NORTH. There's Mr. David Lester Richardson, or some other dissatisfied person, who says, in that entertaining work, the London Weekly Review, that the last degradation that can befall a writer, is to be praised in Blackwood's Magazine.
SHEPHERD. Faith, he's maybe no far wrang there. Is that the Diamond Poet, who published three hunder and sixty-five panegyrics on his ain genius, by way o' Notes and Illustrations to his Sonnets — ane for every day in the year?
NORTH. The same.
SHEPHERD. His modesty's amaist as great's your ain, sir; for he canna bring himsell to believe that ony body will credit his being a poet, without ha'en his judgment overpowered by the testimony o' a cloud o' witnesses.
NORTH. Perhaps he was nettled, James, by my exposure of that puffery; but the truth is, I have a great kindness for David, and the very first volume, either of prose or verse, he publishes, I shall try him with praise in Blackwood; and he will be surprised to find that it is far more delightful, and not nearly so degrading, as he or his contributor, during a fit of the jaundice, imagined.
SHEPHERD. Tak care ye dinna turn his head — for I should be sorry o' that, as, if he's the editor o' the Weekly Review, he's a clever fallow.