I must now beg the reader to accompany me in some few remarks that I think it necessary to make on each of their productions, following the order in which they appeared. "A ROASTER FOR PETER PORCUPINE." What can I say worse of this blustering performance, than that it bears all the internal evidence of being written by the blunderbuss author who disgusted the city with Rub from Snub? "THE BLUE SHOP; or Humorous Observations, " &c." The inoffensive and unmeaning title of this pamphlet is fully expressive of the matter it is prefixed to, excepting that the word humorous was, perhaps, never before so unfortunately applied. Every one who has been taken in with this quarter-dollar's worth, whether a friend or an enemy of Peter Porcupine, curses it for the most senseless and vapid piece of stuff that ever issued from the press. The author, I hear, retorts, and swears the Americans are a set of stupid jack-asses, who know not what true humour is. 'Tis pity he had not perceived this before, he might then have accommodated his humour to their understandings. It is now too late to rail against their ignorance or want of taste, for, in spite of his railing and fretting, James Quicksilver will, by them, ever be looked upon as a most leadenheaded fellow. "PORCUPINE, A PRINT.” This is a caricature, in which I am represented as urged on to write by my old master King George (under the form of a crowned lion), who, of course, comes accompanied with the devil. The Jay, with the treaty in his beak, is mounted on the lion's back, back, though, by the by, it has ever been said, by the democrats, that the lion rode the Jay. His Satanic Majesty holds me out a bag of money, as an encouragement to destroy the idol, liberty, to which he points. The American Eagle is represented as drooping his wings in consequence of my hostility, and America herself, on the same account, weeps over the bust of Franklin. This is almost the only part of the print of which I find fault; for, if by America the people of America be to be understood, I believe most of those who have read my essays will do me the justice to say, that I have endeavoured to make America laugh instead of weep. -As to myself, I am the hero of the piece, I am brought forward to the front of the stage, where the artist makes me trample upon Randolph's Defence, the Rights of Man, Old Common Sense, Maddison, Gallatin, Swanwick, and Peter Pindar. How this blundering fellow came to place Pindar among the rest I cannot imagine. It discovers a total ignorance of that author's writings, and of my opinion concerning them. Can the American democrats approve, and can I disapprove, of a writer who says of Tom Paine "Paine, in his thirst for reputation, "Has written to deserve damnation ?" Can the democrats approve, and can I disapprove, of a writer who speaks of France and of Frenchmen in the following manner? "Keel up lies FRANCE! long may she keep that posture! "Her knav'ry, folly, on the rocks have tost-her; "Behold the thousands that surround the wreck ! "Her cables parted, rudder gone, Split all her sails, her mainmast down, Chok'd all her pumps, crush'd in her deck; "Sport for the winds, the billows o'er her roll! "Now I am glad of it with all my soul. "TO BRITAIN an insidious damn'd Iago "Remember, ENGLISHMEN, old Cato's cry, "And keep that patriot model in your eye"His constant cry, "Delendo est Carthago." "Love I the French-By heav'ns 'tis no such matter! "The converse chaste of day, and eke of night, "The seraph smile that soft-ey'd FRIENDSHIP wears, "Those iron-hearted fellows never knew. "Hear me, Dame Nature, on these men of cork- "The gaudy and the rankest weeds: "Yes, FRENCHMEN, this is my unvarying creed, "Ye are not rational, indeed; "So low have fond conceit and folly sunk ye: "Only a larger kind of monkey!" And yet this is the writer that the learned and sagacious democrats make me trample upon! I think my namesake Peter speaks here like a good honest Englishman, and though Mr. Bache publishes his works, and boasts of being in correspondence with him, I am very far from either trampling on those works or disliking their author. Perhaps I ought to take some notice of the quarter whence this caricature and the Blue Shop issued, as it furnishes an instance, among thousands, of that degradation which the first movers in the French revolution have long been, and still are exhibiting to the world. These poor miserable catch-penny pictures and pamphlets are published by a man of the name of Moreau, who was one of those whom Tom Paine and his comrades Price and Priestley called, "the great illuminated and illuminating "National "National Assembly of France."-Goddess of Liberty and dost thou permit this thy great illu"minated and illuminating" knocker-down of Bastiles to wage a puny underhand war with one of King George's red-coats? Dost thou permit one of those aspiring "legislators of the universe!" who commanded the folding doors of the Louvre to fly open at their approach, and who scorned to yield the precedence to Princes and Emperors, to dwindle down into a miserable marchand d'estampes? If these be thy tricks, Goddess of French Liberty, may the devil take Peter, if ever thy bloody cap and pike entice him to enlist under thy banners. Mr. Moreau, to his other misfortunes, adds that most calamitous one of thinking he can write. He is cursed with the scribbling itch, without knowing how to scratch himself with a good grace. As this is torment enough in itself, I do not wish to add to it by mentioning particular instances of his want of taste and talents. The greatest punishment I wish my enemies, is, that Moreau may be obliged to write all his life-time, and that the rest may be obliged to read his productions. "THE HISTORY OF A PORCUPINE.". This pamphlet is, I am told, copied, verbatim, from a chap-book, containing the lives of several men who were executed in Ireland some years ago, names and dates only are changed, to give the thing an air of plausibility. It is said to be published by two Scotch lads, lately arrived in the country, and who now live in some of the allies about Dockstreet, no matter which.-One of their acquaintances called on me some days after the publication appeared, and offered to furnish me with the book from which it is taken. This offer I declined accepting of. I shall only add here, as a caution to my readers, that these are the men who are seen. hawking about a work in numbers, which they are pleased to call a History of France, and who are proposing to publish a Monthly Magazine. " A PILL FOR PORCUPINE.” It is a rule with book-makers, that a title should, as briefly as possible, express the nature of the work to which it is prefixed. According to this rule, Pill is a most excellent title to the performance now before me. A Pill is usually a compound of several nauseous, and sometimes poisonous, drugs, and such is the Pill for Porcupine. Various have been the conjectures as to the author of this abusive piece. Be he who he may, he has certainly done me a favour in grouping me along with Messrs. Hamilton, Belknap, Morse, &c. I would cheerfully swallow my part of his pill, and even think it an honour to be poisoned, in such company as this. Since the sentimental dastard, who has thus aimed a stab at the reputation of a woman, published his Pill, I have shown my marriage certificate to Mr. Abercrombie, the minister of the church opposite me. All you who emigrate to the United States of America, to enjoy this unrestrained liberty of the press that they make such a fuss about, take care (if you mean to say a word in favour of your country) to bring your vouchers and certificates with you, or they'll stigmatize you for thieves; your wives will be called whores, and your children bastards-Blessed liberty of the press! "THE IMPOSTOR DETECTED." This pamphlet ought, on every account, to come last we have seen the rest rising above each other progressively; |