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frey was a more gentlemanly Whip than Mr Brougham that Sydney Smith grinned more good-humouredly than Sir James Mackintosh, and so forth; but all these were satirists, and, strange to say, they ALL then rejoiced in 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 Smith a 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.

Let anybody read our work over, and survey the general 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 us, 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 bad, whose works we have abused, 'not because we despised the works, but because we had a grudge against the individual, and this Number is our last. The fact is, that no such charges can in fairness be brought against us, and our enemies well know, that no such charges ean 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, so far as we are aware, assailed. On the contrary, we have, we speak it boldly, beentas critics chiefly to blame for our excess of gentleness Our praise has flowed not only more liberally 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 question, that, laying Scotland for a moment out of view, our general critical character is one of extreme beniguity, candour, and generosity. Poll the authors whose works we have criticized, and if we do not carry this point hollow, we never stand again. There is no Wordsworth to complain of as for wilful scoffing against power, which, seoffing, we in our secret souls revered. There is no Byron to 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." I

har vido Nay, never shake thy góry locks at ME! 714 : S2 Thou can'st not say I did it.

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 abuse us; that we despise. The Tories, at least the good, the wise, the generous, and the just among them, approveous. In that we triumph.

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, vor that we do not honour, the uprightness of many who regard them with eyes different from ours? This is nonsense; 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 bear, and who disgrace, the name of Whigs Buterive "are timi no more danger of confounding the great party that passes under the same name with THESD, thaniwe "are of wishing ourselves to be looked upon as partakers in the same cleaving sins of dulness, ignorance, cowardice, utter prostration of sense and intellect, and manhood, "which we, (at least as well as any Whig among them all,) can detect and despiser in too many who share withus,

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Really all this humbug has gone on too long. ong. This 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 one little contemptible corner, raid while all Europe rings with our praise. What is an Edinburgh Whig? The word nothing affords an easy and complete answer ; ; and we shall limit ourselves to that

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Swift complained, that of 2000 pamphlets written against him, not one was worth a farthing, and that he had been attacked all his life by fresh supplies of inveterate idiots. We are sorry to think that this has been very much our own case. Our wit is like Swift's, we think, in most essentials clean, clear, bright, sharp, shrewd, biting, bitter, penetrating, sarcastic, and unanswerable. 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 and other periodicals; but if a satirist is good for any thing, just put a 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 by the first flourish of his thong, which will fall short, and cofl 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 were 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

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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 before 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 disappointment-Our opinion of HIM.

June 20th, 1822.

C.N.