EDITOR.

Let's hear it?

ODOHERTY.

Now! By Jupiter, I have forgotten the beginning of it. I think it was something like this:

Colbourn, Campbell, and Co. write rather so so,

But atone for❜t by puff and profession

Every month gives us scope for the Pleasures of Hope,
But all ends in the Pains of Possession.

EDITOR.

How do they get on? Heavily, Ensign ?

ODOHERTY.

Dheavily! They lay out a cool hundred on advertisements every month; but Campbell does very little-at least so it is to be hoped-and the Subs are no great shakes. They have a miserable set of bullaboos about them-broken-winded dominies, from the manufacturing districts, and so forth. Even Hazlitt does the drama better.

EDITOR.

O, Hazlitt's a real fellow in his small way. He has more sense in his little finger, than many who laugh at him have in their heads, but he 'is bothering too long at that table-talk.

Proper humbug!

ODOHERTY.

EDITOR.

Did you see any of the Cockneys? What's the gossip about Murray's, Ridgeway's, and so forth? Did you make a tour of the shops?

ODOHERTY.

Of course I went round them all with a bundle of discarded articles you gave me to line my trunk with, when I went to the moors last year. I passed myself off for a country clergyman, wanting to publish a series of essays. I said I had a wife and seven small children.

EDITOR.

You have some tolerable big ones, I believe.

ODOHERTY.

Which you never will have, old boy. The booksellers are a very civil set of fellows: Murray took me into a room by myself, and told me about the row between him and the Divan.

What row? and with whom?

EDITOR.

ODOHERTY.

Why, they call Murray Emperor of the West, and Longman and Company the Divan. They've fallen out about Mother Rundell's book upon cookery. I told Kitchener the next day, that I thought his own book as good a one.

EDITOR.

Shameless fellow! Don't you remember how you cut it up? I wonder you could look the doctor in the face.

ODOHERTY.

By jing! he thought I was a doctor myself. I had a black rose in my hat, and talked very wisely about the famous mistake touching a Mr Winton of Chelsea. I'll tell you about that, too, some other time.

EDITOR.

The Bishop's first two volumes are not quite the potato. I hope the others are better.

Who cares? I shall never read them. Have you seen Horace Walpole's Memoirs ?

EDITOR.

have. A most charming book. A most malicious, prying, lying old fox.

What a prime contributor he would have made !-but, to be sure, a Whig.

ODOHERTY.

he was

So am I.-For that matter, half your best contributors are Whigs, I take it.

EDITOR.

Mum, for that, Ensign.-But, at least, I have nothing to do with the Scotch Kangaroo Canaille.

They're a dirty, dull, detestable set.—I hate them all—I despise them allexcept little Jeffrey.

ODOHERTY.

He's a clever chap, certainly, I have not given him a dressing these two years;-I shall give you a song upon him one of these days.

EDITOR.

Do.-What's a-foot among the Tumbledowns?

ODOHERTY.

The Holland-house gentry are chuckling very much over a little tid-bit of blasphemy, sent over by a certain learned Lord from Italy,-'tis call'd the "Irish Advent," 'tis a base parody on the Advent of our Saviour,-'tis circulated widely among the same Thebans who blarney'd about Hogg's Chaldee.

Hogg's Chaldee!-good.

EDITOR.

ODOHERTY.

You would notice the puffs about another thing, called "the Royal Progress;" they say 'tis writ by Mrs Morgan's ex-chevalier; and I can believe it, for it is equally dull and disloyal.

EDITOR.

Are these all the news you have picked up. How do the minor periodicals sell?

ODOHERTY.

Worse and worse. Taylor and Hessey are going down like the devil.— Colburn pays like a hero, for what you would fling into the fire. The copyright of the European was disposed of t'other day for about £1600, back numbers, plates, and all included. 'Twas about the best of them.

EDITOR.

I hope old Sir Richard is thriving.

ODOHERTY.

Capitally. He circulates between three and four thousand; and his advertisements are very profitable.-Why don't you sport a little extra matter of cover.

EDITOR.

At present mine are mostly preserves. I'll enlarge them, if you won't poach.

Very fair. 'Tis the only Gentleman's Magazine, besides your own.

EDITOR.

What is that thing called the Gazette of Fashion?

ODOHERTY.

'Tis a poor imitation of the Literary Gazette. Mr

they say,

patronizes it; but this can't be true, for it attacks, very shamefully, the man who did HIM more good than any body else ever will be able to do him, here or hereafter.

EDITOR.

Hercles' vein with a vengeance! You've been studying the Ecclectic, one would think.

VOL. XI.

3 A

Now! By Jupiter, I have forgotten the beginning of it. I think it was something like this:

Colbourn, Campbell, and Co. write rather so so,

But atone for❜t by puff and profession

Every month gives us scope for the Pleasures of Hope,
But all ends in the Pains of Possession.

EDITOR.

How do they get on? Heavily, Ensign ?

ODOHERTY.

Dheavily! They lay out a cool hundred on advertisements every month; but Campbell does very little at least so it is to be hoped-and the Subs are no great shakes. They have a miserable set of bullaboos about them-bro ken-winded dominies, from the manufacturing districts, and so forth. Even Hazlitt does the drama better.

EDITOR.

O, Hazlitt's a real fellow in his small way. He has more sense in his little finger, than many who laugh at him have in their heads, but he is bothering too long at that table-talk.

Proper humbug!

ODOHERTY.

EDITOR.

Did you see any of the Cockneys? What's the gossip about Murray's, Ridgeway's, and so forth? Did you make a tour of the shops?

ODOHERTY.

Of course I went round them all with a bundle of discarded articles you gave me to line my trunk with, when I went to the moors last year. I passed myself off for a country clergyman, wanting to publish a series of essays, I said I had a wife and seven small children.

EDITOR.

You have some tolerable big ones, I believe.

ODOHERTY.

Which you never will have, old boy. The booksellers are a very civil set of fellows: Murray took me into a room by myself, and told me about the row between him and the Divan.

What row? and with whom?

EDITOR.

ODOHERTY.

Why, they call Murray Emperor of the West, and Longman and Company the Divan. They've fallen out about Mother Rundell's book upon cookery. I told Kitchener the next day, that I thought his own book as good a one.

EDITOR.

Shameless fellow! Don't you remember how you cut it up? I wonder you could look the doctor in the face.

ODOHERTY.

By jing! he thought I was a doctor myself. I had a black rose in my hat, and talked very wisely about the famous mistake touching a Mr Winton of Chelsea. I'll tell you about that, too, some other time.

EDITOR.

The Bishop's first two volumes are not quite the potato. I hope the others are better.

ODOHERTY.

Who cares? I shall never read them. Have you seen Horace Walpole's Memoirs ?

EDITOR.'

have. A most charming book. A most malicious, prying, lying old fox.

What a prime contributor he would have made!-but, to be sure, he was a Whig.

ODOHERTY.

So am I.-For that matter, half your best contributors are Whigs, I take it.

EDITOR.

Mum, for that, Ensign.-But, at least, I have nothing to do with the Scotch Kangaroo Canaille.

They have nothing to do with you, you mean to say.

EDITOR.

They're a dirty, dull, detestable set.—I hate them all-I despise them allxcept little Jeffrey.

ODOHERTY.

He's a clever chap, certainly,-I have not given him a dressing these two ears;—I shall give you a song upon him one of these days.

EDITOR.

Do.-What's a-foot among the Tumbledowns?

ODOHERTY.

The Holland-house gentry are chuckling very much over a little tid-bit of lasphemy, sent over by a certain learned Lord from Italy,-'tis call'd the ́ Irish_Advent,”-'tis a base parody on the Advent of our Saviour,―'tis irculated widely among the same Thebans who blarney'd about Hogg's Challee.

Hogg's Chaldee!-good,

EDITOR.

ODOHERTY.

You would notice the puffs about another thing, called "the Royal Proress;"-they say 'tis writ by Mrs Morgan's ex-chevalier; and I can believe t, for it is equally dull and disloyal.

EDITOR.

Are these all the news you have picked up. How do the minor periodicals Sell?

ODOHERTY.

Worse and worse. Taylor and Hessey are going down like the devil.— Colburn pays like a hero, for what you would fling into the fire. The copyight of the European was disposed of t'other day for about £1600, back numers, plates, and all included. "Twas about the best of them.

EDITOR.

I hope old Sir Richard is thriving.

ODOHERTY.

Capitally. He circulates between three and four thousand; and his advertisements are very profitable.-Why don't you sport a little extra matter

of cover.

EDITOR.

At present mine are mostly preserves. I'll enlarge them, if you won't poach.

Very fair. 'Tis the only Gentleman's Magazine, besides your own.

EDITOR.

What is that thing called the Gazette of Fashion?

ODOHERTY.

'Tis a poor imitation of the Literary Gazette. Mr

they say,

patronizes it; but this can't be true, for it attacks, very shamefully, the man who did HIM more good than any body else ever will be able to do him, here or hereafter.

EDITOR.

Hercles' vein with a vengeance! You've been studying the Ecclectic, one would think.

VOL. XI.

3 A

Let's hear it?

EDITOR.

ODOHERTY.

1

Now! By Jupiter, I have forgotten the beginning of it. I think it was something like this:

Colbourn, Campbell, and Co. write rather so so,

But atone for❜t by puff and profession

Every month gives us scope for the Pleasures of Hope,
But all ends in the Pains of Possession.

EDITOR.

How do they get on? Heavily, Ensign ?

ODOHERTY.

Dheavily! They lay out a cool hundred on advertisements every month; but Campbell does very little-at least so it is to be hoped-and the Subs are no great shakes. They have a miserable set of bullaboos about them-bro ken-winded dominies, from the manufacturing districts, and so forth. Even Hazlitt does the drama better.

EDITOR.

O, Hazlitt's a real fellow in his small way. He has more sense in his little finger, than many who laugh at him have in their heads, but he is bothering too long at that table-talk.

Proper humbug!

ODOHERTY.

EDITOR.

Did you see any of the Cockneys? What's the gossip about Murray's, Ridgeway's, and so forth? Did you make a tour of the shops?

ODOHERTY.

Of course I went round them all with a bundle of discarded articles you gave me to line my trunk with, when I went to the moors last year. I passed myself off for a country clergyman, wanting to publish a series of essays, I said I had a wife and seven small children.

EDITOR.

You have some tolerable big ones, I believe.

ODOHERTY.

Which you never will have, old boy. The booksellers are a very civil set of fellows: Murray took me into a room by myself, and told me about the row between him and the Divan.

Why, they call Murray Emperor of the West, and Longman and Com pany the Divan. They've fallen out about Mother Rundell's book upon cookery. I told Kitchener the next day, that I thought his own book as good a one.

EDITOR.

Shameless fellow! Don't you remember how you cut it up? I wonder you could look the doctor in the face.

ODOHERTY.

By jing! he thought I was a doctor myself. I had a black rose in my hat, and talked very wisely about the famous mistake touching a Mr Winton of Chelsea. I'll tell you about that, too, some other time.

EDITOR.

The Bishop's first two volumes are not quite the potato. I hope the others

are better.

ODOHERTY.

Who cares? I shall never read them. Have you seen Horace Walpole's Memoirs ?

EDITOR.

have. A most charming book. A most malicious, prying, lying old fox.