We have been lately honoured with the presence of the celebrated Mr.
Powell, who, I suppose, must formerly have existed in a comet; and by
one of those unforeseen accidents which sometimes happen to the most
exalted characters, has dropped from its tail.
His common food is brimstone and fire, which he licks up as eagerly as a
hungry peasant would a mess of pottage; he feeds on this extraordinary
diet before princes and peers, to their infinite satisfaction; and such
is his passion for this terrible element, that if he were to come hungry
into your kitchen, while a sirloin was roasting, he would eat up the
fire, and leave the beef.
It is somewhat surprising, that the friends of _real merit_ have not yet
promoted him, living, as we do, in an age favourable to men of genius:
Mr. Johnson has been rewarded with a pension for writing, and Mr.
Sheridan for speaking well; but Mr. Powell, who _eats well_, has not yet
been noticed by any administration. Obliged to wander from place to
place, instead of indulging, himself in private with his favourite dish,
he is under the uncomfortable necessity of eating in public, and helping
himself from the kitchen fire of some paltry alehouse in the country.