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 glass of Sauterne with you. There is a set of gentlemen in your city—

Not in our city, exactly; neither are they a set. There is an editor, who forages for articles in all quarters, from John O'Groat's house to the Land's End. It is not a board, or a society: it is a mere intellectual bazaar, where A. B. and C. bring their wares to market.

Well, sir, these gentlemen among them, the present company excepted, have practised as much dishonesty as, in any other department than literature, would have brought the practitioner under the cognizance of the police. In politics, they have run with the hare, and hunted with the hound. In criticism, they have, knowingly and unblushingly