 | The Puffiad |  |
I. PART I.
“Et nos ergo manum ferulæ subduximus, et nos
Consilium dedimus Sullæ, privatus ut altum
Dormiret.—Stulta est clementia.”
—Juv. 1.
Consilium dedimus Sullæ, privatus ut altum
Dormiret.—Stulta est clementia.”
—Juv. 1.
ARGUMENTUM.
The Poet commenceth with a respectful announcement of his subject, and invoketh the Muse to afford him a sufficient quantum of inspiration.—Inasmuch as the times must be in a rotten state to patronize Puffery, it has been deemed proper, in the first place, to take a rapid survey of them, particularly as regards their literary character—the delightful subject of national refinement —march of learning—literature degraded by a host of dabblers— incondite twaddle daily produced—corruption of the English language—want of originality—polite lamentation over the “divine art,” &c.
Of puffs defrauding, and the puffing race,
The curse of learning, and the land's disgrace,
I sing. Accomplish'd Heliconian Miss,
Descend, and aid a task divine as this!
Diffuse sweet influence through all my brain,
Balance the periods, keep in tune the strain;
When low, upraise,—direct me when I fly!
And all but smut and modern slang supply;
Illume, refine, and regulate my song,
Perch on my page, and puff the verse along.
The curse of learning, and the land's disgrace,
I sing. Accomplish'd Heliconian Miss,
Descend, and aid a task divine as this!
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Balance the periods, keep in tune the strain;
When low, upraise,—direct me when I fly!
And all but smut and modern slang supply;
Illume, refine, and regulate my song,
Perch on my page, and puff the verse along.
And, first, I'll thank my stars I live in times
Genteelly tinctured with the best of crimes,
When Vice herself puts on a dainty mien,
Minces her air, and struts in every scene.
Our ancestors —monotonously good!
Liv'd on, poor souls! as virtuous as they could;
So plainly honest, and so bluntly pure,
They liv'd in calm simplicity secure;
Content to make their paradise at home,
They seldom frisk'd in France, or whined at Rome;
No snug elopement, or polite crim. con.,
For paper-grubs, or law, to live upon,—
No London trip, to run the crazy round
Of Vice above, and Folly under ground,—
By rich or poor was courted or required,
While duty triumph'd and plain sense inspired.
Genteelly tinctured with the best of crimes,
When Vice herself puts on a dainty mien,
Minces her air, and struts in every scene.
Our ancestors —monotonously good!
Liv'd on, poor souls! as virtuous as they could;
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They liv'd in calm simplicity secure;
Content to make their paradise at home,
They seldom frisk'd in France, or whined at Rome;
No snug elopement, or polite crim. con.,
For paper-grubs, or law, to live upon,—
No London trip, to run the crazy round
Of Vice above, and Folly under ground,—
By rich or poor was courted or required,
While duty triumph'd and plain sense inspired.
How mean and moping such Arcadian life!
No headlong spirits to produce a strife;
No stage-worn beldames to amuse the land
With wedding fuss, or love at second hand;
No dirty demirep, or paltry peer
To cram the papers with his foul career:
Good heavens! how dull the way of life they trod,—
Adorn'd their country, and adored their God!
No headlong spirits to produce a strife;
No stage-worn beldames to amuse the land
With wedding fuss, or love at second hand;
30
To cram the papers with his foul career:
Good heavens! how dull the way of life they trod,—
Adorn'd their country, and adored their God!
Yes! 'tis our blessed lot to live in days
That Paine might well approve, and Cobbett praise;
Thurtells and Fauntleroys,—that fearless clan,
Who risk their necks to raise the name of man,
Unceasing rise, the gaping world astound,
Die unabash'd, and shed a halo round.
And say, without some daring, dashing soul,
Fierce in the cause, indignant of control,
With comet splendour in his course of crime—
Why, how could Fashion fool away her time?
That Paine might well approve, and Cobbett praise;
Thurtells and Fauntleroys,—that fearless clan,
Who risk their necks to raise the name of man,
Unceasing rise, the gaping world astound,
Die unabash'd, and shed a halo round.
And say, without some daring, dashing soul,
Fierce in the cause, indignant of control,
With comet splendour in his course of crime—
Why, how could Fashion fool away her time?
31
Now, sweet seductions, and adult'rers frail,
For sentimental drabs to weep and wail;
And juvenilian cutthroats, paid by tears,
That wash the blood-stain from their tender years,—
All, in their turn, supply the saintly isle
With tales that strike, and stories that beguile;
While the chaste press,—immortal babe of Truth!
Selects the rankest to instruct our youth,
And plaster'd shutters so intensely sue,
That crowds turn vicious as they loll to view.
For sentimental drabs to weep and wail;
And juvenilian cutthroats, paid by tears,
That wash the blood-stain from their tender years,—
All, in their turn, supply the saintly isle
With tales that strike, and stories that beguile;
While the chaste press,—immortal babe of Truth!
Selects the rankest to instruct our youth,
And plaster'd shutters so intensely sue,
That crowds turn vicious as they loll to view.
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And here, fair Muse! applaud the rich who roam
To sun-rouged lands,—and leave their debts at home;
Who catch the Gallic smile—th' Ausonian mien,
And glossy manners of a foreign scene,
And thence returning, kindly spread around
The continental itch on British ground.
To sun-rouged lands,—and leave their debts at home;
Who catch the Gallic smile—th' Ausonian mien,
And glossy manners of a foreign scene,
And thence returning, kindly spread around
The continental itch on British ground.
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So shall religion, dress, and language,—all
That once was British, be absorb'd in Gaul;
So shall each genuine trait of English growth
Dwindle away in dastard vice and sloth;
Candour shall yield unto obsequious art,
And “John Bull” in the Gallic ape depart.
That once was British, be absorb'd in Gaul;
So shall each genuine trait of English growth
Dwindle away in dastard vice and sloth;
Candour shall yield unto obsequious art,
And “John Bull” in the Gallic ape depart.
Refinement!—Say, in country or in town,
In lord or lubber, courtier or in clown,
Above, beneath,—where is not man refined?
Behold the glorious gallop of the mind!
O joy! we've lived Augustan times to see,
Scour'd from the rust of stern antiquity;
New means, new manners, and new morals rise,—
A new creation starts before our eyes!
In lord or lubber, courtier or in clown,
Above, beneath,—where is not man refined?
Behold the glorious gallop of the mind!
O joy! we've lived Augustan times to see,
Scour'd from the rust of stern antiquity;
New means, new manners, and new morals rise,—
A new creation starts before our eyes!
34
The sage and quack, the patriot and the rogue,
With fresh endowments lead the modern vogue;
Villains in show'rs descend upon the land,
The poor look wealthy, and the little grand;
Cooks for our wits,—the kitchen turn'd a court,—
Ethics in grins, philosophy in sport,—
Like an old shoe, all antient modes are cast
To rot and ruin—where we go at last.
With fresh endowments lead the modern vogue;
Villains in show'rs descend upon the land,
The poor look wealthy, and the little grand;
Cooks for our wits,—the kitchen turn'd a court,—
Ethics in grins, philosophy in sport,—
Like an old shoe, all antient modes are cast
To rot and ruin—where we go at last.
Then rise, accomplish'd country!—rise and strut—
Rouged and brocaded, like a sumptuous slut;
To all the world thy brazen aspect bend,—
Be foppish, fine, and fulsome without end.
Rouged and brocaded, like a sumptuous slut;
To all the world thy brazen aspect bend,—
Be foppish, fine, and fulsome without end.
Amid the gen'ral march, is learning left
To lag behind, unfoster'd and bereft?
Fie on the thought! where'er we turn to look,
The nation seems one universal book!
O'er N---n's trash bedridden beldames strain,
Wink their sore eyes, and sigh for youth again;
Pale miss in lavender, at sultry noon,
Pants o'er her luscious page, in wanton swoon;
While the fat cook, lit by some ardent lay,
Like a mould candle, melts and dies away!—
Why not? Must Knowledge pamper courts alone,
And plant her college round King George's throne?
Shall rank monopolize book, pen, and all
That arms the great, and terrifies the small?
Away! free as the wind let Knowledge reign,
Prance through the town, and canter o'er the plain;
Like a mad cracker, let her whisk and run,
And brighten every hole beneath the sun;
Refine the dustman, soothe the market jade,
And jumble rank, professions, arts, and trade;
From thrones to dung-heaps, let her queenship rule,
Till pert old England strut one pompous school!
To lag behind, unfoster'd and bereft?
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The nation seems one universal book!
O'er N---n's trash bedridden beldames strain,
Wink their sore eyes, and sigh for youth again;
Pale miss in lavender, at sultry noon,
Pants o'er her luscious page, in wanton swoon;
While the fat cook, lit by some ardent lay,
Like a mould candle, melts and dies away!—
Why not? Must Knowledge pamper courts alone,
And plant her college round King George's throne?
Shall rank monopolize book, pen, and all
That arms the great, and terrifies the small?
Away! free as the wind let Knowledge reign,
Prance through the town, and canter o'er the plain;
Like a mad cracker, let her whisk and run,
And brighten every hole beneath the sun;
36
And jumble rank, professions, arts, and trade;
From thrones to dung-heaps, let her queenship rule,
Till pert old England strut one pompous school!
“'Sdeath!” cries our Pericles, “would you presume
To fetter Knowledge—plunge the mind in gloom?
Not I! Long may her wanton wings expand!
May learning spread, and paper all the land!
Immortal glories, red-faced Richard, shine
On heads so honest, and so huge as thine;
Proceed!—vamp, print, and puff for infant kind,
From thine exhaustless anti-Newton mind.
To fetter Knowledge—plunge the mind in gloom?
Not I! Long may her wanton wings expand!
May learning spread, and paper all the land!
Immortal glories, red-faced Richard, shine
On heads so honest, and so huge as thine;
Proceed!—vamp, print, and puff for infant kind,
From thine exhaustless anti-Newton mind.
Squat on thy warehouse throne, of pamphlets piled,
Plump as a hen, cherubic as a child,
Methinks I see thee in a pensive mood,
Balance thy purse, and then—thy country's good, —
Till the full mind, o'ercome with grateful load,
Like a swell'd bladder, strains, and bursts abroad:—
“Come on, ye studious youths! advance and buy,—
None sell so cheap—none stitch so tight as I;
For you I've left the starry track above,
Drawn by the force of patriotic love;
For you I've pillaged from the pond'rous page,
And hash'd up wisdom to befit your age:
My words are wise, the meaning well express'd—
Read, mark, and learn, and inwardly digest;
Make me your model; debts and dues prolong;
And mind, when cash is short, that credit's strong!
Plump as a hen, cherubic as a child,
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Balance thy purse, and then—thy country's good, —
Till the full mind, o'ercome with grateful load,
Like a swell'd bladder, strains, and bursts abroad:—
“Come on, ye studious youths! advance and buy,—
None sell so cheap—none stitch so tight as I;
38
Drawn by the force of patriotic love;
For you I've pillaged from the pond'rous page,
And hash'd up wisdom to befit your age:
My words are wise, the meaning well express'd—
Read, mark, and learn, and inwardly digest;
Make me your model; debts and dues prolong;
And mind, when cash is short, that credit's strong!
One sorry truth, still, who will dare deny?
Though books are boundless, merit's vanish'd by;
And tasteful toil, and genius trimm'd with care,
That made our English models what they are,
Are unregarded now,—when all can write
And thrust incondite twaddle on the sight.
Though books are boundless, merit's vanish'd by;
And tasteful toil, and genius trimm'd with care,
That made our English models what they are,
Are unregarded now,—when all can write
And thrust incondite twaddle on the sight.
39
Facility
—that dismal, dreadful curse!
Has mangled prose, and victimised our verse;—
Has made our lit'rature a public pool,
To catch the brain-dregs of the hack and fool;
Where all may go, and dabble as they will,
And drop the crude disasters of their quill,
Till the base mess has bred to such decay,
That Genius looks—and turns, half sick, away.
Has mangled prose, and victimised our verse;—
Has made our lit'rature a public pool,
To catch the brain-dregs of the hack and fool;
Where all may go, and dabble as they will,
And drop the crude disasters of their quill,
Till the base mess has bred to such decay,
That Genius looks—and turns, half sick, away.
40
Say, ye who love to haunt that fruitful mine,
Where truth and taste in glowing union shine;
Who love the page by mellow genius fraught,
The teeming fancy, and the beauteous thought,
The wit and feeling—all that nameless grace
That marks the sterling talent from the base,—
Can ye admire th' unmeaning modern gang,
Who manufacture tomes of trash and slang,
The effervescent fume of ropy brains,
Begot by dulness, and brought forth with pains?
Where truth and taste in glowing union shine;
Who love the page by mellow genius fraught,
The teeming fancy, and the beauteous thought,
The wit and feeling—all that nameless grace
That marks the sterling talent from the base,—
Can ye admire th' unmeaning modern gang,
Who manufacture tomes of trash and slang,
The effervescent fume of ropy brains,
Begot by dulness, and brought forth with pains?
Plain English, undefiled, correctly pure,
Where native force and nervous sounds allure,
Now rarely greets us in the gauzy page,
Spun out to suit this puffing, piping age.
In Latin patch-work, and in French brocade,
Twisted and tortured, see our language fade;
A mongrel compost, called a polished style,
Mere flippant, fine-wove drivel, crude and vile—
With this the greasy press eternal teems,—
For this Rag Fair is robb'd to raise the reams!
Where native force and nervous sounds allure,
Now rarely greets us in the gauzy page,
Spun out to suit this puffing, piping age.
41
Twisted and tortured, see our language fade;
A mongrel compost, called a polished style,
Mere flippant, fine-wove drivel, crude and vile—
With this the greasy press eternal teems,—
For this Rag Fair is robb'd to raise the reams!
But, sure! our modern page may proudly show
Its racy humour, and its easy flow,—
And pathos,—sprinkled o'er with dots and strokes,
And sudden bars to serve for equivoques,
While lean italics every period mark,
And plunge rank nonsense further in the dark;
When thus bedeck'd, a book may make pretence
To all the graces of excluded sense!
Its racy humour, and its easy flow,—
And pathos,—sprinkled o'er with dots and strokes,
And sudden bars to serve for equivoques,
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And plunge rank nonsense further in the dark;
When thus bedeck'd, a book may make pretence
To all the graces of excluded sense!
A book original, oh! who can find,
Amid the wordy waste of modern mind?
Though tomes on tomes come chirping by the score,
They are but skeletons of trash before.
Dull scribbling cannibals, our authors sit,
And grin, and gorge upon each other's wit;
From stuff to stuff, triumphant they proceed,
And steal or lend, as empty skulls may need;
From hand to hand it goes, till hunted down,—
One good idea serves a reading town!
Amid the wordy waste of modern mind?
Though tomes on tomes come chirping by the score,
They are but skeletons of trash before.
Dull scribbling cannibals, our authors sit,
And grin, and gorge upon each other's wit;
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And steal or lend, as empty skulls may need;
From hand to hand it goes, till hunted down,—
One good idea serves a reading town!
And Poetry—the very sound will throw
A bankrupt gloom on Paternoster Row,
Who mourns not for her unredeem'd disgrace,
Defiled by such a reptile rhyming race,
Who crawl and drag their slimy verse around,
Like creeping snails upon the humid ground?
O! was there not a muse-ennobled time,
When Glory hover'd round the hallow'd rhyme,
And poesy was deem'd celestial art,
To charm and tune the life-strings of the heart?
When cultur'd Genius held the pen's control,
And dash'd the feeling burning from the soul,
While Fancy caught th' immortal spark of fire,
Blazed it in verse, and bade a world admire?
A bankrupt gloom on Paternoster Row,
Who mourns not for her unredeem'd disgrace,
Defiled by such a reptile rhyming race,
Who crawl and drag their slimy verse around,
Like creeping snails upon the humid ground?
O! was there not a muse-ennobled time,
When Glory hover'd round the hallow'd rhyme,
And poesy was deem'd celestial art,
To charm and tune the life-strings of the heart?
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And dash'd the feeling burning from the soul,
While Fancy caught th' immortal spark of fire,
Blazed it in verse, and bade a world admire?
That time hath fled!—Then, poetry was mind,
Turn'd into print, by innate force inclined;
Not the sick dreamings of a drowsy head,
Steep'd in the dulness of the page that's read;
Nor foggy raptures of a six years' strain,
Or meagre drippings of a barren brain.
Turn'd into print, by innate force inclined;
Not the sick dreamings of a drowsy head,
Steep'd in the dulness of the page that's read;
Nor foggy raptures of a six years' strain,
Or meagre drippings of a barren brain.
Alack! for Poetry—each numskull now,
At the bare word, lifts up his mocking brow,
Hooks his nice nose, dilates his staring eye,
And then, with shrugging pertness, speeds to cry—
“Read poetry! that trashy, turbid stuff!
So vile, it wont repay a Sunday Puff!
The world's rhyme-bloated,—burn your luckless verse,
And spare at once your credit and your purse;
Once dubbed a “poet,” and that odious name
Will cast a vap'ry shadow round your fame.”
At the bare word, lifts up his mocking brow,
Hooks his nice nose, dilates his staring eye,
And then, with shrugging pertness, speeds to cry—
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So vile, it wont repay a Sunday Puff!
The world's rhyme-bloated,—burn your luckless verse,
And spare at once your credit and your purse;
Once dubbed a “poet,” and that odious name
Will cast a vap'ry shadow round your fame.”
Ask ye the reason, why the Muse, distress'd,
Weeps o'er her classic laurels once possess'd?
Go, find it in the hourly grubs that rise,
From ponds of tear-drops, and from caves of sighs.
Who sweat and swell, then burst abroad in verse,
And make themselves and poesy a curse!
How shall we number all the whining gang
Of mope-eyed things, that sound their ceaseless twang!
What odes, and elegies, on cats and dogs,
What brilliant pictures of romantic fogs!
What splay-foot madrigals—what ragged lays,
In every spot obtrude upon the gaze!
From the pert monthly patch of couplets small,
To the brown distich on a barber's wall.
Weeps o'er her classic laurels once possess'd?
Go, find it in the hourly grubs that rise,
From ponds of tear-drops, and from caves of sighs.
Who sweat and swell, then burst abroad in verse,
And make themselves and poesy a curse!
How shall we number all the whining gang
Of mope-eyed things, that sound their ceaseless twang!
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What brilliant pictures of romantic fogs!
What splay-foot madrigals—what ragged lays,
In every spot obtrude upon the gaze!
From the pert monthly patch of couplets small,
To the brown distich on a barber's wall.
Like a mix'd herd of pigs, the sons of rhyme,
Methinks I see them up Parnassus climb:
One grunts an epic with a hideous howl,
And nods his pond'rous head, and shakes his jowl;
Another, half between a grunt and groan,
Snuffles along, delighted with his tone;
The last, a little whimp'ring, frisky thing,
Squeaks a shrill stanza on the state and king.
Methinks I see them up Parnassus climb:
One grunts an epic with a hideous howl,
And nods his pond'rous head, and shakes his jowl;
Another, half between a grunt and groan,
Snuffles along, delighted with his tone;
The last, a little whimp'ring, frisky thing,
Squeaks a shrill stanza on the state and king.
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Two faults, amid ten thousand more, combine
To bring dishonour on the poet's line;
Facility and Dulness:—both alike
With sickly weariness the reader strike:
First comes your vain-struck versifying fool,
Who boasts at every hour his rhyme to rule;
So acquiescent is his frothy Muse,
She drivels nonsense whensoe'er he choose;
By sea or land—at supper or at tea—
Abed or up—one living rhyme is he!
To bring dishonour on the poet's line;
Facility and Dulness:—both alike
With sickly weariness the reader strike:
First comes your vain-struck versifying fool,
Who boasts at every hour his rhyme to rule;
So acquiescent is his frothy Muse,
She drivels nonsense whensoe'er he choose;
By sea or land—at supper or at tea—
Abed or up—one living rhyme is he!
And round him, when he takes his quill in hand,
What viewless trash-inspiring Spirits stand!
First, Flippancy with her insensate tongue,
Then Metaphor amid her daubings hung,
Then Rhyme, with bells upon her hands and toes,
And nimble Nonsense cackling as she goes!
Thus aided, boldly is the strain begun,
And ready lines like loosen'd sluices run;
While in one changeless, inexpressive chime,
The syllables rush scamp'ring into rhyme!
What viewless trash-inspiring Spirits stand!
First, Flippancy with her insensate tongue,
Then Metaphor amid her daubings hung,
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And nimble Nonsense cackling as she goes!
Thus aided, boldly is the strain begun,
And ready lines like loosen'd sluices run;
While in one changeless, inexpressive chime,
The syllables rush scamp'ring into rhyme!
Meanwhile, upon the canvass of his mind,
What Claude-like scenes of gaudy tints refined;
Landscapes, supplied with prime Parnassian trees,
And virgin sighs inserted in the breeze;
Moon, lake, and grove—and all the colours due,
In one rich mess rise on the reader's view!
How bright it looks! the words how smooth and fine!
“Dear me!” cries Flimsy, “can such strains be mine?'
What Claude-like scenes of gaudy tints refined;
Landscapes, supplied with prime Parnassian trees,
And virgin sighs inserted in the breeze;
Moon, lake, and grove—and all the colours due,
In one rich mess rise on the reader's view!
How bright it looks! the words how smooth and fine!
“Dear me!” cries Flimsy, “can such strains be mine?'
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Enough:—the pen is wiped,—the piece complete,
And, like a twelfth-cake, figured, spruce, and sweet;
Then serv'd up to the public's sated eye,—
The stupid praise—but all refuse to buy!
Still unabash'd, the Bard retires to write,
With desp'rate fury, for his own delight.
And, like a twelfth-cake, figured, spruce, and sweet;
Then serv'd up to the public's sated eye,—
The stupid praise—but all refuse to buy!
Still unabash'd, the Bard retires to write,
With desp'rate fury, for his own delight.
Then comes your drowsy, dull, afflicting bore,
Infused with all the verse he's read before:
With many a long and uncongenial strain,
He melts a line from out his frosty brain:
So from the roof-tops, when the sun is felt,
Reluctant snows in liquid crystal melt:
Unmoved by genius, whose warm flames inspire,
And o'er the page exhale a mental fire,
With graceless toil he plies his stubborn art,
And writes too faultless to awake the heart;
Obtusely chaste, and so correct indeed,
Our heads grow sleepy as we try to read;
Till tired and sicken'd with the languid stuff,
We curse the poet, and exclaim, “Enough!”
Infused with all the verse he's read before:
With many a long and uncongenial strain,
He melts a line from out his frosty brain:
So from the roof-tops, when the sun is felt,
Reluctant snows in liquid crystal melt:
Unmoved by genius, whose warm flames inspire,
And o'er the page exhale a mental fire,
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And writes too faultless to awake the heart;
Obtusely chaste, and so correct indeed,
Our heads grow sleepy as we try to read;
Till tired and sicken'd with the languid stuff,
We curse the poet, and exclaim, “Enough!”
Noticulæ Quædam.
“Μηνιν αειδε, --- ---.”“Of man's first disobedience, &c.”
—Milton.
“The mighty mother, and her son, who brings
The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings,
I sing!”
The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings,
I sing!”
Dunciad.
Noticulæ Quædam.
“Our ancestry, a gallant Christian race,Patterns of ev'ry virtue, ev'ry grace.”
—Cowper.
Noticulæ Quædam. There is one thing, which the author ventures to think, that has escaped the notice of our philanthropical patriots—the state of the Sunday Press:—To describe red-faced peasants, romantically dissecting the news over their ale, is very pretty in poetry; but the plain truth is, that the quantity of filth, obscenity, and blasphemy diffused through the nation every Monday morning, forms a complete bar to every patriotic attempt; for what the mechanics, &c. &c. have learnt during the six days, is undone or debased by what they peruse on the Sabbath; on which day a number of journals present them with a faithful record of all the bestial occurrences and disgusting depravities of the week: the placard-bills which plaster the shutters of the news' offices in the metropolis, on Sunday mornings, are, in themselves, a powerful satire on the morals of the people.
Noticulæ Quædam. This personage is by no means singular in his patriotism: generally speaking, the origin of modern patriotism, when traced home, is nothing else but self-interest: Cobbett, &c. &c. &c., and similar democratical buffoons, would have been hotheaded tories, if they could have made the same money by it as they have by bellowing and blustering about “the rights of the people.” But the “people” love to have their betters abused; and he who can fire away in a furious style against rank, and howl industriously the decay of liberty, &c. &c., and, like the clap-trap makers in the comedies of the day, introduce magnanimous nonsense about “a Briton,” becomes the darling of all the scum in the country.
Noticulæ Quædam. In Addison's time, an author was a complete magnet in society; in ours, he is quite a common-place character, often to be shunned rather than courted.—Indeed, such are now the multitudes of book-makers, that you can scarcely put your head into a decent drawing-room, without running it against some one who is “The Author” of certain celebrated rubbish:—“That's Mr. So-and-so; don't you know him? he is the author of—.” “Is he, indeed?—Humph—can't say I ever read his work!”
Noticulæ Quædam. This is one of the tricks very popular among the trashpurveyors of the day. Pigmy ideas, when introduced amid the pomp of breaks, interjections, and interrogations, remind one of puss in pattens:—“Let us, instead of writing finely, try to write naturally; not hunt after lofty expressions to deliver mean ideas, nor be for ever gaping when we only mean to deliver a whisper.”—Goldsmith.
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