A disgusting scene of uproar and confusion followed, which we shall not attempt to detail. The Chairman sank under the table in a state of stupefaction, and the rest of the Company, maddened alike with noise and wine, committed a thousand outrages, till they were literally turned into the streets by the Waiters. As many of them as could speak were conducted home by the watchmen; others were conveyed “in silent majesty” to the Round-house; and not a few of them slept out the remainder of the night upon the steps of the neighbouring houses. The Reporters of the Jacobin Papers were sought out, and conveyed home by the pressmen, devils, &c., and one poor youth, whom we afterwards found to be a Writer in the Morning Chronicle (hired for the day by The True Briton)[[115]] had his pockets picked of a clean white Handkerchief and a Notebook, after being severely beaten for deserting his former Employers.
No. XIV.
Feb. 12, 1798.
It has been our invariable custom to suppress such of our correspondents’ favours as conveyed any compliments to ourselves; and we have deviated from it in the present instance, not so much out of respect to the uncommon excellence of the Poem before us, as because it agrees so intimately with the general design of our paper—to expose the deformity of the French Revolution, to counteract the detestable arts of those who are seeking to introduce it here, and above all, to invigorate the exertions of our countrymen against every Foe, foreign and domestic, by showing them the immense and inexhaustible resources they yet possess in British Courage and British Virtue!
TO
THE AUTHOR OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.
Foe to thy country’s foes! ’tis THINE to claim
From Britain’s genuine sons a British fame—
Too long French manners our fair isle disgraced;
Too long French fashions shamed our native taste.