The illusthrious neems of Walther Scott, Thomas Moore, Docther Southey, Sir James Mackintosh, Docther Donovan, and meself, are to be found in the list of conthributors.

It's the Phaynix of Cyclopajies--a litherary Bacon." "A what ?" says the genlmn nex to him.
"A Bacon, shining in the darkness of our age; fild wid the pure end lambent flame of science, burning with the gorrgeous scintillations of divine litherature--a monumintum, in fact, are perinnius, bound in pink calico, six shillings a vollum." "This wigmawole," said Mr.Bulwig (who seemed rather disgusted that his friend should take up so much of the convassation), "this wigmawole is all vewy well; but it's cuwious that you don't wemember, in chawactewising the litewawy mewits of the vawious magazines, cwonicles, weviews, and encyclopaedias, the existence of a cwitical weview and litewary chwonicle, which, though the aewa of its appeawance is dated only at a vewy few months pwevious to the pwesent pewiod, is, nevertheless, so wemarkable for its intwinsic mewits as to be wead, not in the metwopolis alone, but in the countwy--not in Fwance merely, but in the west of Euwope--whewever our pure Wenglish is spoken, it stwetches its peaceful sceptre--pewused in Amewica, fwom New York to Ningawa--wepwinted in Canada, from Montweal to Towonto--and, as I am gwatified to hear fwom my fwend the governor of Cape Coast Castle, wegularly weceived in Afwica, and twanslated into the Mandingo language by the missionawies and the bushwangers.

I need not say, gentlemen--sir--that is, Mr.Speaker--I mean, Sir John--that I allude to the Litewary Chwonicle, of which I have the honor to be pwincipal contwibutor." "Very true; my dear Mr.Bullwig," says my master: "you and I being Whigs, must of course stand by our own friends; and I will agree, without a moment's hesitation, that the Literary what-d'ye-call'em is the prince of periodicals." "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.