But "Mr. Gilchrist has no right to object, as the reader will see." I am a reader, a "gentle reader," and I see nothing of the kind. Were I in Mr. Gilchrist's place, I should object exceedingly to being abused; firstly, for what I did write, and, secondly, for what I did not write; merely because it is Mr. Bowles's will and pleasure to be as angry with me for having written in the London Magazine, as for not having written in the Quarterly Review.
"Mr. Gilchrist has had ample revenge; for he has, in his answer, said so and so," &c. &c. There is no great revenge in all this; and I presume that nobody either seeks or wishes it. What revenge? Mr. Bowles calls names, and he is answered. But Mr. Gilchrist and the Quarterly Reviewer are not poets, nor pretenders to poetry; therefore they can have no envy nor malice against Mr. Bowles: they have no acquaintance with Mr. Bowles, and can have no personal pique; they do not cross his path of life, nor he theirs. There is no political feud between them. What, then, can be the motive of their discussion of his deserts as an editor?—veneration for the genius of Pope, love for his memory, and regard for the classic glory of their country. Why would Mr. Bowles edite? Had he limited his honest endeavours to poetry, very little would have been said upon the subject, and nothing at all by his present antagonists.
Mr. Bowles calls the pamphlet a "mud-cart," and the writer a "scavenger." Afterward he asks, "Shall he fling dirt and receive rose-water?" This metaphor, by the way, is taken from Marmontel's Memoirs; who, lamenting to Chamfort the shedding of blood during the French revolution, was answered, "Do you think that revolutions are to be made with rose-water?"
For my own part, I presume that "rose-water" would be infinitely more graceful in the hands of Mr. Bowles than the substance which he has substituted for that delicate liquid. It would also more confound his adversary, supposing him a "scavenger." I remember, (and do you remember, reader, that it was in my earliest youth, "Consule Planco,")—on the morning of the great battle, (the second)—between Gulley and Gregson,—Cribb, who was matched against Horton for the second fight, on the same memorable day, awaking me (a lodger at the inn in the next room) by a loud remonstrance to the waiter against the abomination of his towels, which had been laid in lavender. Cribb was a coal-heaver—and was much more discomfited by this odoriferous effeminacy of fine linen, than by his adversary Horton, whom, he "finished in style," though with some reluctance; for I recollect that he said, "he disliked hurting him, he looked so pretty,"—Horton being a very fine fresh-coloured young man.
To return to "rose-water"—that is, to gentle means of rebuke. Does Mr. Bowles know how to revenge himself upon a hackney-coachman, when he has overcharged his fare? In case he should not, I will tell him. It is of little use to call him "a rascal, a scoundrel, a thief, an impostor, a blackguard, a villain, a raggamuffin, a—what you please;" all that he is used to—it is his mother-tongue, and probably his mother's. But look him steadily and quietly in the face, and say—"Upon my word, I think you are the ugliest fellow I ever saw in my life," and he will instantly roll forth the brazen thunders of the charioteer Salmoneus as follows:—"Hugly! what the h—ll are you? You a gentleman! Why ——!" So much easier it is to provoke—and therefore to vindicate—(for passion punishes him who feels it more than those whom the passionate would excruciate)—by a few quiet words the aggressor, than by retorting violently. The "coals of fire" of the Scripture are benefits;—but they are not the less "coals of fire."
I pass over a page of quotation and reprobation—"Sin up to my song"—"Oh let my little bark"—"Arcades ambo"—"Writer in the Quarterly Review and himself"—"In-door avocations, indeed"—"King of Brentford"—"One nosegay"—"Perennial nosegay"—"Oh Juvenes,"—and the like.
Page 12. produces "more reasons,"—(the task ought not to have been difficult, for as yet there were none)—"to show why Mr. Bowles attributed the critique in the Quarterly to Octavius Gilchrist." All these "reasons" consist of surmises of Mr. Bowles, upon the presumed character of his opponent. "He did not suppose there could exist a man in the kingdom so impudent, &c. &c. except Octavius Gilchrist."—"He did not think there was a man in the kingdom who would pretend ignorance, &c. &c. except Octavius Gilchrist."—"He did not conceive that one man in the kingdom would utter such stupid flippancy, &c. &c. except Octavius Gilchrist."—"He did not think there was one man in the kingdom who, &c. &c. could so utterly show his ignorance, combined with conceit, &c. as Octavius Gilchrist."—"He did not believe there was a man in the kingdom so perfect in Mr. Gilchrist's 'old lunes,'" &c. &c.—"He did not think the mean mind of any one in the kingdom," &c. and so on; always beginning with "any one in the kingdom," and ending with "Octavius Gilchrist," like the word in a catch. I am not "in the kingdom," and have not been much in the kingdom since I was one and twenty, (about five years in the whole, since I was of age,) and have no desire to be in the kingdom again, whilst I breathe, nor to sleep there afterwards; and I regret nothing more than having ever been "in the kingdom" at all. But though no longer a man "in the kingdom," let me hope that when I have ceased to exist, it may be said, as was answered by the master of Clanronald's henchman, his day after the battle of Sheriff-Muir, when he was found watching his chief's body. He was asked, "who that was?" he replied—"it was a man yesterday." And in this capacity, "in or out of the kingdom," I must own that I participate in many of the objections urged by Mr. Gilchrist. I participate in his love of Pope, and in his not understanding, and occasionally finding fault with, the last editor of our last truly great poet.
One of the reproaches against Mr. Gilchrist is, that he is (it is sneeringly said) an F. S. A. If it will give Mr. Bowles any pleasure, I am not an F. S. A. but a Fellow of the Royal Society at his service, in case there should be any thing in that association also which may point a paragraph.
"There are some other reasons," but "the author is now not unknown." Mr. Bowles has so totally exhausted himself upon Octavius Gilchrist, that he has not a word left for the real quarterer of his edition, although now "deterré."
The following page refers to a mysterious charge of "duplicity, in regard to the publication of Pope's letters." Till this charge is made in proper form, we have nothing to do with it: Mr. Gilchrist hints it—Mr. Bowles denies it; there it rests for the present. Mr. Bowles professes his dislike to "Pope's duplicity, not to Pope"—a distinction apparently without a difference. However, I believe that I understand him. We have a great dislike to Mr. Bowles's edition of Pope, but not to Mr. Bowles; nevertheless, he takes up the subject as warmly as if it was personal. With regard to the fact of "Pope's duplicity," it remains to be proved—like Mr. Bowles's benevolence towards his memory.