We must get on a little faster, for to expose the absurdities of this Letter one by one would fill ‘a nice little book.’ In the pages immediately following, Mr. Southey glances at the Editor of the _Edinburgh Review_, whom he condemns ‘to bear a _gore sinister tenné_ in his escutcheon,’ for saying that Mr. Southey does not form an exception to the _irritabile genus vatum_. He says, that he has often refrained from exposing the ignorance and inconsistency of his opponents, as well as ‘that moral turpitude,’ which, our readers must by this time perceive, can hardly fail to accompany any difference of opinion with him. He says that ‘he has a talent for satire, but that (good soul!) he has long since subdued the disposition.’ This must be since writing the last _Quarterly_: we thought there were some shrewd hits there, and we suspect Sir Richard Phillips, whom he laughs at for his dislike of war and of animal food, for pages together, will be of our opinion. He says that ‘he has been lately employed, while among the mountains of Cumberland, upon the Mines of Brazil and the War in the Peninsula.’ ‘Why man, he doth bestride the world Like a Colossus, and we, petty men, peep Under his huge legs.’ ‘His _name_, in the mean time, has served in London for the very shuttlecock of discussion.’ Why should not his name be a shuttlecock, when he himself is no better?—‘He has impeded the rising reputation of Toby, the Sapient Pig;’—has overlaid the posthumous birth of the young Shiloh, and perhaps prevented Mr. Coleridge’s premature deliverance of his last _Lay Sermon_. After all these misfortunes, the author makes merry with Bonaparte’s ‘having been exposed, like Bishop Hatto, to be devoured by the rats!’ The levelling rogue cares neither for Bishops nor Emperors, but grows grave again in recounting the retrograde progress of his own mind.