, real, elderly gentleman like yourself, in such terms as, "Dear Kit,' "Cock of the North,""Jolly Old Buck,' "Prime One," and others equally liberty-taking and low. You have no one to thank for these freedoms but yourself. Should the malady I dread keep you Letter from London.. prisoner in Edinburgh, the disapintment will be no less to you than myself; for I know you take a live interest in whatever is: come our bere. You yearn to be occasionati mong us; to make one in the us stir and ferment in the metabo ; to partake of our panne muke, ents, (more especiaÛT THEN THE N fresh importation of Manemaser the ballet at the open-USE AND look a little into some of Cooks before the trestness of ther We shall have evaporated in a numer Edinburgh. I shall therette, sus the desire I have for your on, write down, from time re I know of London interest, LC 3 you with my pen. if I am demes he pleasure of an oral comasson other noet, who was divin. !!! 7 * PREwith you. Ja ii de story at You must be careful how you wrakchiv is mumihicence at one we stâu see g ̈* Judit vel ta cour way tD SUO toned in the convent of * Our readers will probably suspect, that our car has • bute the poem in question to Lord Byron; but we ver capable of wasting such poetry on such a theme, exeg in To this gentleman's genius we have always done avoided what the Quarterly (that contained in about him, boy and man) has more recently d the smallest allusion to his private character. lished a long series of poems, the only objem ATHEISM and INCEST; and we can no as worthy of co-operating with the King ting with Lord Byron. Shelly is a man of ment. He is merely an inspired idine · nity and mulgarity neutralize all his effefe regard as not only a man of lofty genine bue world. What can a seriously hope from these? Cans is in some parts a reprehensible perfor between I and Queen Mab, or the Cenci, or to Sance we lave mentioned Cain, we must say that the let, a regard to that poem, has filled us both with wen is no doubt but it comes from the Holy Pisan Alliance; and some of its insulated passages are worthy of the genius which dwells among the members of that body. I read this poem last night at the hushed and sleeping hour of twelve, and never was I so enchanted as in wandering among it "It is an isle under Ionian skies," 1 There are thick woods, where sylvan forms abide; As clear as elemental diamond, Or serene morning air; and, far beyond, The mossy tracks made by the goats and deer, and from the sky The poet then describes a house built by some primeval being for the residence of his "sister and his spouse," in which description the following exquisite lines occur: "Parasite flowers illume with dewy gems The lampless halls, and when they fade, the sky This isle and house are mine, and I have vow'd And I have fitted up some chambers there, of Cain, we humbly think, ought to have been protected. In Mr Murray's hands, it was a book for gentlemen; but the Benbows will send it on tea-paper into the pot houses, where nothing of it will be properly understood, and much of it absurdly misunderstood. There will now be an opportunity, however, for seeing on what principles the Constitutional Society really acts. C. NORTH. |