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The press, or literary chit-chat

A Satire [by J. H. Reynolds]
Reynolds, John Hamilton (1794-1852)

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[section]
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THE PRESS.
 I. 
PART I.
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PART II.
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BAS-BLEUSIA.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
 X. 
X.
 XI. 
XI.
 XII. 
XII.
 XIII. 
XIII.
 XIV. 
XIV.
 XV. 
XV.
 XVI. 
XVI.
 XVII. 
XVII.
 XVIII. 
XVIII.
 XIX. 
XIX.
 XX. 
XX.
 XXI. 
XXI.
 XXII. 
XXII.
 XXIII. 
XXIII.
 XXIV. 
XXIV.
 XXV. 
XXV.
 XXVI. 
XXVI.
 III. 
PART III.

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78

X.

Hark to the trumpet, and hark to the drums,
And the terrible cry, She comes, she comes!
The mob crowded round her, the nations aghast
Beheld the next vot'ry as by them she past;
Her flag was of white, and sable the shield
With guttes du sang sprinkled all over its field;

Guttes du sang, an heraldic term signifying drops of blood.


I saw her, I trembled—no homage she paid
As past the great monarch her pathway she made:
Whilst beyond distant space I saw her retire,
The echoes still rung, Ave Helen Maria!

Miss Williams has more recently, I am happy to say, employed herself in translating from the French—a better task than publishing her ultra-revolutionary ideas.


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