Imatges de pàgina

-frey was a more gentlemanly Whip than Mr Brougham, Othat Sydney Smith grinned more good-humouredly than Sir James Mackintosh, andiso forth, but all these were satirists; and, strange to say, they ALL then rejoicedidin the name. Indeed, take away the merit of clever satire from most of them, and they shrink to pretty moderate dimensions. Is Mr Jeffrey a Samuel Johnson ? Is Mr Brougham an Edmund Burke? Is Mr Smitha South ? Is Sir James Mackintosh a Gibbon? These men were all satirists, it is true; but their fame does not rest altogether on satire. Q: E. D. 1,8 ir

man * Let anybody read our work over, and survey the gefieral complexion of all we have written. Jokes and satire he will find; but will he find anything of that unfairness towards real genius, of which our enemies so bitterly accuse us? Shew us the one truly great man, mentioned by use of whom we have not spoken reverently, and our mouth is closed for ever. Shew us the one unaffected generous aspirant, whose youthful hopes our satire has blasted, and we are dumb. Shew us the one man, great or small, good or i bad, whose works we have abused, not because we despised - the works, but because we had a grudge against the audi? vidual, and this Number is our last. The fact is, that no such charges can in fairness be brought against usand our enemies well know, that no such charges can be substantiated against us, else had they not confined themselves to the loose and vulgar tirades and jeremiades with which alone we have as yet been, šo far as we are aware, assailed. On the contrary, we have, we speak it bolilly, been as critics chiefly to blame for our excess si gentleness. Our praise has flowed not only more liburally than that of any other critics of the day, but more liberally, in many instances, than it ought to have done. And, accordingly, there is no a question, thatçılaying Scotland for a moment out of view,

our general critical character is one of extreme benignity, candour, and generosity. Poll the authors whose works we have criticized, and/ifywe do not carry this point hollow, we never stand again. There is nga Wordsworth to pomplain of us for wilful scoffing againistr power, whichy spoffing, we in our secret souls retered. There is no Byron ito reproach: us with trampling into the mud the first budding blossoms of a noble genius. There is no Dermody to rise, and say, " You called me DRUNKARD."

1995 By: Nay, never shake thy góry locks at me lo di me? TAIL 21 Thou can’st not say I did it-" r1 es What is our offence? It can be told in three words, WE ARE TORIES. “ Ubi lapsus, quid feci ?"-Ask the Whigs! We have attacked them, there lies our fault. We have beat them, there lies our glory. They abnse us; - that we despise. The Tories, at least the good, the wise, the generous, and the just among them, approve us.. In that we triumph.

.:buit llino We have, however, let it be observed, been using both the word Whig, and the word Tory, just now in a limited sense and acceptation. We should indeed be very much ashamed of ourselves, if we believed ourselves to have merited or moved the spleen of the true old English Whigs Not at all. We have among them many fast friends, nay, many admirable and valuable contributors ; and these are every day increasing. Does any body suppose, that because we advocate, in general, the cause of the present administration, we are their paid, servile, slavish tools ? Or that we doubt, or that we do not honour, the uprightness of many who regard them with eyes different from ours? This is nonsensez our contempt is for a small, and, thank God, now an inconsiderable faction, of speaking and writing, haranguing and libelling, --base, hypocritical, unchristian, unpatriotic creatures, who Obear, and who disgrace, the name of Whigs i Butive are in no more danger of confounding thét great i party * (that passes lunder the same name with THÉŞD, thaniwe ware of wishing ourselves to be looked upon as partakersin

the same cleaving (sing of dulness, ignorance, cowardice, 97utter prostration ríof: sensei and intellect, and manhood, wwhich we, (at least as well as any Whig among them all,) can detect and despise in too many who share with us,


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ody meds cet as far as in them ties, the name of Tory.

disgrace, at We stand by ourselves, and for ourselves. We are cons scious of integrity and of candour. ''Who is he'Who can Solo la without a blush ? Who is he that say, less wo bus sara atd 10t Htod

Tot elfod bas bedeilduq toy without a lie ?

SIL, pisat tiroom linhas done ton too long. 19vThis IM

Really all this humbug has gone on too long. Journal is acknowledged by every body to be one of

the fairest that ever the world saw; and we are sick of hearing ourselves abused in little

contemptible corner, while all Europe rings What is

with our praise. Edinburgh Whig? an easy and complete answer; and we shall limit ourselves to that. Ir Swift complained, that of 2000 pamphlets written against him, not one was worth a farthing, and that he against him, hed his life by fresh supplies of inveterate idiots. We are sorry to think that this has been

much our own case. Our wit is like Swift's, we think, in most essentials_clean, clear, bright, sharp, shrewd, biting, bitter, penetrating, sarcastic, swerable. Every idiot who has run tilt at us, has been received, like a flea or a louse, on the point of our pen, and, wriggling, expired. Mr Colburn goes about paying for puffs of his " Mohawks,” in newspapers

newspapers and other periodicals; but if a satirist is good

is good for any

r any thing, j whip into his hand, and tell the honest man to lay about him, and he will make himself felt at no expence to his publisher. If he be a paralytic, it will be seen 1 first flourish of his thong, which will fall short, and coil like a worm round his own feeble spindles. Some one, it is said, gave money to needy

or greedy persons, to advertise hints that Mr Thomas Moore was the author of the “Mohawks,” a compliment of which the Irish Melodist” (so he was signified) cannot but

# be proud! The author, it was then darkly intimated, was • a character well known in the political circles ;” and from this we we led to suspect Joseph Hume. We leave these gentlemen to settle the matter between them with Mr Colburn, who, being the very soul of ingenuousness, and candour, and nu nu ii b93 loqo 90 ponasta hos : 9129h fiso a to

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IV simplicity, will perhaps be able to explain to them who and what were meant by these oracular advertisements. Mr Thomas Moore, we happen to know, has written a

Yupon us a
s and our Niagazine, but it is not

& JuontiW 229 vsa yet published ; and both for his sake and our own, we hope it never will be ; but that

that he will commit it to the flames, and forget it altogether

. We are great admirers of Mr Moore's genius—his wit--his sensibility—his fancy-and his imagination. We have said so in a thousand pleasant and delightful ways, and will often say so again. We did not at all like the gross and brutal personalities of many of his political verses, and thought badly of the licentiousness of many of his amatory effusions. This, too, we have said in a thousand pleasant and delightful ways, and will

so again. These opinions of ours are certainly more distinguished for truth than originality. We have no wish to be singular; and if all the world but ourselves thinks that the “ Two-Penny Post-bag” is a gentlemanly, honourable, and amiable jeu d'esprit, and that “ Little's Poems” ought to lie below the pillows of all our virgins,

we must just then eat our words, and entreat Mr Thomas Moore's pardon. Till we have ascertained that the world is on one side, and we on another, we must beg leave to retain our present opinions. Now, Mr Moore being a satyrist himself, should not fly into a fury with us for being now and then of the same kidney,—if indeed it be true, as many worthy people seem to hint, that we are a severe set of people. He really ought not to have written a sharp poem upon us; and we think, that, upon reflection, he must be sorry for it. Should he really publish bis attack, what we intend to do is simply this We intend to give copious extracts, so as to fill the right-hand columns of about a dozen pages of the Magazine, and to fill the left-hand columns with verses of our own, (in the 1915. TAI measure, whatever that may be rust heroin 2

be-is it heroic?) upon MesMoore. It will amuse-probably instruct, the public on

to see two such great wits as Tom Moore and Kit North fairly set-to. A clear stage, and fair play, is all that either of us can desire; and umpires may be appointed from the


friends of the distinguished combatants. We appoint for ourselves Neat and the Rev. William Lisle Bowles and we suggest to Mr Moore, in the true spirit of British courage, Gas and Mr Montgomery, the “ Author of the World be fore the Flood.”

Lord Byron, too, has written something about us but whether a satire or an eulogy seems doubtful. The Noble Lord-great wits having short memories, and sometimes not very long judgments—has told the public and Mr Murray that he has forgotten whether his letter is on or to the Editor of Blackwood's Magazine. From this we fear his Lordship was in a state of civilation when he penned it; and if ever he publishes it, as we scorn to take advantage of any man, we now give his Lordship and the public a solemn pledge, to drink one glass of Sherry, three of Champagne, two of Hock, ditto of Madeira, six of Old Port, and four-and-twenty of Claret, before we put pen to paper in reply. At the same time, Lord Byron should recollect that we are now an old man just as Jeremy Bentham is now an old woman; and that he, who has youth on his side, ought not to throw up his hat in the ring, and challenge us for a bellyful. We think we can fit him with the gloves, and that is pretty light play for one at our time of life. But we have still a blow or two left in us; and if a turn-up with the naked mauleys there must be, a hit on the jugular may peradventure do his Lordship’s business. Should his Lordship be dished in the ring--like Curtis or O'Leary-let the Reviewer who tries us remember that we wished to decline the contest.

Some people will say, “ here is a pretty Preface.” “ Oh! what for a Preface ?” quoth Feldborg the Dane. No matter, worthy Readers. If we should prose for a twelve, month, we could not put you more completely in possession of the facts of the case-just at present. When Mr Francis Jeffrey, editor of the Edinburgh Review, has given you his opinion of us, as he will do one of these days, we promise you one thing, in which you run no risk of dispointment-Our opinion of HIM. June 20th, 1822.

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