FullReads

This is very disheartening;–but brighter days shine,
I rejoice, love, to say both for me and the Nine;
For what do you think?–so delightful! next year,
Oh, prepare, dearest girl, for the grand news prepare–
I’m to write in “The Keepsake”–yes, Kitty, my dear.
To write in “The Keepsake,” as sure as you’re there!!
T’ other night, at a Ball, ’twas my fortunate chance
With a very nice elderly Dandy to dance,
Who, ’twas plain, from some hints which I now and then caught.
Was the author of something–one couldn’t tell what;
But his satisfied manner left no room to doubt
It was something that Colburn had lately brought out.

We conversed of belles-lettres thro’ all the quadrille,–
Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still;
Talkt of Intellect’s march–whether right ’twas or wrong–
And then settled the point in a bold en avant.
In the course of this talk ’twas that, having just hinted
That I too had Poems which–longed to be printed,
He protested, kind man! he had seen, at first sight,
I was actually born in “The Keepsake” to write.
“In the Annals of England let some,” he said, “shine,
“But a place in her Annuals, Lady, be thine!
“Even now future ‘Keepsakes‘ seem brightly to rise,
“Thro’ the vista of years, as I gaze on those eyes,–
“All lettered and prest, and of large-paper size!”
How unlike that Magan, who my genius would smother,
And how we true geniuses find out each other!

This and much more he said with that fine frenzied glance
One so rarely now sees, as we slid thro’ the dance;
Till between us ’twas finally fixt that, next year,
In this exquisite task I my pen should engage;
And, at parting, he stoopt down and lispt in my ear
These mystical words, which I could but just hear,
“Terms for rhyme–if it’s prime–ten and sixpence per page.”
Think, Kitty, my dear, if I heard his words right,
What a mint of half-guineas this small head contains;
If for nothing to write is itself a delight,
Ye Gods, what a bliss to be paid for one’s strains!

Having dropt the dear fellow a courtesy profound,
Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran;
And from what I could learn, do you know, dear, I’ve found
That he’s quite a new species of literary man;
One, whose task is–to what will not fashion accustom us?–
To edit live authors, as if they were posthumous.
For instance–the plan, to be sure, is the oddest!–
If any young he or she author feels modest
In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher
Lends promptly a hand to the interesting blusher;
Indites a smooth Preface, brings merit to light,
Which else might, by accident, shrink out of sight,
And, in short, renders readers and critics polite.
My Aunt says–tho’ scarce on such points one can credit her–
He was Lady Jane Thingumbob’s last novel’s editor.
‘Tis certain the fashion’s but newly invented;
And quick as the change of all things and all names is,
Who knows but as authors like girls are presented,
We girls may be edited soon at St. James’s?

I must now close my letter–there’s Aunt, in full screech,
Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite preach.
God forgive me, I’m not much inclined, I must say,
To go and sit still to be preached at to-day.
And besides–’twill be all against dancing, no doubt,
Which my poor Aunt abhors with such hatred devout,
That so far from presenting young nymphs with a head,
For their skill in the dance, as of Herod is said,
She’d wish their own heads in the platter instead.
There again–coming, Ma’am!–I’ll write more, if I can,
Before the post goes,
Your affectionate Fan.