If you do, can you bear new designs from Martin, enamelled into copper or silver plate by Heath, accompanied with verses from Mrs. Hemans’s pen?  Oh, how unlike his own!

  “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’ the 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 knowest not what,
  And yet know whether thou art blest or not
  By reading the same lines?  Oh, then come hither,
  And lay my book, thy head, and heart together.”

Show me any such poetry in any one of the fifteen forthcoming combinations of show and emptiness ’yclept “Annuals.”  So there’s verses for thy verses; and now let me tell you that the sight of your hand gladdened me.  I have been daily trying to write to you, but [have been] paralyzed.  You have spurred me on this tiny effort, and at intervals I hope to hear from and talk to you.  But my spirits have been in an oppressed way for a 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 [2] 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 first page, and whisked through all the covers of magazines, the barefaced sort of emulation, the immodest candidateship.  Brought into so little space,—­in those old “Londons,” a signature was lost in the wood of matter, the paper coarse (till latterly, which spoiled them),—­in short, I detest to appear in an Annual.  What a fertile genius (and a quiet good soul withal) is Hood!  He has fifty 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 [3] has had the good sense to keep quite clear of ’em, with clergy-gentlemanly right notions.  Don’t think I set up for being proud on this point; I like a bit of flattery, tickling my vanity, as well as any one.  But these pompous masquerades without masks (naked names or faces) I hate.  So there’s a bit of my mind.  Besides, they infallibly cheat you,—­I mean the booksellers.  If I get