Page:The London Magazine 1822-12 vol 6 no 36.djvu/3



Correspondents have written to us on the Article in our last Number upon the Drama. Some declare that it contains an ex parte and prejudiced statement. Others, that it is the production of persons interested in the success of Covent Garden Theatre. We can only say, that we believe we have written under, and not over the facts of the case, and that we are quite prepared to meet any authorized answers to our statement, with evidence of their truth. We think we need not repeat that we have no interest to serve in writing upon either Theatre.

The Lady’s Magazine has, with that tenderness peculiar to its sex, adopted one of our children as its own, not from any supposed cruelty or neglect on our part we are sure,—nor from any extraordinary liberality on her’s,—but, as we conjecture, from that extravagance which often springs up in those who are themselves destitute of offspring. Her Ladyship has clipped the locks of one of our favourites, straitened its shape, given it a new name, and passed it off as her own. Now really this literary kidnapping is not to be endured. The fact is, for we must speak plainly on the point,—The Lady’s Magazine has pilfered one of the Tales of Lyddalcross (the Tale of Haddon Hall)—cut a little off the head of the Introduction, omitted the Ballads, christened it “The Elopement,” and sent it forth as an original production!We trust this notice of the abuse will be sufficient.

Eleven of our Editors protest that the following Stanzas are “from the elegant pen of the greatest lyrist of the day;” but there is one stubborn soul on the jury that will hold out—and we are therefore compelled to submit it, with its misleading signature, to our readers. Our Eleven, as Mary-le-bone cricketers call themselves, pin their faith upon the passages in italics.

Farewell to thee, Albion! blest land of my sires, I saw thy white cliff like a pearl on the billow, When sunk were thy meadows, thy walls, and the spires That I hoped would have gleam’d o’er my turf-cover’d pillow.

And thou, whose remembrance will ever awaken E’en warmer ideas than the isle of my birth, Dearest girl! though awhile by thy lover forsaken, His prayers will be thine from the ends of the earth.

May the wrinkle of care never wither thy brow, Or, if grief should impress his rude seal upon thee, May it vanish as fast as the circles that now Spread and fade round my tears as they fall in the sea.

Yet with nought but the desolate ocean around me, So dreadful beneath, and so dreary above, Still a thousand sweet objects of pleasure surround me, Rekindling my heart, when I think on my love.