“The pwince of pewiodicals?” says Bullwig; “my dear Sir John, it's the empewow of the pwess.” “Soit,--let it be the emperor of the press, as you poetically call it: but, between ourselves, confess it,--Do not the Tory writers beat your Whigs hollow? You talk about magazines. Look at--” “Look at hwat?” shouts out Larder. “There's none, Sir Jan, compared to ourrs.” “Pardon me, I think that--” “It is 'Bentley's Mislany' you mane?” says Ignatius, as sharp as a niddle. “Why, no; but--” “O thin, it's Co'burn, sure! and that divvle Thayodor--a pretty paper, sir, but light--thrashy, milk-and-wathery--not sthrong, like the Litherary Chran--good luck to it.” “Why, Doctor Lander, I was going to tell at once the name of the periodical, it's FRASER'S MAGAZINE.” “FRESER!” says the Doctor. “O thunder and turf!” “FWASER!” says Bullwig. “O--ah--hum--haw--yes--no--why,--that is weally--no, weally, upon my weputation, I never before heard the name of the pewiodical. By the by, Sir John, what wemarkable good clawet this is; is it Lawose or Laff--?” Laff, indeed! he cooden git beyond laff; and I'm blest if I could kip it neither,--for hearing him pretend ignurnts, and being behind the skreend, settlin somethink for the genlmn, I bust into such a raw of laffing as never was igseeded. “Hullo!” says Bullwig, turning red. “Have I said anything impwobable, aw widiculous? for, weally, I never befaw wecollect to have heard in society such a twemendous peal of cachinnation--that which the twagic bard who fought at Mawathon has called an anewithmon gelasma.” “Why, be the holy piper,” says Larder, “I think you are dthrawing a little on your imagination. Not read Fraser! Don't believe him, my lord duke; he reads every word of it, the rogue! The boys about that magazine baste him as if he was a sack of oatmale. My reason for crying out, Sir Jan, was because you mintioned Fraser at all. Bullwig has every syllable of it be heart--from the pailitix down to the 'Yellowplush Correspondence.'” “Ha, ha!” says Bullwig, affecting to laff (you may be sure my ears prickt up when I heard the name of the “Yellowplush Correspondence”). “Ha, ha! why, to tell truth, I HAVE wead the cowespondence to which you allude: it's a gweat favowite at court. I was talking with Spwing Wice and John Wussell about it the other day.” “Well, and what do you think of it?” says Sir John, looking mity waggish--for he knew it was me who roat it. “Why, weally and twuly, there's considewable cleverness about the cweature; but it's low, disgustingly low: it violates pwabability, and the orthogwaphy is so carefully inaccuwate, that it requires a positive study to compwehend it.” “Yes, faith,” says Larner; “the arthagraphy is detestible; it's as bad for a man to write bad spillin as it is for 'em to speak wid a brrogue. Iducation furst, and ganius afterwards. Your health, my lord, and good luck to you.”