1801.
January 1, 1801. The Epicure. Published by S. W. Fores. (See [1788].)
January 1, 1801. A Money Scrivener. (Companion to [A Counsellor].) S. W. Fores, 50 Piccadilly.—The scrivener inhabits a poor, squalid office; his clerk is perched on a high stool by the window. The worthy wears a nightcap, and has a quill behind his ear; he is poring over a ledger at a tumbledown desk; one finger on his nose illustrates his absorption in some weighty deliberation. Files of accounts and boxes of deeds and papers form the rest of the scrivener's surroundings.
January 1, 1801. [A Counsellor.] Published by S. W. Fores, 50 Piccadilly.
A COUNSELLOR.
January 1801. The Union. Published by Ackermann.—Pitt, a burlesque St. George, clad in armour, is seated on the British bull, who is horn-locked, nose to nose, snorting forth challenges in the face of the furious Irish bull, on which is mounted St. Patrick, with mitre and crozier. The national Irish saint, whose beard gives him the expression of a Jew, is crying, ''Pon my conscience I don't know what you call it, but the deuce of anything like a Union do I see, except their horns being fastened together.' Pitt replies, 'Never fear, St. Patrick; all will be yet very well; they are a little restive at first, but they will take to it kindly enough by and by, I'll warrant you.'
January 1, 1801. [A Jew Broker.] Published by S. W. Fores, 50 Piccadilly.—Shylock, with his bond in the pocket of his gaberdine and his crutch-stick under his arm, is abstractedly polishing his glasses, although his watchful eyes are sharp enough without any artificial assistance, as he stands at the corner of Duke's Place, then the accepted rallying-point of his tribe. His face expresses a profoundly baffled emotion, which is portrayed with a masterly hand. He is musing, in abject despair, over a chance lost, a bargain missed, a gain which has slipped through his prehensile fingers. Some Antonio of our modern Venice founded on the shores of the Thames has escaped his toils; some point of law, a flaw in the indentures, mayhap, has been turned to account by a later 'Daniel come to judgment—a wise young judge,' to whom the disconcerted Hebrew is finally loth to offer his gratitude. He seemingly mumbles, with the pertinacity of Shylock:—