ire is preceded by one that you have not read. An exposure of
the impudence and falsehood of _Blackwood's Magazine_ is not likely
to injure its character, _or diminish the number of its subscribers_;
and in this sentence you have the secret of my desire to become a
contributor to _Blackwood_. I want a popular vehicle to convey my
censures to the world, especially on Wordsworth. I do not pretend to
have any love for you and your brotherhood, Mr. North. But I dislike
you less than I do Wordsworth; and I frankly own to you, that the
fame of that man is a perpetual blister to my self-love.

_North_.--Your habitual contemplation of his merits has confused
you into a notion that they are your own, and you think him an
usurper of the laurel crown that is yours by the divine right of
genius. What an unhappy monomania! Still, your application for
redress to us is unaccountable. You should know that we Black
Foresters, lawless as you may suppose us, are Wordsworth's liegemen.
He is our intellectual Chief. We call him the General! We are ever
busy in promoting his fame.

_Landor_.--You are always blowing hot and cold on it, and have
done so for years past. One month you place him among the stars, the
next as low as the daisies.

_North_.--And rightly too; for both are the better for his presence.

_Landor_.--But you alternately worship and insult him, as some
people do their wooden idols.

_North_.--If you must learn the truth, then, he has been to us, in
one sense, nothing better than an unfeeling wooden idol. Some of us
have been provoked by his indifference to our powers of annoyance,
and his ingratitude in not repaying eulogy in kind. We have among
ourselves a gander or two, (no offence, Mr. Landor,) that,
forgetting they are webfooted, pretend to a perch on the tall
bay-tree of Apollo, and, though heavy of wing, are angry with
Wordsworth for not encouraging their awkward flights. They, like you,
accuse him of jealousy, forsooth! That is the reason that they are
now gabbling at his knees, now hissing at his heels. Moreover, our
caprices are not unuseful to our interests. We alternately pique and
soothe readers by them, and so keep our customers. As day is
partitioned between light and darkness, so has the public taste as
to Wordsworth been divided between his reverers and the followers of
the Jeffrey heresy. After a lengthened winter, Wordsworth's glory is
now in the long summer days; all good judgments that lay torpid