Whether it is perfectly consistent in an author to solicit the indulgence of the public, though it may stand first in his wishes, admits a doubt; for, if his productions will not bear the light, it may be said, why does he publish? but, if they will, there is no need to ask a favour; the world receives one from him. Will not a piece everlastingly be tried by its merit? Shall we esteem it the higher, because it was written at the age of thirteen? because it was the effort of a week? delivered extempore? hatched while the author stood upon one leg? or cobbled, while he cobbled a shoe? or will it be a recommendation, that it issues forth in gilt binding? The judicious world will not be deceived by the tinselled purse, but will examine whether the contents are sterling. * * * * * POETICAL ADVICE. _For the Table Book._ I have pleasure in being at liberty to publish a poetical letter to a young poet from one yet younger; who, before the years of manhood, has attained the height of knowing on what conditions the muse may be successfully wooed, and imparts the secret to his friend. Some lines towards the close, which refer to his co-aspirant’s effusions, are omitted. To R. R. To you, dear Rowland, lodg’d in town, Where Pleasure’s smile soothes Winter’s frown, I write while chilly breezes blow, And the dense clouds descend in snow. For Twenty-six is nearly dead, And age has whiten’d o’er her head; Her velvet robe is stripp’d away, Her watery pulses hardly play; Clogg’d with the withering leaves, the wind Comes with his blighting blast behind, And here and there, with prying eye, And flagging wings a bird flits by; (For every Robin _sparer_ grows, And every Sparrow _robbing_ goes.) The Year’s two eyes--the sun and moon-- Are fading, and will fade full soon;[65] With shattered forces Autumn yields, And Winter triumphs o’er the fields. So thus, alas! I’m gagg’d it seems, From converse of the woods and streams, (For all the countless rhyming rabble Hold leaves can whisper-waters babble) And, house-bound for whole weeks together By stress of lungs, and stress of weather, Feed on the more delightful strains Of howling winds, and pelting rains; Which shake the house, from rear to van, Like valetudinarian; Pouring innumerable streams Of arrows, thro’ a thousand seams: Arrows so fine, the nicest eye Their thickest flight can ne’er descry,-- Yet fashion’d with such subtle art, They strike their victim to the heart; While imps, that fly upon the point, Raise racking pains in every joint.