A few mems must close this weak and impotent description:—a few recollections snatched amidst the fascination of the whole place! We observed that the mode in which our artist expelled a troublesome double enemy put an end to the usual interpretation of Zanga's famous exclamation,
"The flesh will follow where the pincers tear!"
The pincers might be used, but the flesh did not follow,—the eye-tooth came out as clean as a smelt. Mr. D. had several pictures in enamel, which were much to be valued; and he had in his hall a portrait by the late Sir Thomas Lawrence of Mr. Cartwright—and likenesses by H. B. in one of his closets, of Howard, Imrie, Sanford, Clarke, Jones, Parkinson, Hayes, Biggs, Rogers, &c. &c. which are allowed to be, by all observers, admirable works of art. There is a slight attempt at Mallan in mineral succedaneum, which appears to be falling away—we will not say decaying.
One nuisance there is, and we cannot as honest historians pass it over; the street, in which our D. lives, is disturbed, distracted, by an excess of music, amounting, arising indeed, into a decided case of "organic disease." The grinders making a point—it would seem a pointed point—of showing themselves in the very front of that building,—which is opposed to anything defective in the front!
As we were about to depart from this attractive spot—not spot—place,—we saw Charles Taylor or Tom Cooke slipping away with every tooth perfect, and yet not without a falsetto. Some musical wag however still remained, and by permission of the butler (a drawer of corks in large practice) we were allowed to hear the following song; and we shall print it at once without comment, explanation, or excuse,
"For, oh! Sir Thomas's own sonnet
Beats all that we can say upon it."
SONG,
For the Private Theatre or the Drawing-room.
Air—Not "Pull away, pull away, pull away, my hearties!"—Dibdin.