The Editor’s Compliments of the Season

Good Morning, my worthy Masters and Mistresses,
A merry Christmas, and a happy New Year to ye all!

— BELLMAN’S CHAUNT.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!—whom this concerns,
 Readers, Contributors, and Public,—Hail!
Your grateful EDITOR His thanks returns
 For all your favours:—In our last year’s sale,
For rising merit soon the world discerns,
 We have encreased some thou—, but no!—the tale
Would seem too wondrous, if we laid before ye,
The plain and honest facts of our own story.

So we shall pass them by, and come unto
 What none will doubt, and every one approve;
Our Christmas Compliments, which now are due
 To such as stand the foremost in our love:
And, as we print them in the open view
 Of those, who o’er our works delighted rove,
Away with all initials!—we shall give
Full names and titles in our verse to live!

Yes, we’ll uncloak them all!—V; R; and D;
 Delta; and T; and S.W.X. Izzard;
For, when their goodly articles ye see,
 And hang delighted o’er them, then it is hard
The writers should, like money-lenders, be
 Conceal’d behind so strange and thick a wizard,
That e’en to guess them ye are quite unable,
‘Tis sitting at the play without a play-bill.

For “they are all,—all honourable men,”
 Well known to Fame when out of their disguises;
And though great folks have oft a strange propen-
 Sity to take th’ inferior by surprises;
And hide awhile their gold-laced waistcoats, when
 The thought, the fancy, or the wish arises;-
Our merits shall not ask such base descendings,
“Wherefore are these things hid?”—“Off, off, vile lendings!”

First then, We thank OURSELVES!—Without thine aid,
 Dear ALFRED BEAUCHAMP!—all the book were nought!
Thou gavest all the muscle it display’d,
 And few can tell what wonders thou hast wrought:
E’en with a million thou wert not o’erpaid:
 “Your love is worth a million,” and that thought
Makes us, our PUBLIC! wish to keep your credit,
And that we long may live these sheets to Edit.

What, VARIELLA, can we wish to thee?
 For thou possessest all that’s dear unto man;
Wit, Talents, Erudition, though they be
 Not always so delightful in a woman;
Yet those who read thy Tales and Poems, see
 A soaring mind, and genius most uncommon,
Still, still soar on!—In prose and verse still charm us,
For while thou lead’st the van, there’s nought can harm us.

R,—DOCTOR RIGMAROLE, we meant to says—
 None do we thank more ardently, and truly;
Thou in our sheets dost make a grand display,
 For none their contributions pay more duly;
Thine is a “Muse of Fire!” whose piercing ray,
 Like some bright planet, but discover’d newly,
Glances on all around it’s beaming levin,
On all that walks or soars, ‘twixt Earth and Heaven!

Dear BOOKWORM!—who in Learning’s walks dost rove,
 Oh still to us and ours, continue firm;
For many, who thy lucubrations love,
 Call thee, like Egypt’s Queen, “a pretty worm!”
Thou art, we know, all vanity above:
 Then, fear not, thou will e’er exceed the term
Of our long patience; nor thy powers be wasted,
There’s plenty of old volumes yet untasted.

Brave MAJOR LONGBOW!—we desire much more
 Of your acquaintance;—write to us again;
Your letter was a thousand times read o’er,
 With praise of which you might indeed be vain:
Oh! still continue down our page to pour
 Thine own romantic, yet veracious strain;
Write, and you’ll keep some score or two from dying,
“True ‘pon my life!—What will you lay ‘tis lying?”

ERASMUS DABBLE, thou art next;—Good health,
 And happiness attend ERASMUS DABBLE;
Though not possess’d of first rate mental wealth,
 Yet thou art very far above the rabble ;
Nor are thine articles compiled by stealth,
 Like much of that most bald, disjointed babble;
With which some Magazines are oft befriended,
That can’t be worse; and yet it can’t be mended!

Dear ARTHUR MERTON TEMPLETON!—thou art
 The GRAMMONT of our Work;—although there shines
A brighter flame warming a better heart,
 In thy strong letters, and amusing lines.
In future write for us our Beau monde part,
 Give us Corinthian Tales from Fashion’s mines:
“We must hear from thee every day i’ the hour,”
Write often,—“That’s the time of day, my flower!”

Ye countless hosts! whose names are yet behind,
 Whose writings grace our Monthly Numbers’ shew;
Illustrious followers of that master mind,
 Which makes our gallant bark so swiftly go;
Press not so close your records here to find,
 We can’t give each a single line; for know,
If half your wit and worth were only hinted,
’Twould fill a newspaper, in Pica printed.

Nor can we well make up a verse of names,
 Some don’t look handsome, and some will not rhyme;
Though we are proud to say, that each has claims
 Which ne’er will be effaced, throughout “all time,
All seasons, and their change;”—but still your fames
 For ever live in each far distant clime,
Where our surpassing merits gild the scene,
And the whole world reads EUROPE’S MAGAZINE!

And now, loved PUBLIC! is our last, best strain
 Given unto you:—The postscript of a letter
Does all it’s writer’s kindest thoughts contain,
 And deeply do we feel ourselves your debtor.
Therefore we wish ye, o’er and o’er again,
 All ye can wish yourselves:—we can’t do better!—
Then love us also, and your babes, oh! teach ‘em,
Early to bless the name of
             ALFRED BEAUCHAMP.

BEAUCHAMP LODGE, KENT, December 26, 1821.