(A.) The Libraries.
There is a sort of rivalry between the two Librarians on the Steyne, as to their subscription books; which shall most justly deserve the title of the book of Numbers.—There is a constant struggle between them, which shall be most courteous; and the effects are those usually consequent upon an opposition. Sir Christopher Caustic, this morning was turning over the leaves, at Bowen’s, which contain the names of the subscribers. Mr. Bowen bowed a la Novarre or Gallini, and with offered pen and ink, craved the honour of—an additional name: this being his first season, and having been purposely misinformed by some would-be-witty wag; “Sir,” said Mr. Bowen, displaying, all the time, two irregular rows of remarkably white teeth, “yours will stand immediately after that of the Honourable Charles James Fox, Esq., and before that of Mrs. Franco, the rich Jew’s lady. Esquire W——d’s was to have been on the medium line, but, poor gentleman, he is unfortunately detained near London, on emergent business.” To what a degree was the dealer in stationery let down, when he was afterwards regularly rectified; when by explanatory notes, and critical commentations, he came to be fully informed that the individual Mr. Fox in question was not the celebrated senator of that name, but an Irish Jontleman, who condescends in winter to keep a chop house at the corner of the play-house passage, in Bow Street, Covent Garden; and every autumnal season, has frequent opportunities of storming and swearing at the ladies who may have the good fortune to belong to the Brighthelmstone company of Comedians, he being sole manager thereof. And such management!—Scarrons Rancour, who filled all the characters in a play by himself, was a fool to him....
Mr. Thomas, the other librarian, must be noticed in turn. He hath been years enough practising small talk with the ladies and gentlemen upon the Steyne, and hath arrived at a surprising degree of precision in pronouncing French-English. He is now reading the newspaper to some of his subscribers, with an audible voice, and repeatedly calls a detached body of troops a corpse; a tour he improves into a tower; and delivers his words in a promiscas manner. It is near seven in the evening, and the widow Fussic has just waddled into his shop, with a parasol in her right, and a spying-glass in her left hand. Thomas offers her a General Advertiser. “Lord bless me!” says she, “Mr. Thomas, how damp this paper is, tho’ it has come so far, and must have been printed so long since! What reason can you give for it?”—Mr. Thomas observes, considers and explains, in a most explicit manner, the cause and the effect, to the inquisitive lady, naturally speaking, as a body may say; proving to a demonstration, according to Candide, that there can be no effect without a cause; and that of course, damp papers, closely compressed, will continue damp a considerable time. In the interim, Miss Fanny Fussic stares and whispers to her brother Bobby, while he is subscribing to a raffle, that Mr. Thomas must be a most prodigious man monstrously intelligent, and withal, that he is amazingly communicative: “He knows but every-thing,” says she, “and tells but every-thing he knows.”