1822.] Letter from Philomag.

truth as to that sweet innocent, the Quarterly Review? The plain fact is, that the Quarterly is under influence too; and though it ought to have attacked Mr Galt, it did not do its duty, but under this sinister influence, praised as admirable what honest criticism could at most have admitted to be tolerable.

Answer from C. North, Esq. 51 himself of one thumper out of his terly Review, upon our honour, is own mouth,) this about the Quartinct recollection of any thing we not one of them. We have no diswrote last month, but we often have said "the Quarterly Review always attacks this gentleman." If this be a lie at all, it is not a downright, but a sidelong one. The Quarterly Review, (ni fallor) did most falsely accuse Mr Galt of being a Jacobin, or something bad and mysterious of that sort. It was, we think, but we are never dogmatical, though always firm, in an article about Cardinal Wolseley. Secondly, the Quarterly Review did, more than once, i. e. in more than one article and number, attack Mr Galt's Tragedies. That may have been all very right, we cannot tell; but it is not proof of a downright falsehood on a gentleman of our denied veracity. Thirdly, the Quarterly Review wrote a very poor-indeed, a most miserable article, about the Annals, which, in our opinion, it tried to damn with faint praise, just as Mr Philomag is now trying to do- but which, to borrow his own irresistible antithesis, "is beyond your power or theirs." Fourthly, the Quarterly Review attacked, in our opinion, Mr Galt, (although insidiously,) in an article on Memoirs of a Life spent in Pensylvania, edited by Mr Galt and published by Mr Blackwood; -Fifthly, it did the same to his Travels; and, sixthly, we undertake to shew other attacks besides these now alluded to upon Mr Galt in the Quarterly Review. The DOWNRIGHT LIE therefore is, in fact, an UPRIGHT TRUTH. But we are no enemies of the Quarterly Review, which we do from our souls admire in many things, just as we well know the editor of that excellent and fearless work does from his soul admire Maga. And, therefore, we cannot but give vent to our indignation, Mr Philomag, at your unhandsome insinuation against the integrity of the principles on which the Quarterly is conducted. You say the plain fact is, that "the Quarterly is under influence too." What influence? Whose? Speak out, man, as we have done; and let the public-the worldthe universe, judge between Christopher North and the Greatest of his Cotemporaries.

VII. I say nothing of your eternal
VOL. XII.

VII. I liked Croly's Catiline, and

G

POSTSCRIPT TO THE PUBLIC.

AFTER reading the above unappreciable epistle, which we found lying, one morning, like a lid upon our coffee-cup, (with the London post-mark distinct) we forthwith sweetened our fragrant lymph with two supernumerary lumps of purest white-cracked a couple of our four eggs-buttered a round of the loaf, and began to cram and cogitate. Here is a modest, well-informed correspondent, with a vengeance, thought we: "He beards the lion in his den, the Douglas in his hall. We did not think that there lived the man who dared thus address Christopher North. In came the Adjutant from an evening party, savage after soda. He had no sooner twisted the necks of half-adozen stone bottles of Jenning's best, and wiped the tears from his sparkling eyne, than we handed over to him Philomag. The Ensign, it seems, had requested a young lady of his aquaintance, then residing in the Gorbals of Glasgow, to direct her letters to the care of Christopher North, Esq.; his own residence being, for certain good reasons, fluctuating; and never doubting for a moment, that this was an offer to capitulate-to surrender at discretion, he had the outside in, before we could put in any plea in arrest of judgment. Blinded by his passion, he never remarked that the seal had been broken, and whipped up the tail of the letter, just as the nymph, from whom he fondly dreamt it came, would whip up the tail of her petticoat, on crossing the Goose-Dubs on a plashy day. His greedy eye devoured the signature. "PHILOMAG! PHILOMAG!" ejaculated the astonished Adjutant. "Is the girl mad? She might as well sign herself' PHILIBEG! PHILIBEG!' Hollo! I have it. She reads Mr Cox Comb on Phrenology, and this is meant for an abbreviation of PHILOPROGENITIVENESS. Sweet creature! She delicately hints that she is fond of children. Her wishes shall be gratified, all in good time." The Standardbearer's black dismay may, perhaps, be dimly imagined by the brightest fancy, on discovering, by slow and reluctant degrees, that Philomag was no philoprogenitive Filly in the West country-not the fair stranger in the Gorbals -the white-necked Swan of the Goose-Dubs-but, in all probability, some outrageons Irishman like himself, ready for a row, and no shilly-shallyer with his shillella. "Must I answer it?" quoth we, mildly. "Answer it, and be damned!" retorted Odoherty; and flinging it, either by accident or design, into the silver coffee-pot, whose mouth we had just opened, to take a peep into the contents, now low as the funds during the mutiny at the Nore, he stalked majestically across our study in three strides-was heard swinging down, like a tiger, the spiral stair-case, past five different landing-places and doors, each with its knocker and bell; and, on looking from the window of "our pensive citadel," we saw him, with his hands behind his back, under the long flaps of his surtout, which were flying agitated in the strong east wind, streaming like meteors in the troubled air, boring his way down the intended site of the additional High School, right onwards to the Pozzi, wherein he vanished.

We dined at Ambrose's alone; and the hodge-podge, or hotch-potch, as Ebony calls it, being peculiarly invigorating, our spirits began to rise at every plateful. "You had better be persuaded, sir, to take a little of the mutton,' whispered Mr Ambrose, standing in a friendly attitude, close on our right. "A little bit, Mr Ambrose;" and somewhere about a pound rising up from the Bog of Peas, plumped into our deep-bosomed china. "Who is this Philomag, think you, Ambrose, who writes in this cavalier style?" "I beg your pardon, sir, I am not acquainted with his writings; but you will give him a Rowland for his Oliver. Shall I bring your pen, sir?" Dinner and desert were over and gone-one filbert survived. "I will crack thee, Philomag, just as I crack this nut; and, stripping off the husk in which the rogue lay imbedded, with his long, taper, yellow, wasp-like bottom, I applied the torturing-irons to him, crushed every rib in his body, out with the kernel, salted, and incontinently bolted him, maggot and all. I then took my pen, and replied to Philomag, as above.

We have no wish to triumph over Philomag, who is evidently an extremely clever and cutting person. Our answer is, like his letter, direct and straight

forward. It may not be satisfactory to all our readers; and some may think that we come off second best. We cannot always be in the right; although we hesitate not to say, with all possible humility, that we believe ourselves to be in the wrong as seldom as can be expected from the acknowledged infirmity of human nature. We have no ambition to be "a faultless monster which the world ne'er saw; quite the contrary; we are, in good truth, a faulty monster, seen by the whole world, read by all who can read, and read to all whose education has been neglected.

But to the point. Our last number was a REVIEW, and, we say, an impartial one. We wished to shew the world a specimen of what a Review ought to be. Its three chief qualities being, in our opinion, spirit, variety, and justice. We took the latest lists of new publications, and selecting a number of books which we either knew to be good or bad, or whose titles seemed to be promising, we wrote to some of our prime contributors, scattered all over the country at this season, assigning to each man his work. Some of them took no notice of our letters-others returned flat denials-a few sent hasty and superficial articles, got up on the spur of the moment-and two or three staunch dogs transmitted critiques which did our editorial heart and eyes good to grasp them. We then threw off a few first-rate articles of our own-rummaged out a brace or two that were begining to get musty-and, as they all lay on the table before us, we ordered our housekeeper (be hushed, my dark spirit, for wisdom condemns, when the faint and the feeble deplore.-Campbell,) to bring to us "those papers yonder." We numbered them just as she placed them on our knee-tied them all up with a bit of sky-blue ribband, for the Devil, who made his appearance at his usual hour, and carried off the whole concern under his brimstone arm-pit, to his sovereign lord and master, that great Dictator of Devils-Mr James Ballantyne.

Now, was there ever greater impartiality than this? We selected from the lists a number of books published by all the best booksellers, and a few published by the very worst; and pray just look at the result as it stands in No. LXV. Will Philomag put his hand on his heart, and say that undue favour is shewn to any man, woman, or child, in that austere Minos-like and Rhadamanthian number? Two of Blackwood's books are reviewed-Pen Owen and Lights and Shadows;-two of Hurst, Robinson, and Company's--New Edition of Don Quixote, and Croly's Catiline;-three of Mr Murray's-Bracebridge Hall-Diary of an Invalid-and Lord Aberdeen on Grecian Architecture;-one of Longman & Co.'s-the Magic Lantern;-one of Baldwin, Cradock, and Joy's-Bloomfield's May-day with the Muses;-three of Colburn's--Lady Morgan's Travels, the Mohawks, and Graham Hamilton;-one of Constable's -Fortunes of Nigel; and so on. We challenge all the editors of Reviews, Magazines, Albums, and Councils of Ten in this world, to exhibit any such fair, fearless, do-right-and-shame-the-devil conduct as this, in their Editorial capacities.

Because Mr Blackwood is becoming a great and good Publisher, are we not to review his books? a pretty joke truly. Does the Quarterly Review, never on any occasion whatever, take notice of a single work emanating from Albemarle Street? Does the Edinburgh Review blink every heavy volume from the Mount of Proclamation? Does the New Monthly keep all Mr Colburn's Cockneys strutting in the shade? And if Taylor and Hessey publish books, would their editor make it a point of honour to conceal the fact? Humbug. Let any blockhead prevail upon Mr Blackwood to publish a book for him, and he will know what a flogging means. We advise him as friends, for, in a certain sense, we ought all to be friends, to provide a tin plate for his posteriors. But there is another view of the subject. It so happens, that nine-tenths of the men of talents in Britain are Contributors to our Magazine, and are we, on that account, never to praise any of their writings? It is very easy for Philomag or Misomag to exclaim, "Oh! ho! he is a Contributor. See how they are scratching one another!" How can we help it? If every good author will become a Contributor, and often, whether we will or not, sometimes after the most urgent entreaties to desist, are none thenceforth to be praised but blockheads? We have really, it must be confessed, if this mode of argument against us be legal, got into a pretty hobble. If we praise one of Black