Confessions and observations of a water-patient, in a letter to the Editor of the "New Monthly Magazine."

  • Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron, 1803-1873.
Date:
1845
Catalogue details

Licence: Public Domain Mark

Credit: Confessions and observations of a water-patient, in a letter to the Editor of the "New Monthly Magazine.". Source: Wellcome Collection.

Provider: This material has been provided by The University of Glasgow Library. The original may be consulted at The University of Glasgow Library.

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    THE NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. CONFESSIONS AND OBSERVATIONS OF A WATER-PATIENT, IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE “ NEW NONTHLY MAGAZINE.” Dear ]Mr. Editor, I am truly glad to see so worthily filled the presidency in one of the many chairs which our republic permits to criticism and letters—a dig- nity in wliich I had the honour to precede you, sub consule Planco, in the good days of William IV. I feel as if there were something ghost- like in my momentary retmm to my ancient haunts, no longer in the edi- torial robe and pui’ple, but addressing a new cliief, and in great part, a new assembly: For the reading public is a creature of rapid growth— every five years a fresh generation pours forth from our institutes, our colleges, our schools, demanding, and filled with fresh ideas, fresh prin- ciples and hopes. And the seas wash the place where Canute parleyed with the waves. All that interested the world, when to me (then Mr. Editor), now your humble servant, contributors addressed their articles— hot and seasoned for the month, and like all good articles to a periodical “ warranted not to keep,” have passed away into the lumber-room, where those old maids. History and Criticism, hoard their scraps and relics, and where, amidst dust and silence, things old-fasliioned ripen into things antique. The roar of the Reform Bill is still, Fanny Kemble acts no more, the “Hunchback” awaits upon our shelves the resuscitation of a new Julia; poets of promise have become mute, Rubini sings no more, Macready is in the provinces; “Punch” frisks it on the jocund throne of Sydney Smith, and over a domain once parcelled amongst many, reigns “ Boz.” Scattered and voiceless the old contributors—a new hum betrays the changing Babel of a new multitude. Gliding thus, I say, ghostlike, amidst the present race, busy and sanguine as the past, I feel that it best suits with a ghost’s dignity, to appear but for an ad- monitory pm’pose; not with the light and careless step of an ordinary visiter, but with meaning stride, and finger upon lip. Ghosts, we know, have appeared to predict death—more gentle I, my apparition would only promise heahng, and beckon not to graves and charnels, but to the Hygeian spring. And now that I am fairly on the ground, let us call to mind, Mr. Editor, the illustrious names which still overshadow it at once with me- lancholy and fame. Your post has been filled by men, whoso fate pre- cludes the envy which their genius might excite. By Campbell, the , tiept.—VOL. LXAV. NO. CCXCVII. B