The foot-passengers run along as if they were
pursued by bailiffs. The porters and chairmen trot with their
burthens. People, who keep their own equipages, drive through the
streets at full speed. Even citizens, physicians, and
apothecaries, glide in their chariots like lightening. The
hackney-coachmen make their horses smoke, and the pavement shakes
under them; and I have actually seen a waggon pass through
Piccadilly at the hand-gallop. In a word, the whole nation seems
to be running out of their wits.
The diversions of the times are not ill suited to the genius of
this incongruous monster, called the public. Give it noise,
confusion, glare, and glitter; it has no idea of elegance and
propriety -- What are the amusements of Ranelagh? One half of the
company are following at the other's tails, in an eternal circle;
like so many blind asses in an olive-mill, where they can neither
discourse, distinguish, nor be distinguished; while the other
half are drinking hot water, under the denomination of tea, till
nine or ten o'clock at night, to keep them awake for the rest of
the evening. As for the orchestra, the vocal music especially, it
is well for the performers that they cannot be heard distinctly.
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