reputation of
the governor. But the richest thing in the whole collection is the 'Simple
Cobbler of Aggawam,' occupying ten columns. The king-fashionable ladies,
and long-haired young gentlemen, are successively put on the cobbler's
lapstone and hammered most industriously. And we must say, cobbler as he
is, he appears to us to give vastly more _blows_ than he takes stitches.
This part of the work alone is worth the price of the whole book. It is
quite too long to quote entire, and a mere extract would do it injustice.
FRENEAU was a rare character, and his pasquinades on RIVINGTON, a tory
editor, are rich specimens. The confession he puts in the mouth of
RIVINGTON, in his 'Address to the Whigs of New-York' immediately after the
close of the war, is equal to 'Death and Dr. Hornbook' on the poor Scotch
quack.

This RIVINGTON, however, was not a more unlucky dog than another tory
named BENJAMIN TOWNE, editor of the 'Pennsylvania Evening Post.' Supposing
the cause of the rebels to be hopeless, he undertook to win favor and
reward from the British by the most unsparing abuse of the Americans. But
when the cause of freedom finally triumphed, the unlucky editor was left
on the sand. Without money, without patrons, he found himself in the midst
of those whom he had traduced, and dependent on them for a livelihood. In
this emergency, he goes to the celebrated Dr. WITHERSPOON for aid. The
stern republican doctor would listen to nothing, unless TOWNE would make
his peace with his country by a most humble confession. Finding no other
resource, he consented to publish in his paper any thing the doctor would
write. This confession is given by Mr. GRISWOLD at length; and if the tory
editor does not make himself out a most precious scoundrel, the fault is
certainly not with the doctor. He acknowledges that he had lied without
limit, and was willing to publish bigger lies had they been brought him;
he assures the people that he did every thing for personal gain, and was
willing to do and say any thing now for the same purpose. He was moreover
a brave man! 'I hope,' says he, 'the public will consider that I have been
a timorous man, or if you will, a coward from my youth, so that I cannot
fight; my belly is so large that I cannot run; and I am so great a lover
of eating and drinking that I cannot starve. When these things are
considered, I hope they will fully account for my past conduct, and
procure me the liberty of going on in the same