a glass of wine, and the next
tavern stands open for their reception. This is the natural
catastrophe of a serious perusal of the fire-adventure; and
I believe it has ended this way much oftener than in any
good way. Thus if her flighty Ladyship would be impartial in
the execution of her sentence, we may easily conjecture what
would become of Samuel Richardson, at least of his works.

_Let me whisper you, Charlotte.--Ought not this writer of
the amorous class (could his future genius for loose and
lascivious description have been known) to have been
strangled in his cradle?--I see the charming archness rising
in your eyes, which makes one both love you and fear
you.--Yet you look meditatingly--Tell me, thou dear flighty
creature--Am I not right?--Very right, Sir.--Huzzah,
Sam.--well said--that's a good girl--give me a buss for
that, Hussy--Heyday, SIRR--Who allows you these liberties,
SIRR!--I take them, Charlotte.--Do not think you have
wemmell'd me quite--so none of your scrupulosities with me
Varletess--but oh! what an eye-beam was there,--she has
soul-harrow'd me by her frowns,--yet her anger may slide off
on its own ice.--Then hey for lady Goosecap,--O Jack, the
charmingest bosom, ever mine eyes beheld._ * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This is a small specimen of the manner and stile
_Richardsonian_, _that is my word_, so greatly and so
justly admired by the present age, with which, no less than
eighteen large volumes are stuffed from beginning to end.
But to return to our argument.

You have been already found fault with for the shocking
description Jack Belford gives of that levy of damsels who
attended mother Sinclair on her death-bed, such a scene must
certainly be shocking enough, yet could not be near so much
on the part of the ladies as is represented; but it must be
remembered, that Jackey had then _got into his Horribles_,
as Bob terms it, and, as Bays has it, he rounded it off
egad. I have one great objection to all such descriptions
which is implied in the verses above cited from Mr. Pope,
but there is another and a greater against this, that it is
contrary to truth. Few, or none of our English ladies of
pleasure exercise the mystery of painting, and bating the
odoriferous particles of gin, which sometimes exhale from
their breaths, there are many of them, without any
disparagement, as little slatternly in their persons, as
most other fine ladies i