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DR SCOTT. He became quite the rage with them; yet his rage waxeth not cool, neither was his anger appeased.
DR WODROW. 0, that Chaldee! it has spoiled even the Odontist.
On proceeds.“ Byron my Baron,” meantime, in his glorious, but not stainlesz, any more than gainless career. The critics of the English press in gentral applaud, as they ought to do, his rising and resplendent genius; but many, very many of them, at least, have the candour and the justice to complain of the immoral, irreligious, and unpatriotic tendency of too many of his productions. Two only, and these the two highest authorities, are silent as to the faults of the splendid sinner. The Quarterly Cerberus had got a sop—and as for the Edinburgh, what think ye kept it's mouth mum?
Could it be our old acquaintance, “ Corporal Fear.”
I am inspired. Anch'io improvisatore. I shall tip you an ertempore Paroly on one of Mrs Pilkington's old favourites. [Aside ]-You all remember “ Stella, darling of the Muses.”
Jeffrey, darling of the Muses,
Strong probation now we bring;
Who of thee essays to sing.
Every fault of form or mind,
Jolly companions every one,” &c. &c. &c.
Haud your tongues! Haud your tongues ! Do ye no see how the chairman's drinking three bumpers all by himsel ? [Aside]--He's clearing luis pipes, l's warrant. Od, how he's glowring on yon decanter !
Revenons a nos moutons! Childe Harold raved with impunity against Talavera, Wellington, and the Bible. Lord Byron insulted with impunity the inost complete gentleman that has sat on the English throne since the time of Charles I. and this too in the most offensive way. He insulted his Prince by meddling with his domestic affairs-Lord Byron insulted all England in Beppom-Beppo was lauded—He flung the insults with tenfold vigour from the luscious lip of Don Juan—Don Juan was never alluded to, except once or twice, in the way of commending its style—and even so it goes on, until at length, after five or six years of silence, and utter forbearance, the Edinburgh Review does pluck up courage and to do what?
REV. DR WODROW.
To say feebly what had been said strongly by fifty other people to say late what should have been said early, or never said at áll—to creep out under the shadow, and in the rear of Universal Indignation-and, making a big mouth, stammer out a single, silly, senile, insignificant sarcasm !-(Hear! dear!)
It puts me in mind of a thing I once saw at Doncaster. I was sitting in the inn there with the landlady—a pretty, comely body, I assure ye-andthrough came Reynard, and all Lord Darlington's hounds in full cry at his tail. “ A little puppy dog-a queer, odd, grim-looking thing belonging to the landlady, was sitting close beside us, on the end of the sofa. It stared like a stuck pig, till the last red-coat was passing, and then out with a small frightened snarl—I thought at first it had smelt
a mouse behind the wainscot.
Large as my capacious soul,
cant and fat humbug,
[Enter Punch.] Odoherty, tip us a blast of the trombone, or the Gaelic sermon, or any thing you like-Do make yourself agreeable.
The Instrumentality or the Parsonality ?-Both are at your service.
[Odoherty gives a fuc simile of a Gaelic sermon. While he
is performing, erit, unobserved, the Rev. Dr Wodnow.] What! bless me, the minister's off, I think.
Ay, ay, just gang round the company. Rub every one's shins, and ye'll have a toom table belyve. I'se warrant the Doctor will be concocting an overture against personality, ere lang be.
What! the reverend divine could not stand that little shadow of a shade of personality? Bah! if he had been an Edinburgh Reviewer, he would have been as tender in the skin as any Small Known among them all.
Heaven preserve us! I believe nothing will put down this accursed cant but a thumping folio disquisition. I shall certainly, when I die, bequeath to the world a regular treatise de re personali.
Proving that every person has been personal, as well as Byron and Jeffrey ?
To be sure To begin with the blind old Niæonian--Does any body doubt his Thersites is a lump of personality? Without question, Polyphemus was a sore wipe against some purblind, bloody-minded reviewer of his day. But why talk of Homer? Has not the Stagyrite told us that his last poem, the Margites, stood to the old Greek Comely in the same relation in which the Dliad and Odyssey did to the old Greek Tragedy ?--And what was the old
SIR A. WYLIE.
NORTH. Yes, and yet you see this same critic, who, four years ago, said " Swift was nothing but a great libeller," has now thought proper to say that personality was a thing unknown until Lord Byron set the example.
It looks like a contradiction—but go on with your sketch of the great treatise in posse, however.
NORTH. Is Horace not personal in his satires ? He is so in every line of them, and in half his odes to boot. Was not Virgil abominably personal about the old sol. dier that go this bonnet-lairdship? Is there no personality in Cicero's Philippics, or in his master, Demosthenes ? cr in Sallust? or in Tacitus? By Jupiter Tonans, you might as well say that Jeffrey had begun the sin of charlatanism, as that any man now living begun that of personality.
Weel, weel, but I would like to hear ye on some authors that we hae heard mair about than thae auld heathen Greeks and Romans.
Swift we have already heard of. You know Shakespeare owed bis rise in life and letters to a song which he wrote against a Warwickshire Justice of the Peace. And Justice Shallow is altogether a personal attack on the same wore thy body. Ben Jonson was a perfect Turk for personality,his whole life was past in hot water. -Vide D’Israeli !—Why should I allude to the Greens and the Nashes ?
SIR A. WYLIE.
These fellows were always at cat and dog-quite more recentiorum.
Nay, nay, forbid that we should be quite so bad as that ætas arorum! I would rather die upon a pile of blazing Magazines, like Sardanapalus on his throne, than write one word within one million of miles of the personalities of Milton--the divine Milton-against Salmasius !
Keep us a'! Is that the same great gospel gun that wrote the Paradise Lost, that the Spectautor speaks sae muckle about?
The same, the same. Bah! 'tis all fudge, and fudge fusty-as fusty as Benthamism.
Come down to the polite æra of Charles II. Is there no personality in Dryden? or rather, is there any thing else in half his inost eternal masterpieces ? Is there no personality in Butler's Hudibras, nor in Cowley's C'utter of Coleman Street? Or take the glorious days of Queen Anne-There's Swift for one, and there's Pope.—I suppose we've all heard of such a thing as the Dunciad. There's one Arbuthnot too-he wrote a work called the History of John Bull-that is commonly supposed to be something personal, I believe. As bad as the present John Bull ?
NORTH. Yes, truly, very nearly as bad, and indeed rather worse, I take it ; in as much as John Duke of Marlborough was rather a greater man than the present John Duke of Bedford ; and in as much likewise, as to be a Wuig was not quite su bad a thing a hundrcu years ago, thank God! as it is now.
But in those days there were no reviews por magazines.
True, but they came not long after, and personality, whick vio literature ever was without, blended itself with them ab ovo. Is it possible that you have need for me to tell you all the old stories about Samuel Johnson and Ossian Macpherson and the oak cudgel ? or about Dr Smollet and the Critical and Fielding? How he kept the Thames on fire with his farces and novels, and roasted all his brother justices to cinders ?
Why, you know, all the old novelists dealt in nothing but personalities; about that there was no manner of dispute. The only question was, not whether there were a real Morgan or a real Trunnion, but which of the author's competing friends had sat for the portrait.
NORTH. Just so; and to tell you the truth, I'm really sick of such hackneyed truths --you may just trace personality as distinctly as stupidity, down the whole line of our Whig literature in particular. Turn over D’Israeli’s nice little books, if you have doubts—The Quarrels of Authors above all
Nocturnâ versate manu versate diurna.
Once landed in our own times, we can be at no great loss to find our way. Plenty of fine staring finger-posts as one moves along. The Fudge Family, a production of one of the most charving Whigs that ever breathed—and a more disloyal piece of Whiggery was never written, even by that charming Whig, stands pretty visible yonder against the sky.
Yes, the black and lowering sky of disgustful remembrance.
The Twopenny Post-Bag ! 'Tis sufficient to mention the name of such a bag of poison-base brutal poison. Hone's nice little books, (worthy man! the Whigs subscribed for him, you know, as well as for Gerald—I hope the money did him much good !) The Morning Chronicle, with so many of Tom Moore's songs against kings and ladies introduced into it by good Mr Perry, whom Sir James Macintosh so disinterestedly lauded in the House of Commons — The Old Times, stinking of Cockney radicalism and Cockney personality in every column-there's no want of land-marks to guide one along the mare mugnum of Whiggish ruffianism.
And after a' this poor Lord Byron must be charged, forsooth, with begins ning the vice o' personality. Oh dear! what a thuiper !
The fact is, that Lord Byron, instead of being the sole personal libeller, is only an unit in the Whig array, whereof Mr Jeffrey himself is another unitand if the question were, which of these two is the more deserving of the title of leader in such work, I protest I think I should have no difficulty in giving my vote to the commoner. I beg leave to propose the memory of Dr Jonathan Swift, Dean of St Patrick.
SIR A. WYLIE.
Dean Swift !!! [Music without. Air Diogenes, surly and proud.]
And sipping Tokay at the cost of his Grace ;
(So nearly a mug may resemble a face.)
Where I'm bound to shew off, and throw pearls before swine.
Good friends and good liquor--and here let me dine.
Your critic sliews off, with his snatches and tastes
Of odd trash from Reviews, and odd sorts of odd wine;
Of Balaan and Ilock, are but trash, I opine.
Conversazioni-are not for my money,
Where Blue Stockings prate about Wylie and Pen;
Plain women must yield to plain sense and plain men.
She shines in liqueurs, and her Sherry's antique ;
And adore the bright bloom that is laid on her cheek.
One praises and gazes with boundless delight;
As the custom of those is, I've cut for to-night.
Your colonels talk but of a siege or a battle
Your merchants of pought but the course of exchange-
Your doctors their cases and cures will arrange-
Your artists are great on expression and tone
Each set is the devil when feeding alone.
The hero- the dentist-the parson—the squire,
But our wine and our wit each discussion inspire ;
Where each song seems quite heavenly, each bumper divine ;
Talking of Dean Swift, - what is Mr Maturin about?
ODOHERTY. Grinding, grinding! Is'nt it a slame for people to run him down at such a rate ? and the man a Tory--an Aristocrat- a well-dressed gentlemanlike author ! 'Tis abominable. 'Tis too bad to think of such a man being poor, and you know he complained of it himself in his Preface.
Mr Odoherty, I don't mean to defend the Quarterly—but did you never take a wipe at Biother Morgan yourself?
I believe I may have done such a thing—But how different the case : why that little çidevant Miladi absolutely brags of her cash, and sets off public reprobation with a balance of pounds, shillings, and pence. Her motto is, no doubt,
“ Populus me sibilat: at mihi plaudo.
Ipsa domi, simul ac nummos contemplor in arca." But did not Maturin write something called the Universe ?
That has reached long ago the uttermost ends of the earthbut why allude to such things ? when are we to have the Southside Papers ?
Why, I am kept back by a late decision. I fear the judge who refuses his protection to Byron's Cain, would scarcely take my rattan under his wing.
Gentleinen, I've sat here a long while, and been greatly diverted with many things I've heard, and edified with somc-- but the Chancellor, I have the hopour to say, is my friend, and I must quit the company, if I hear any thing further in a similai strain. Besides, he was perfectly right in that decision.
SIR A. WYLIE.