to us!--he has come to the critique on himself:--"Of all the rubbish
which we have had from Mr. Tomkins, we do protest and vow that this
last cartload is" &c. Ah, poor Tomkins!--but most of all, ah! poor Mrs.
Tomkins, and poor Emily, and Fanny, and Lucy, who have to sit by and see
paterfamilias put to the torture!

Now, on this eventful Saturday, I did not cry, because it was not
so much the Editor as the Publisher of the Cornhill Magazine who was
brought out for a dressing; and it is wonderful how gallantly one bears
the misfortunes of one's friends. That a writer should be taken to task
about his books, is fair, and he must abide the praise or the censure.
But that a publisher should be criticised for his dinners, and for the
conversation which did NOT take place there,--is this tolerable press
practice, legitimate joking, or honorable warfare? I have not the honor
to know my next-door neighbor, but I make no doubt that he receives his
friends at dinner; I see his wife and children pass constantly; I even
know the carriages of some of the people who call upon him, and could
tell their names. Now, suppose his servants were to tell mine what the
doings are next door, who comes to dinner, what is eaten and said, and I
were to publish an account of these transactions in a newspaper, I could
assuredly get money for the report; but ought I to write it, and what
would you think of me for doing so?

And suppose, Mr. Saturday Reviewer--you censor morum, you who pique
yourself (and justly and honorably in the main) upon your character of
gentleman, as well as of writer, suppose, not that you yourself invent
and indite absurd twaddle about gentlemen's private meetings and
transactions, but pick this wretched garbage out of a New York street,
and hold it up for your readers' amusement--don't you think, my friend,
that you might have been better employed? Here, in my Saturday Review,