MR. MAC QUEDY. 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.

REV. DR. FOLLIOTT. 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 cognisance of the police. In politics, they
have ran with the hare and hunted with the hound. In criticism,
they have, knowingly and unblushingly, given false characters, both
for good and for evil; sticking at no art of misrepresentation, to
clear out of the field of literature all who stood in the way of
the interests of their own clique. They have never allowed their
own profound ignorance of anything (Greek for instance) to throw
even an air of hesitation into their oracular decision on the
matter. They set an example of profligate contempt for truth, of
which the success was in proportion to the effrontery; and when
their prosperity had filled the market with competitors, they cried
out against their own reflected sin, as if they had never committed
it, or were entitled to a monopoly of it. The latter, I rather
think, was what they wanted.

MR. CROTCHET. Hermitage, doctor?

REV. DR. FOLLIOTT. Nothing better, sir. The father who first
chose the solitude of that vineyard, knew well how to cultivate his
spirit in retirement. Now, Mr. Mac Quedy, Achilles was
distinguished above all the Greeks for his inflexible love of