"A what?" says the genlmn nex to him.

"A Bacon, shining in the darkness of our age; fild wid the pure end
lambent flame of science, burning with the gorrgeous scintillations of
divine litherature--a monumintum, in fact, are perinnius, bound in pink
calico, six shillings a vollum."

"This wigmawole," said Mr. Bulwig (who seemed rather disgusted that his
friend should take up so much of the convassation), "this wigmawole
is all vewy well; but it's cuwious that you don't wemember, in
chawactewising the litewawy mewits of the vawious magazines, cwonicles,
weviews, and encyclopaedias, the existence of a cwitical weview and
litewary chwonicle, which, though the aewa of its appeawance is
dated only at a vewy few months pwevious to the pwesent pewiod, is,
nevertheless, so wemarkable for its intwinsic mewits as to be wead, not
in the metwopolis alone, but in the countwy--not in Fwance merely,
but in the west of Euwope--whewever our pure Wenglish is spoken, it
stwetches its peaceful sceptre--pewused in Amewica, fwom New York to
Ningawa--wepwinted in Canada, from Montweal to Towonto--and, as I am
gwatified to hear fwom my fwend the governor of Cape Coast Castle,
wegularly weceived in Afwica, and twanslated into the Mandingo
language by the missionawies and the bushwangers. I need not say,
gentlemen--sir--that is, Mr. Speaker--I mean, Sir John--that I allude
to the Litewary Chwonicle, of which I have the honor to be pwincipal
contwibutor."

"Very true; my dear Mr. Bullwig," says my master: "you and I being
Whigs, must of course stand by our own friends; and I will agree,
without a moment's hesitation, that the Literary what-d'ye-call'em is
the prince of periodicals."

"The pwince of pewiodicals?" says Bullwig; "my dear Sir John, it's the
empewow of the pwess."

"Soit,--let it be the emperor of the press, as you poetically call it:
but, between ourselves, confess it,--Do not the Tory writers beat your
Whigs hollow? You talk about magazines. Look at--"

"Look at hwat?" shouts out Larder. "There's none, Sir Jan, compared to
ourrs."

"Pardon me, I think that--"

"It is 'Bentley's Mislany' you mane?" says Ignatius, as sharp as a
niddle.

"Why, no; but--"

"O thin, it's Co'burn, sure! and that divvle Thayodor--a pretty paper,
sir, but light--thrashy, milk-and-wathery--not sthrong, like the
Litherary Chran--good luck to it."

"Why, Doctor Lander, I was going to tell at once the name of the
periodical, it's FRASER'S MA