296 
wantonly reject what (if you had dis- 
cernment to perceive it) would give 
your miscellanies a decided and deter- 
mined character. You would insinu- 
ate that my productions have no poetic 
taste or feeling: but, sir, 1 am a poet, 
and I will maintain it before the world. 
Some of the wittiest and severest re- 
marks of editors have been made upon 
rejected communications: this is a 
plain proof to me of their great merit ; 
and I will maintain, as 1 am sure Fal- 
staff would maintain, if he were now 
alive, that he who excites wit in other 
men is a wit himself. 
{ am convinced, however, of the 
reason of your secret malevolence: 
you are all, or intend to be, authors 
yourselves ; and, when you receive any 
thing which is peculiarly valuable, 
you craflily reserve it for your own 
use; and, when opportunity offers, 
with a few alterations, you will publish 
it as your own, and obtain that re- 
nown which ought to have been en- 
joyed by the real authors. But I am 
determined, Mr. Editor, I will disap- 
point you, and many others who have 
acted unjustly to me. Yes, sir, I have 
been most cruelly treated: I have la- 
boured, indeed, hard; and must say, 
that the compositions which you, and 
many other gentlemen of your pro- 
fession, have refused to admit in their 
respective Magazines, possess consi- 
derable merit. I, and others in a 
similar situation with myself, have 
formed a society. We have very 
pleasant meetings, and have been for 
a long time scrutinizing the innumer- 
able new poems daily issuing forth, in 
order to hold up the plagiarist to the 
contempt of the world. We have 
frequent accessions to our numbers ; 
and, although we have not yet had an 
opportunity of vindicating ourselves, 
the time will soon arrive when we 
shall enjoy the fruits of our labour and 
perseverance. 
But, to come to the point, I contend 
that my ‘ Verses on Moonlight” ought 
to have been printed the very first 
amongst your poetical selections. 
What can be more true to nature and 
taste than the following commence- 
ment :— 
Oh Moon! who shinest on this lower world 
With beams combin’d of white and yel- 
low hue, 
To catch whose rays the curtains are un- 
furl’a 
Of love-sick maids, who tell their griefs 
to you. 
What a most philosophical descrip- 
Complaints of a Rejected Poetical Correspondent. 
[Nov. 1, 
tion of moonshine! Darwin, my fa- 
vourite poet, describes the formation 
of the sun’s rays; but it was reserved 
for me to dissect the colours of the 
moon’s rays, and to clothe my descrip- 
tion in classic and elegant language. 
Then how sweetly pathetic, how con- 
sentaneously with every feeling of 
tenderness, have [ introduced the 
effect of the moon’s rays upon fair 
maidens, who, languishing with the 
tender passion, at length give expres- 
sion to their woes. [ find that, in 
calling your attention to the beauties 
of my poetry, my style, which conveys 
the effusions of modest and genuine 
talent, assumes a more mellifluous and 
flowing tone: I confess, however, the 
powers of language are inadequate to 
describe my ardent and lofty aspira- 
tions. To pass over several other 
beauties, about the 95th verse I 
exclaim— 
Oh that I were upon some mountain top, 
Which rears its lofty head some two 
miles high ; 
Where, free from busy cares of life and shop, 
I there might be alone, and only I; 
Where, lifting up my wonder-gazing eye, 
I there might gaze with venturous intent, 
Tosee the lights that gem the eveningsky, 
And deeply wrapt in my own wonderment, 
To my strange. wild and wayward vision- 
ings give vent. 
When compared with these sweet 
lines, how poor and feeble is the ex- 
clamation of Lord Byron, in his 4th 
canto :— 
Oh that. the desert were my dwelling- 
place, &c. 
I have now nearly finished. I feel 
within me the glow of immortality. 
The burning and inexpressible concep- 
tions which fire my bosom, convince 
me Nature intended me to be the ho- 
nour and admiration of the age: I am 
determined to see something I have 
composed in print. 1 have proceeded 
as far as the 95th stanza of a poem on 
“ Red Hair;’ when it is finished 
you shall have it.—If you do not treat 
me with more courtesy, I do solemnly 
vow I will throw down my pen in dis- 
dain: I will nurse my talents in secret. 
No imperishable records shall survive 
me; my genius shall die with me, and 
future ages shall, with deploring curio- 
sity, enquire who it was inthe year1821, 
justly offended with the stupidity of the 
age, madeamostawful resolution not to 
benefit them with his lueubrations. 
Think of these things, and behave ac- 
cordingly, 
Your's, &c. 
———— 
