Great GEORGE spouting subdues all the inhabitants of the
wilderness. Timid deer trip to the shore to listen; ferocious bears,
catching the echo, shed tears of penitence; all creatures of the roaring
kind acknowledge themselves surpassed and silenced; the whispering pines
whisper all the more softly, as if ashamed of their own verbal weakness.
All speeches, even the speeches of a TRAIN, must come to an end; and
having ended, the floating DEMOSTHENES sits down to write to the
newspapers, that he has just been delivered of his four-hundred-and-
twenty-second, and is as well as could be expected.
Mr. PUNCHINELLO has, in his day, been considered talkative; but he
feels, as he listens to GEORGE FRANCIS, that he is himself a marvel of
taciturnity--that in the noble art of sounding his own trumpet he is
a mere child--that as a contributor to the public amusement he is in
danger of falling into paltry insignificance. Alas! he is not the
marvellous mountebank which he has heretofore considered himself to be;
and the nonsense upon which he so prided himself, in comparison with
the nonsense of GEORGE FRANCIS, sinks into the most melancholy and
insufferable wisdom.
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