Grand Chorus. Now to Cæcilia, heavenly maid, The salt-box with clattering and clapping shall sound; The iron lyre Buzzing twang with wav'ring wire ; The hurdy-gurdy sadly thrum ; And the merry, merry marrow-bones ring round. Such matchless strains Cæcilia knew When angels from their heavenly sphere By harmony's strong power she drew, Whilst every spirit above would gladly stoop to hear.' This strange burlesque Ode, of which it would now be almost impossible to procure a copy, retained a hold on the public fancy much longer than might have been expected. [1763] Bonnell Thornton had just published,' says Boswell,* a burlesque Ode on St. Cæcilia's Day, adapted to the ancient British music. . . Johnson praised its humour and seemed much diverted with it. He repeated the following passage: 44 ... 'In strains more exalted the salt box shall join," &c.' There was nothing our forefathers of the eighteenth century loved more than to carry a joke 'right through.' The Ode being still in vogue about 1769, it was in that year actually performed with all the grotesque accompaniments Thornton had invoked-'at Ranelagh, in masks, before a very crowded audience.' Dr. Burney had set it to music. 'Beard sang the salt-box song, which was admirably accompanied on that instrument by Brent, the fencing *The matter is not of great consequence, but we must mention that both Boswell, and Croker in his notes to Boswell, seem under misapprehension as to the first appearance of this Ode. Croker supposes the date, 1749, of the copy he had seen to be a mistake for 1769. But that 1749 is correct is proved by Thornton himself quoting from the Ode in 1752: For, as the poet Fustian Sackbut sweetly sings, Buzzing twangs the iron lyre,' &c. (Have at you all, No. 4, 6th February 1752). master, and father of Miss Brent, the celebrated singer; Skeggs on the broomstick, as bassoon; and a remarkable performer on the Jew's harp, "Buzzing twangs the iron lyre." Cleavers were cast in bellmetal for this entertainment. All the performers of the Old Woman's Oratory, employed by Foote, were, I believe, employed at Ranelagh on this occasion.'* We need only mention, as a more ambitious effort of Thornton in the line of comic verse, his Battle of the Wigs, a Mockheroic Poem; being an additional Canto to Dr. Garth's Dispensary, which was his latest effusion of the sort, appearing in 1768, the year of his death. There is but little in this calculated to amuse now, excellent piece of wit as it was considered at the time. The subject was the disputes which had arisen between the Fellows and the Licentiates of the College of Physicians concerning their respective rights. As a matter of fact it appears an attempt was made by the Licentiates to force the collegegates in Warwick Lane, and gain admittance, which the Fellows denied them, to their councils. This contest Thornton invoked the Muse to celebrate in strains which sounded highly ingenious' at the time, but which read stolidly enough now. The Fellows in possession of the building in Warwick Lane resolve on a vigorous defence. They have also procured a formidable body of auxiliaries to their strength : 'Within the gates, close bolted, locked, and barred, Of neighb'ring butchers stands an awful guard; The foe the whetting-iron hears dismayed, Grating harsh music from the sharp'ning blade.' (This, it appears, was a current report of the time.) Note by Burney in Boswell's Life. Licentiato and his bands beseeching heavenly assistance in their attack, Venus persuades Vulcan to descend upon earth, by whom, in the form of a blacksmith, the doors are broken open (this forcing by a blacksmith was a fact). The war-cries, tumult, conflict, &c., of the two parties are described. Amity is at length restored by the apparition of Pluto, who harangues them, concluding his appeal with a reminder of their joint interests: 'While ye dispute and quarrel for a word, Behold your patients are to health restored! (The killing of numbers of patients,' quotes Thornton from Garth apologetically, 'is so trite a piece of raillery, that it ought not to make any ill impression.') In 1752, stimulated by the launch into popularity of the Covent Garden Journal of Fielding, Thornton commenced a weekly sheet in the guise of mock rivalry, entitled Have at you all, or the Drury Lane Journal. This did not continue long. Twelve numbers are preserved in the library of the British Museum. They exhibit considerable humour, of true eighteenth-century type. In one of them occurs a parody of the style of Johnson's Ramblers, which were then in course of issue ('his style,' writes Boswell, did not escape the harmless shafts of pleasant humour, for the ingenious Bonnell Thornton published a mock "Rambler" in the Drury Lane Journal'). Fielding's Amelia was also parodied in a pretended chapter thereof. The following supposed correspondence between a bookseller and an author might be taken as a commentary on Hogarth's picture of the Distressed Poet:' 'Mr. Spinwit,-I have sent you a couple of shillings for your last piece, which is all I can spare at present, having got no more nor seven shillings by it, but hope to be able to send you sixpence more before the week's out. Indeed, Mr. Spinwit, you must live a little frugaller, for very few things nowadays don't answer so as to pay. You must let me have another sheet of Miss Blandy's Life out of hand. I sha'n't allow you nothing for the last five pages; for 'tis only transmogrify'd out of the Memoirs of the Marchioness de L***. Indeed, if you sarve me so, I sha'n't employ you no longer, I tell you so; so do as you will. I must have something against the rising of the Parliament, but take care you don't say nothing to be taken up for. I paid Goody Soapsuds three halfpence for washing your sleeves with ruffles against Sunday. partner has just left off his everyday peruke, and will give it you; and we shall only charge you eighteen pence for it on account. My I won't buy no more verses of you poetry is a mere thing—a mere drug-& hangs heavier upon our hands than anything except sermons. You know I printed a little thing in verse of my own making; & it had merit;-but it didn't sell.-Can't you do nothing in my Lord BOLINGBROKE's name? or against Justice FIELDING? Nothing else goes down. 'I have sent you my commonplace book of subjects and titlepages, so pick and choose whichsomever you will, and send me your terms. Your friend to serve, 'EZEKIEL PAGE. 'P.S. I have printed a tragical account of all the murders committed within this twelvemonth; so draw me up an humorous advertisement to puff it off, & I will allow you twopence.' The Author's Answer. 'Worthy Sir,-My distresses multiply upon me so fast, and my finances are so low, that instead of being extravagant, I declare upon my honour I have never more than half a pint of gill ale every evening warmed, between my poor wife & myself. On Sunday, as I shall be able to go abroad, I will do myself the honour to thank Mr. Foolscap in person for his peruke. Really, sir, I often exclaim with Martial, "Me literulas stulti docuere parentes," and wish I had never handled a pen. But, alas, what can I do? Chained to the oar, I impotently rave, Condemned to tug, a scribbling galleyslave!" 'I have finished Epistle from Miss B an Heroic to Capt. C, consisting of ninety-two lines, & will make a twelver easily. You shall have it at a farthing a line and threepence the preface. I will not take under sixteen pence a sheet for my new novel, which you know may be bumped into four volumes; & I assure you I had rather starve by inches than sell it under the market price. I am extremely obliged to you for recommending my little Ben to serve as devil to Mr. Pica your printer, as for all other favours conferred onYour unworthy humble servant, SIMON SPINWIT.' Such miseries of authorship as Thornton has sketched here, with but partial comic exaggeration, he himself appears to have been shielded from through life by the inheritance of a moderate competence. Indeed his life was an exceptionally smooth one; and it is the more to be regretted that his liveliness of disposition carried him into habitual excesses of conviviality, which probably conduced to his death before attaining the prime of life. In marriage Thornton was fortunate, espousing in 1754 Sylvia, youngest daughter of Colonel Braith waite, Governor of Cape Coast Castle. With this lady he enjoyed great domestic felicity till his death, in 1768, at the age of forty-four. As a man there appears to have been in Thornton's character nothing to blame, save his addiction to intemperance-the vice of the age. On the other hand, beyond the merit of being a highly agreeable companion and an attached husband, there is but little to praise; and a marked want of generosity has been imputed to him as regarded his old friend and schoolfellow Lloyd, but we may hope perhaps wrongly, or through the exaggeration caused by a distressed mind. * The most singular instance of the extreme sportiveness of Thornton's genius occurred in 1762, when he carried out with vigour and success a freak on a large scale, which would surely have never entered any one's brains but those of the author of the burlesque Ode on St. Cæcilia's Day. This was an Exhibition of Sign Paintings, which amused the public by its practical rivalry of the Exhibition of the Society for the Encouragement of Arts, a well-meant but short-lived predecessor of our existing Royal Academy. The public attention having been stirred up for some months previously by advertisements and witty 'puffs'-the composition of Thornton himself-calculated to excite curiosity, the * Lloyd was languishing in the Fleet Prison for debt, his only relief from absolute starvation a sum of a guinea a week which Churchill sent to him. 'Thornton,' says poor Lloyd, in a letter to Wilkes just after Churchill's death, 'is what you thought him. I have many acquaintances, but now no friend!' Thornton, in easy circumstances, might well have lent a hand with, or instead of, the harassed Churchill. Re probate though the latter was, great warmth of heart existed in that 'only friend' of Lloyd, who shortly followed him to the grave. A story very much to his credit is narrated in that curious old novel, Chrysal, or the Adventures of a Guinea. See also Genuine Memoirs of Churchill. 'Grand Exhibition of the Society of Sign Painters'was opened in a large building in Bow Street, Covent Garden, simultaneously with the graver and more legitimate Exhibition. 'On entering the Grand Room you find yourself in a large and commodious apartment, hung round with green bays, on which this curious collection of wooden originals is fixed flat (like the signs at present in Paris), and from whence hang keys, bells, swords, poles, sugar-loaves, tobacco-rolls, candles, and other ornamental furniture, carved in wood, such as commonly dangle from the pent-houses of the different shops in our streets. On the chimney-board (to imitate the style of the catalogue) is a large blazing Fire, painted in Water Colours; and within a kind of cupola or dome, which lets the light into the room, is written in golden capitals, upon a blue ground, a motto from Horace. It may be easily imagined that no connoisseur who has made the tour of Europe ever entered a picture-gallery that struck his eye more forcibly at first sight, or provoked his attention with more extraordinary appearance' (Nichols, in the London Register for April 1762). Many of these signs, expressly executed for the Exhibition, showed, it appears, real spirit, however grotesque; the designs of a number were of course due to the fertile imagination of Thornton himself. A few instances will suffice to illustrate the humour of the show. No. 9 was 'The Irish Arms' (a pair of extremely thick legs, in white stockings and black garters). No. 16. 'A Man' (nine tailors at work). No. 19. 'Nobody, alias Somebody' (the figure of an officer, all head, arms, legs, and thighs-'this piece has a very odd effect, being so drolly executed that you don't observe the body'). No. 27. The Spirit of Contradiction' (two brewers with a barrel of beer, pulling different ways). No. 39. Absalom Hanging' (a peruke-maker's sign; underneath was this distich: 'If Absalom had not worn his own hair, Absalom had not been hanging there." No. 64. 'View of the Road to Paddington; with a Representation of the Deadly Never Green, that bears Fruit all the year round; the Fruit at full length by Hogarty' (this was Tyburn, with three felons on the gallows. Critics deemed this a masterly piece). No. 71. 'Shave for a penny, Let blood for nothing' (a man under the hands of the barber, who shaves and lets blood at the same time, by cutting at every stroke of his razor). Some humorous effects were also obtained by the juxtaposition of certain signs, as 'The Three Apothecaries' Gallipots,' and 'The Three Coffins, its Companion,' &c. Hogarth himself is said to have lent a few suggestions and touches here and there to this whimsical gallery of paintings. One day, observing among the signs consisting of heads of distinguished persons those of the King of Prussia and the Empress of Hungary, he archly changed the cast of their eyes, so as to make them leer significantly at each other (Nichols's Biographi cal Anecdotes of Hogarth). At one period of his life Thornton entered into negotiations with Rich for the purchase of Covent Garden Theatre, but for some reason the arrangements did not succeed. * This was hardly original, we fancy. At some period-we forget when-an ingenious Paris wig-maker exhibited the following lines under a similar device: 'D'Absalom, ah, voyez le triste sort, We have yet to mention the literary work by which alone 'the ingenious Mr. Bonnell Thornton' (to use the phraseology of the age) still holds a certain position, though only a subordinate one, in English literature, ranking among good company-our standard essayists of the last century. We allude to the Connoisseur, written by him, jointly with Colman the elder, under the assumed character of Mr. Town, Critic and Censor-General.' The two young men commenced this paper, with considerable boldness, in 1754, whilst the Adventurer (conducted by Hawkesworth, with the powerful assistance of Johnson and Joseph Warton) was still issuing, and the World (to which a cluster of titled wits-Lord Chesterfield, Lord Cork, Horace Walpole, and others, lent their pens) was commanding great popular favour. Johnson's Rambler, moreover, had recently tuned-or attempted to tune-the public ear to a different and graver pitch in the tone of essay writing than that Iwith which the matchless Tatlers and Spectators, forty years before, had charmed the world. Yet the two friends, for nearly three years, sustained in the Connoisseur a vein of pleasantry and good-humoured raillery upon folly which, without pretensions to equal the merits of Addison or Steele, would certainly not have disgraced their pens. At times, Thornton and Colman completed their papers under peculiar difficulties partly, indeed, selfoccasioned. 'We have not only joined in the work taken together, but almost every single paper is the joint product of both. A hint has perhaps been started by one of us, improved by the other, and still further heightened by a happy coalition of sentiment in both; as fire is struck out by a mutual collision of flint and steel. Sometimes, like Strada's lovers conversing with the sympathetic needles, we have written papers together at fifty miles' distance from each other; the first rough draft or loose minutes of an essay have often travelled in the stage-coach from town to country, and from country to town; and we have frequently waited for the postman (whom we expected to bring us the precious remainder of a Connoisseur) with the same anxiety as we should wait for the half of a bank-note, without which the other half would be of no value... Nor could this work have been carried on with so much cheerfulness and good-humour on both sides, if the two had not been as closely united as the two students whom the Spectator mentions, as recorded by a Terra Filius of Oxford, "to have had but one mind, one purse, one chamber, and one hat" (Connoisseur, No. 140conclusion.) Colman the younger has (rather unamiably) ascribed both laziness and poverty of ready wit to Thornton in the prosecution of this close literary partnership. 'On one occasion,' he relates, 'the joint authors met in hurry or irritation; my father enraged or sulky, Thornton muzzy with liquor; the essay to be published on the next morning; not a word written nor even a subject thought on; and the press waiting; nothing to be done but to scribble helter-skelter. "Sit down, Colman," said Thornton; 'by 'od, we must give the blockheads something !" My industrious sire sat down immediately, writing whatever came into his head currente calamo. Thornton in the mean time walked up and down, taking huge pieces of snuff, seeming to ruminate, but not suggesting one word or contributing one thought. When my father had thrown upon paper about half a moral essay, Thornton, who |