Wouldst thou divert thyself from melancholy? 
        Wouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly? 
        Wouldst thou read riddles and their explanation? 
        Or else be drowned in thy contemplation? 
        Dost thou love picking meat? or wouldst thou see
        A man i’ th’ clouds, and hear him speak to thee? 
        Wouldst thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep? 
        Or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep? 
        Or wouldst thou lose thyself, and catch no harm,
        And find thyself again without a charm? 
        Wouldst read thyself, and read thou knowst not what,
        And yet know whether thou art blest or not
        By reading the same lines?  O then come hither,
        And lay my book, thy head and heart together.

        JOHN BUNYAN.

Shew me such poetry in any of the 15 forthcoming combinations of show and emptiness, yclept Annuals.  Let me whisper in your ear that wholesome sacramental bread is not more nutritious than papistical wafer stuff, than these (to head and heart) exceed the visual frippery of Mitford’s Salamander God, baking himself up to the work of creation in a solar oven, not yet by the terms of the context itself existing.  Blake’s ravings made genteel.  So there’s verses for thy verses; and now let me tell you that the sight of your hand gladdend me.  I have been daily trying to write to you, but paralysed.  You have spurd me on this tiny effort, and at intervals I hope to hear from and talk to you.  But my spirits have been in a deprest way for a long long time, and they are things which must be to you of faith, for who can explain depression?  Yes I am hooked into the Gem, but only for some lines written on a dead infant of the Editor’s, which being as it were his property, I could not refuse their appearing, but I hate the paper, the type, the gloss, the dandy plates, the names of contributors poked up into your eyes in 1st page, and whistled thro’ all the covers of magazines, the barefaced sort of emulation, the unmodest candidateship, bro’t into so little space—­in those old Londons a signature was lost in the wood of matter—­the paper coarse (till latterly, which spoil’d them)—­in short I detest to appear in an Annual.  What a fertile genius (an[d] a quiet good soul withal) is Hood.  He has 50 things in hand, farces to supply the Adelphi for the season, a comedy for one of the great theatres, just ready, a whole entertainment by himself for Mathews and Yates to figure in, a meditated Comic Annual for next year, to be nearly done by himself.—­ You’d like him very much.  Wordsworth I see has a good many pieces announced in one of em, not our Gem.  W. Scott has distributed himself like a bribe haunch among ’em.  Of all the poets, Cary has had the good sense to keep quite clear of ’em, with Clergy-gentle-manly right notions.  Don’t think I set up for being proud in this point, I like a bit of flattery tickling my vanity