r for his voucher.

With these extraordinary talents and accomplishments, Sir Timothy
Tittle[239] puts men in vogue, or condemns them to obscurity, and sits
as judge of life and death upon every author that appears in public. It
is impossible to represent the pangs, agonies, and convulsions which Sir
Timothy expresses in every feature of his face, and muscle of his body,
upon the reading of a bad poet.

About a week ago I was engaged at a friend's of mine in an agreeable
conversation with his wife and daughters, when in the height of our
mirth, Sir Timothy, who makes love to my friend's eldest daughter, came
in amongst us puffing and blowing as if he had been very much out of
breath. He immediately called for a chair, and desired leave to sit
down, without any further ceremony. I asked him where he had been?
whether he was out of order? He only replied, that he was quite spent,
and fell a-cursing in soliloquy. I could hear him cry, "A wicked rogue;"
"An execrable wretch;" "Was there ever such a monster?" The young ladies
upon this began to be affrighted, and asked whether any one had hurt
him? He answered nothing, but still talked to himself. "To lay the first
scene," says he, "in St. James's Park, and the last in Northamptonshire."
"Is that all?" says I. "Then I suppose you have been at the rehearsal of
a play this morning?" "Been!" says he; "I have been at Northampton, in
the Park, in a lady's bed-chamber, in a dining-room, everywhere; the
rogue has led me such a dance." Though I could scarce forbear laughing
at his discourse, I told him I was glad it was no worse, and that he was
only metaphorically weary. "In short, sir," says he, "the author has not
observed a single unity in his whole play; the scene shifts in every
dialogue; the villain has hurried me up and down at such a rate, that I
am tired off my legs." I could not but observe with some pleasure, that
the young lady whom he made love to conceived a very just aversion to
him, upon seeing him so very passionate in trifles. And as she had that
natural sense which makes her a better judge than a thousand critics,
she began to rally him upon this foolish humour. "For my part," says
she, "I never knew a play take that was written up to your rules, as you
call them." "How, madam!" says he; "is that your opinion? I am sure you
have a better taste." "It is a pretty kind of magic," says she, "the
poets have, to transport an audience from place to place without the
he