Sentimental excursions to Windsor: and other places, with notes critical, illustrative, and explanatory, ...

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- TO MR. CHARLES MACKLIN.

- ADVERTISEMENT.

- THE HIGHWAYMAN.

- THE POCKET HOOP.

- A MEDITATION.

- THE EXAMINATION.

- A DESCRIPTION.

- THE WAGGON RUT.

- A REFLECTION.

- THE CONFUSION.

- THE PROPOSAL.

- TRAVELLING PICQUET.

- THE LESSON.

- THE GAME.

- THE REPIQUE.

- A DIGRESSION.

- INTRODUCTION .

- WINDSOR. THE INN.

- LOVE.

- A QUESTION ANSWERED.

- A WARNING.

- A WISH.

- THE DEPARTURE.

- A REFLECTION.

- THE OVERSIGHT.

- THE TERRACE.

- REFLECTIONS ON WINDSOR FOREST.

- THE BIRD OF PARADISE .

- WOMAN.

- A PARAPHRASE.

- The Public Ledger. AQUATIC SPORTS.

- THE BATTLE OF STAINES.

- DINNER.

- THE LANDLORD.

- FLATTERY.

- DETRACTION.

- POLITICKS.

- A SOLILOQUY.

- HYMN TO LIBERTY .

- THE SOLILOQY CONTINUED.

- ELECTIONEERING INTELLIGENCE EXTRAORDINARY.

- THE MESSAGE.

- THE MEETING.

- TRISTRAM SHANDY.

- A SHANDEAN CONVERSATION.

- THE BUTTON-HOLE. A BUTTON-HOLE!

- TWO CHARACTERS.

- TEA-TABLE-CHAT.

- THE SIEUR O'RIELY'S NEGOTIATION.

- O'RIELY AND SARTINE.

- O'RIELY AT THE DRAWING-ROOM. THE RUMP OF BEEF.

- A DRAWING-ROOM CONVERSATION.

- THE BIRD'S NEST.

- SLAVE TRADE.

- COUNT O'DUNN'S NEGOTIATION WITH THE QUEEN OF PORTUGAL. COUNT O'DUNN'S APPOINTMENT.

- O'DUNN'S ARRIVAL AT LISBON.

- THE HEM-SIGNAL.

- THE INTERVIEW.

- O'DUNN'S NEGOTIATION.

- UN PETIT SOUPER.

- AN ILLUSTRATION, OR THE EXTINGUISHER.

SENTIMENTAL EXCURSIONS.

I Read and read, but could not retain a word of what I read.—So many friends flowed in upon me daily to breakfast, and so many friends to carry me out to dine, that to understand the doctrine of descents, the point I was studying, was impossible. I must cut off, said I, the entail of these engagements, and become master of my own time.

Returning from the Grecian at one in the morning, I ordered my servants to pack up my cloaths, with a few books; and at six, he, with my portmanteau on his shoulders, and I, with Lord Coke under one arm, (with whom I intended to comment upon old law) and Sir James Burrow (from whom I expected instruction in new law) under the other (1), set off for the Windsor stage.

The coach was empty, so ordering my man to mount the outside, and going inside myself, after musing a few minutes on the great progress I should make in the art and science of jurisprudence, during the vacation, between Easter and Trinity term, I folded my arms within each other, having first wrapped myself in a large cloak, threw myself along the seat, and wishing farewel to London, to all the pleasures of London and to all its temptations, fell into a profound slumber.

FINIS.

Notes

(1).
I do not understand what our journalist here means by his distinction between old and new law; the efficient principles of law are immutable, the coincidents are the same; therefore modern determinations should coincide with ancient adjudications; otherwise, notwithstanding the co-existence of legal principles which I have proved, somewhere, to be at least coequal with nature itself, judgments upon the same principles would be deficient in co-operation. Lord Coke's Reports are called the gospel of the law. —Sir James Burrow's Reports may be stiled the Apocalypse of the law, and as for my reports, I am determined to have them called the Apocrypha Of the law.—

C. L ** T.

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SENTIMENTAL EXCURSIONS TO WINDSOR AND OTHER PLACES, WITH NOTES critical, illustrative, and explanatory, by several eminent Persons, male and female, living and dead.

As a MOTTO is a Word to the Wise, or rather a broad Hint to the whole World of a Person's Taste and Principles, VIVE LA BAGATELLE, would be most expressive of your Ladyship's Characteristic.—
MACKLIN'S MAN OF THE WORLD.

LONDON: Printed for J. WALKER, Pater-noster-Row. MDCCLXXXI.

TO MR. CHARLES MACKLIN.

DEAR SIR,

YOU are to consider this Dedication as a grateful return to the warmth of your friendship, a just tribute to the integrity of your heart.—Seven years intimacy have convinced me of both—

Exclusive of these motives, I have another—

The author of Sir CALLAGHAN O'BRALLAGHAN, merits respect from every Irishman. —That character has been of national service, by being a means of removing, in a great measure, illiberal prejudices which had too long promoted enmity between sister-kingdoms, but are now happily diminished.

I am, most sincerely your's, THE AUTHOR.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THIS Bagatelle appeared originally in the PUBLIC LEDGER, in detached pieces, most of which were copied from that paper into the MORNING HERALD.—And they having received the approbation of the Public, the writer was induced to collect them into a volume; and as he will pursue the subject in the Ledger, should this volume have success, he will shortly publish another.

THE HIGHWAYMAN.

THIS was in the merry month of May, when the whole animal creation, from the minutest insect the microscope discovers upon the leaf, to the largest beast which grazes in the field, or preys in the forest; when the fowls of the air, from the diminutive humming bird to the eagle of the sun; when the fishes of the sea, from the little sprat to the unwieldy leviathan, pay implicit obedience to that divine ordinance of heaven, increase and multiply. I say, it was in the month of May, so justly stiled "the mother of love," when nature wears an universal smile, when every plant and tree sprouts forth in bud and blossom, and the whole earth is cloathed in variegated green: being fast asleep in a stage-coach on the road to Windsor, and my imagination having taken an excursion in a dream to visit, to converse with, and to embrace, some dear friends in Ireland, I was disturbed from my sweet vision about five miles from London, by a tremendous voice, from the side of the road, which with reiterated vociferation, roared out, Stop! stop!

My hands instinctively slipped into my breeches pocket, and with a motion equally involuntary, drew forth a small purse, containing the small sum of one guinea and a few shillings, to give the highwayman. The coachman at the same instant drew up his horses.

If any hero wishes to be informed why I did not rather apply to my pistols—I had none with me, or if I had, I should not have applied to them.

Indeed, instead of charging my pistols, which I left hanging up in my chambers, where may they long hang for ornaments, I had prepared the small sum I have before mentioned, and put it into the little purse aforesaid, in case of being stopped; for it has long been my opinion, that if a man considers his own interest, in which undoubtedly his peace of mind has an intimate and large share—to part with what he can spare from his absolute necessities, will appear preferable to risquing rise for a trifle. It requires no great portion of humanity to conclude, that to deprive a fellow-creature of life, and dispatch his soul in the very act of sin, to ‘that country from whose bourne no traveller returns,’ though compatible with earthly justice, must be offensive to eternal mercy. If this assertion be erroneous, how comes it that the act of sacrificing a wretch's life in defence of a paltry sum, always impresses upon the mind of the avenger, a horror which amounts to punishment?

As the coach-door opened I put out my hand—here, my honest friend, said I, addressing myself to the highwayman, here, take my money.

I received a shot in return for my courtesy—

I say a shot—but not a shot from a pistol, nor a shot from a blunderbuss—it was a chain-shot, or a double-headed shot, which you please, discharged from a pair of as bright eyes as ever wounded the heart of an unwary traveller.

The lady mistaking the offer of my hand, which intended to convey my purse to the supposed highwayman, for an offer to assist her into the carriage, seized it with the most good humoured familiarity, and fixing her right foot firm upon the coach-step, raised her body up with a spring of agility, which clearly proved, elasticity was not the least property in her composition.

Thus she stood in equilibrium, nodding and smiling a farewel over her left shoulder, to a male friend, the person who had ordered the coach to stop: and taking her seat exactly opposite to me, she waved her hand out of the coach window, to her parting companion —the coachman, with a hoi, hoi, and a crack of his whip, informed his horses of their duty, the horses obeyed, and we drove on.

THE POCKET HOOP.

IT is astonishing, that women will encumber their persons so as to alter the elegant symmetry of the human frame!—The person of a fine woman is the most beautiful edifice in nature!—True beauty consists in simplicity, and the figure of a well-made female always shews to the best advantage when its ornaments are simple—it should never be embellished in the composite order.—From the days of fig-leaves, to the present time, art has only laboured to disguise nature.—

History informs us, that Queen Elizabeth was remarkable for the protuberance of the rotunda; and this, say the antiquarians in dress, first introduced the fashion of hoops. But whether this rotunda was a permanent rotunda behind, natural to the make of her Majesty, or a temporary rotunda before, arising from a natural cause, authors are silent (1).

A hoop, says an old writer, is an airy cool dress.—That may be, answers a modern writer, arguing upon the same subject—but how comes it to pass that Queen Elizabeth, who was a virgin Queen, and her maids of honour, who were virgins by virtue of their office, should require more cooling than their grandmothers? Now the question is very easily answered—Queen Elizabeth and her maids of honour were virgins—their grandmothers certainly were not.

I suppose, Sir, said my fellow-traveller, we shall breakfast here, as the coach stopped at the Star and Garter at Kew-bridge.—I leaped out, and gave the lady my hand:—she sprung forward, but the treacherous hoop crossing the door of the coach, gave so sudden a jerk to the lady, that as she sprung she fell, and as she fell, of course the hoop became inversed, as you may have seen an umbrella, or parasol, on a windy day—she slipped from under her garments.—Heaven preserve us!

I fixed my eyes upon the sign.—It is the Star and Garter, said I to myself, in an under voice, and in the same tone I read the motto—

HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE.

I kept my eyes fixed upon the sign, without once attempting to extricate the lady. Had it been the sign of the Gorgon's head, I could not have been more petrified;—but my man, who had now descended from the roof of the coach, having more presence of mind, entered the coach at the opposite door, and taking the lady by the shoulders, gently pulled her backwards, while I smoothed her cloaths, and brought the villainous hoop to its primitive situation.

The lady, having adjusted her drapery, came out sideways—

I led her into the house, and being shewn into a room—she cursed her hoop in a tone of bitterness infinitely more vindictive than the curse itself—but how could I say Amen?— I considered myself under some obligations to the object of her curses, "so amen stuck in my throat (1)."

It was all my own fault, said the lady;— I should have come out sideways at first.—But the way you attempted to come, Madam, said I, was the most natural.—True, she replied but not the most fortunate; our natural movements seldom are, said I—till this instant I considered hoops as protections from such accidents, replied the lady, but I now perceive they render one's motions very unnatural—so saying, she retired. Breakfast was served in: —the lady returned, divested of her hoop— her dimity jacket fitted her shape exactly— her petticoat hung in folds—an elegant neglegee appearance marked her person—the conscious tint upon her cheek indexed the continuance of her confusion.—We breakfasted, and having ascended the carriage with caution, and taken our seats, without further accident, pursued our journey.

Though the air in the month of May is more congenial to the blood, and more invigorating to the constitution of all animals, than the air of any other month in the year; yet man, or woman, after long residence in the metropolis, the pores being open, and the muscles being relaxed, by the heat of full theatres, balls, routs, masquerades, ridottos, close rooms, and sea-coal fires, will find the morning breeze of the country too sharp for their unbraced nerves and debilitated joints.

This was my case—I perceived my fair companion also shrunk from the acuteness of the biting air, and sought comfortable warmth in closely wrapping round her a pale pink sattin cloak, lined with sable fur.

I don't know a more pleasing contrast than pink faced with black—and the lining of the lady's cloak formed such a contrast, the black fur with which it was lined, turning over the edge of the pink sattin like a facing or lapel (1).

Perceiving, then, that the lady not only indicated an aguish tremor, but that sleep had shed his drowsy influence upon her lids, which repeatedly dropped their "fringed curtains" over her eyes;—I proposed drawing up the coach-blinds — the lady complied.—

We both benefited by the precaution.—

The lady soon involuntarily resigned herself to the soft folding arms of sleep, who fixed his leaden seal upon her eyes.—I exercised my mind in meditation.

It has been said, that sleep is the emblem of death. The object I looked upon, so far from raising this gloomy idea in me, produced a quite contrary effect.—I thought of nothing but life, and prolongation of life—my thoughts arose from my feelings, my feelings from what I saw—but my feelings were not merely local—life trembled through the current of my blood—dilated my heart — inspired my soul— expanded my thoughts—warmed my imagination to extasy—and, I answer for it, spoke at my eyes.

How easy would it have been at that instant to have tickled me to death—I should have shrunk from the touch like a sensitive plant.—

The lady slept on—

Notes

(1).

Hoops are of much greater antiquity than our author seems to have a knowledge of.—They were worn by the Greeks and Romans. Queen Elizabeth's hoop was called a farthingal, it gave rise to scandal, but to keep her Majesty in countenance, the whole court assumed big bellies, which soon became the general pink of the mode. This courtly condescension to the Virgin Queen, has nothing particular in it.— When Queen Anne had a lame leg, the women of fashion carried crutch-sticks; and not many years past, the late French King being forced to cut off the fore-top of his hair, on account of a scald-head, not only the nobility and gentry of France, but the nobility and gentry of Great-Britain and Ireland, cropped their upper locks close to the scull. When Henry VIII. in 1521, cut his hair short, all England followed his example. Camer. Oper. Subcisio Cent. 358.—C. C—TT—R—L.

The divine writer, Isaiah, describes the Jewish ladies of his time, in an attire so exactly similar to that which distinguishes the modern English ladies of the ton, that one would imagine he was prophesying of their dress. He mentions their stomachers and their towering heads, their curls, their flowing garments, and their crisping-pins. Solomon too, who having the experience of five hundred wives, and fifteen hundred concubines, and of course must have been well acquainted with the influence of the female over the male sex, in his admonitions to youth, cautions them to beware of the rustling of silks, and the creeking of heels, for it leads to—it led Solomon, the wisest of mankind, from the worship of the Almighty God to the sacrifice of idols.—MADAN, D. D.

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(1).

—Seraglios—Spanish protections. I tell you they are nothing to the English hoop. Confinement stimulates a woman to do that which otherwise would never enter her head—and pray Sir, did you ever hear that a padlock could protect a leathern portmanteau from the plundering hand of a robber? I tell you no woman has her chastity so well fortified, as an English woman of the present day. Who the devil can approach her? In the rear she carries bastions of cork—in front she has crown-works of whalebone—on the right and left flanks and gorgeats, nothing is wanting to compleat the strength of the place but a tenaille in the ditch.—But if the fashion continues, Sir, we shall never be able to carry a point by storm.—True, and therein lies the safety of female chastity, for all approaches must now be carried on by sap, whenever a lady commits faux pas in the day-time—do you mind, in the day-time— she must never more blame her stars, or attempt to excuse the transgression by the suddenness of the attack, as so many preparatory manoeuvres are necessary to the dismantling of the place.

Now, the daughter of the old General who was making these wise remarks upon the utility of hoops, was preparing for bed in an adjacent room, and by clapping a hand to each hip, and drawing a slip-knot, overturned every thing her father said—for down came the fortification, with the bastions and the crown-works flap upon the floor. I wish, said the young lady, slipping under the bed-cloaths, my father's wish would succeed.—I wish it was the fashion for every woman to have a tenaille in the ditch.— TOBY.

↵

(1).
Scarlet, faced with black, has been the uniform of the bravest troops; it was worn by Ligonier's horse, who fought with such amazing courage at Dettingen and Fontenoy, and is now worn by— the London Military Association.—

ANONYMOUS.

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A MEDITATION.

THE scene at the inn-door, when I innocently gazed up on the Star and Garter, was fresh in my memory. Not an astronomer of them all, from Ptolemy the Egyptian, down to Copernicus the German, and from Copernicus the German, down to Newton the Englishman, had ever so strong a conception of the hirsute constellation, called by star-gazers Berenice's locks, as I had of the sign at Kew-bridge.—Every object was painted upon my imagination in the most lively colours.

I recollected the lady's confusion on the unfortunate event of her pocket-hoop—and this recollection produced in my mind an investigation of modesty.—When an Indian was asked how he could go naked, and expose his body to the cold air, he answered, ‘because I am all face. ’ Now the same answer would have been as pertinent had it related to modesty, instead of feeling; for in those countries, where the inhabitants go perfectly naked, they look upon each other as undisturbed, with as chaste an eye, and unflushed countenance, as if they were all face. With them every part is equally indifferent as to sight: the less modesty the less feeling;—the less feeling, the less incontinence, in thought, in word, and in deed.

The Lacedaemonians were remarkable for virtue, yet possessed very little modesty; and when we compare their customs with the customs of the chearful, happy inhabitants of the southern isles, discovered by Captain Cooke, it appears the Lacedaemonians were perfect masters, and mistresses too, of the celebrated Timiradi dance, practised by the people of both sexes in Otaheite (1). It must be left to the judgment of the ladies, whether the daughter of Cato was right in her opinion, that women should take off and reassume their modesty with their garments. It is certain the Roman matron was a patriot, not however of that class of patriots who ornament the present times; she was not influenced by self—but from a regard to posterity.—And where is the woman who has not a regard to posterity? I answer—the woman who is not solely attached to one man, has neither regard for posterity nor for herself, and cannot be a patriot.

Thus did I mentally philosophize, till after long meditation, I concluded with a modern voyager (1), who from the contemplation of unpolished people, has drawn this opinion, ‘ that modesty and chastity, which have long been supposed to be inherent in the human mind, are local ideas, unknown in the state of nature, and modified according to the various degrees of civilization.’

Yet when Adam and Eve had eaten of the forbidden fruit, plucked from the tree of knowledge, they saw they were naked, and were ashamed.

Oh chastity! thou art a great and shining virtue in civilized states! Thy utility is sufficiently known—but to govern and prevail with thee according to nature, is as difficult as it is easy to do it according to custom. Thou hast nothing, let me tell thee, pure and fair maid, to support thy precepts, but the hoary head, and shrivelled face, of ancient use.

And what is to be deduced from this? Why that the fair fabrick of chastity, was erected upon the ruins of the bowers of paradise. But is not chastity in women the same as courage is in men? Is not chastity the very centre of a woman's point of honour? Is not female chastity a castle defended by religion, morality, reason, custom, pride, apprehension, and shame? True, but when nature mutinies within, and love attacks the out-works, this well-defended castle, is no more than—a castle in the air.

Notes

(1).

Plato, after the example of several well instituted republicks, ordained, that the men and women of all ages should divest themselves of their cloathing, and appear perfectly naked; you will see the reason of it in his Gymnastick. The women of Pegu wear no covering below the waist, but a cloath slit up before.—The Lacedaemonian women saw daily the Spartan youth perform their exercises naked, and wore such slight garments themselves, that as they walked discovered their thighs, they being, as Plato says, sufficiently covered with their virtue.— MONTAIGNE.

This might perhaps cool the sense of seeing—but how did it affect feeling.—Seeing's believing, but feeling has no fellow.—RAY'S PROVERB.

↵

(1).
Forster, who attended Captain Cooke on his second voyage.
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THE EXAMINATION.

THE lady slept on.—

I could not get a wink of sleep.—

The devil take that sign, said I to myself, cursing the Star and Garter at Kew-bridge. Yet why should I curse the Star and Garter! Is it not an insignia, which our most gracious sovereign respects—which the first of our nobility are continually in pursuit of.—And has not the learned Pettingall, who was a master of arts, thus delivered his opinion, after quoting some hundred authorities, in all languages, that the Star and Garter are amulets or charms, allegorical symbols of unity; or as Camden and Heylin have it, ‘a bond of the most inward society, and a badge of unity and concord, to inspire courage and vigour in men;’ —and does he not say, what every true man will join with him in saying, honi soit qui mal y pense, should be rendered, ‘shame and confusion to him that designs any evil against the wearer, (that is the wearer of the Star and Garter) may all his designs be retorted on the author.’ But why are the Bench of Bishops excluded from wearing this amulet? Because they have mitres annexed to their Bishopricks, and that amounts to the same thing —and as to the lawyers, why, they have their black patches upon their wigs—and their scarlet patches upon their doctors gowns—and their furs for their judges robes, delectable to the touch.

To banish the idea of the sign at Kew-bridge, I examined the lady's face.—Her eyes were shut—here could I ramble through half a dozen pages, expatiating on the beauty of the eye—whether black, hazel, grey, or blue —whether open or closed, whether shaded by a full grown dark brow, or arched over with the smoothness of a mouse-skin.—I never gave a determined preference to any particular colour, only let it not be a jaundiced eye—nor a basilisk's eye—I hate both—but I have long thought, that the eye of a woman looks best when on the twinkle; that is, when it is neither open, nor shut, but like the setting sun skirted by a shading cloud, emanates a lambient fire, through the medium of bordering fringe, with which nature has wisely provided it, for the purposes of ornament and protection.—

Give me an eye with quivering beams, dancing with irregularity like the reflection of the moon upon agitated water (1)!

I was eighteen years of age, when I first discovered, that the perfection of beauty in the eye, or rather the perfect force of the operations of the eye upon the heart, is not to be found, either when the eye is open, or when the eye is shut, but when the eye is upon the twinkle.—The impression I then received was deep, and I shall die in the opinion which was the result of it.

The manner in which I received this impression may appear hereafter.

Notes

(1).
Mr. DE LOUTHERBOURG is under the necessity of acquainting the public, as a duty he owes them, as well as himself, that he has not given his assent to the insertion of the above idea, which is undoubtedly stolen from the moonlight scene in his EIDOPHUSIKON, and is therefore an imposition on the public, and an invasion of his property.—Lisle-street, Leicester-square, April 26, 1781.
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A DESCRIPTION.

THE lady slept on—smiled as she slept, and as she smiled she sighed—

Health sported upon her cheek, while love, with a most inticing grace, diffused a non-resisting, if not inviting complacency over every feature, and wantoned on her neck.—Her lips smooth, and red as coral, pouted with fulness, and with a glowing ripeness equal to the blush of the wild strawberry, smooth as the sattin'd softness of the nectarine's coat, divided to give emission to her breath, discovering a set of teeth vying with orient pearl.—

Her breath!—

I sat opposite to her—Her breath fanned me with a fragrance, infinitely more inspiring, not less odoriferous, than the evening zephyr of June, agitating a rose-thicket, stealing its sweets
If Mrs. DAWSON looks in her glass she will see an original resembling this picture.—

.—The effect, however, was different; the fanning zephyr would have cooled, but the southern blast that gathers consuming heat from the burning desert of Arabia, could not scorch with more violence than the breath of my fellow-traveller.—

All appeared quiet within the peaceful habitation of her bosom, which, gently heaving, preserved uninterrupted calmness, except when a half-suppressed sigh, or short breathing, broke in upon the regular serenity of its motion.

She sighed!—but her sighs were not the sighs of sorrow—neither were they the sighs of pain—they were the sighs of sensibility—and I discovered the nature of her sighs, by the gentle agitations of pleasure, which ever preceded their risings, as tender harbingers, or followed them as affectionate attendants.—

It is probable the lady was in a dream, if she was, it was a dream of such sensibility, she might be said to wake sleeping
(1)
. I drew a divination from her dream.—

Notes

(1).

Critics may object to this expression, but it is certainly allowable at this time, when the greatest men sleep waking.—

I do believe it to be true, that dreams are certain interpreters of our inclinations.—I dream but seldom, and my dreams are generally produced by pleasant thoughts.—MONTAIGNE.

It is no wonder if those things, which men think on, have an affection for, and practise when waking, should agitate their minds when they are asleep.— CICERO.

An Expostulation with SLEEP.

Why dost thou detain me so long from my friends? —Shall I never get free from the cells of delusive imaginations?—Shall I be for another hour dead to sentiment, to the world, and to myself? When am I to walk out of thy yawning palace, and be alive to action and joy once more?—I will be revenged on thee, for I will abhor the name of every thing that sooths and fawns upon me to become thy captive: —detested be the poppy and laudanum; detested be the sparkling liquor that enervates the powers; and thrice detested be the downy bed!—Never more may I become thy prey.—The days of my life are but short, and let them be spent in the improvements of action, and in the service of my country and my friends!—Vain hope! for I feel that I can no longer resist thy soporisic vengeance.

Thus exclaims, then sinks in silence—L—D N—

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THE WAGGON RUT.

THE road was smooth—the coach rolled on—the lady slept—but as she slept, she slipt.—

The cushion on which she sat gently gave way—perceiving her in danger of falling, and anxious to prevent it, I placed my feet close to her's.—This precaution immediately transferred the point of gravity from the feet to the knee, and the coach continuing to communicate its motion to the lady, no sooner were her feet stopped, than her knees naturally bent forward.—

Determined to support her, I gently slipt forward till our knees met.—

For above a mile we rolled along the road foot to foot, knee to knee—the coach continuing to communicate motion to the lady, the lady communicating motion to me—till, unfortunately, the road growing rough, the motion increased, and became irregular—I lost my situation—the lady lost her situation of consequence.

Still the lady slept—and smiled—and sighed—and slipped, unconscious of her danger; but the coach-wheel slipping into a waggon-rut, I slipt forward, the lady slipt downward, and my Lord Coke, who had lain unnoticed upon the seat, ever since I came into the coach in the morning, slipt down at the same instant with the lady; but luckily reaching the bottom of the carriage first, his lordship broke her fall.

I did all in my power to support her, but in vain—though the lady did every thing she could to support herself, and my Lord Coke lent his assistance.—

The accident appeared beyond remedy,— So being on my knees, I offered up a hasty, yet warm, sincere ejaculation to the great God of Love, who lending an ear auspicious to my prayer, in about two minutes I was extricated from—no—not extricated from my confusion, but extricated from my aukward position, and found myself able to replace the lady in her seat—

Having settled the lady, I took up my Lord Coke, and placed his lordship close by her.

A REFLECTION.

HAVING got out of the rut, and having passed the rough road, which caused the foregoing accident, the coach rolled on smoothly again.—

Now there are many travellers who would rail for an hour without intermission against these rough spots, which every man must sometimes meet upon his journey, let him travel what road he will.—Some men meet them on high roads, some men meet them on bye roads.—Some men meet them on mountains. —Some men meet them in vallies.—They interrupt the rich man in his chariot, and the poor man on the humble foot-path way. —Philosophers have met these rough spots upon the summit of the Alps, the virtuosi have met them in the streets of Rome.—Nay, it has been said, that very wise and grave philosophers have met them on the very carpets of their libraries. For my part, I meet them here and there, and every where, and whereever I meet them, whether on high road, or on bye road, on mountain, on valley, or on plain, I make the most of them. Wherever I travel, or in whatever manner I travel, whether I travel in a carriage, on horse-back, or on foot, I never abuse them.—

Thank Heaven! there is a complacency in my disposition, which bids defiance to trifling casualties; and whether the road be rough, or whether the road be smooth, my temper is still the same, and I never quarrel with the road, nor with myself, nor with any thing I meet, but go whistling on—I only wish I may never meet these rough spots on Mount Aetna, on Mount Vesuvius, or on any other burning mount.—I care not how warm the climate is—but Heaven preserve me from volcanos! —I have an implacable aversion to fire!—

A road may be considered as an emblem of life, and much instruction may be picked up in very few miles travelling; yet some there are, and men of great name, who have travelled to Egypt, and have attained nothing but the height of the Pyramids, or a sketch of the Sphynx, though they have written whole volumes upon what they have seen, and have not seen;—while others have been able to discover a thousand objects, in a space not longer than from London to Highgate, upon which they have exercised all the benignity of philanthrophy.—

A road, I say, may be considered as an emblem of life.—How various the prospect on the right and on the left!—Sometimes a serene, sometimes a cloudy sky.—How different are the passengers in their size, in their complexion, and in the manner of pursuing their journey?—What innumerable stops from turnpikes!—What a number of cross roads! —How many arrests from accidents!—And how few make for the same resting-place, or pursue one certain constant gait.

This now is philosophizing—that is, if to philosophize, be, as has been defined by some philosophers, according to Montaigne, to write at random, and play the fool, as the essayist did, and which I shall never blush at doing, let my subject be what it may, providing only, that when I do write at random, or play the fool, my writing and my folly may be marked with some of his features.

THE CONFUSION.

THE sun had now risen considerably above the horizon—the kine had returned to their pastures, having paid their milky tribute to the dairy—and the honest hind, whose labour enables the luxuriant and the lazy, to indulge in pleasures, in sensuality and sloth, while he experienced the effects of the first judgment, announced by the divine wisdom against our primitive parents, by earning his bread with the sweat of his brow, softened its rigour with a chearful song, expressive of content.

Every object looked sprightly—every object appeared gay—every object wore the juvenile dress of summer—every object, animate and inanimate, contributed a share of chearfulness to the scene.

The situation in which the lady had discovered herself on waking, had overwhelmed her with confusion. A blush of the deepest dye, far beyond the boasted Tyrian, diffused its colour through her veins, sometimes descending, it spread over her fair bosom, and then, as if exhaled by the fire of her bright eyes, rose to her face, and revelled in a rubid glow.

The deep colour did not continue long— it faded by degrees to a rosy tint, but not to a fixed complexion—it sported during the course of our journey, in delicate shades. It was not difficult to discover what the lady felt —it was evident, from the revulsion of her blood, that the soul laboured, and the body languished.

If my confusion was not equal to the lady's, nor lasting as the confusion which distressed her, I felt an equal share of irritation. It was my ardent wish to relieve her, if possible, though I stood in need of relief myself. I would have roused my spirits, but they had been so lately dispersed, it was impossible to recruit them suddenly—I did all I could to rally them, but in vain. I looked to the lady for assistance—the lady looked from me, as demanding assistance for herself —our nerves thrilled in unison—the vibration was sympathetic—the tremor was reciprocal—so had been the cause.

I looked again towards the lady, taking her at the same instant by the hand—the vital spirits began to revive from the lethargy they had lately sunk into—the lady's hand lay in mine, a gentle mutual compressure gave my spirits the first alarm.

As I looked towards the lady, she turned her head round towards me, just so much as to give the profile of her face. A gentle sigh, with a soliciting cast of the eye informed me, she expected relief at my hands. My heart felt the full force and propriety of the expectation—it almost amounted to reproach. But how should I relieve her? My ideas were astray, my tongue was tied, and could as well have answered calmly from the rack, to the interrogatories of a persecuting Spanish inquisitor, as commence a conversation with my fair companion.

Neither of us could articulate a word— yet though silent, we conversed—for the lady by degrees looking full in my face, our eyes spoke, and we perfectly understood each other —it was the language of nature, whose declarations were sincere, her thoughts are undisguised, and scorn the deformities of duplicity.

You should speak to me, said the lady, from charity—

Something for the sake of charity, said a young seaman, who had lost an arm and a leg privateering, something for charity, said the seaman, as the coachman pulled up to the door of a small public house to take a dram (1), and receive some parcels.

A moment before I would most willingly have purchased this interruption at any expence, being now relieved from embarrassment by the lady's having opened the conversation, I wished the seaman had lost his head instead of his arm—just as my peevish temper suggested the inhuman thought, the poor fellow, addressing himself to the lady, and turning from me, said, Madam, I have lost my arm in the service of my country— and he held up his stump.

This man, who had faced the horrors of war undaunted, this man who had faced death in a thousand different shapes undismayed, was scared by the inhospitable, the ungracious and forbidding look, vexation had thrown into my countenance.

I was preparing to recompense the injury I intended him, by my wish, which was now retorted with full force upon myself, by giving him the silver I had put into the purse I had prepared for the highwayman—but as I drew the purse from my pocket, AVARICE whispered in my ear, he has Greenwich to support him, or if not, he has his parish to maintain him. Burrow's Settlement Cases lay upon the seat opposite to me, close to Lord Coke.—The law has made a provision for him, said Sir James Burrow.

CHARITY whispered in the opposite ear to that which AVARICE had applied her mouth to—this was the further ear from the poor sailor—but her words sunk deep into my soul.

It is certainly an honour to the law, whispered Charity, that it makes a provision for the poor, but it is no great honour to human nature, that the law has need to make such provision

The intention of the law is good, said Sir James Burrow—but the hundreds of decisions upon Charity cases which I have collected, have swallowed up more of the provision allotted the poor, than even the overseers have swallowed up—the poor are starved between the expenditures of litigation and gormandizing (1).

I had the purse half up, when VANITY stepping in with her advice, and aiding the solicitations of CHARITY, induced me to draw it to the very edge of my pocket.— A few acts of generosity, said VANITY, prudently managed, will give you as much reputation for goodness as most men desire.

Shall I, said I to myself—shall I restrain the stream of charity that overflows my heart? Shall I retain, for the purpose of some selfish gratification, this trash, taking the few shillings out of the purse; this trash, which divine bounty designed for the common benefit of all mankind.—The opportunities and inducements we have to alleviate the miseries, and promote the happiness of our fellow-creatures, are innumerable. Our hearts incline us to good, our reason approves the acts of humanity.—

All we have is given to us—all we do is but ministering.

A fat prebendary, well-mounted, and attended by two servants in livery, came ambling up, all in fine order—no determining which was best fed, the fat prebendary, the fat prebendary's servants, or the fat prebendary's horses—sleek and fat—fat and sleek—nothing of a curate, or a curate's man, or a curate's horse, about them—lean and pale—pale and lean.—God bless your Reverence! said the maimed seaman, holding out his hat with his left hand, at the same time shewing the stump of his right arm to the fat prebendary.

The fat prebendary returned the blessing with the voice of meekness—God bless you! said the fat prebendary—joining his hands together, with his eyes elevated religiously towards heaven, God bless you, said his reverence, turning down his eyes, and looking on the seaman's stump, the prebendary gently spurred his horse and rode on—

Your honours will remember me, said the seaman, addressing himself to the prebendary's servants.—The prebendary's servants looked as if they said Amen to their master's prayers. —The horses neighed—but they were brutes.—What was the fat prebendary!— What were the fat prebendary's servants!— Christians! Christians!

A serjeant of the guards, with his knapsack flung at his shoulders, holding a child by the one hand, and his wife following, carrying another child, succeeded.

Brother soldier, can you spare a trifle to a poor seaman? said the mutilated tar.

D—n your eyes, answered the serjeant, here's all I can spare; and he threw six-pence into the seaman's hat.—The wife followed the example of her husband—she dropped her mite, and passed on; O may that mite be layed up in Heaven! and may the scanty pittance in the corner of your husband's knapsack, increase like the widow's cruse!—

The serjeant's curse cut me to the heart— I reproached myself, blessed him, and cursing the fat prebendary, the fat prebendary's fat servants, and the fat prebendary's fat horses (though sure I wronged the beasts) slipped the shillings I had held clinched in my hand, into the hand of the seaman—I slipped them into his hand, unknown to any one— almost unknown to myself—in truth, VANITY had nothing to say to the gift, it was the gift of an impulse, involuntarily springing from the noble motive of compassion, which the example set me by the serjeant, had instantaneously kindled in my breast.—

The lady also felt the force of the serjeant's damn, and contributed under its impulse to the seaman's wants.

I insert this damn of the serjeant, as a precept for the edification of a certain bench, and all those who derive authority under them —but they want not precept—it is in practice they are deficient.—Do as I say, is the great foundation of their preaching.—Why can they not preach, do as I do?

Come forth your Grace with your Dutchess —come forth each Marquis with his Marchioness—come forth each Earl with his Countess—come forth each Baron with his Baroness—step forth ye Knights with your Ladies—and hear how the serjeant d—n'd the seman's eyes.—He had experienced himself what suffering is, and could not overlook it in another.—O come forth, look to his good works, and cover the multitude of your sins; for, be assured, your enormous subscriptions to a dancing, skipping tribe of buffoons, will avail you nought hereafter (1).

Notes

(1).
It is very common for stage-coachmen and post-boys to stop, for the purpose of drinking drams, both in England and Ireland.—

TWISS's Travels.

↵

(1).

It was the opinion of the Court of King's Bench, upon an application to increase the overseers of the poor in a certain parish, that the distresses of the poor bore a proportion to the number of overseers appointed to take care of them.—J. BURROW.

Like the Arigentines, they eat and drink, as if every day was to be their last.—MONTAIGNE.

↵

(1).

This idea of damn and blessing is stolen from one of Farquhar's comedies.—J. C—RT—Y.

N. B. It is not in Joe Miller.—

No man will say that the church is too amply provided for.—Bishop of PETERB—GH in debate▪

↵

THE PROPOSAL.

THE human mind should ever be employed, mental exercise and industry being as essential to the health of the soul, as corporeal exercise and labour is to the health of the body. Idleness in the mind produces vice, idleness in the body produces disease. The vacant hours of dulness are the most dangerous hours of life, for when ever the tempter of mankind, who is always on the watch, finds the mind out of employment, he never fails to step in, with one or other vicious incitement to seduce the soul from virtue.

For this reason I have established as a rule in the mental code by which I govern myself, that when ever I find my mind inadequate to the exercises of study or rational contemplation, which is too often the case, to seek immediate employment for my ideas in some innocent amusement.

It is certainly the most probable way of avoiding the devil and all his works.

I never stood in greater necessity for the application of my rule than at the present instant.—Was my life to pay the forfeit, I could not enter into a serious conversation with the lady, or a proper conversation with myself; so finding it impossible to speak, and dreading the consequence of thinking, I resolved to disappoint Old Nick by proposing an amusement.

I asked the lady to play travelling piquet.

TRAVELLING PICQUET.

THE lady declared she was totally ignorant of the game.—

I once played the game, said I, when Fortune being in a good-natured mood, as she was this day, introduced me to a tete à tete party with a young widow whom I met at Holy-head, and travelled with in a post coach to Chester.—

Then, said the lady, you are but a novice at the game yourself?

No, Madam, answered I, the young widow was experienced in it, and by her instructions, and playing it repeatedly since, I am now a perfect adept at the game,—and if you give permission, will instruct you.—

The lady, bowing, smiled assent to play, and I commenced my lesson.

THE LESSON.

SUPPOSE, Madam, said I, addressing myself to the lady, suppose, Madam, you and I,—or suppose, Madam, you and any other companion, were travelling in a coach, post-chaise, or vis à vis.—A vis à vis! exclaimed the lady, to ride in a vis à vis, is the height of my ambition.—

A vis à vis, Madam said I, is the most convenient carriage for playing travelling picquet in, twenty to one.—I proceeded in my instructions.

Suppose, Madam, you and I travel together in a carriage.—We are travelling together, observed the lady.—Well, Madam, you and I travelling together in a carriage, I reckon two for every gate I see on the right hand side of the road, you reckon two for every gate you see on the left hand side of the road, and so according to agreement, a certain number is reckoned for every object seen by you, on your side of the road, or seen by me, on my side of the road, whether man or woman, horse or mare, bull or cow, ram or ewe, cock or hen, &c.—

You understand me, Madam? said I,—

Perfectly, answered the lady.—

But observe, Madam—A man and woman —a horse and mare—a bull and cow—a ram and ewe—a cock and hen,—Et caetera, said the lady, interrupting my recapitulation—I went on—A man and woman, & caetera, Madam, may chance to present themselves on your side of the road, or on my side of the road, so as to entitle you, Madam, or to entitle me, Madam, to a repique.

You must explain that, said the lady—

Remember, Madam, said I—I don't say man or woman, horse or mare, &c.—but man and woman, horse and mare, &c.

Your reason, Sir, for the distinction? said the lady—

Doctor Lowth, Madam, now bishop of London, and all learned Grammarians, inform us, that or is a conjunction disjunctive—

I have been taught so myself, said the lady.—

The same learned bishop, Madam, and other learned authorities—you don't except to the bishop for being a living authority (1)?

No, Sir—

Well, Madam, they have all laid it down that AND is a conjunctive-copulative.—

The lady hummed a tune.

You now understand the game, Madam? The lady hummed on.—

If you don't understand it, Madam, the fault is not with you, nor with me, nor with the bishop of London, nor with the other learned grammarians; and I swear by Moses' rod, which rod was greater than all the rods of all the Egyptian Magi, or by the scepter with which the great Mogul attempts to rule the beauties in his seraglio, the fault should not be imputed to nature—she has given us understanding sufficient to understand all things that should be understood.

And pray, where does the fault lie, Sir, said the lady—

We will find out the place presently, Madam.

Notes

(1).

It has been a rule of court not to receive living authorities in the King's-bench, neither Sir Wm. Blackstone's inimitable commentaries, nor MY reports have been attended to.—C. L—F—T.

This is rather extraordinary when we consider what little reverence has been paid to precedents, which are now termed the dead letter of the law, and to old acts of parliament which have lately been termed obsolete statutes.—C—M—N

↵

THE GAME.

THE lady had reckoned on several gates—

So had I—

The lady had reckoned on several passengers, male and female—

So had I—

The lady had reckoned on horses, kine, sheep, goats, dogs, cats, and poultry of various kinds.

So had I—

The lady had reckoned on waggons, carts, coaches, chaises, whiskeys, and caprioles—

So had I—

The lady had reckoned on one gigg—

So had I—

The lady had reckoned up to fifty, I had only reckoned up to thirty. The eagerness of expecting conquest sparkled in her eye, and marked every feature of her face, when a young woman who desired to be taken up as an outside passenger, stopped the coach.—

THE REPIQUE.

THE prospect on my side being beautiful, naturally drew the lady's eyes that way to view it. We were admiring the landscape, when a country lad and lass, who appeared fatigued with the labour of the morning, for the lass walked leaning upon the lad's arm, having arrived at the shady side of a hillock, sat down—

I reckoned four to my game.—

The lad gave the lass a kiss—by the rule of the game I was entitled to reckon two more.—

He kissed her again—again—and again— I foresaw the game would be my own—Encore, said I—

Devil take the impudent fellow, said the lady, peevishly, at the same time suppressing a half smile, I shall certainly lose.—But the lass, Madam, said I, appears as much my friend as the lad.—

She is a Methodist, perhaps, answered the lady, and has been instructed in the doctrine of non resistance—

And he is probably of the same profession, replied I, for if I am not mistaken, there will be a love feast presently.—The lad gave the lass another kiss, to illustrate my supposition—I reckoned two more—The lady bit her under lip.—

That, Madam, said I, is a point—The lady hummed and looked down—

And ***** that, Madam, continued I, pointing with my fore-finger thus ☞—is a quint—The lady looked up—looked forward, then looked up again, as if to look for something in the sky, and overlook every thing on the ground—she then looked down and played with her apron string.—

The lass on the hillock side, was also looking at the sky.—

You will certainly lose. Madam—I believe I shall lose, said the lady, tying and untying her apron string.—

There is no doubt now, Madam—see, see, —point—quinte, and quatorze—A repique by the feathered arrow of Cupid, and by his favourite quiver.

The lady took a serious look at the lad and lass to be convinced of her loss, and being convinced, turning her head aside, tacitly acknowledged I had won.—

The young country woman, who stopped the coach, had by this time agreed with the coachman—had ascended the box, and adjusted herself in her seat—

You may now drive on, said the young country woman to the coachman—

So—we drove on.—

And may every man I esteem on earth, drive thro' the journey of this life, with as much pleasure, content, and innocence of heart as I drove on to Windsor.—

I had no reason however to triumph in my victory—for tho' I won the first, I lost the second and third game before I reached the town.

A DIGRESSION.

AS I was sitting in my chambers at the conclusion of the last division of my Excursions, a loud knocking brought my servant to the outer door (1)—knock—knock— knock—

Who's there? said I—

The Devil, Sir, answered my servant—

Bid the Devil enter—said I—

Enter DEVIL (bows.)

DEVIL.

My master, Sir, desires me to inform you, that he has shewn your excursions to some critics, who all agree that it will never sell without an introduction.

AUTHOR.

My respects to our master, good Mr. Devil, and assure him he shall have an introduction, preliminary discourse, prologue or preface, by to-morrow morning at ten o'clock.— Exit Devil.

So now Mr. Devil for—a devilish good— INTRODUCTION.—

Notes

(1).

Outer door—by the author keeping his outer door shut, it appears that he was under some apprehension from gentlemen y'clep'd bailiffs, as they have no right to force a man's outward door; though they may if they once get in, force every inward door and make their caption: and the door of a lodger gives him no protection.—This was determined by the Court of King's-bench, upon principles of wisdom, law, convenience, and humanity.—JAMES BURROW.

The same point was determined contrary to this decision in the King's-bench of Ireland, and upon the very same principles of wisdom, law, convenience, and humanity—

ANALLY, C.J.—The ENGLISH and IRISH BAR in full cry.

O the glorious uncertainties of the law!—

↵

INTRODUCTION

As the Reviewers, from the quantity of literary drudgery they are forced to go through every month, cannot possibly have time to read the whole of every book they give an opinion on; it is probable our author introduced his introduction in this place, in hopes the reviewers would not read so far.—Next month will shew whether the reviewers have reached his introduction; indeed the probability is, that they will not peep farther than into the title page.—

ANONYMOUS. .

IN which introduction, if there should appear any malice, envy, detraction, revenge, indecency, &c. the courteous reader will recollect, that this same introduction was written at the instigation of the Devil, at a time when I had not the fear of heaven before my eyes.

It will be said I have imitated STERNE. I have heard of an author who wrote a play in imitation of Shakespear, the play was a good play enough, and had one line strongly imitative of Shakespear's manner, which line was "good morrow, good master lieutenant." —It will be said I imitate STERNE—It is true like STERNE, my pen guides me, I don't guide my pen. I write my thoughts liberally, unstudied, and unarranged, as they spontaneously arise to my imagination, without cultivation or pruning,—of consequence they will be deficient in ornament, in profit, and in strength—but if they are natural I am satisfied.

I have always read STERNE with delight, and never read him but I felt him in my heart more than in my head; yet I hope his precepts have improved my understanding in the same proportion they have expanded my humanity. His precepts affect me like wine, they make my heart glad,—they affect me like love, or rather they affect me like a conjunction of love and wine, for they make me generous and gay. Imbibing his opinions has sweetened whatever portion of acidity, Nature, Misfortune, and Disappointment have mixed in my composition; and having grafted them upon my heart, it is probable their emanations may produce some pleasing blossoms, some good fruit—Good fruit may be produced by ingrafting upon a crab—

This is a palpable plagiary from my DUENNA.

The author of the DUENNA, whoever he is.—

.

If I should exhibit any feature bearing likeness to STERNE, I shall be proud of the similarity; but for this happiness I can scarcely hope. The stile of STERNE is peculiar to himself, his art is to please the imagination and improve the mind, with natural, yet elegant simplicity. He is master of that charming enthusiasm inspired by heaven itself for the instruction of its creatures: and in his composition there is a certain incommunicable art of making one part rise gracefully out of another, which is felt by all, though seen only by the critic
See a Student's letter to John Dunning, Esq in defence of the Rev. H. Bate. Printed by Bladon, Pater-noster-row.

. His life, his opinions, his sermons, his journey, his letters, and every thing he has written, will be read with admiration, will be read with pleasure, and with profit, when the laboured works of labouring philosophers, travellers, historians, politicians, and other mouse ingendering compilers (1), shall lie sleeping in dust upon the upper shelves of shops and libraries (2). The works of STERNE will be in the hands, in the heads, and in the hearts of every man, ay, and every woman too, of feeling; when the works of the Smell-fungusses and the Mundungusses of the age, will be lining trunks and band boxes

I have cut up several of the best modern authors at my shop, the corner of St. Paul's churchyard, as any person may see who will take the trouble of looking into my trunks.—DEPUTY CLEMENTS.

.

The imatators of STERNE, it must be allowed, have as much wit as they have judgment, and there are plenty of them heaven knows
(1)
. Whether I have wit or judgment must be left to my readers, and among these I hope I shall be honoured with the judgment of the reviewers.

REVIEWERS (1). I have mentioned your title Gentlemen, and cannot pass you by unnoticed; —tho' like Yahoes I expect you will mount among the branches of my laurel (1), and bemute my fair production. What say the critical sons of sapience (2). They lift up their voices and cry as one man, these sentimental excursions are a servile imitation in thought, in word, and in deed. Suppose they are imitations, they are imitations of a great master, who had his jerkin, as he says himself, cut and slashed by these reviewers to very shreds: and well might he say cut and slashed, for be it known to all whom it may concern, in the REPUBLIC OF LETTERS, that these kings of shreds and patches, the reviewers, do literally cut and slash,—they having almost given up the use of pen and ink in composing their works, and substituted scissars and paste.

The PEOPLE of the LITERARY WORLD, that is, the PEOPLE OF PATER-NOSTERROW, can vouch the truth of this assertion, not only as it relates to the reviewers, but to the various tribes of modern mathematicians, politicians, biographists, historians, essayists, voyagers, ay, and divines too, who all cut and paste—paste and cut. It is the author who can cut and paste well, and not the author who can conceive and write well, who makes money; for the former will cut down and paste up half a dozen volumes, before the latter can invent and arrange a single page.— Yet these form the modern LITERATI (1).

Now IMITATION is quite a different thing from scissars and paste (1).—Every man who possesses a nice and critical eye, must see, that notwithstanding the present flourishing state of the elegant arts, little more than imitation can be attributed to the artists of the day in any department. From Homer down to the lowest of the lowest poets, all are imitators; but the modern majority are pilferers (2), many of them open literary robbers (3), wretched scribblers, who by inserting among their laborious nothings, whole paragraphs from books of genius, stock the shops with heterogenous monsters. Now literary pilferers and robbers are not to be classed with imitators, for imitators may possess what these dull rogues never can possess,—they may possess genius and invention.

The works of STERNE have at least a stronger claim to originality, than any other modern production; and yet, even STERNE has his imitations; he can laugh out in the tone of Rabellais, and skip from his subject, or smile with the chearfulness of Montaigne; or he can assume the sober sensations of delight of heart-felt complacency, and seer with the pointed grave Cervantes.—Now if I imitate STERNE, have I not as just a right to imitate him, as he had to imitate Rabellais, Montaigne, and Cervantes; or as Virgil had to imitate Homer (1)? The right I have, but where is the ability? STERNE could throw every thing into a new light, but who can threw a new light upon STERNE?

As to the thoughts which may appear in my WORKS, say what you will gentlemen reviewers, my thoughts are my own, wherever I collect them: Whether they are ferae natura, caught by me flying in the atmosphere of fancy—or sporting in the fields of imagination—or whether they are rendered tame and profitable by the industry of another's study; whether they vegetate in my own brain, or are transplanted there ready cultivated from the brain of another person, my thoughts are my own wherever I get them; for I cannot part with them, when once I get possession of them.—They become annexed to the soil— I have a common law right to them (1).

Every author will be stealing, and every author will cry stop thief!

Shakespear was a thief—I do not mean in deer stealing, but Shakespear stole from nature.

Pope was a thief—Pope stole propriety of thought, delicacy of sentiment, justness of method—and elegance of composition.

But this is an honest age, we have no such thieves in these days, if we had, they could not live, the reviewers are such excellent thief-takers.

The SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL, like Peachum's lock, is a collection of goods stolen.—An informer declared to Charles the Second, that Dryden had stolen the play of the Spanish Friar—God's fish! exclaimed the facetious monarch, has he? I wish you could steal such another.

The Man of the World is a drama without an original thought, every sentiment it contains is to be met with in the conversation of the times; the manners exhibited are as familiar as the manners of common life, and the incidents are merely such as happen every day: Nay, the characters are nothing better than copies from Nature.—As to the general plan of the piece, its unities, its fable, and its moral, are so strongly similar to the foundation upon which the drama of the antients has been built, that the plagiary is evident (1). —This comedy wants novelty, it being acted every hour, in every great house, in every great square, and every great street in this great metropolis; and therefore as human nature is invariable, the merit of the author of the MAN OF THE WORLD, consists in nothing more, than exhibiting in dramatic form and dialogue, the customs and habits, which have unavoidably taken place, and characterize the history of the day.

Having touched a little upon imitation and literary thieving, I will now state a few unarranged thoughts on similarity of thinking.—

The variety we see in the persons, in the faces, and in the modes of thinking, which distinguish the individuals who compose the human animal, are astonishing! But variety and contrast in the appearance and manners of man, are necessary to the purposes of his being, and shew the infinite wisdom and infinite power of his Creator.

From variety and contrast of person we judge of proportion, and the elegance of symmetry.

From variety and contrast of face, we judge of beauty and of ornament.

And from variety and contrast of thinking, we judge of intellectual capacity, as it operates in the progress of its study upon sciences, and its invention and improvement in the arts.

So that it may be said, that the knowledge of all arts, and the knowledge of all sciences, which include the knowledge of all things, is the consequence of variety in our modes of thinking, and contrast in our opinions; which variety and contrast, stimulate us to controversy and experiment. And as virtue would not have been known but for the contrast of vice, nor colours but for the variety of their shades, neither would arts nor sciences have been known, had the organs of mankind been so formed that every individual should think alike.

Yet notwithstanding the versatile sportings of nature in forming her creatures, we often find a strong similitude of person, a strong similitude of face, and a strong similitude in the mode of acting and of thinking between persons totally unallied—totally unacquainted with each other; and perhaps there never were such strong instances of SIMILARITY IN THINKING, as have arisen within these few years.

I shall pursue one line of illustration to support this assertion, and that line shall be the line of the drama.

Mr. SHERIDAN has been so happy as to think like Congreve, to think like Buckingham, to think like Farquhar, to think like Wycherly; and RUMOUR says, that Mr. Sheridan has been so happy as to think like many living authors (1). Yet it is certain, that on the merit of new pieces, unhappily living authors do not think like Mr. Sheridan. Some critics say, that Mr. Sheridan in his late prologue to Lady Craven's piece (1) thought like Mr. Colman in his late prelude.

Mr. COLMAN in this same prelude, has thought like Mr. Foote; and in many of his other writings it is said, Mr. Colman has been so lucky as to think not only like those authors who have reached Parnassus, but like other authors who have attempted to gain the mount through the medium of Mr. Colman's theatre.

Mr. SHERIDAN and Mr. COLMAN being both managers and authors, may not only think like other authors, but may think for other authors, and crush their merit with impunity.

Mr. CUMBERLAND in his West Indian, has thought exactly like Mr. Macklin in his Love à la Mode. In the Widow of Delphi, Mr. Cumberland has thought like himself (1).

Mr. MACKLIN has never been charged with thinking like any other author (2).

Mr. DIBDIN it is true, has thought, but how he has thought is not worth thinking about, and the same may be said of several others.

Mr. MURPHY never troubles his head with thinking—he translates.

Mrs. COWLEY has attacked Miss Moore for thinking like her; and a Templer asserts, that Mrs. Cowley, in her Belle's Stratagem, has thought exactly as he—thought in a comedy and an opera, both rejected by Mr. Harris.

CAPTAIN JEPHSON in his tragedies, though he has thought like many people, yet he has also thought much upon the similarity of things. His Law of Lombardy is a tragedy of the massacre of similies; he has told us in it what every thing is like, but he has not told us what any one thing is.

Mr. ANDREWS in his Dissipation, has very fortunately thought like a gentlemen who some time since wrote an entertainment on Lord Darbey's Fete Champetre.

The AUTHOR of the Lord of the Manor has thought exactly as General Burgoyne thought in the House of Commons.—But of all the authors or authoresses who have lately thought like their contemporaries, no author or authoress stands so distinguished as Miss LEE; and of all the accidents in the Chapter of Accidents, the happiest accidents are these, where Miss Lee thinks like another author; wherever that happens, Miss Lee certainly thinks well.—

But surely it is now full time I should think of continuing my excursions, in the pursuit of which, heaven send that I may think like STERNE.

Notes

(1).
The mountain was in labour, and brought forth a mouse.—

AESOP.

↵

(2).
The booksellers would be very wrong to let them sleep upon their shelves when they can have a price for them, and put them in circulation, among pastry-cooks, snuff-retailers, fire-workers, chandlers, cheesemongers, and their customers.—

ANONYMOUS.

↵

(1).

This is clearly irony—I profess myself an imitator of STERNE, and the following critique, which I did not send to the MORNING HERALD, nor pay for, will shew whether I have been successful in my imitation or not.—PETER M'DERMOTT.

THE CRITIQUE.

‘If STERNE was ever rivalled in the descriptive, the narrative, in language, or in the sentimental, it is by Mr. M'Dermott, in his new publication of the FEMALE MONITOR; the history of Arabella is one of the most masterly drawings of the human pen.—Locke, Hume, and many other celebrated authors have favoured us with essays on education, but in Arabella they live, and theory rendered practicable by sweet and easy admonition; the strictures of the Female Monitor, with the author's own digressions, are admirably interwoven in the piece, and forms a most instructive and agreeable dialogue: the letters from Mr. Worthy to his son Charles, at Oxford, are sterling, and abounds with honourable precepts and information; the description of the old half-pay officer, given by Charles, is one of those most affecting, a sentimental situation that demands the tear of admiration, and plucks the laurel from the Monk of Calis.—Lady Gay's career through life is dramatically conceived, and gives precept a risible cast judiciously introduced to close the scene.’

The name of the author of the FEMALE MONITOR, as well as the modesty which marks this critique, clearly points out the country which had the honour of giving him birth, a circumstance which in my opinion, must recommend him to all mammas, all mams of boarding schools, and private governesses of young ladies, particularly as the critique declares the work to be the most masterly drawing of the human pen; which shews that the work, like many other works, does not carry the traits of the goose-quill: indeed it goes a great way to prove, the certainty of an old opinion, that Irishmen have wings, and out of some of their pinions perhaps, Mr. M'Dermott's human pen was plucked. But I find it impossible to conceive (though I have called in my husband's aid to my assistance) the following assertion.—"Locke, Hume, and many other celebrated authors have favoured us with essays on education, but in ARABELLA they live;" now as Locke and Hume are indubitably dead, and we have not heard of their resurrection, how comes it that they live in Arabella; indeed were they alive, it is out of nature to suppose they should live so long in Arabella; for though Jonas lived a considerable time in the whale's belly, his life was preserved by miracle, and he was but one person; whereas it appears, that Arabella is ensient, that is, big with Locke, Hume, and several other authors. It is true, a certain dutchess of Heidleberg had three hundred and sixty-five children at a birth; and the font in which they were christened, is still shewn in the great church of the town; but then these were children, not men. But perhaps the critique upon Mr. M'Dermott's work does not mean that the philosophers and authors are in poor Arabella in a state of transubstantiation, but only in Spirit, which the author of the Female Monitor might believe, if he admits the doctrine of Metempsychosis, or transmigration of souls; for though a woman could not rightly entertain so many men in ventra semere, corporally, yet she might entertain them spiritually, as may be proved from the number of devils, sometimes a whole legion together, which have possessed persons in former times.—CATHARINE MAC. GRA—M.

The FEMALE MONITOR certainly demands the tear of admiration, whenever admiration weeps; but I cannot think there was much sentiment in the author's plucking the laurel from the Monk of Calais, by which I suppose he must mean "the few scattered white hairs upon his temples."—

COURTNEY MELMOUTH.

↵

(1).

It was my opinion when I wrote in favour of the Irish nation, that there should be at least one BANKER hanged once within every year; it is now my opinion, that there should be at least one REVIEWER hanged within every month. These fellows (I speak of the Reviewers) look only for the excrementitious parts of a work; and indeed it must be allowed, that no town hag hath a better nose at smelling out ordure; they remind me of a bird of passage of the aquatic tribe, which annually visiteth a little island on the Irish coast, near the harbour of Dublin; this bird is called by the vulgar a Magsh—, and liveth by pursuing gulls and pecking them with his bill; which though blunt, is offensive and provoking, till the poor gull droppeth his dung, which the Magsh— swalloweth up for food.—

JONATHAN SWIFT.

↵

(1).

If the reviewers are not entitled to the laurel, yet surely as they are the extracters of the essence of every work, they are deserving of the laurel water.

K—NR—K, Jun.

↵

(2).

Several persons having been surprized that strong marks of lunacy should appear in the criticisms of the reviewers, Doctor HUNTER, a very able anatomist, took their brains into physical consideration, (for brains most of them have, notwithstanding what some people have advanced to the contrary) and having first discovered that their productions were lunar, he next found that from the nature of their office, being forced to write in the full of the moon, it fully accounts for their periodical insanity.

ANONYMOUS

↵

(1).

MODERN LITERATI! I will give you their character. We find among them enemies to princes, yet flatterers of minions and sycophants. Moralists in theory, yet sensualists in practice. Sceptics in doctrine, dogmatists in judgment, who while they profess disinterestedness and independence, introduce their venal muses to voluntary prostitution.

SAM. JOHNSON.

↵

(1).

Your scissars and paste gentry are the common defamers of the town, every man of genius disclaims them; I consider them as literary vagrants, and were I on earth I would, whenever I caught them scribbling, take upon me the office of beadle, and scourge them into an honest way of earning their bread.

CH. CHURCHILL.

↵

(2).
Query, if this assertion is not a libel upon the House of Commons, by Innuendo?
↵

(3).
Vide Lord Carlisle's poems, Mr. Eden's letters, &c. &c.
↵

(1).
We apples swim.—

AESOP'S FABLES.

↵

(1).

Here our author shews a total ignorance of common law, for no right in ideas exists by common law; it has been proved to be but an ideal right.— But though a man has no legal right in his own ideas, yet he has a right to possess himself of every other man's ideas, as may be fully seen by looking into my Miltonic poem of the Universe, which was in a great measure dictated by my EUDOSIA, who sucked in her erudition from the great FERGUSON, now, alas! defunct.—But to the Law—A majority of the twelve judges assembled in the Exchequer-chamber, determined upon solemn debate, that no man can have a transferable property by common law in his own thoughts after publication; that ideas, though brought into print, not being tangible, cannot be considered as property—for trover will not lie for them,—a replevin cannot seize them, an ejectment cannot describe them to the sheriff to take possession, and the House of Lords upon writ of error brought, reversed the judgment in Banco Regis, and affirmed the judgment of the Exchequer-chamber.

CA. L—FT.

May 11th, 1781.

What a noble decision was this for all the unfurnished heads in Great-Britain! I was concerned in it, all Grub-street got credit by it, and have ever since been furnishing their attic stories with other men's goods.—ARTHUR M—R—Y, Lincoln's Inn.

↵

(1).
These were the reasons which induced me so long to refuse licensing the piece; besides it satirises reigning vices, and a man should be very cautious how he exclaims against reigning vices or fashionable habits in a polite circle, lest somebody present should apply the satire to himself.—

H—R—D.

↵

(1).
A most unhappy accident happened at the moving a certain manager's goods from his old house in Great Queen-street to his new house in Grovesnor-Place. A large trunk, containing some hundreds of manuscript pieces, was stolen out of the cart which was transporting them, and the wretched authors have not been able as yet to hear any thing about them; but it is the general opinion, that in the course of the next season, if they attend the theatre on the performance of new pieces, they may have the satisfaction of receiving auricular intelligence that their thoughts are not totally lost to the world. A certain Amanuensis is supposed to be the robber.—

PUBLIC LEDGER.

↵

(1).
I did not intend my piece for public exhibition, but for the entertainment of a few private friends.—

CP.—N.

↵

(1).

SHAKESPEARE is certainly wrong in writing Delphos, the classical term is Delphi, but perhaps Shakespeare meant Delos, a Grecian island.

R. CUMBERLAND.

From the above note it is clear that had Shakespeare possessed Cumberland's LEARNING, or had Cumberland possessed Shakespeare's GENIUS they would have been upon an equality. That is, Cumberland would have been as GREAT as Shakespeare, and so vice versa, Shakespeare would have been as GREAT as Cumberland and England would have had the honour of producing the two greatest of all authors.

ANONYMOUS.

↵

(2).
It has been my misfortune to be too communicative of my thoughts, by which I have often been anticipated by those I considered as confidential friends.—

C. MACKLIN.

↵

WINDSOR. THE INN.

HAVING arrived at WINDSOR, and handed the lady out of the coach into the inn, we were shewed into a parlour by the landlord, in his proper person. Here a very serious difficulty started, which never occurred, at least to me, during the whole course of the journey.—How am I to part with my fellow-traveller, thought I—Ay, "there is the rub," and a severe rub it was —I was totally ignorant of the lady's name —the lady was totally ignorant of my name. —It is true, I knew something about her, but a motive, in which curiosity had the smallest share, made me wish most ardently to know every thing about her.—No sooner had I perceived this inclination, for gaining an intimate knowledge of the lady, and the lady's affairs, than I flattered myself, that the lady felt as ardent an inclination, to be intimately acquainted with me, with every thing about me, and with my affairs.—I not only wished to know her, but to know all her connections.—I asked myself a thousand questions about her, without putting one question to her.—

Who is she?

Whence came she?

Who is her father?

Who is her mother?

Who are her brothers?

Who are her sisters?

Has she any brothers and sisters, uncles, aunts, or cousins?

These questions I put deliberately to myself, stringing them together in succession, as the facetious Sancho Panza, the laugh-and-be-fat-sub-hero of Don Quixote's adventures, strung his proverbs.— But no sooner had I finished my interrogatories upon her relations, than a multitude of other interrogatories rushed in upon my mind impetuously—

Is she a maid?

Find that out, would have been the proper answer.—

Is she a wife?

Is she a widow?

Is she neither maid, wife, nor widow?—

Is she a mistress?

Is she rich?

That is no business of mine.—

Is she poor?

Not in spirit, for to me she has been most liberal; and if she wants assistance, to replenish her purse, or to right her wrongs, by Heaven my purse, (I was master of forty-eight guineas, which was within two guineas of my quarter's allowance) and my sword, (which, though of old mourning-mounting, had an excellent blade, of genuine Toledo temper) are both at her service.—

LOVE.

WE stood in a parlour of the inn, our hands locked within each other.—It would be hard, Madam, said I, sighing, after the pleasant journey we have experienced, to part as ignorant of each other as we met.— It shall not be my fault, said the lady, if we are not longer acquainted; I am come to spend a few weeks at Windsor, and if you wish to continue an intimacy, which accident produced, and, added I, interrupting her, which love assisted.—Love! alas, said the lady, shaking her head, there was no love in the case, our meeting, and every thing that has happened since we met, were the effects of accident—assisted by nature; then, Madam, said I, bowing, and laying my hand upon my heart—and what is love, but nature?

Thelady blushed, but silently assented to my opinion, which she illustrated by a sentimental gentle squeeze of the hand —I thanked her for the compliment, by returning the squeeze in the same sentimental gentle manner I had received it; and raising her hand to my lips, "she nothing loath," kissed it with the genuine fervour of affection and sincerity.— The lady recovered her spirits, and the whole force of those spirits starting into her eyes, her bosom heaving with a heart-easing sigh; alas! said she, with an amiable frankness, I must acknowledge the propriety of your observation.—LOVE IS THE CHILD OF NATURE! But I must sincerely regret, that mere accident has convinced me of this truth. —How happy should I have been, if a long acquaintance, matured into friendship and a series of reciprocal obligations, had been the means of my conviction—how happy should I have been, if it had been my fortune to have loved from the result of judgment, not from the effect of contingency, and she wept.—

Now the lady's tears were natural, but it was unnatural to suppose, that love could result from judgment.

I acknowledge, continued the lady, wiping her eyes, I acknowledge we are sometimes excuseable for yielding to the simple authority of nature: but what have I done? I have suffered myself to be hurried away, to be transported by her tyrannical dictates; whereas reason alone, should have authority over the conduct of our inclinations,—She wept again.—I felt the full force of her tears —they were a dew, which nourished my infant passion.—

Falling upon one knee, with faultering speech, I swore never to part from her. —Her countenance brightened, on hearing my vow—she appeared happy—her looks touched my very soul, our happiness was mutual—and surely the pleasure which the benevolent mind feels in the happiness of others, is one of the most delightful sensations with which the human soul is blest.

A QUESTION ANSWERED.

QUESTION—What is LOVE?—

ANSWER.—Love is a desire of contracting friendship, of uniting with, and communicating happiness to a beautiful object; every eye making its own beauty.—Love is active, eager, sharp, precipitate.—Love is fickle, moving, and inconstant; love is a fever, subject to intermissions and paroxysms— But give me that love, which when the paroxysms have subsided, retains an universal fire (1), but temperate and equal, a constant established heat, all easy and smooth, without poignancy or roughness.

Yet love is a tyrant!—All passions are tyrants, but love is the greatest tyrant of all the passions; for love holds all the other passions under arbitrary subjection—love leads every man by the nose (1)—love makes the miser soften the rigour of his avarice (2)—lessens the appetite of the glutton (3)—slakes the thirst of the drunkard (4)—sooths the anger of the revengeful (5)—inspires the coward with courage (6) and—subdues the pride of the haughty (7).

Notes

(1).
Those who intend to try my celestial beds, may be assured, that the consequence will be, that after experiencing the paroxysms of pleasure, they will also experience an universal fire, electrifying their whole frame, as an emblem of which, I have placed Mercury over my temple.—

GRAHAM, D. M.

↵

(1).
The word NOSE , as it stands here, should not have been italicked, but should have been written in the old ROMAN or old IRISH characters. I have been in ROME and in DUBLIN, and understand the Italian and IRISH, men, manners and tongues; and I am clear, that no man whose NOSE is of the Italian cut, ever permitted love to lead him by the NOSE.— HENRIETTA H—

TT—N.

↵

(2).
It never could soften the rigour of mine— ROB—M—NN—S—nor of mine.—

THO H—R—D.

↵

(3).
We all deny this—THE BOARD OF ALDERMEN, except JOHN WILKES.
↵

(4).
We never experienced this.—

TOWN—D and RI—BY.

↵

(5).
I never will forgive AMERICA.—

M—N—D.

↵

(6).
That I deny.—

G—EG—R—N.

↵

(7).
It never did, nor never will subdue me.—

GL—U—R.

↵

A WARNING.

TAKE care ladies, whether maids or widows, we will put wives out of the question, because wives are under coverture.— Take care ladies how you fall in love, for the highest crested dame of you all, the tyrant will bring—

DOWN,

UP and DOWN,

UP and DOWN,

DERRY, DERRY, DERRY, DERRY,

UP and DOWN—(here is a rest)

DOWN,

DERRY DOWN.

Oh!—(here is a quiver.)

Prick this burthen down ladies, and play it upon your piana fortes, it is a soft tune, and sounds best upon an instrument with buffed keys.—

This burthen to an old song is the only requiem for your dying lover.—

Nay, ladies, be you ever so young, ever so handsome, or ever so ugly, ever so grave or gay, good-humoured or ill-humoured, the tyrant love will rule you.—So beware, ladies, of the tyrant's rule.—

But, above all, beware of the tyrant's rule, ye antiquated virgins with large fortunes, who combating with the spirit against the flesh, have out-lived every desire—except the desire of possessing a young husband.

A WISH.

O! May I never experience that love where the flame rises to a frantic passion to enjoy an object who flies me! Save me from coquets, good heaven! curse me not with jilts! and bless me with the possession of that true love, which looks to me alone for happiness —that true love, which, being founded on sincerity, is a stranger to arts and gallantry— that true love which flourishes only amongst its own natural sweets, complacency, mutual esteem, and constancy (1)—give me a woman whose mind is without stain, whose manners are without art, and whose person is free from every embellishment, but those embellishments it has acquired from the hand of nature (1).

Notes

(1).

Constancy! Well—and I have been constant, though set down as a woman of gallantry, I defy my enemies to say (except the Jew, who not being a Christian, is not to be believed) that I have ever shewn inconstancy to one lover, till I have met another lover whom I liked better.—M. RO—BN—N.

Upon my honour this is truth, and I could prove it by virtue of royal authority.—T. R—B—N.

↵

(1).
Such a woman have I met.—

H—MIL—N.

↵

THE DEPARTURE.

I Must leave you, said the lady, drawing away her hand from mine, but drawing it away reluctantly—my hand pressing her hand tenderly—I must leave you, said she, or my friends, who are now impatiently expecting me, will be surprized at my delay; and knowing this to be the usual hour for the stage's arrival, will come to seek me—so permitting me to take the liberty of a kiss, and promising I should hear from her in the course of the evening, she departed from the inn. —I led her to the outward door—she insisted I should go no farther—and not knowing, but she had private reasons for refusing an escorte, I permitted her to depart unattended, my eyes following her down the street, till coming to a corner, she nodded a farewel, and disappeared.—

A REFLECTION.

I Directly returned to the inn—and going into the parlour, looked out of the window towards the royal palace—this is WINDSOR, said I to myself, Windsor, so renowned in ancient story! —Windsor, so celebrated in ancient song.

And here our Edward's and our Henry's have resided, have sported in the chace, and exercised at the tournament.—

This is Windsor, rendered immortal by immortal Pope, and now the residence of the most numerous progeny, that ever royalty produced.—Priam, it is true, had sixty sons, but how many wives had Priam?—

The prospect, I was informed, from the castle-terrace, was truly beautiful, but the town is cursed straggling, and cursed inconvenient.—I took out my watch to see the hour—mercy preserve me! exclaimed I, it is but a few hours since I left London, and what a number of incidents have marked that short space of time.—Every circumstance rushed upon my memory—I found myself uneasy—something was wanting—I sighed, and my sighing told me it was my fair companion —but she was gone.—

THE OVERSIGHT.

WAS there ever such an oversight!— was there ever such a fool as I have been, to let her depart without enquiring her name—perhaps I may never see—perhaps I may never hear of her more—prudence, on reflection, may induce her to conceal herself.—

I rung for my servant, asked him the lady's name, but to enquire the lady's name had never entered into his head, no more than it had entered into mine.—I eased my chagrin, by severely reproving his negligence, though my uneasiness was the result of my own stupidity.—

My servant had spirit, and I had always indulged him in a free exercise of it—he retaliated my reproof, by telling me he had no orders to enquire after the name of the lady; but, said he, with an arch significant smile, I know the name of the country girl, who rode with me upon the outside of the coach. —I felt the sarcasm, I saw the fellow triumph, and could have knocked him down.

Raging with vexation and disappointment, I had the coachman called—the coachman knew nothing about her—I had the waiters called, —the waiters knew nothing about her—I almost stormed, and snatching up my hat, was proceeding to sally out upon an expedition of reconoitering and enquiry, when my servant gave a half smack with his mouth, and informed me I had not ordered any thing for dinner.—

I left him to indulge his own palate in the orders, but meeting the landlord in the entry, he presented a long bill of fare—you may have, Sir, said the landlord, and he run thro' his bill of fare, throwing his eyes up for my command as he repeated each article—you may have venison, fowls, ducks, roast leg of lamb, pigeon-pie, mackarel, &c. &c.—Do you take me, said I, for an overseer of the poor, or the bencher of an inn of court? Let me have a beef-steak—and I passed by the landlord.—

Getting into the street, I was as much at a loss as ever, to find out the lady, so enquiring my way to the castle, I soon found myself upon the terrace.—

THE TERRACE.

LOOKING round me, as I stood upon the terrace, I was astonished at the beauty of the prospect. The air was serene, the landscape inchanting, the sky clear, except a few clouds towards the horizon, which set off the brilliancy of its azure, as moles do the fairness of the human skin.—Some villas lay open to the view, others were in part concealed, and the sun darted his mid-day beams to gild the various turrets and spires, which glistened through the scene.

The Thames rolled his silvered flood in silent majesty towards the sea, enriching his bordering banks with verdure and the brightest tints, and woods and forests, some planted by nature, time immemorial, others raised by the assisting hand of industry, waved their graceful pliant branches, and shook their leafy honours—obedient to every gale. Between these woods, meadows, pastures, and gardens, at different distances, opening interminable, gave a luxuriant diversity to the whole.

Here gurgling brooks, gently meandering along their pebbly channels, pour their tributary urns into the sovereign river—and there a rich profusion of hillocks, tufted with various trees, among which groups of animals grazed, slept or play'd in peace and happiness, though different in their kinds.

The whole closed with an extended horizon, and charmed the soul with delightful grandeur—

Alas, said I, looking round, my soul elevated to enthusiasm—it was here our greatest English bards invoked and received the inspiration of their muse.—

So taking out my pencil, I wrote in my pocket-book—the first lines of poetry I ever attempted.—

REFLECTIONS ON WINDSOR FOREST.

HERE GENIUS learn'd to pour th' enlighten'd ray,

Here DULNESS shut her leaden eye from day;

The youthful poet who'd to same aspire,

Here caught from thee my SHAKESPEARE living fire!

'Twas here the TRAGIC MUSE aloft did sing,

Here ARNE and HANDEL, tun'd the dulcet string,

Here laughing COMEDY, with sprightly tread,

The gaudy feather tore from FOLLY's head,

Expos'd base vice, and cry'd vile passions down;

Reform'd our manners, and improv'd the town.

Here poignant SWIFT, with barbed arrow stung,

Here POPE immortal, golden numbers sung,

Here stream'd the tears of melancholy YOUNG;

Here WALLER pip'd the lover's melting lay,

Here gently blaz'd the lambient slame of GAY;

Here ADDISON improv'd the classic page,

Here MILTON burn'd with fiere poetic rage;

Here FARQUHAR laugh'd, and witty CONGREVE warm'd,

DRYDEN divine the soften'd soul alarm'd,

Here GOLDSMITH smil'd and magic SPENSER charm'd

Here OTWAY, ROWE, and THOMPSON, chose their rhyme,

Names which defiance bid to mouldring time!

I wrote the above enchanting (1) description with a pen made of a goose-quill.—

Heigh ho!—I asked myself, why that involuntary sigh? I answered with another heigh ho! Alas! what is all this without dear woman, "heaven's last best gift."—

I will describe the excellencies of woman —but where shall I get a pen, adequate to such a description.—

The goose-quill is not worthy—the swan-quill is too stiff—and the crow-quill, though used by ladies, is too black, and too often employed in the poisoning works of defamation.

I will therefore leave the goose-quill to philosophers—the swan-quill to mathematicians, and the crow-quill to lawyers, old maids, and news-paper-paragraph-gatherers—but for myself, I will pluck a quill from THE BIRD OF PARADISE!

Well, I have plucked my quill, and my pen is in order, in gratitude then, I cannot but say something of the pretty bird from whose tail I have plucked my quill.

Notes

(1).
Our author seems to have no bad opinion of himself.—

ANONYMOUS.

↵

THE BIRD OF PARADISE (1).

THE subject is extensive. The subject is so deep, I know not where to begin— and if I do begin, I fear I shall never reach the bottom.—

Shall I begin at the head, or shall I begin at the tail? I write on the bird of paradise, therefore the tail must have the preference to the head, for of all the birds in the air, the bird of paradise has the most beautiful tail.

The tail of the bird of Paradise is the most lovely to the eye—the tail of the bird of Paradise is the most exquisite to the touch—the tail of the bird of Paradise is the longest feathered, and the flushest feathered tail of all the tails of all the birds which sport in the gardens of pleasure (1).

Not the horse-tail worn by the great cham of Tartary—not the cow's-tail that dangles from the head of the Indian bramin—not the tail worn by the bashaw of Turkey—not the pig-tails which hang pendulent from the wigs of the city train'd-bands—not the triple-tails, which evince the wisdom of the learned apprentices of the law and grave serjeants of jurisprudence—not the tails of the learned judges of meum and tuum—not the enormous tail of the Lord Chancellor—not the Ramillie-tail of our old generals—nay, nor the mighty tail of the famous ram of Derby, can be compared to, or stand in competition with the tail of the bird of Paradise (2).

The tail of the bird of Paradise is not to be matched in the British Museum—the tail of the bird of Paradise out-does all the tails of all the birds in Sir Ashton Lever's olyphusum.—There is not such a tail in the collection of Doctor Hunter, and the doctor has tails from all countries, and of all sizes.— Nay, not a doctor nor antiquarian in Europe, possesses such a tail as the tail of the bird of Paradise.

We may say of the tail of the bird of Paradise, as Yorick said of the white-bear (1).

The tail of the bird of Paradise, very well have I ever seen one? might I ever have seen one? am I ever to see one? ought I ever to have seen one? or can I ever see one?

Would I had seen the tail of the bird of Paradise — (for how can I imagine it?)

If I should see the tail of the bird of Paradise, what should I say?

If I should never see the tail of the bird of Paradise, what then?

If I never have, can, must, or shall see the tail of the bird of Paradise, have I ever seen the feather of one? did I ever see one painted? —described? have I never dreamed of one? did my father, mother, uncle, aunt, brothers, or sisters, ever see the tail of the bird of Paradise? what would they give? how would they behave? how would the bird of Paradise have behaved? is the tail of the bird of Paradise rough or smooth?—

Is the tail of the bird of Paradise worth seeing?—is there no sin in it?—is it better than any other tail?

Such a tail as the tail of the bird of Paradise, does not appear once in a hundred years; it glows refulgent as the tail of a burning comet, yet the tail of the bird of Paradise is not a fiery tail; but then the tail of the bird of Paradise is not eccentrical in its motions as the tail of a comet is—it moves to and fro, up and down, like the tail of the fan-tailed pigeon.

The tail of the bird of Paradise has down upon, like the tail of a teal.

The tail of the bird of Paradise, in every thing—but motion—is unlike the tail of a water wagtail.

Here now could I disclose a tale upon tails, but I might incur the displeasure of the ladies, for of all tails the ladies hate tell-tales.

But if I do not give my tale itself, I will give the dimensions and properties of my tale. My tale exceeds in length the Canterbury tales of CHAUCER—my tale exceeds in profundity and acuteness the Irish tales of USSIN—my tale is as merry a tale as any of the CRAZY TALES—my tale is as natural as ADAM's tale (1), and my tale is as unfathomable as SWIFT's tale of a tub.—

But had I the fire of HOMER — the judgment of VIRGIL—the salt of HORACE—the persuasion of OVID—the imagination of DRYDEN—the sublimity of MILTON—the every thing of SHAKESPEARE, joined to the experience of ROCHESTER, and the abilities of DOCTOR MADAN, I should be unequal to the task of telling the tale of the tail of the bird of Paradise—(1).

What is all this, said I to myself, sighing, what is all this, without woman!

Notes

(1).
It was long thought by naturalists, that the bird of paradise, had been hatched, nested, and fledged in Ireland, and that it was a bird of passage; but in a paragraph which appeared some time ago in one of the public prints, just before this little bird was seen hopping in Covent-garden, Ireland is denied that honour; though it is allowed in the said paragraph, that the old cock and hen who produced this lovely bird, as well as the young cock with whom she first billed and flew away, were Irish.—

ASH—N L—V—R, Knight.

↵

(1).
My pet raven has ten times a greater quantity of feathers upon its tail.—

CHAR—E A—BR—S.

↵

(2).
I am very well acquainted with Derby, and have often seen the rams of those parts, but cannot say that I ever saw any of their tails larger than the tails of other rams.—

F—RR—N.

↵

(1).
Vide Tristram Shandy, Vol. iv. page 74.
↵

(1).
My EUDOSIA tells me, that this is a very excellent little poem, published by Bell; but having an indecent tendency, will not permit me to peruse it, though I understand it treats in part upon the docking of TAILS.—

C—P—L. L—F—T.

↵

(1).

I have read this dissertation upon the tail of the bird of Paradise, and think I may say to the writer as Nell Gwynn did to Lord Rochester, who when he exclaimed—

By all the Gods of Hellespont and Greece—

I had my hand upon the GOLDEN FLEECE!

Nell answered—

By all the Gods of Greece and Hellespont,

You LIE, my Lord, your hand was NEVER ON'T!

GERTRUDE M—H—N.

↵

WOMAN.

WOMAN! Heaven's last best gift!— that inestimable pearl in the bitter cup of life!—Not all the spring—the summer— the autumn of nature can communicate real pleasure without woman—and when we decline into the frigid arms of winter, it is woman only can make frigid life desirable.— O that I may descend into the vale of death, hand in hand, with a silver-haired companion, after travelling many a day with her through the mazy paths of life.—A companion who has soothed me, and whom I have soothed at every thorny obstruction—a companion who has fed with me equally chearful, whether upon sour or palatable fruit—A companion with whom I have strewed roses and gathered thistles.—

Lovely woman! When thou art used kindly, how ductile is thy disposition, how easy thy belief, how forgiving thy temper!

I have lost, said I, by inattention, an opportunity of enjoying the sweetest commerce of life—I have lost the conversation of a beautiful and well-bred woman.—With her my soul should have experienced every mortal pleasure, and my senses have participated in the possession even to extasy!—

Here my Lord Coke came across me, but his black letter made no impression upon my ideas—(1).

O woman! Beauty is thy peculiar prerogative—Why art thou so severely censured for indiscretions, why should "one false step for ever damn thy fame," when all your errors are of nature and education.—

Formed for love, moulded for pleasure, with a soul warm, and a heart melting with sensibility.—

Then ye mothers do ye not train up your daughters from their very infancy in the business of Love?—Does not their grace, their dressing, and their studies soften and prepare them for tender impressions!

Then your virtues, how they have been traduced—But I will defend them, if not by argument, by paraphrase.

Notes

(1).
Counsellor H—rg—e recommends the author to read his edition of COKE upon LITTLETON, seventeen numbers of which he has translated from the opake distorted character of the old editions, in less than six years.
↵

A PARAPHRASE.

WHO, when Bethulia's city was besieged, preserved her fellow-citizen from utter ruin?—Woman—(1).

Who, from a state of servitude and bondage, delivered Israel's children?—Woman—(2).

Who, with religious filial zeal, unheard before, offered up her life a sacrifice to heaven to save a father's vow?—Woman—(3).

Who, in the midst of flying arrows, headed a beauteous female troop of Romans, mounted on palfreys, and in gay array, crossed without dread, old Tiber's silver flood, and left Porsenna wondering at the action?—Woman—(1).

Who, in heroic grief, eat burning coals, resolving with a brave intrepid spirit not to servive her lord?—Woman—(2).

Who, when her husband, brave Macronius, died, fighting for freedem against Palmyra's tyrant, roused to the war the sons of liberty, and conquer'd all the East?—Woman—(3).

So much for courage, now for CHASTITY—

Did not Lucretia stab herself to vindicate her honour?—Did not Portia accept death from the hands of Octavius the tribune, in preference to adultery.—Sophronia, illustrious Roman, stabbed herself to avoid the brutal passion of Maxentius.—Then there is Susannah, whose virtue repelled the amorous solicitations of two—old men.—

But the catologue I have collected of brave, virtuous, learned, generous women, of all countries and of all complexions, were I to give it here, would swell my book to such enormous magnitude, as would frighten even those few friends who have promised to read it.—

On returning to my inn from the terrace, I found the cloth laid, and the apparatus for eating prepared and laid out with that neatness and regularity, which by indicating a cleanliness in the cookery, gives a kind of invitation to eat heartily—but I had no appetite for eating, and dinner not being quite ready, I took a file of news-papers that lay upon the window, and throwing myself upon a couch, read what follows—

Notes

(1).
Judith, the wife of an obscure man, whilst the city was attacked by Holofernes, general to Nebuchadonosor, she went to his tent, as if intending to satisfy his lust, but the general getting drunk and falling asleep, she cut off his head, and returning to the city, by her exhortations prevailed upon her fellow-citizens to attack his camp, which they did, discomfiting his whole army.
↵

(2).
Deborah the prophetess, and Jahel her friend.
↵

(3).
This was the daughter of Jephtha, but some authors say her sacrifice was much severer than death —a vow of perpetual chastity.—
↵

(1).
This was Celia, a beautiful young Roman lady who had been made prisoner, with several female companions.
↵

(2).
Portia, wife to Brutus, daughter to Cato.
↵

(3).
Zenobia.
↵

The Public Ledger. AQUATIC SPORTS.

OF all sports, whether by land or by water, there never was a sport, nor there never will be a sport, equal to the delightful sport of SWAN-HOPPING.

I have been on a party with my Lord Praetor—sat near my Lady Praetor, and had the honour of tipping a hob-nob with Miss Praetor.—

Every thing glided on smooth as the Thames, which bore us upon his unruffled bosom till we got to Staines—We drank copiously without danger of suffocation—we eat plentifully without danger of choaking—we sung, we danced, and cracked bon mots without interruption till we got near Staines—few of us were half-seas over.—

We were near Staines, when Miss Praetor in an evil minute, thursting her head through the barge window, and suddenly drawing it back, exclaimed—Mamma!—beg pardon— my Lady I mean—an' please your Ladyship, I see two swans—

My operar glass, my Lord, said my Lady Praetor to Lord Praetor—My Lord lugged out his opera glass and presented it with a grace.—They are not swans, my dear, said her Ladyship, having fixed her glass to her eye, for they have no necks—Indeed, Mamma, said Miss, they must be swans, for see how white they are, and I protest I saw their necks this instant.—Then I can't see them, answered my Lady; perhaps they have plunged their necks under water, my dear, remarked my Lord.—

I will take a peep said Mrs. Alderman Haileye—I see no nothing, said Mrs. Alderman Haileye—but I see something, said Lady Praetor—and I believe they are monsters too— and I perceive them now, exclaimed Mrs. Alderman Haileye—but as I am a true woman, I see nothing monstrous about them.—It is a natural appearance, said Johnny.—

I am now convinced they must be swans, said Miss, taking another peep, and young ones too, for see, Mamma, they have not moulted off their black down.—

If they be cygnets, said my Lord Praetor, we must mark them—his Lordship looked out—

I am surprized, said my Lord Praetor, assuming a wise and consequential grin,—I am surprized, that ladies, who are no chickens, and have experience, should make such mistakes—I thought you knew things better, my dear—I can't blame the child (1), but in truth, do you see me, my Lady, your Ladyship's swans are two naked men.—None of your innuendors to me, my Lord Praetor, said my Lady Praetor, as she waxed wrath, or I will make your Lordship know as how, that when you attempt to bambozel or fun me, you take the wrong sow by the ear.—

His Lordship was struck dumb, and numbed as a torpedo—Miss blushed as red as porte—taking a third peep she had seen her mistake—and Mrs. Alderman Haileye, who had not made any mistake, smiled at her triumph, and looked frumpish.

This is undoubtedly a predetermined scheme to affront magistracy, said my Lord Praetor —bring the rascals before me—what! as they are, exclaimed her Ladyship—yes, as they are—as they are, replied my Lord.—

Your Lordship is right, observed Mrs. Alderman Haileye, by bringing them as they are we shall come at the naked truth—I wish they had fig-leaves, said Johnny—A fig for your fig-leaves, retorted Lord Praetor—there are two figs for them, rebutted Johnny that is, two figs for each fig-leaf, sur-rebutted Mrs. Alderman Haileye.—The men were ordered to be taken into custody.—

All the ladies pulled out their fans, spread them before their fair foreheads, holding the sticks before their eyes.—

Notes

(1).
Though I called my daughter a child on this occasion, yet she was full marriageable, and a rich neighbour had offered his son to her; but I answered, "Sir, I like your son well enough, but we, that is, our family, don't want cash, do you see me, but to mend the blood"—my neighbour was affronted, and so said he, "mend your blood—damn your blood;" and so, do you see me, he went away, leaving me in a horrid state of temerity.—

B. K—T.

↵

THE BATTLE OF STAINES.

WERE I a poet, I would now invoke a muse of fire to describe a battle upon the water—The battle of all battles should be the BATTLE OF STAINES.

A boat, with men attendants, was dispatched by my Lord Praetor, to take into custody the two naked delinquents—but no sooner was the boat dispatched, than a doubt arose about the possibility of griping them.— The doubt was started by Lady Praetor, who said, addressing herself to Mrs. Alderman Haileye, if they overtake these naked wretches, how will they hold them?—Hold them, said Mrs. Alderman Haileye, they must hold them by the hair, it was the only means Adam had to hold Eve, or Eve had to hold Adam, before their fall in Paradise, said Johnny.—

But that cannot be done here, said Lady Praetor, for their heads are both shaved as bald as coots.—Their heads are shaved said Miss.—There is no more hair upon their heads, than upon my daughter's upper lip, said Lord Praetor.—

Miss Praetor hummed, and stroaked her upper lip with her fore-finger.—

They must hold them where and how they can, said Mrs. Alderman Haileye; for my part, it is What I would do, were I on the party.—Pray, Mamma, said Miss, pointing with her finger, as if to illustrate her interrogatory—what part would you take hold of?—

A dead pause ensued—

The boat pursued the men—the men swam from the boat—but the boat could not overtake the men—so the women were disappointed.

The men took refuge under the bridge of Staines.—

The people of Staines saw the pursuit— they considered the matter as a common cause.—The women of Staines were melted into compassion by the danger in which they saw the naked men—they saw every thing, and they felt for every thing they saw—In short, the men, women, and children of Staines, let fly all kinds of missive weapons upon the deputies of my Lord Praetor.—

Alderman Swindle (1) standing upon the poop of the city barge, saw the danger which threatened Lord Praetor's delegates—shall I! exclaimed Alderman Swindle, shall I, who saw prisons burned, and houses consumed, stand an idle spectator, while defiance is thrown in the teeth of Lord Praetor's orders? —I will fly to the bridge of Staines, vociferated Alderman Swindle, and seizing a punt that lay close to the barge, he paddled towards the bridge.—

The peasantry of Staines, not distinguishing the Alderman's dignity by his person, did not know that his person was a legal object of magisterial worship, so seizing upon the stones which lay scattered on the beach and bridge, attacked him in his punt from the shore and from the battlements.—

With his right arm the Alderman wielded a mop—he levelled his mop at the mob on the bridge, but the erring weapon falling short of the intended mark, was seized by one of the enemy.—

Oh for the pen of Homer!

The villain peasant poizing the mop-stick with true rustic skill, like Jove's lightning flying from his hand, it cut the liquid air, and striking upon the cranium of the magistrate, must inevitably have dispatched his soul to Erebus, if Nature, from a pre-knowledge of this fight, had not formed the head of her favourite son of genuine Aldermanic mould, hard and impenetrable as that which composed the caput mortuum of the Styx-dipped Achilles.—The mop rebounding from the sconce of Alderman Swindle, fell into the water.—

The barge coming up, the parties landed, and now hostilities commenced on shore.— The mob of Staines surrounded the Aldermanic body, and if Peace, in likeness to a magistrate of the county, had not seasonably appeared and interposed, a general massacre might have ensued, and the city have been left to mourn her murdered magistrates, and their myrmidons.—

SQUIB (1).
Vinegar-Yard, Drury-Lane, Aug. 17, 1780.

Notes

(1).
In consequence of the great courage and manoeuvre shewn by me this day, and my unparalleled condust on sundry other occasions, the Common Council have exempted me from serving in future on any committee, or in any city office; and such is their respect for me, that for some time past they have made it a point to let me eat, drink, and walk by myself; and in conversation none of them ever presumes to answer me.—

SWINDLE, Ald.

↵

(1).

I have read several letters under the signature of Squib, in the Public Ledger, and have always found them delectable in the perusal. This writer, notwithstanding the name he has assumed, appears to me to possess experience, ability, and stability, and not to be one of those young sparks, who, as Sir Archy Mac Sarcasm says, in Love a la Mode, "go off like a squib or a cracker."—Ly. H—U—E.

Portrian-Sq—

↵

DINNER.

I Had scarce finished Mr. Squib's account of the battle of Staines, when dinner was served in.—I sat down to eat, but had no appetite—and without appetite, the best meat, with the most poignant sauces, are insipid.— In truth, I had no sauce, not even hunger.— I always eat my meat plain, but now, I could not eat my plain meat.—

Not being able to eat, I called for drink— I tasted the beer—the beer was stale. I tasted the cyder—the cyder was sour. "Wine," says the Prophet, "makes the heart of man glad;" the text came across me like a cheering ray— —I rung the bell, and ordered a bottle of port.—

While the waiter was gone for the wine, I recollected, that though he and the rest of the family were ignorant of the Lady's name and residence, yet it was probable the Landlord might have some knowledge of her; determining to enquire, I rung again to order him in, but he saved me the trouble of giving orders, by appearing with a bottle of port in his hand.—

THE LANDLORD.

MINE host was one of those geniuses, who, like MACKLIN's Sir Pertinax Mac Sycophant, depended more upon bowing than on education and natural abilities, ‘he could never stand straight in the presence of a guest;’ and to the pliability of Sir Pertinax, he added the complaisance of SHAKESPEARE's Polonius, being ever of the same opinion with the person he conversed with, unless that person was his wife, or one of his servants; and these he eternally contradicted, whether they were right, or whether they were wrong.—

Mine host having made half a dozen obsequious bows, and eyed me from head to foot with the circumspection of a serjeant eying a young recruit, cautiously wiped the dust from the bottle, viewing it at the same time with an expressive look, which fully evinced he would have me understand the wine was old.—

It will bear the decanter, said I—I pledge my life upon it, Sir, said mine host, drawing forth the cork with a jerk, attended by a smack from his mouth, accompanied by a smack from the bottle, which not only advertised me of the length of the cork, but of the good opinion which the landlord entertained of his liquor.—

There is not better port in the king's cellar, said my landlord, winking (1), filling out a glass and presenting it to me—it is all flavour, like an olive, and is bright as a ruby, said he, holding the glass between his eye and the window.

I tasted the port—it was tart—it would not do—the landlord bowed, moving his head in a manner that I might take either as a polite assent or humble contradiction of my opinion, but at the same time laying his hand upon his breast, swore it was two years in in bottle.—I tasted the port again as a complimentary return to his bow, but before I could take the glass from my lips, he assured my honour, that the Prince of Wales had drank of, and approved this very wine.—

I felt the full force of the compliment and of the recommendation; the compliment deserved a return, and the recommendation it was not in my power to controvert; so returning "your honour," with a nod of approbation, and giving up my taste to the palate of the Prince of Wales, I swallowed what remained in the glass—

Notes

(1).
I can take upon me to say, that if the landlord by this expression and wink, meant to insinuate, that his port had ever been in the king's cellar, he was an imposing rascal; for ever since I came to superintend the houshold, I have taken special care, not only of whole bottles and whole joints, but of pieces of bottles and broken victuals.—

T—LB—T.

↵

FLATTERY.

THE manner in which my landlord had recommended his port, was irresistible, and perhaps had I changed the bottle for another, I should have got worse wine with more bows, and an assurance, that his majesty had drank a bottle from the same bin—there would have been no withstanding the force of royal authority (1); but growing impatient to enquire after my fair fellow-traveller, my honour condescended to ask my landlord to take a glass, which, after half a dozen bows, he accepted —Yet, by heaven, the wine was sour, but FLATTERY took off its tartness—and no wonder flattery should vitiate the taste, when we know its baneful effects upon all the other senses.—Where is there a philosopher, however cynical, who cannot, through some medium, be approached by flattery's honied influence? Flattery is the touch that proves the value and purity of the understanding—

Gold tries the integrity of the heart—flattery the strength of the brain—

Where is the king who can withstand, or when was there a king who could withstand, unmoved, the adulating baseness of the flattering vermin tribe? The best monarchs have been undone by such miscreants, they have converted the worst into devils—

Notes

(1).
It is astonishing what an influence royal authority has upon the human mind—I do not mean in politics, though heaven knows we have quacks enough in both houses, pretending to administer medicines to the consumptive constitution of the state—but I mean its operation in favour of the slow poisons which are daily administered by quack doctors, and which have no virtue but what they derive from the use of the King's-arms.—

ANONYMOUS.

↵

DETRACTION.

MY landlord being seated, and I having described my fellow-traveller to him as minutely as possible, expatiating upon her perfections as I touched upon them, that is, such of her perfections as distinguished her from the rest of her sex, for there are perfections common to them all—I say, having minutely described my fellow-traveller to my landlord, he run over a catalogue of the beauties of Windsor and the adjacent country; which he had at his tongue's end, with a most surprizing flow of volubility, accuracy of description, point of sarcasm, and now and then, the sweetness of eulogium.—

If it was not for her black hair, said my landlord, I should be positive she was Miss A—.

Miss B— is too proud to travel in a stage-coach—therefore it cannot be Miss B—.

The widow C—has not been in London since her husband's death, he was buried on Monday; besides, I know she had a private card-party last night, so it is impossible, your honour, that this lady should be the widow C—

There is a young lady in the neighbourhood who answers your description, but she is continually practising smiles before the glass, to insnare the prince—no—no—it is not Miss D—.

You say, Sir, the lady is well-shaped and witty—now, if her back was broke, from her wit, I should really think she was Mrs. E—.

Miss F—has a roguish eye—but your lady's eyes are blue, and Miss F.'s are black; and she squints with her left eye, and is ever speaking scandal, so it cannot be Miss F—.

If Miss G—had not slipped her ancle, as many ladies have since the hunting-season commenced—you understand me—green gowns have been very fashionable in the neighbourhood of Windsor since hunting became the sport of the great—

In short, my host took great pains to inform me, that the lady I enquired after, was neither Mrs. nor Miss, nor the widow, A, B, C, D, E, F, G, &c. &c. &c. and this he did wherever he had opportunity, with a malignant stroke of detraction—

The fellow had a tongue of charcoal, with which he burned or blackened the reputation of every person she spoke of.—Wherever he gave credit for a virtue or good action, he never failed to balance the account at the debit side of the book—with an insiduous hint or charge of defamation.—

I changed the subject of conversation—

POLITICKS.

I Suppose, said I, pointing to the Ledger, which I had thrown aside, when dinner was served in, I suppose, my friend, that since the court has honoured Windsor with the light of its countenance, the inhabitants have become profound politicians?

I am of no party, answered my landlord— though to be sure, what with excise, and what with quartering of soldiers, a publican can scarce live—

But as taxes rise, you charge in proportion, said I—

True, Sir, replied my landlord, we charge in proportion, but then our guests eat and drink in proportion; they order as little as possible, and eat as much as possible; that is, when they are charged for each article—but, Sir—if they dine at the ordinary, or agree for so much a head, they eat as if it was the last meal they had to devour, and scarcely drink sufficient to wash the food down their throats.—Alas, Sir, I have had very few good companies in the drinking way, since the last general election; and those who drank then, drank at the expence of the candidates—

And what was your opinion, on that election, said I—

Opinion—O, your honour, I never formed any opinion on it—a man who depends upon the custom of the public, should never have an opinion of his own.—I am not one of those public-spirited publicans who neglect their own business, to look after the affairs of the state—it is true, I hear a great deal of talk among my guests about the king's friends and opposition—now your king's friends, I take to be those who are friends to themselves—with success—and opposition, I take to be those who have been friends to themselves—without success—there ever was, and there ever will be parties, your honour—

THOSE IN

WILL GRIN,

and THOSE OUT,

WILL POUT—

and as to our great speechifiers, the more they say, whether in or out of place, the less I believe them (1)—but let who will be in, or who will be out, it is all the same to me; and if your honour wishes to know how the election was carried on in Windsor, here your honour, look to that there LEDGER, and it will inform you—

So saying, he took up the LEDGER and laid it before me on the table, and after half a dozen of bows, told me, he would go and make every possible enquiry to find out the lady—

Notes

(1).

We have senators, whose eloquence is not less admirable than their fortitude; who know the principles, and desend the rights of human nature: who possess virtue equal to their genius, and who prefer their honour to all the riches which ambitious meanness can extort.—EDMUND BURKE.

I admire an irresistible eloquence never prostituted to falshood, or denied to truth; for such eloquence must convince every mind, not debased by voluntary and incorrigible error.—GEORGE SAVILE.

Eloquence in the hands of a good man, is the most glorious gift of nature: it makes him the sanctuary of the unfortunate, the protector of the weak, the support and praise of the honest, and eternal terror and controul of the bad.—CAMDEN.

↵

A SOLILOQUY.

THOSE in will grin—those out will pout —well said, landlord!

I have read Machiavel, Sidney, Locke, Swift, Hume, Johnson, and a hundred other authors, and arguers in politicks, on both sides of the question, and after all my reading, my landlord, who probably has not read a hundred pages since he left school, is as sound a judge of politicks and politicians as I am—his adage includes the whole system—

THOSE IN

WILL GRIN,

THOSE OUT

WILL POUT.

It should be engraven in brass, and hung up over the entrance of the temple of corruption (1).—

O, blessed liberty, let me here pay a tribute at thy shrine.

Notes

(1).
My house was a house of prayer, but lo ye have made it a den of thieves—

ST. STEPHEN.

↵

HYMN TO LIBERTY (1).

SISTER of JOVE, aethereal flame!

Who bid'st the livid lightnings roll,

Mov'st to soft harps the sphery frame,

And wak'st to extacy the soul!

O parent—source of every good,

Arrang'd thro' ev'ry nice degree,

How few have justly understood

Those laws of order fram'd by thee?

For thee the Poet's strain shall flow,

Inspirer of the vocal strings!

And Philomel forget her woe,

To praise thee by whose aid she sings!

For thee gay Zephyr waves his plume!

Thine are the od'rous gifts he bears;

Thy hours unlock each varying bloom,

And wake to life the laughing years!

Thy mail of old did Greece invest,

What time the haughty Persian fled,

Thy terrors no ded from her crest,

When Rome rais'd high her awful head!

O who are now the chosen race

For whom thou leav'st thy lucid sphere?

To whom thou giv'st thy radiant face

To see, thy gorgeous crown to wear?

In what fair isle dost thou prolong,

To make a favour'd nation blest,

The high resolve, the Poet's song,

The raptures of th' extatic breast?

'Tis BRITAIN thy best influence owns,

And dumb respect and slavish fear,

Bids the mind waft to eastern thrones!

She happier far, while thou art near (1).

Notes

(1).
This hymn was written by an Irish curate of great learning.—N. B.—It is thought he will never rise in the church.—

M

—
↵

(1).
There are six more stanzas to this hymn, which, for political reasons, that shall be set forth in the second edition of this work, are now suppressed.—
↵

THE SOLILOQY CONTINUED.

WHY should I be so anxious? why so dull? continued I, reasoning with myself, heaviness of spirit is an evidence of folly, and the most manifest sign of wisdom is a chearful mind.—This landlord of mine, without the aid of literature, knows the very depth and main spring of politicks, and without the aid of philosophick study, has discovered the very perfection of all it can teach—that the perfection of wisdom is, to be merry and content, for the seat of wisdom is always clear and serene—

Give me then that philosophy, and let me ever study those precepts, and those precepts alone, which teach me to live with chearfulness, and shew me how to die without concern! —Save me from subtilties which only distract the understanding, without improving the heart (1)!

Make me honest, kind heaven! and you make me equal to any situation in life—and having made me honest, I have no objection to your making me great—for honesty can enjoy riches, power, authority, and honours, with as much integrity as she can suffer poverty, oppression, slavery, and disgrace—She can sleep upon a bed of down as soundly as she can sleep upon a truss of straw—she can be innocent in a palace, as in a cottage, and shew as much humility in a glorious equipage, as when she walks barefoot upon the highway— but when honesty finds herself elevated in life, then her peculiar office is, to know the use, and how to use the good things she possesses, and her peculiar virtue to part with them without murmuring (1).

Having eased my mind by a few minutes reflection—I took up the Ledger and read—

Notes

(1).

Demetrius the grammarian finding, in the temple of Delphos, a knot of philosophers in chearful conversation, said to them, ‘either I am much deceived, or by your chearful and pleasant countenances, you are not engaged in any deep discourse.’ To which Heraclean the magician replied: ‘It is for such as are puzzled about enquiring, whether the future tense of the verb 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, be spelled with a double λ, or that hunts after the derivation of the comparatives 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, and the superlatives 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, to knit their brows in their discourses upon science; but as to philosophical discourses, they always divert and cheer up those they entertain, and never deject them, or make them sad.’ —You may read this in our countenances—JOHNSON of the Lexicon— HARRIS of the Hermes.—

As I am no philosopher no more than our author, the impressions of passion do not operate superficially upon me, but penetrate even to the seat of reason —Lady GR—VS—R.

↵

(1).
I am intimately acquainted with a Welsh Gentleman who fully answers this description.—The great admire him, the poor respect and love him.—

W. W. WYNNE.

↵

ELECTIONEERING INTELLIGENCE EXTRAORDINARY.

LORD PRAETOR, Lady Praetor, and Miss Praetor, were sitting at table enjoying the sweets of domestic tranquillity, over the remnant of a pint bottle of port, having just swallowed the second-hand fragments of a re-cooked mutton hash, when an attendant entered, and delivered a letter into Lord Praetor's hand.

His Lordship looking eagerly upon the seal, gave a sudden start—his eyes stood fixed in their orbits, and those masticators, which but the moment before had co-operated in assaulting the mutton hash, regardless of their natural alliance, assaulted each other with reiterated violence. His Lordship broke open the letter, and fixing his eyes upon the superscription, an universal ague instantly took possession of his nervous system, each cold fit being succeeded with a most violent paroxysm of heat.—

Lady Praetor and Miss, were all attention— his Lordship read on.—

Papa's all in a muck, my dear, whispered Lady Praetor to Miss—Yes, my Lady, answered Miss, in the same tone.—There is something in the wind, replied Miss—there is something in the wind, rejoined my Lady, taking a pinch of snuff, I—smell a rat.

Odd rat it, exclaimed my Lord, I have been alarmed, my dear, into a pispiration— never was I in such a quandary before.—Lady Praetor took up the letter, and read.—

Now my Lord Praetor's face, during his confusion, neither blushed red like the declining sun, nor grew pale like the rising moon, yet his Lordship's face had a coelestial appearance—it reflected a thousand colours like an Aurora Borealis; or in more homely phrase, my Lord Praetor's phiz, while he perused this mandatory letter, for such it was, looked like the welkin, when the merry dancers prance and caper upon her bosom, till after exhibiting a variety of dyes, it settled in a colour something between madder red and Coventry blue.—

This letter must be obeyed, said Lady Praetor, throwing the letter upon the table (1).

This letter must be obeyed, echoed my Lord Praetor, pushing the letter towards Miss.—

This letter must be obeyed, re-echoed Miss Praetor, who had read it over her Mamma's shoulder.

But how can it be obeyed, said my Lord Praetor—I cannot be in two places at once.— But your Lordship, Papa, may get into three places by obeying it, said Miss.—I am to preside in the city upon Friday, said my Lord.—Then I will go to Vindsor myself, offered my Lady—I can manage a poll as well as your Lordship.—I know your Ladyship can, my love, said Lord Praetor.—

What coloured ribbands shall we wear, enquired Miss—none of their city colours I hope, one Alderman has already mounted blue cockades.

Then I will go to Vindsor myself, said my Lord.—Since there are blue cockades in the city I will go to Vindsor, for I would rather face the Devil than a blue cockade (1); I will appoint a locum trimmings to fill the city chair—I wish he may trim the plebeians well, said Lady Praetor.

This election business will make us up if we succeed, said Lady Praetor—and get a star and garter, at least for Papa, observed Miss.—No man could become the star and garter better, said my Lady (2).

Miss pursued the subject.

I wish, said Miss Praetor—I wish there was an order of knights for ladies, good lud, Mamma, we might be knighted—O gemini, Papa! how the gentlemen would admire at seeing our stars and garters as we walked.— Humph, said my Lord, with a grin, but you are innocent, my dear, and as the French mottor has it—HONEY, SWEAT, KEY MEAL WITH PENCE.—But as this is to be a gratus business, we shall have no occasion for our own carriage and horses. We will have a post-coach from the Swan with two necks. I will have nothing that has any thing to do with a swan, said my Lady.—We have had enough of swan-hopping already, added Miss.—

Then, my dear, said Lord Praetor, we will have a carriage from the Bell and Savage, and the Landlord's four bob-tail bays to draw us.—Bob me, none of your bob-tails, my Lord, exclaimed Lady Praetor, I am not to be bobbed out of my dignity in that manner neither—I will have my own carriage and long tails.

Well now! Mamma, said Miss Praetor, joining in the conversation, with a smile ineffable —well now! though I acknowledge long-tails carry the belle in the city, yet for a country excursion give me cock-tails against the globe.—Cock-tails are the very thing, Mamma—indeed they are all the ton, nothing but cock-tails go down in the vis à vis line at the west end of the town.—

I will yet have a phiz à vee, said Lady Praetor—but consider, my dear, continued her Ladyship, we are going on business that requires solemnity and procession, and the long-tails are best at slow going.—

True, Mamma, replied Miss, but then the present business requires expedition, and in a quick trot or canter, the cock-tails have every advantage.—But, my dear, the flowing manes on the necks of the long-tails look so grand, said my Lady—True, Mamma, but the cock-tails carry their heads so prettily.—

Come, come, my love, said Lord Praetor, venturing to put in a word, you are the best judge of the subject—What say you, my dear—long-tails or cock-tails for the journey? —I wish to oblige the child, answered Lady Praetor, but this time I must have my own way, the next bout I will indulge her taste for cock-tails, but this bout, I will indulge my own taste, and drive with long-tails.—

My Lord Praetor and Miss acquiesced.—

Things being thus adjusted, and the coach at the door, ready to drive for Windsor, not according to the old saying, cock-tail every yard, but long-tail every inch; her Ladyship as she stepped into the carriage, called out to the coachman, Vindsor a hoi, John!—My dear, said Lord Praetor, we are not going in the city barge.—

Plague on the city barge, ejaculated Lady Praetor—ever since our last unfortunate voyage in it to Staines, I can never get the adventures of the day out of my head.—Nor can I get any thing else into my head, said Miss.—Poor Alderman Swindle got a mopstick on his head, said my Lord.—

Rattle, rattle, rattle, over the stones to Hyde-park corner.—

Kensington—Hammersmith, in a long trot.—

Kew-bridge, in a canter.—

Windsor, in full gallop.—

Huzza! huzza! huzza! Windsor, Windsor.—

No Keppel! No Keppel! roared my Lord, from the right side of the coach.—

No Keppel! No Keppel! roared my Lady, from the left side.—

Miss sat ruminating on the necks of the Windsor swans.—

The coach having stopped, my Lord went to the hustings be-ribbanded and cockaded; my Lady went canvassing—and Miss, whose mind was pregnant with the idea of the swans she had seen on the expedition to Staines, took a solitary walk by the Thames side, to speculate upon the beautiful productions of nature.

Every stable and out-house that could be procured in Windsor, was divided, and subdivided to create votes against Admiral Keppel —Admiral Keppel was ousted from representing the borough of Windsor—so he went into Surry, and was elected by the free suffrages of the independent freeholders, to represent the COUNTY.—

Notes

(1).
This was a commandatory letter, ordering Lord Praetor to exert his whole interest against a popular candidate.
↵

(1).
Many animals have a particular aversion to particular colours, thus a Turkey-cock has an aversion to red; and it lately appeared, that the Board of Aldermen and Westminster Justices, shewed a horrid aversion to blue.—

ANONYMOUS.

↵

(2).
My Lady Praetor said no more than I merited —no man ever became the bar of the star and garter better than I did; and if his Grace my neighbour had not paid high, I should never have left my tavern, which his Grace thought a nuisance, to turn Vinemerchant. —O I wish I may become the bar of the King's-bench, where next term I am to receive sentence, as well as I became the bar of the star and garter.—

B. K

—
↵

THE MESSAGE.

I HAD scarcely laid down the LEDGER, when my servant entered the room—his mouth extended to the dimension of a countertenor choirister's mouth, when vociferating "O thou that bringeth glad tidings to Sion." —He bounced in sans ceremony, and rubbing the palms of his hand together with a quickness and zeal that intimated good news and satisfaction, told me he had found the Lady.—

And where is she, and what is her name? said I, leaping from my chair with the utmost eagerness.—I cannot say, Sir, answered my servant, where the Lady is, or who the Lady is, but a boy waits to deliver a letter to the Gentleman who came down in the stage, he says it is from a Lady—and as I came down an outside passenger, it cannot be for me—and as you, Sir, were the only gentlemen, inside passenger, I conclude it must be for you.—

I ordered the boy to be called in.—

He was a lad about fourteen, in a neat frock livery.—I have a letter, Sir, said the boy, without a direction, but my Mistress has ordered me to deliver it to the Gentleman who came to Windsor this day in the stage.— I held out my hand for the letter, tore it open, and read—

‘I impute your omitting to enquire after my name, to emotions similar to those which agitated my bosom at the minute of our departure, and I suppose you have been travelling over the whole town to find me out.’ —It is what I should have been doing, said I, stamping and cursing my remissness and stupidity— ‘if a more serious engagement does not call for your attendance, I shall hope for your company as soon after you receive this as convenient; and you must conduct yourself before those you will see with me, as an old acquaintance.’ —MARIA.

My respects, said I, to your Mistress, slipping a trifle into the boy's hand—I shall wait upon her immediately.—The boy retired.

In about ten minutes I was dressed.— These ten minutes appeared an hour.—In twenty minutes was at the house.—Never did necessitous tradesman, going humbly to petition a privileged great man, to pay a small debt of long standing, feel a more general agitation of nerves, or knock with a more trembling hand, than I felt, and than I knocked with, at the door of Maria's lodgings.

THE MEETING.

TURNING my head aside accidentally, as I knocked at the door, I saw Maria peep over the window-blind; but when shewed into, the parlour, I found her sitting with her back turned towards the door, a book in her hand, supporting herself by her elbow, which rested on the arm of the chair. She was seemingly so lost in meditation, that had I not seen her peep over the parlour-blind, I should have thought she had neither heard me coming in, nor had seen me when I was in.—I gave a loud hem—the boy announced my entrance—"the Gentleman, Madam," and he withdrew.—

Maria started from her seat as roused from a reverie.—I should have suspected her of duplicity, but the crimson glow that flushed in her cheek, convinced me that the pretended reverie was not a manoeuvre of experience or practised art, but an immediate consequence of amiable confusion.—

The moment our eyes met, I perceived and felt for Maria's situation.—Suspicion fled, and the ardour of passion which succeeded, was instantly checked by the interposition of sentiment.—My eyes bent downwards —the confusion which revelled in her cheek had raised a tumult within her bosom. —Our feelings were mutual—our hands, guided by instinctive attraction, joined imperceptibly, till a reciprocal gentle pressure convinced us of their junction.—Passion stepped in again, but sentiment still kept her post—we sighed at one instant, as with one breath—at one instant we received relief—yet to speak was impossible—though Maria's eyes expressed unutterable things—mine perhaps were not without expression—at least Maria has since told me so.—

I had always an aversion to punctilio—no man in the world understands less, or pays less attention to those who practise ettiquette than I do—but ceremony in the present instance was out of the question. Nature predominated, and under her sweet influence I led the Lady to her chair, placed her on it, and placing myself upon another chair close by her, without uttering a single compliment, or a single bow or courtsey being passed on my part or her's.—

I led her to her chair, "Grace was in all her steps." Grace, which the VESTRIS could never teach, nor nobility could never learn— for it is neither to be taught nor learned—it was the grace of Nature (1).—It was such grace as her Grace the Dutchess of D— nor her Grace the Dutchess of R—never exhibited in public; no, not even when led out by the first dancers of the court to walk the minuet de la cour.—But when his Grace the Duke of D— or his Grace the Duke of R— lead forth the partners of their love in private, to practise the minuet de la coeur, no doubt their graces then may shew as graceful a deportment, as now gracefully marked the person and steps of my Maria (1).

Two minuets passed without a word being uttered—they were golden minuets, worth a whole iron age.—

Maria had dropped her book from her hand, as it approached mine—the book lay upon the ground, I took it up—it was TRISTRAM SHANDY.—

Notes

(1).
If you were to see my little memorandum book, you would acknowledge, notwithstanding the above insinuation, that I taught several ladies the true natural grace, and have received large emoluments for teaching the same; but the contents of this little book I shall keep secret, till safe upon the continent, when I shall publish it, as a grateful return for all favours received from the ladies of Great-Britain; and that my gratitude may not hereafter be called in question, I have added to my catalogue many favours which I never received, but which shall also be published.—

THE VESTRIS.

↵

(1).
But I have seen a Lady whose name is GRACE, whose person is grace, whose face is grace—but above all, whose mind is grace itself.—Good heaven if she would but smile graciously upon me!—
↵

TRISTRAM SHANDY.

HAD Sterne, Madam, said I, as I opened the book—Had Sterne experienced such a tender meeting as the present, he could have written a whole volume upon the text.—

I was considering, answered Maria, when you came in, what a pity it was that Sterne lest the description of the Widow Wadman's person and beauty to the imagination of his reader, and had not drawn the Lady's picture himself.—Alas! Madam, said I, had Sterne drawn the widow's picture, it would only have increased his enemies, and heaven knows, the benignity of his heart and simplicity of his manners, had raised enough of them.—His description, Madam, would have pleased few but himself; the critics would have fallen foul upon it, would have dissected it to a hair, have tortured it limb by limb, bedaubed it and besmutted it, for in the article of beauty, we seldom find two men who think alike; some admire slender, some admire full waists (1); a tint in the complexion, or a shade in the colour of the eye, settles the admiration, and gives birth to passion.

It is the same with women, answered Maria, they are equally capricious in their likings and affections.—Some women like tall men—others like middle-sized, and some like short men.—

Being short myself, I made a low bow—

Your observation, Madam, said I, is just, an inch this way —or an inch that way)— may gain or lose the affections of a woman— and as to the affections of men, they are not confined to beauty, to figure, or mental acplishments; I have often remarked old men fond of green girls, and young fellows giving preference to full-blown beauty—but these are false appetites.—

False appetites? exclaimed Maria, starting and looking towards heaven.—Alas! Sir, it is too true, that the devastation in the gardens of beauty and innocence, are generally made by old wretches.—Her bosom heaved as if bursting—her whole frame was in agitation— I finished the sentence for her—old wretches who lay waste, but cannot enjoy the soil (1).

A shower of tears burst from Maria's eyes, and stole down her cheek, I wiped them off— but not with a handkerchief.—

Notes

(1).
One of the first personages in this country indulging with me in the amorous dalliance of a retired tete à tete, gave me his opinion upon this subject; he declared his dislike to the antiquated figures of former days, described by Pope, "small by degrees, and beautifully less;" exclaiming at the same time in rapture—give me quantity—I despise quality! give me latitude and longitude in love!—

ARMSTEAD, spinster.

↵

(1).
We have remarked two old fellows of this diabolical cast, who constantly take their evening amusement, during the summer season, in Vauxhall gardens; and who in winter have old haradans in constant pay, priestesses to Satan, at whose shrine they nightly offer up human sacrifices.—

F—L—H and H—S—G.

↵

A SHANDEAN CONVERSATION.

PERCEIVING the distress of my fair friend, though unable to account for the cause (1), I changed the subject, by taking up Tristram Shandy, which I had laid upon the parlour-window, and accidentally opening the page where the author promises a chapter upon button-holes; it is a pity, said I, turning to Maria, and affecting a sprightliness to relieve her spirits—it is a pity, said I, that Tristram never filled this chapter—do you mean the black leaf, said Maria?

I answered, no—

I could never penetrate into the moral of that dark page, said Maria—

I do believe, said I, it is an emblem of the black ingratitude of the world.

Then continued Maria, since you do not mean the black, you must mean the marble page; and that page is to me as inexplicable as the other—

I do not think, answered I, that there is any great difficulty to unravel the truths which lie mystically hid under the veil of the marble page—I consider it as a true picture of the hard marble heads and hard marble hearts of those envious dull ones, who persecuted him while living; and pray add, said Maria, of those unfeeling dull ones who could not understand or benefit by reading the dictates of his philanthropy—

I resumed the subject of the button-hole—

Had he filled his chapter upon button-holes, said I, it would have been delectable!—

He would have filled it in all probability, observed Maria, but poor fellow, you should recollect his misfortune—you should recollect he was grievously afflicted with a consuming asthma, the whole time he was composing his works—

I see the force of your observation, said I, a man debilitated as he must have been, with death pursuing him at every step, and shaking his dart at him upon every turn, had something more material to employ his mind, and of course employ his pen, than such trifling subjects as button-holes.

True, said Maria, but come, you appear in perfect health and spirits, so let me see what you can say upon the subject—here— is a blank page, continued Maria, taking Tristram Shandy out of my hand—here is a white blank page, turning over to chapter XXXVIII. in the IVth VOLUME; come, I will have an immediate proof of your literary abilities—

So saying, she brought pen and ink, and placing the blank chapter in Shandy before me on a table—write, write, said Maria, while I go order tea—

Notes

(1).
The history of Maria shall be given in the course of this work, if the REVIEWERS will but assist the sale of the first volume, by abusing it—

THE AUTHOR.

↵

THE BUTTON-HOLE.
A BUTTON-HOLE!

WHAT could Sterne possibly have said upon a button-hole?

Would he have entered into its origin?

Would he have described it with all its appendages and ornaments?

Would he have explained its uses, its shape, and its component parts?

Would he have given us all those ideas, which must consequently have arisen before his mind's eye in the course of considering and discussing the subject?

Heaven only knows whether he would have done all which these interrogatories enquire, but clear I am, that had he once taken the subject in hand, he would have done his best, and the best can do no more, though the subject to be handled was the best in Christendom (1)—

But as I am not endowed with powers natural nor acquired, corporeal nor intellectual, sufficient to support me, should I rashly attempt to enter into so deep and profound a subject, a subject which would baffle the pens of the Royal Society or Sorbonne—a subject, which has exhausted whole folios of learning, and employed the leisure hours of the most learned men.—I will not presume, Madam, to inform you what a button-hole is, though having seen many, and felt more, I will venture to tell you what a button-hole is like.—

The button-hole of a pocket being vertical, is like a parenthesis closed thus—☞()—

The button-hole of the breast being horizontal, is also like a parenthesis, but inversed thus—☞ —

View a button-hole which way you will— change its position ever so often—take it in whatever manner you please—it is a parenthesis still—

Split the word parenthesis in twain, and by the addition of one letter t, you have a double illustration of this dark subject—

The first syllable will be parent; now a button-hole is a parent, for by a proper use of it in conjunction with a button, it nourishes a man, by keeping him warm in cold weather.

The second syllable will be thesis; now the button-hole is a thesis, which has produced much dispute in the world, nam fuit ante Helenam —cunnus causa deterrima bellis; for my part, I know nothing of the theory, but being naturally of an aguish constitution, am liable to hot-fits and cold-fits, which cause me to button or unbutton, as I am hot or cold; I have had my share of button-hole-practics—

And pray, Sir, who first made use of button-holes?—

With submission to their reverences, who are bound ex officio, to understand these things better than laymen, I suppose that the button and button-hole, is as ancient as Adam and Eve, and were first used by them in joining their fig-leaves together; for as our first parents had neither needle nor thread, is it possible the use of something like a button and button-hole was discovered by them—

And why not a needle and thread, Sir? Might not Adam procure a thorn for Eve, to serve as a needle, and might not Eve give a lock of her hair, to serve as a thread; and this needle and thread being thus procured, it is not possible, or at least probable, that Adam and Eve stitched their fig-leaves together?

Whether they buttoned or stitched their fig-leaves together, in my opinion does not signify a farthing—but the learned Hebraists think otherwise (1)—

Put in the button xxxxxxxxxxxxxxs (1)— here having filled the blank-leaf, I could proceed no further, so turned it down, that Maria might peruse it at her leisure.

Notes

(1).
This is the meritricious colouring of eloquence. —

TH—RL—W, Cancel.

↵

(1).
Several men of extensive learning, have written whole volumes in controverting such essential points of scripture, and frequently preach upon them to the great entertainment of themselves and punishment of their auditors—P—R—Y, D. D. in his Collection of Old Ballads.
↵

(1).
It will be matter of great doubt to future generations, whether these x's mean the crosses attending buttons and button-holes, or whether they represent the number of times a lady's riding-habit ought to be buttoned in the year—I say future generations, for my book will be read while buttons and button-holes are in being, which will be when Junius, &c. &c. shall be forgotten—

THE AUTHOR.

↵

TWO CHARACTERS.

MARIA returned just as I had closed the book, and desired me to follow her, repeating her caution, that I should conduct myself as an old acquaintance—she ushered me into a drawing-room, neatly furnished in the old stile, the chair-bottoms, the curtains, and even the pictures, were of needle-work.

The floor, which was of old oak, glistered with a burnished lustre, and every article of the furniture had, from frequent friction, acquired a shining polish. In one corner stood a tambour-frame, in another corner an aparatus for painting—a grey parrot occupied a window on the right, a breeding-cage of Canary-birds occupied a window on the left, and on a large marble slab-table, which stood under a long old-fashioned pier-glass, two turtles billed and cooed in amorous dalliance—

There were also two tabby-cats, their fur unsullied as ermine, purring by the sire-side; and a little French lap-dog, with his companion, big with pup, slumbered upon a cushion.

The lady of the mansion exhibited as evident marks of female industry as her furniture. Every article of her dress, at least every thing that appeared, was ornamented with needle-work, and though in dishabille, all was neat, and pinned on with a systematic accuracy—

This lady was tall and slender, her waist scarce a span, her face forming an accute angle at the chin, her nose prominent, and her skin tight to her cheek-bones, as if braced out of those wrinkles, which a few treacherous gray hairs peeping from under a black wig, informed the beholder it was intitled to—she had but one eye, but then that eye projected so far from out its socket, and had such a convenient power of turning on its swivel (1), that it kept constant guard upon her blind side, and was mistress of a perpetual motion, which gave it all the qualities of the hundred eyes of Argus; for it took within its pupil, (which was ornamented with a small pearl, contrasting a coral circle that embraced the ball) not only every object in front, but every object on each side.

Having sketched out this virgin's person, (for she was unmarried, had preserved an untainted fame, and was not one of those hypocrites who have no pretence to chastity themselves, but by their severity to the impure)— I must say something of her mind, with which I soon became intimately acquainted. She was a wit, a satyrist, a critic, and a writer, with a tongue ever pretending service to her neighbours, but in its qualities contrary to that of the fox, which heals; whereas the tongue of Miss Verjuce operated upon a character, as the medicine of a pretending quack, operates upon the body; and never parted it, till, as the devil left Job, the tortured character became a sore all over—

With this damsel sat a military gentleman, not less than sixty, whose regimentals of scarlet, faced with green velvet, exhibited the fashionable cut of twenty years past—His stature was tall, his shoulders broad, his appearance dignified, his eye penetrating, and his face, though furrowed by time, wore a smile of pleasantry, that shewed he had grown old with good humour, and could support age with a good grace. A vernacular broad pronunciation declared him an Irishman, and his attentive politeness soon convinced me he had held a commission of rank in a foreign service. He bore a deep scar upon his forehead, in testimony of his courage, and the croix de St. Louis pending from his button-hole by a ribband, evinced his having received, at least, an honorary reward from the prince under whose standard he had fought—

On this object the eye of Miss Verjuce kept continual play, which was returned by an assiduous attention to please on the part of the man of war.—She was his admirer, he pretended to be her's, and she believed him, from the favourable opinion she entertained of her merits—O Vanity! thou art a fault of the first magnitude in woman!—the cause of her greatest misfortunes—even Poverty is not a greater enemy to her honour—and never had woman a greater share of vanity than the woman I have described—she was vain of her understanding, but that was excusable, her glass could not shew its deformity—she was vain of her person, that was astonishing, for the sight of it must have reproved and humbled her, every time she sat at her toilet

Notes

(1).

Though there is no name mentioned here, yet we are clearly of opinion, that an information will lie in Banco Regis, provided any lady living in Windsor will swear she believes herself to be the person alluded to—WALL—S, Att. G. MA—D, S•l. G.

Some time ago, the above learned gentlemen, in argument at the bar, maintained, that swivels and guns were entirely different things. I in answer insisted, that though all guns were not swivels, yet all swivels were guns; and illustrated, by observing, that all swivel-eyes were eyes, though all eyes were not swivel-eyes.—The learned gentlemen looking in each other's face, were convinced—

J. D—NN—G.

↵

TEA-TABLE-CHAT.

THE Captain soon discovered I was his countryman, and no sooner made the discovery, than he discharged a volley of interrogatories at me in succession, as quick as a feu de joy—

Merciful heaven! Captain, exclaimed Miss Verjuice, a cessation of questions, and let the conversation be general.—Pray, Sir, continued she, turning full upon me, is there any likelihood that the present unnatural war will have a speedy termination—

In addition to other qualifications, Miss Verjuice was a politician—

Unnatural war, said the Captain, repeating the word unnatural with marked emphasis— Madam, it is not possible that a war by which so many men get their livelihood, can be unnatural—

Nor the instruments of the war neither, I suppose, replied Miss Verjuice—you, Captain, took a very natural part in the last war —sighting against you king, and against your country.—This was the shot of an invenomed arrow, but integrity, which sat upon the Captain's heart, repelled it—he saw the malignity of the intention, and warmed with an honest ardour, not to resent the injury, but to defend his honour—

I fought for bread and for reputation, Madam, answered the Captain—the laws of my country deprived me of my inheritance, but they could not humble my spirit—born a gentleman, I scorned to degenerate into any other character.—A passion for same, said Maria, is the instinct of all great souls—I bowed to Maria, she construed my bow into an approbation of her sentiment, but it was in fact, a bow of gratitude for the compliment she paid my countryman—

The Captain went on—I sought for bread, I fought for reputation, and the instant I could acquire bread and reputation under the government of my own country, I returned to her bosom; returned with as ardent affection, heaven knows! as ever lover returned with to the bosom of his mistress!—Miss Verjuice for an instant relaxed her muscles— But while government precluded me from going to heaven by the road which the souls of my ancestors had travelled, I could not fight for that government with zeal, even if she had accepted my service.—Miss Verjuice again braced up her muscles—and you thought purgatory, said Miss Verjuice, the high road to heaven, and gave up your estate in this world, sooner than you would subscribe to the geography of the other world, as laid down by the law.—Do you not think it strange, Sir, continued this amiable virgin, turning her eye upon me, that a man bred to the sword, and who has been spreading desolation over the face of the earth, should have so tender a conscience?—

I would have answered the lady—but there was no stopping the tide of the Captain's volubility; his face glowed scarlet—his eyes darted lightning—he rose from his chair, and throwing himself into the attitude of a Cicero, addressed Miss Verjuice—You are a woman, Madam—and do not understand the duty of a soldier, nor the honourable purposes of war. —The duty of a soldier, Madam, is to support justice, and do injury to no man—to maintain truth, and aid virtue—and let me tell you, Madam, that to repress the wild fury of lawless invaders, and by force to extirpate wickedness and oppression from the face of the earth, has never been accounted violence or spreading desolation in any country or language—Robbers may be subdued by force or death, if other means fail. Those who invade private property, may be compelled to restitution at the bar of justice. But if independant states have injured us, to what bar shall we cite them? who shall constrain them to appear at our summons? or if they should appear, who shall oblige them to abide by our sentence—open force then must be the dernier resort; and who will be base, or mean enough to say, that under such circumstances war is not just.

You are so eloquent and energetic in your eloquence, Captain, said Miss Verjuice, that it is really a pity you are not in the house, to aid the phalanx of speaking admirals and generals—

The Captain had spent many years in France, he took the compliment literally, bowed in return, and laying his hand upon his heart, swore he would prefer serving his country in the field—

Miss Verjuice would have replied, but the Captain had not exhausted his oratory—

The enemies of Great-Britain and Ireland, vociferated the Captain, have in the present war acted with treachery, and should be punished —let every soldier, raising his hand as if to stimulate the ranks—let every soldier raise in himself a noble manly enthusiasm— you fight in the cause of virtue, justice, and freedom; no one is going to fight, said Miss Verjuice, but the Captain was not to be interrupted —he galloped on—animated by this divine principle, what wonders have not Britons performed, how have they risen terrors of the earth, the protectors of the oppressed, the avengers of justice, and scourge of tyrants —how have the sons of rapine sunk before them, confounded and overthrown— Witness ye Danube and Sombre, crimsoned with blood—let France, let Spain, Germany, and both the Indies bear witness.—What was it fired British kings and generals—Alfred— William—Henry—George —Marlborough Granby—Cumberland—Wolfe, and Ligonier? —I will tell you, said Miss Verjuice, it was the justice of their cause, and an unconquerable passion for liberty!—

This unexpected stroke of anticipation cut down the Captain—he suddenly fell back in his chair—

Miss Verjuice could not bear to lose the advantage of her cut—she followed her blow— there was a loud explosion in your fire, Captain, said Miss Verjuice—but the charge was government powder—

I felt for the Captain, so changed the subject —There are but few of our countrymen now, said I, in foreign service—I know but of two, answered the Captain—O'Ricly, who is in the service of Spain, and O'Dunn, who is in the service of France—

Do you mean the Sieur O'Ricly, said Miss Verjuice, who went ambassador from Madrid to Paris?—I do, Madam, answered the Captain; and Count O'Dunn, who was dispatched from Paris, to negociate with the Queen of Portugal on the armed neutrality—

There were accounts of those negotiations, I believe, said Maria, published in the prints —True, Madam, said the Captain, I was present at O'Riely's interview with the French king, and went with O'Dunn into Portugal, from whence I came to London.—It was I wrote and sent the accounts to the Public Ledger, under the head, Extract of a Letter from Paris: I have both (1) about me, and if you please ladies to hear them, the young gentleman, pointing to me, will be kind enough to read for your amusement—

The ladies thanked the Captain—he took the papers from his pockets, and handing them to me, I read—

Notes

(1).
It is very probable, this extract of a letter from Paris, is as authentic as most extracts from foreign letters are—the majority of which are written in London.
↵

THE SIEUR O'RIELY'S NEGOTIATION.

THE most extraordinary intelligence that ever was published within the walls of Paris, or ever set the spirits of Frenchmen upon the wing, has been published within these few days.

The victories of Edward and Henry of England, did not astonish the French nation so much, nor did the conquests of Lewis the XIVth, give the French people half the satisfaction, as they received from the capture of the English merchant-men. It was as novel as it was unexpected.

Half the people in France will be ruined by the expence of rejoicings—every house was open, all the bells were ringing—men, women, and children, of all denominations, trades, and professions, danc'd, caper'd, jigg'd it, and skip'd about with the agility of Benivento's devils. —What with fire-works and illuminations, bon-fires and transparent paintings, rockets, squibs, and crackers, discharges from the artillery, feus de joye from the small arms, and huzzaing from the mob, not only the city of Paris, but the whole country round, looked and sounded like hell itself.—All was fire and clatter—te Deums in every church!—

The court was met upon the occasion of the glad tidings, when a Grandee of Spain, whiskered up to the eye-brows—gloved up to the elbows—cuffed up to the arms, booted up to the hips, with a coat which fell short of his hams, a waistcoat that reached to his knees, and spurred upon each heel like a game-cock, arrived express from Madrid, with a letter congratulatory from his most Catholic Majesty.—

The Grandee wore a thundering black perriwig, bushy at the sides, with a ramillie tail down to his crupper, and had belted round his waist a basket toledo, in the hilt of which was deposited his handkerchief.—

The Grandee of Spain was announced to the court, by the Gentleman Usher, as the Sieur O'Riely.—The Sieur O'Riely entered the instant his name was announced, the most Christian King having just time to take his throne—the Queen seating herself by him.— The most Christian King arose to receive the Sieur—the Queen turned to her favourite maid of honour Lucetta.—

This Grandee must be Irish, observed the Queen, by the great O' he carries before his name. It is true, said Lucetta, for your Majesty may remember most of the brigade officers who are returned to Ireland, had great O' before their names (1).

I remember it well, answered the Queen, blushing.—

Her Majesty laying the back of her right hand convexed into the palm of her left, which she had concaved for the purpose, and resting her elbows upon her hips, with great ease dropped both hands upon—the Queen's hands fell just over that spot, where, in the picture of Venus, the golden clasp unites the argent zone of the Goddess.—The Queen courtesying to the ground, with the most amiable humility, while her eyes darted beams more penetrating than the rays of Apollo— her hands still keeping their position—said to the Sieur O'Riely—"Noble Sir, your are welcome to these parts."—

The whole court was astonished at her Majesty's condescension.—

The Sieur O'Riely was overwhelmed with her goodness, even to confusion.—

Bowing to the ground with profound respect, and drawing back his right leg, he thurst his spur into that part of the Gentleman-usher's ancle where the articulation unites the leg to the foot.—The electrified Gentleman-usher sprung from the ground with a sacra Dieu! and forgetting the presence he was in, laid his hand upon his sword. The Sieur O'Riely turning round his head, looked the Gentleman-usher full in the face, and curling up his mustachios over his nostrils, muttered something in a language neither English, Irish, French, nor Spanish— it partook of each language—"he grinned horribly a ghastly smile."—The Gentleman-usher felt the full force of the Gorgon grin, he stood petrified—The whole court laughed. —The Sieur O'Riely took a pinch of snuff— he took it from his coat-pocket, where he always kept it loose.

The Sieur O'Riely falling upon his left knee, rivetted his eyes upon the eyes of the Queen of France.—I have got it here, said O'Riely, thursting his hand into his breeches pockets—I have got that here, to present to your Majesty, the like of which was never seen in France, in Spain, nor in any other country on the continent.—The Queen of France, Lucetta her favourite, the maids of honour, and all the other ladies of the court, smiled, while their eyes followed the hand of the Sieur into his breeches-pocket—a thousand ideas struck their imagination.—

I have it here, exclaimed the Sieur, with an exulting voice, as he drew from his breeches pocket a long roll.—It was a roll of parchment, on which was written "a list of the English merchantmen taken by the fleets of France and Spain."

The Sieur O'Riely was right—France nor Spain, nor no country in the universe ever before saw such a sight.

The French King had read about one quarter of the list, when a nobleman rushed in, out of breath—Eagerness and astonishment were in his countenance.—The Belle Poule, said the nobleman, is taken!—England must become bankrupt! exclaimed the French King.—The captain, officers, and one half of the seamen, said the nobleman, are killed.—Lord have mercy on their souls! ejaculated the French King—but we have taken the English convoy.—Amen, added a bishop, nodding half a sleep in a chair—we have taken the English convoy.—Let masses be said for the killed, said the Queen—we have taken the English convoy—not till thanksgiving is sung for the victory, said Monsieur Sartine —we have taken the English convoy.—

The Belle Poule, the captain, the officers, and the seamen, were immediately forgotten by the court of France—they had taken the English convoy.

The French King had read through half the list, when another nobleman came in.— The Duke d'Artois is gone, said the nobleman, with a melancholy voice.—Then we have lost the patron of fashion, said the Gentlemen-usher, looking down upon his enormous buckles, with a sigh.—You must conceal the Duke's death, said the French King, till the rejoicings are over—we have taken the English convoy.—If half the princes of the blood were dead, I would not mourn, nor wear mourning, this month—for we have taken the English convoy.—

Vive le Roi! exclaimed the nobleman, but alas! letting his voice fall into a sorrowful piano, it is the Artois ship of war, carrying sixty-four guns and seven hundred men, that is gone.—Good heaven, said the Queen, the Artois was commanded by an Irishman! and was taken by an Irishman, an't please your Majesty, answered the nobleman (1)—When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war! said O'Riely.

These Irishmen, Lucetta, whispered the Queen of France, are always standing in our way—that is our own fault, an't please your Majesty, answered Lucetta.

Was their force equal? interrogated the French King.—Pretty equal, answered the nobleman.—By no means, said O'Riely, turning to an Irish officer who stood behind him—Clonard fought against his king and country—disloyalty weighed him down, and the reproach of being a parracide, weakened his heart.—Merciful heaven! that zeal should so long have blinded England and my native land (1) as to force her subjects to fight against her!

Big tears stood in the eye of the Sieur O'Riely, for an instant—they rolled down the surrows of his sun-burnt cheek—he took his handkerchief, from the hilt of his sword, to wipe those tears away, which his countryman perceiving, he clasped the veteran in his arms, and received the tears upon his faithful bosom.—

Here ended the Letter from Paris.—Maria had dropped a sympathetic tear with O'Riely— Miss Verjuice had swelled, but the fountain of humanity was dried within—not a tear fell.—You have taken no small pains, Captain, said Miss Verjuice, to blazon the virtue and courage of your own countrymen, attend to the next letter, said the Captain, and you shall acknowledge I have not been partial.— So saying, the Captain put another paper in my hand, and I read—

Notes

(1).
Since the laws against papists have been relaxed in Ireland, several gentlemen who were in foreign services, have returned to their native country.
↵

(1).
The Artois was commanded by the Count d'Clonard, and taken by Captain Mac Bride.
↵

(1).
Persecution was consumed in a fire of her own kindling in the month of June, 1780.—

L—G— G—R—N.

↵

O'RIELY AND SARTINE.

THE court having broken up, Monsieur Sartine conducted the Sieur O'Riely from the royal palace to his own house.—

Dinner being ended, and the attendants ordered to retire, Sartine filled a rummer glass with Burgundy, and taking the Sieur by the hand—you Islanders, said Sartine, drink deep—come, you must fill to my toast—I am going to give the land we live in.

The Sieur seizing the decanter in his right hand, and a rummer glass in his left, turned up his eyes to heaven, with a look of ardent zeal, approaching devotion—he heaved a heavy sigh from the bottom of his deep chest, expressive of his feeling, and pouring the libation of Burgundy into his rummer, till it overflowed the brim, and rising from his chair, his eye still turned up to heaven, he articulated in an expression of grief, mingled with pleasure—The British dominions.—

Sartine smiled, at what he supposed a mistake of his guest.—

You are an Irishman, said Sartine, and have privilege to fall into errors without giving offence.—I excuse you, my friend, but I meant by my toast, the dominions of the grand monarque.

Then, answered O'Riely, you should have said—the land we breathe in—there is no living any where, but under a free government.— I have considered myself as dying of a consumption ever since I left my native climate, so here she goes! and pouring more wine upon the liquor which already overflowed his rummer —here she goes! repeated O'Riely, with an oath.—

It is a bumper toast, said Sartine, and should have preceded all others, filling at the same time the rummer he had emptied, to the dominions of the grand monarque.—It is a bumper toast, by heaven! said O'Riely, and the world must give way to her—only half of the world, said Sartine.—She is the mother of the islands, continued O'Riely—she is the sovereign mistress of the sea.—I love her as I love the blood of my heart—my toast is Old England.—

Monsieur Sartine was struck dumb—he sipped part of his Burgundy.—

This victory of ours, said Sartine, recovering from his surprize, as O'Riely recovered from his agitation, this victory of ours is glorious! What victory, enquired his guest? Have we not taken the English convoy? said Sartine.—We may say with Caesar, Veni! vidi! vici! Yes, you may say that, said O'Riely, you came! you saw! you conquer'd! but I cannot see much honour in the affair, nor much courage, nor any great national advantage. —The devil a sword was drawn— nor the devil a gun was fired; and when the cargoes are divided between France and Spain, where will be the advantage?—

Let me tell you, Monsieur Sartine, this glorious victory, gained without fighting or bloodshed, will cost France and Spain more ships, more men, more money, and more reputation, than a thousand times the value of the ships they have taken.—

Englishmen are as delicate of the character of their courage, as English women are of the reputation of their chastity.—

Take my word for it, Monsieur Sartine, a short time will shew you same of those laconic English Gazette-epistles, that say, "the enemies ships are all taken, sunk, burned, and destroyed, as per margin."—

The times are altered, said Sartine.—I grant such accounts have formerly appeared, but in our late engagements with the English, we have fought like devils incarnate.

You have done wonders no doubt, answered the Hibernian; but if your men have fought like devils, how must these men have fought, who cut your devils to pieces—they must have fought like angels at least.—The courage of the English is natural, it is inherent to the soil—their dogs, their horses, their game cocks, are constitutionally brave; send them to France, and they degenerate.— It is the same with their men (1).

Monsieur Sartine pulled out his watch—it is time, said Sartine, we should attend the drawing-room.—He ordered his carriage, and taking O'Riely with him, drove for the palace.—

Notes

(1).
It is true indeed, and pity it is 'tis true, that what with taking the grand tour, and being upon terms of familiarity at home with the base outcasts of foreign nations, the dancing, fiddling, skipping tribe of the opera-house, many of our young fellows of fashion have sunk from their natural spirit and the dignity of manhood.—

ED—D O—S—W.

↵

O'RIELY AT THE DRAWING-ROOM. THE RUMP OF BEEF.

WHEN O'Riely arrived at the drawing-room, he was joined by his countryman in the French service—description is inadequate, said O'Riely's countryman, the tongue of man cannot communicate a proper idea of the vanity, the pride, the presumption of this volatile nation—from the meanest peasant up to the grand monarque, they are jigging it over the whole country—

The court is in an uproar—all the foreign ministers, all the nobles, and all the wives, sons and daughters of the nobles and foreign ministers, have been invited to partake of the English and Irish beef taken on board the Quebec fleet—a large rump has been sent to Paris as a specimen; this rump was intended for the king's table, but not a pot in his majesty's kitchen was large enough to boil it —The chief cook has made his fortune by shewing it at a dernier per head. There never was such a rump seen in France—

The magnitude of this rump had set all the court ladies of France calculating—they thought of nothing but the rump—the rump was still uppermost in their thoughts, and at their tongues ends.—The queen of France intending to enquire after the king's health, enquired after his majesty's rump—Lucetta missed her little lap-dog—has any one seen it, said Lucetta, there never was so pretty a thing—seen what? asked Monsieur Sartine, my little rump answered Lucetta—a bee stung one of the maids of honour on the cheek— I am stung!—I am stung!—roared the maid of honour—where!—where? enquired the king's physician—here, here, here on my rump, said the maid of honour—then I cannot extract the sting in this place, replied the physician—

The magnitude of this rump had set all the court ladies of France calculating—the height of the great statue of Jupiter, was calculated from his thumb, as bearing a proportion to its other parts. The stature of the antideluvian giants was calculated from their hip-bones found in Sicily, and the size of the deer, formerly in Ireland, has been calculated from the dimensions of their horns found in the bogs—The French ladies had better materials for calculating, than a thumb, a hip-bone, or a deer's antler—They calculated from the rump—

An English ox, said Lucetta, has, I suppose, a rump as large again as an Englishman—and so by a simple rule of division, she measured the limbs of the English prisoners expected at Paris—Lucetta first measured their rumps in her imagination, and thereby hangs a tail— Lucetta whispered in the Queen's ear when she had formed her calulation—you are right, said the Queen to Lucetta, that must be the length, for that is just half the length of an English oxe's horn—we have no such horns in France, said Lucetta—true, but many English gentlemen have French horns, answered the Queen (1)—but I wish the English prisoners were in Paris—Heavens! what horning and butting would be then—

Now the English rump of beef was such a curiosity in Paris, that the French king had it modelled in cork—I will try how it fits, said the Queen of France to Lucetta—Lucetta fixed the cork-rump upon the Queen— the Queen would never part with it, so Lucetta, and all the ladies of the French court got cork-rumps, in compliment to her majesty—

Notes

(1).
Count d'Guines, when ambassador from France to England, introduced French horns into several noble families.—

C—.

↵

A DRAWING-ROOM CONVERSATION.

NEVER was drawing-room in Paris so crowded as this drawing-room—all orders of people were admitted, tag, rag, and bob-tail, poured in; and as they poured in, they poured out their congratulations to the French King on capturing the Quebec fleet —Vive le Roi! was the general cry—

There was not half so much rejoicing in England last war, when not only Quebec itself, but all Canada was taken from France by the British arms—

I always give my opinion openly, when it is demanded, said the Sieur O'Riely, bowing respectfully, and answering the King—I was born in a land of liberty, and sucked in freedom with the first respirations of life. Your majesty commands my opinion, you shall have an honest one—

The English have lost their Quebec fleet, a heavy loss to them no doubt, but no acquisition of glory to France or to Spain, they had no convoy to fight for them—not a gun fired—not a sword drawn—

Should the grand fleets of each nation meet, then there will be fighting worth speaking of. These English are a people who will march up as cool to the mouth of a charged canon, as they march up to their bed—

To their bed, said Lucetta to herself— march up coolly to their bed!—the Sieur must be speaking of batchelors, I suppose, whispered Lucetta to the Queen—Heaven preserve me from a husband who would march coolly to bed—

How did they behave against Caesar, against the Danes—How at Cressy—at —at Poictiers—at Agincourt? continued the Sieur O'Riely—

They fought at Agincourt without their breeches, said a merry bishop, as he rubbed down his sleek and rubied dewlap (1)—

Mercy! preserve us!—ejaculated the Queen—

It must have been a strange sight, said Lucetta—

And I swear by my bishoprick, continued the reverend father—and there is not a better bishoprick in France, had but one company of Amazons been in the pay of France that day, the unbreeched English would never have carried a standard from the field—

It was a dirty affair, said the King—to France, said O'Riely—but why did you not open the nunneries, the nuns would have done the business as effectually as the Amazons; confinement gives ferocity to passion—the nuns would have played the devil in the ranks —there would have been no standing before them for five minutes—what says your reverence?

You are mistaken, replied the bishop, the holy mother-church takes special care, that all women under tuition of its members shall be properly disciplined. Though nunneries are hot-beds, yet the nuns who may be said to vegetate in these beds, are cool as cucumbers—

As I am a Christian, ruminated Lucetta to herself—had I known that nuns led such chaste and holy lives—I should have taken the veil long since—I should have flourished in one of these hot-beds like a sensitive plant—

The Sieur O'Riely went on—

Let us, continued the Sieur, look to more modern times. The astonishing victories of Marlborough, which exceed any victories antiquity can boast—to these succeed Dettingen —Minden—hold said Monsieur Sartine, interrupting the Sieur, you have forgotten or slipped over Fountenoy, where the English run—

Not so, by heaven! said O'Riely, stretching forth his hand, and rolling an enthusiastic eye, I have not forgotten Fountenoy— nor the famous battle of the Spurs, where the French cavalry galloped off in whole squadrons—the English run at Fountenoy! yes, they run up to the muzzles of your musquets, while you were intrenched chin-deep in earth, and mowing down whole columns from your masked batteries—but notwithstanding the whole power of France, your gen d'arms, and your select infantry, the English would never have stopped running, till they had run into your trenches, and forced you to run out, but for your auxiliaries— they never stood till the Irish brigades appeared before them, and then they stood; shocked to see the subjects of their own climate, the children of their own constitution standing armed, to oppose them in the field— the brigades changed the face of the battle, they fought for a point of honour, and would not flinch. The English had the same point of honour to maintain, and each fought, without losing an inch of ground, till the slaughter on both sides made it necessary for each side to retreat—the French looking on—

After this, good Monsieur Sartine, continued O'Riely, will you pretend to say, that at Fountenoy, even England retreated before France —

Monsieur Sartine stood dumb—

This too was the day when the late glorious immortal Cumberland, rebellion's curse and freedom's friend, exclaimed against the wretched policy of his country, which forced so many of her subjects to fight against her, for the wretched pay, and precarious sustenance of France—

O! may the hero ever live the blessing and the honour of his country!—

The whole court laughed at the Sieur O'Riley's blunder—they took it for an error of his head, whereas it was an overflowing of his heart—he was grateful to Cumberland for his opinion (1)—the bishop took him up upon it —the Duke of Cumberland, said the bishop, has been dead some years—we have not heard of his resurrection—

O'Riely gave a heavy sigh, and with a smile of ineffable contempt, retorted upon the holy father—not one of all the saints, said O'Riley, that ever Monkish superstition canonized in your rubrick, lives in such glory as the hero—Cumberland the brave, the generous and good, lives in the hearts of a free people, and will live in their hearts, till memory is no more—and history is obliterated —which of the commanders, of your army of martyrs, can you say so much—

The French King, mortified at the spirit and manner in which the brave old Hibernian had delivered his sentiments, left the drawing-room in disgust—the bishop followed his majesty, gnawing his under lip, he felt for the army of martyrs—and Monsieur Sartine skipped after with remarkable agility, Monsieur Sartine felt for himself—

The Queen remained behind, which O'Riely perceiving, stepped in between her majesty and the gentleman usher, who instantly stepped aside, and offering his hand, with an obsequious bow, her majesty accepted it with an ineffable smile of good humour and condescension —Every courtier's heart grew black with envy—

Lucetta and the maids of honour brought up the rear, with their eyes fixed upon O'Riely's back, he is at least half the size of an ox, said Lucetta—what a rump, said the maids of honour—and what a Ramillie-tail, said Lucetta —the maids of honour repeated the observation, it flew into the anti-chamber, where it was echoed by the court ladies—the other attendants re-echoed it in the upper stories—it got down stairs, and returned up stairs verberated and re-verberated, from room to room, from the garret to the coal-hole.

Having finished the Sieur O'Riely's interview with their French majesties, and returned the paper to the Captain, Miss Verjuice opened her mouth, a mouth which never opened, but like Pandora's-box, it emitted a collection of evils—Happily for the Captain in the very instant she was going to give a full discharge of acrimonious sarcasm, the servant brought in a note, which she informed us, required her immediate attendance on a neighbouring lady who was seized with labour—

Miss Verjuice, though a virgin, had the experience of an acoucheur; she had read anatomy, and was often called in to assist, being remarkable for her philosophical conduct, which enabled her to stand unmoved, when even the midwife has been found so weak-hearted, as to leave her patient to nature—But if Miss Verjuice did not possess humanity, she possessed the affectation of humanity in the fullest extent; for as her virtue consisted in her severity upon the vicious, so her humanity consisted in a severe abuse upon the uncharitable —She was a theorist in both, but had never entered into the practice of either— Not but Miss Verjuice had passions—but she had never been led into temptation—

Miss Verjuice was punctual to every call of every sick or unfortunate acquaintance, who stood in need of no pecuniary assistance, no lady could mourn with a more deplorable countenance, or sought the house of sorrow with more sedulity than Miss Verjuice, if verbal consolation only was required—yet such was the tenderness of her feelings, that if want attended sickness or misfortune, she could not bear to look upon accumulated distress, and therefore the poor man's door she was never known to enter—

Punctual in attending church, and regular in paying the poor-rates, it might be said that she was religious and bountiful according to law. She practised all the externals of morality, without morals, and performed the rituals of devotions, without piety (1)—

Miss Verjuice, notwithstanding an affectation of hurry, entered into a dissertation upon the necessity of assisting our fellow-creature in distress; but Maria observing, that perhaps her friend might be impatient to see her—she made an apology, I returned to the parlour with Maria, attended by the Captain, and soon after saw Miss Verjuice sally forth, equipt in her night-dress—

The Captain proposed a walk, to which proposal Maria and I acquiescing, we proceeded to the bank of the Thames, and finding a convenient spot, close to a thicket, sat down to enjoy the beauty of the prospect, and the evening-air, which being gently agitated by a cooling fragrant breeze, pleased and revived the senses—

Notes

(1).
At the battle of Agincourt, the English were so ill with a violent dysentery, they were obliged to fight uncovered in the rear—
↵

(1).
When the Duke of Cumberland saw the stand made by the Irish brigades, he cursed with great bitterness the policy which had forced them into a foreign service. There was a regiment of Irish horse in the service of England that day, commanded by Lord Ligonier, which stood till almost cut to pieces—
↵

(1).
I have been particular in describing this virgin and her attributes, as she will hereafter cut a very conspicuous figure in these excursions. It is true, my intention is to shew human nature in its amiable light, but to do this with any degree of perfection, I must be allowed a dark ground and strong shades— many will doubt that such a character exists, but let them go to—No, let them live in doubt still, and may they never receive conviction from experience.—

THE AUTHOR.

↵

THE BIRD'S NEST.

A THRUSH sat perched upon the spray of an old thorn, he kept turning and looking to every quarter, with evident anxious expectation; but being soon joined by his mate, who bore food in her mouth, his joy became conspicuous as his anxiety had been, and he expressed it to his companion in a thousand endearing salutations and offices of love—the hen popped into the thicket to feed her young, while the cock turning up his head towards heaven, in grateful thanks to his Creator, for the providential sustenance of his little family, poured forth the joyful thanks of his heart in melodious song—

But happiness is not the lot of mortal beings, from the most insignificant insect up to the great lord of the creation, man, every animal has its misfortunes—its miseries—all are the sports of contingencies—

Two boys stole along the thicket—the poor thrush upon the spray, instantly stopt his melody —he boys had discovered his nest, and before I could prevent the depredation, for I arose for the purpose, had torn it from the thicket with its infant inhabitants. The hen had escaped, and joined the mate—the boys carried off their prey, the old birds calling in notes of distress—the boys disappeared, hope disappeared with them—the unhappy parents sat silent close to each other for a few minutes, when, as if urged by a mutual despair, they took wing together, and flew from the scene of their wretchedness—

There is something, said the Captain, truly distressing, in the exhibition of domestic woe, just presented to us—and should I detect a son of mine in the commission of such a robbery, as the two little rascals have committed, I would punish them as severely as for robbing the church—

Why, in truth, said Maria, it is a species of sacrilege—children should be taught to abhor it, to impress the precepts of humanity upon the minds of infants is the first, the most essential duty of parents—it prepares the heart for all the tender offices of life, and opens the soul to receive the lights of morality and religion—

I must pay this tribute to your sentiment, said the Captain, seizing Maria's hand—pressing it to his breast—he raised it to his lips, and kissed it—but with such chastity of devotion, as the professed religious kiss the shrines of their patron saints.—A tear had fallen from his eye upon Maria's hand, she would have wiped it away with her handkerchief, but while viewing it with admiration, her heart bleeding with sympathy, a beam darted from the evening-sun, and exhaled the tear to the upper heaven, where it is now preserved upon the altar of grace, an evidence of human benignity.

It is our duty, said the Captain, to use all animals with mercy—they have life, they have sense, they have gratitude—those of a domestic nature, are most of them endowed with affection and tenderness to their protectors, while others possess properties, which make us the most beneficial returns—we owe justice to men, but grace and goodness to brutes—

But, said I, adverting to the plunder of the poor thrush, there is a happiness peculiar to subordinate animals of every species, their parental tenderness is but temporary, and their grief on losing their offspring, though it may be severe while it lasts, lasts but a short time; whereas with the human species, such misfortunes produce permanent grief—often terminate in death—

SLAVE TRADE.

MERCIFUL heaven! exclaimed the Captain—when we reflect upon the plunder of the human species, carried on by nations calling themselves christian, professing the divine maxim "do as you would be done by," boasting the benign principles of humanity, and enlightened by the sublime rays of holy revelation, it sinks us, in my opinion, infinitely below the most ferocious beasts of prey, for none of these live by the slaughter and calamities of their own kind.—

I perceive, said I, you are execrating the conduct of Europeans to the unhappy children of Africa.—I have often reflected upon our cruelty to those people; first, in carrying them from their native country, and then exercising upon them every cruelty that can debase human nature, or render life miserable.—

There is but one way of accounting for this cruelty, said Maria, and Sterne has hit upon it, "the poor Negroes have no one to stand up for them."—

They are sacrifices to COMMERCE, said I—

You mean to AVARICE, said the Captain— COMMERCE is a mild deity, and never requires human victims to bleed upon her altar.

—The fruits of industry and the fruits of the earth are her offerings. Commerce is a cure for the most destructive prejudices; where we find agreeable manners, there commerce flourishes; and wherever there is commerce, there we meet agreeable manners.— So says Montesquieu.—

Commercical laws, said I, arguing from the same author, improve manners, but they improve manners from the same reason they destroy them—they corrupt the purest morals, polish and refine the most barbarous. The spirit of trade produces in the mind of man a certain sense of exact justice, but does it not produce sanguinary laws and rage of avarice, that overleaps all bound of justice, and tramples upon humanity. The total deprivation of trade produces robbery—but is not hospitality most rare in trading countries, and is it not found in perfection among nations of vagabonds? Among the ancient Germans, to shut a door against a stranger, would be considered as sacrilege.—

I shall not take upon me, said Maria, to determine how far such nations may merit the opprobrious term you have given them, but I should rather live and die among such a people, than among the most refined; and I think this hospitality, which must necessarily include in it an assiduity to please, is a convincing proof of the excellency of the human heart in a simple state.—What have we got by our boasted improvements and frivilous politeness, but the loss of manly firmness and independence (1).—

The Captain looked at Maria with astonishment, and seizing her hand with a degree of rapture, exclaimed, you are right—you are right, my girl! Avarice, sensuality, and every species of meanness, have succeeded to generosity and honour; and faction and servitude, with bellowing on one side, and adulation on the other, are storming and undermining the asylum of liberty—almost every man wears the mask of hypocrisy—the noble frankness which marked the character of Englishmen, has dwindled into an affectation of sentiment; and in assuming susceptibility of too refined feelings, from feeling like men, we have adopted the manners of women.—Even philosophy participates the refinement of modern manners; she forgets her chaste and simple character—she forgets that she once inhabited the lonely cot of Socrates, and shared the frugal fare of Epaminondas.— Then your legislators and generals—Shew me a modern senator or commander, who will descend from the seat of magistracy or car of triumph, and cultivate the land which his voice enacted laws to rule, or which he defended with his blood—

But to advert to the subject we were on, continued the Captain, every man who possesses humanity, can vindicate the rights of humanity in his own breast; but few men, who feel the force of these rights, have ability to defend them.—When a benevolent mind contemplates the ravages, with which avarice has depopulated whole regions of the earth, the soul shudders with horror—But when we see the unhappy NEGRO, seduced by the wiles of European dissimulation, or dragged by treachery and force, from his native liberty, relations, friends—perhaps the partner of his heart, and pledges of his love—then indeed the soul revolts and execrates the villain, and the infamous policy which protects the villain, who, to indulge his avarice, by providing for the sensuality of others, tramples upon natural rights, and forces into the vile regions of servitude, men born free as himself (1).

I have served in South America, continued the Captain—I have conversed with the slaves, and have sound among them men as capable of generous sentiment, and of as noble soul, as ever distinguished the character of a white —Good heavens! my heart sinks, when recollection presents to my imagination, the misery of these unfortunate fellow-creatures, to whom death alone can give enfranchisement!—

Here the Captain stopped—he was too full to proceed—

As we are convinced, said Maria, from our own feelings, that our hearts naturally incline us to relieve misery, and our reason approves it as right—when we consider that providence has infused humanity into our breasts, and has taught us to look to him as an example of mercy; it is astonishing, that pity, and the divine pleasure which results from doing good, should be so far exterminated from mankind.

Cruelties, said the Captain, which no tongue can describe, which no heart can conceive, but from the evidence of the eyes, are inflicted upon negroes. The American and West-Indian newspapers, may give a slight idea of the deplorable situation of these unhappy creatures. In these papers, they are advertised as negro fellows, or negro wenches—often described as bearing their tyrannic master's brand upon their cheek—having a padlocked yoke about their neck, or carrying the marks of merciless stripes upon their skin—I have seen them roused by the lash to their labour—drove into stalls in herds like brutes, and fed worse than those 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 dogs which are kept for the purpose of hunting them, when they attempt to escape— then in their old age they are turned out to poverty—and they are denied baptism, from an apprehension it would make them insolen—

Pray, said Maria, addressing the Captain, are there any clergymen in those countries—

Every parish has its pastor, answered the Captain, and every pastor is a planter, and keeps unbaptized slaves—

Lord have mercy upon their souls! said Maria—

On whose souls? asked the Captain—

On the souls of those planters, answered Maria—

Do you mean, said the Captain, the planters of Christianity, if you do— _____ — (1), and indeed the planters of tobacco, do not appear in a much better predicament—

The Captain would have proceeded, but perceiving Maria was in tears, he immediately stopt (1)—He had a soul, brave as Achilles —had a heart melting as infant tenderness—

We will change the conversation, said the Captain—Here my lad, said he, handing a paper, here is the account I published of Count O'DUNN.

I took the paper and read—

Notes

(1).
I could write a very long note upon this.—

ED. O—S—W.

↵

(1).
It is really astonishing, that in the dependencies of Great-Britain, slavery should be permitted. The court of King's-Bench, in the celebrated negro cause, laid it down, as a principle of the English constitution, that slavery could not exist in this country, and that the instant a negro set his foot on shore, he was free. Surely the principles of the constitution are immutable, and rule in all the dependencies of Great-Britain, though the local laws do not, and therefore slavery cannot constitutionally exist in the dependencies.

—F—H—R—VE.

↵

(1).
This blot seems to be the very reverse of the blot which the recording angel dropped upon my uncle Toby's oath—

LAURENCE STERNE.

↵

(1).
He would have added, no doubt, that at the death of a planter the negroes are sold by auction, fathers separated from their children and their wives —that a white man may beat a black man with impunity, or debauch his wife or daughter—that he may murder him, upon paying his value, and that it is death for a black to strike a white—and so it should be—

A PLANTER.

↵

COUNT O'DUNN'S NEGOTIATION WITH THE QUEEN OF PORTUGAL.
COUNT O'DUNN'S APPOINTMENT.

IF her majesty of Portugal could be prevailed upon to join the armed neutrality, said the grand monarque, England must submit —her flag would no longer proudly fly, with usurped authority upon the narrow seas —the thunder of her cannon would no longer, with sovereign arrogance, command the ships of other independent states to lower their top-sails —What is to be done, Sartine?—

Nothing can be done, answered Monsieur Sartine, our most able and subtil negotiators have failed in their negotiations with the Queen of Portugal—

Count O'Dunn, who had been employed last war, as plenipotentiary to the court of Lisbon, was standing at the French King's elbow.

Our most able and subtle negotiators have failed, repeated Monsieur Sartine—

They were Frenchmen, said Count O'Dunn to himself—

The Queen of Portugal is as impenetrable as flint, said Monsieur Sartine—

To French negotiators, said Count O'Dunn to himself—

You have been in Portugal, O'Dunn, said the French King—with a wink, which implied, "you have seen Pharsalia;" but mum—what think you of the Queen, is she that soul of marble, Sartine represents her? —Is there no getting at her heart?

She is a woman, may it please your majesty, answered O'Dunn, and I know but of one way by which her heart can be approached—

The Count has been a man of gallantry in his time, observed the French Queen—no man at court has the character of getting nearer a lady's heart than the Count—

Three ladies sighed, in confirmation of what her majesty said—

Then he is the very man to do business, with the Queen of Portugal, said Monsieur Sartine.

The Count O'Dunn was immediately invested with full powers to negotiate with the Queen of Portugal.—The Count depended but little, however, upon his paper instructions, though an old man, his chief dependence was upon his abilities—then he had experience, and experience is half the battle —he knew it was a Lady he had to deal with, and no man breathing knew better how to deal with a Lady—

O'DUNN'S ARRIVAL AT LISBON.

SOON as the Count O'Dunn arrived at Lisbon, he dispatched his secretary to court—the Lady in waiting informed the Queen of Portugal—the Count was desired to attend in the anti-chamber—he was announced —he appeared, and the instant he appeared, every woman in the room ejaculated the first letter of his name with a note of admiration annexed—O! O! O! O! O! went round the room—O! was the only sound for two minutes—

The Ladies of the court dissected Count O'Dunn, as Ladies of the court always dissect strangers on their first appearance—one praised his legs, another praised his shoulders —a third praised his eyes—but the old Dutchess of B—was actually smitten with him on account of his forefinger—

As the Count had crossed one of the private court-yards, unfortunate for the old Dutchess of B— he had occasion to draw—off his glove—the old Dutchess of B—was at that instant peeping at the Count through a lattice with her magnifying glass, and the forefinger of the Count hit exactly upon her grace's focus.

Her grace could not avoid gazing on the Count's forefinger—

The Count wore two brilliants on his forefinger —they were family jewels, the Count's father had given them to his mother, his mother had given them to him—they rivetted the eyes of the old Dutchess of B—with as fascinating a power, as if she had gazed upon a rattle-snake—

The old Dutchess was experienced in the value of brilliants, and the instant she perceived those on the Count's forefinger, her grace exclaimed, never did I see such a finger! never did I see such brilliants!—they are only fit for a Queen!—

The Dutchess of B— was avaricious, therefore the instant the idea of the Queen came across her grace, she concluded, that if these brilliants, which garnished Count O'Dunn's forefinger, could be procured for her Majesty of Portugal—her own fortune was made—

Little did the Dutchess of B— think, that by this determination she would serve not only the Queen of Portugal, but the armed neutrality of Europe.

Some say that the Count having perceived the old Dutchess of B—speculating through the lattice, and knowing her to be in the Queen's confidence, he drew off his glove on purpose; but whether he did or did not, whether the action was accidental or manoeuvre, it is certain, that the Count O'Dunn got into the Queen's confidence by it—

When the old Dutchess of B— informed the Queen of Portugal of what she had seen, her Portuguese Majesty smiled—you must be mistaken, my dear Dutchess, said the Queen, I never heard of so white, so taper a forefinger, nor of such brilliants as you have described—if they are so large, they must be equal in value to the famous diamond worn by the Great Mogul, and exceed that in the hat of the French King—you have been deceived by a false appearance—consider, my dear, dear Dutchess, you were looking thro' a magnifying glass—

The Queen was right, and the Queen was wrong—the Dutchess of B— was right— and the Dutchess of B— was wrong—the old Dutchess was deceived, not in the magnitude, but in the quality of what she supposed to be brilliants—they were nothing better than common Irish diamonds, which are plenty in London and Paris—

In Lisbon, they had novelty to recommend them—

We must keep up decorum, said the Queen of Portugal to the Dutchess of B— before we admit Count O'Dunn to our presence; you must enquire into the nature of his business —The old Dutchess flew to the antichamber, and put the question to the Count, she found him incircled by the Ladies of the court—My business, said Count O'Dunn, is with the Queen herself—and to the Queen herself alone, will I impart my business—

Then you will not trust me? said the old Dutchess—

By heaven, I will not trust you, my Lady Dutchess, nor any other Lady in the court— the court Ladies hung down their heads—

I am keeper of the Queen's secrets—said the old Dutchess of B—

But you are not keeper of my secrets, answered Count O'Dunn.

The old Dutchess fixing her eye upon the Count's forefinger, took him by the hand, and led him to the Queen's apartment—

THE HEM-SIGNAL.

THE Dutchess had much at stake, she had drawn a picture for the Queen, and she knew the consequence, if the original should fall short of the copy. She had some doubts from what the Queen had started, that her magnifying glass might have deceived her (1). Her fears, however, subsided, upon her interview with the Count. She viewed him without her glass, and joy flushed her cheeks. She measured him with her eyes, as a female virtuoso measures the beautiful representations of nature in the galleries of Italy—

The Dutchess of B—had been a woman of remarkable sensibility. Sympathy was her weakness. In her youth she had found the highest satisfaction in communicating pleasure to others, and her greatest pleasure now was in procuring it. Yet no woman had ever given more pain than the Dutchess of B— but then no woman had ever gone further than the Dutchess of B— to alleviate the pain she had given. Man never kneeled to her grace in vain, nor petitioned her grace without relief (1)—

The Dutchess of B— having approached the door of the royal closet, gave a loud hem. —This hem informed the Queen of Portugal that Count O'Dunn was near—

Her majesty of Portugal was at that instant standing before a great glass, wrapped up in admiration of herself. All Portugal admired the Queen of Portugal, but no subject in Portugal admired the Queen of Portugal more, than the Queen of Portugal admired herself—

Yet the Queen was not vain—she knew the power of her charms, from their effects upon mankind, and the subject of her consideration now was, to muster and draw out in amorous array, their full force armed at all points against Count O'Dunn—

But the whole system of the Queen of Portugal's intended operations against the Count, was overturned by the hem-signal of the Dutchess of B—. Every glance, every leer, every smile, every giggle, which art had armed for her assistance and long experience had exercised into discipline, fled at the instant the hem-signal was given; nor could the Queen, with all her generalship, rally them into order—nature had taken possession of their post, and defied the powers of art to dislodge her.

Notes

(1).
I was once very much deceived in a scene of my own writing, which depended upon the doctrine of proportions. The figure of an Hercules cloathed was to have been exhibited in my comedy of the WORLD AS IT GOES, alias, SECOND THOUGHTS ARE BEST, but the villainous property-man, had the fellow who represented the demi-god, put upon the pedestal as naked. I intended the figure should have been fully proportioned in all its parts; whereas a narrow-shouldered man was chosen—so that when the female-virtuoso, who was to have been rendered ridiculous, by applying disproportions to a proportioned figure, came to give her judgment, the satire was lost, the fellow who played the statue being actually, in appearance,
too narrow in the thorax to hold the vital parts, and horridly disproportioned in the fore-shortening of one of his members.

—M.C—W—Y.

↵

(1).
An old lady of my acquaintance is just such another merciful character.

—H—RR—N, Dowg.

↵

THE INTERVIEW.

THE Queen of Portugal, as many able commanders have done, threw herself upon chance—she sat upon a sopha—the door of the closet opened—the eyes of the Queen shut—

The complexion of the Queen of Portugal was a bright olive—Count O'Dunn never considered colours—he admired the whole sex —every colour had its attraction for him— he loved woman, because she was woman; and to this generous affection he bore to woman kind, may be imputed a passion, the most generous and disinterested, which from his youth he had entertained for an individual.

The Count made his obeisance—the Queen opened her eyes—the Count dropped the curtains of his eyes—a dead silence ensued—

The Dutchess of B—broke silence— she introduced the Count in form, as pleni-potentiary from the court of France, and recollecting his declaration, in refusing to communicate his business to any person but the Queen in private, she retired, as a woman of discretion should—shut the door—fell upon her knees—and applied her eye, close to the key-hole—

Had Count O'Dunn been before all the male crowned heads in Europe, he would not have evinced diffidence—had Count O'Dunn been marching up against a battery, he would not have betrayed fear—yet the Count was silent, and trembled before the Queen of Portugal.

Pray, Captain, said Maria, perceiving I rested at the conclusion of the last sentence, what made Count O'Dunn tremble?

If you do not know, Madam, you must ask the naturalists—answered the Captain.

Maria had a quick conception—she found it dangerous to require a more minute explanation —so requested I would proceed—

O'DUNN'S NEGOTIATION.

HER majesty of Portugal began the negotiation, whereas it was the duty of the Count to have began—but in truth he had forgot the interest of the neutral powers —there was nothing neutral about him—

Your prudence, Sir, said the Queen, in not communicating your business to any of my ministers, proves you worthy of your employment —the business of politicks should never be carried on through a medium—

It is quite contrary in affairs of love, please your Majesty, answered the Count—

You are certainly right, replied the Queen, giving up all thoughts of politicks, a medium in love is to be preferred—and the man who would reach a woman's heart, must first discover the proper medium.—The cool lover is despicable—an over-warm passion is seldom lasting—but I should wish to hear your opinion upon the subject—

It is too difficult a subject for me, said the Count, I have attempted to discuss it a thousand and a thousand times, but could never reach the end—love is a subject which defies the power of logick, of philosophy, of mathematicks. —I have tried love every way, said Count O'Dunn, and I have been told, that those who have tried it scientifically and systematically, have found themselves little better than fools upon the subject—

I knew a fool, said the old Dutchess of B— taking her eye from the key-hole— who could handle the subject better than the wisest of them all—

Bless me, exclaimed the Queen, throwing her eye upon the Count's forefinger, how remiss have I been in keeping you standing so long—

It is my duty, answered the Count, to stand in your Majesty's presence—

But as you are the representative of a King, replied the Queen, I insist upon your sitting—

The Count being seated upon a sopha with the Queen, proceeded upon the business of the neutral powers—he presented his credentials —the Queen of Portugal examined them —she spoke of her obligations to England— the Count withdrew his credentials from her hand—the Queen drew them back—examined them again—the Count pushed the point closer—still the Queen objected, but faintly. The Count maintained his point—

Your Majesty may perceive, said the Count, turning up his credentials towards the Queen, so as to shew the two brilliants the Dutchess of B—had mentioned, your Majesty may perceive, said he, it is a plain proposition—

The Queen of Portugal answered—

The Count O'Dunn replied—

The Queen of Portugal rebutted—

The Count O'Dunn surrebutted.

I submit, said the Queen—you have prevailed —I give England—I give up every thing —I give up the world to your argument, Count O!—

Before the Queen could fully pronounce the Count's name, O'Dunn had put the pen in her hand, and her Majesty subscribed to the neutral confederacy—

Oh! ejaculated the Queen of Portugal—

Ah! ejaculated the old Dutchess of B— and she fell upon the floor—such is the power of sympathy, it flew through the key-hole, and hit the old Dutchess full on the brain—

France has carried the day, said the old Dutchess of B—opening the door, and entering the room—

Upon my soul, but you are out now, answered Count O'Dunn, as he put up his credentials—it was Ireland that carried the day—so making a bow, he retired, to dispatch a courier to Paris—

Now the Dutchess of B—having written an account of O'Dunn's negotiation with the Queen of Portugal, to Madam D'C— Lady of the French Queen's Bed-chamber, the French Queen insisted, that the French King should recall Count O'Dunn, from an apprehension, that he might be assassinated—

UN PETIT SOUPER.

THE evening-dew beginning to fall heavy, Maria proposed returning home. When we arrived at the town the Captain took his leave, having previously insisted, that I should accompany him the next morning at six, to see a royal chace.

Maria, as we walked towards her lodgings, corroborated my suspicion, that the Captain was a dying swain to virgin Verjuice; and assured me of much entertainment from the history of his amours, the Captain having, for a series of years, been a constant dangler after rich old maids, and endowed widows of various descriptions—

We found the cloth laid, and supper was served in, almost immediately after we entered the parlour—two plates upon the table informed me, that my company was expected, and having no inclination to retreat suddenly, I sat down to table with as easy familiarity, as if I had been one of the family—I saw Maria was pleased at the frankness of my conduct—and what can be more pleasing than an unceremonious chearful acquiescence in partaking of the hospitable preparations of a friend.—The supper would have lost half its relish by a formal invitation—

You must help yourself, said Maria, laying the wing of a duck upon her plate, I followed her example—

Here is wine, said Maria—

A dumb-waiter, which stood at my righthand, answered all the purposes of ostentatious attendance—we sat in the full enjoyment of liberty and social festivity—eat, talked, and laughed, without restraint—

I must fill to the brim, said I, taking up a decanter of Madeira—Maria smiled consent —it is to the continuance of our love, my dear Maria—Maria blushed—she hung her head, but as she hung her head, she turned up her eye—

Let it overflow, said Maria, and she sighed —let it overflow—I will pledge you with all my soul—

And I am all impatience, added I—my heart is thirsty for the toast—

We sipped from our brimmers—touched glasses, and changed glasses—I tasted the nectar of Maria's lip upon her glass—the touch had raised the sparkle of the wine, and the wine had given her eyes additional lustre— their power was irresistible—I must quench this flame, thought I, as I swallowed my wine —but wine is oil to the lamp of love—the flame from my heart increased—

I got close to Maria's side, and pressed her hand—we drank again, touched glasses, and touched cheeks—I had thrown my arm negligently across the back of her chair—my head reclined upon her bosom—Maria rung a bell that lay upon the table, the servant appeared, she ordered him to remove the supper-table—

AN ILLUSTRATION, OR THE EXTINGUISHER.

DO you know, said Maria, sighing, as the servant left the room, that I have been thinking continually upon the cruelties, which the Captain told us were inflicted upon the poor negroes, by their merciless task-masters— he says there are noble souls among these people—

Shakespeare was of the same opinion, said I, when he drew the character of Othello—

Your speaking of Othello, said Maria, reminds me of a passage in the play, which I could never understand—I mean that line where Othello says— ‘Put out the light, and then put out the light.’ —I could never receive any satisfaction from the commentators.

There lay upon a couch, close to Maria, a silver chamber-candlestick and extinguisher—

I will give you an illustration of the passage, said I, taking up the extinguisher— "PUT OUT THE LIGHT"—I pressed the extinguisher upon the candles—AND THEN!!!—

What say the criticks (1) to this illustration (2)? What say their wives (3)?

Notes

(1).

As critic is an animal, not well understood, permit me to give a description of it—

But soft, a critic's portrait I espy,

Lord! what a jaundiced colour stains the eye;

How hard th' expression, without ease or grace,

Like Janus too, he wears a double face.—

F. PILLON—

This description is well, it describes your hermaphrodite, or double-sexed, double-headed critic, with one face brass, the other human.—C—W—Y AND WIFE.—

↵

(2).

We say, that in our opinion, this is a palpable Irish bull, which we cannot translate into plain English, no more than we could translate the Irish debates of the last sessions of the Irish parliament, for we cannot conceive an illustration in the dark.— WILLIAM W—DF—L.

We are all of the same opinion.—The DIURNAL CRITICS of the DAILY PAPERS—

↵

(3).
We say we can conceive an illustration in the dark, and though our husbands cannot see such an illustration, it is to us clear as the sun.—Cats eyes are not necessary, it is an illustration to the mind's eye; and therefore, if the thing to be illustrated be felt and understood, it is sufficient.—The wives of CRITICS—
↵

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Sentimental excursions to Windsor: and other places, with notes critical, illustrative, and explanatory, ...

MacNally, Leonard, 1752-1820.

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1106021304

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9781106021304

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CW3324580475

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0063901300

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— Sentimental excursions to Windsor: and other places, with notes critical, illustrative, and explanatory, ..., MacNally, Leonard, 1752-1820.. [4],249,[1]p. ; 12⁰. London :: printed for J. Walker,. 1781.. [Anonymous. By Leonard MacNally.] [Vertical chain lines.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT128528.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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