| Citation |
NYGWPB.768.009
25 Jan 1768:22,23 (1308)
Extract of a letter from Paris, dated Oct. 7. Some young
persons walking lately in the wood of Boulogne, perceived
there an Abbe singing at the foot of a tree. They drew near
and surround him. The Abbe, startled at his auditory, stops
short. The forwardest of them addresses him, and tells him,
that attracted by the charms of his voice, they are come
there to listen to him. The singer excuses himself. They
insist; he refuses. The petulant orator lifts up his cane,
and threatens to take the measure of his shoulders if he
required any further entreaty. A pretty method indeed of
teaching one to sing, said the Abbe. I agree that it is
rather harsh, but we will cut off your ears for you, if you
like that better. The poor devil seeing there was no
reasoning with these gentlemen, set about his part, and
sung, as we may imagine, very ill. To it again, Sir, said
the orator; we shall perform better the second time. In
short, they made him pass thro' the whole scale of musick,
after which they withdrew with great commendations on his
voice, and above all on his compliance in singing.
. . . [1/2 column, story continues with Abbe's revenge; he
locates his tormentors the next day, proposes redress] the
Abbe takes a pistol out of his pocket, and claps it to his
breast. We are now come here to fight, sir, said he; you
made me sing yesterday against my will, I take you to be a
very good dancer, and you shall dance, or I will blow out
your brains. In vain the soldier, startled at the pistol,
would have pleaded the laws of honour. You was a stranger
to them yesterday, said the Abbe, and deserve no other
usage; no more ceremony, or I avenge myself immediately.
The Musqueteer squeezes his ears, and is obliged to obey.
Accordingly he asks submissively, what he must dance. Cupis
minuet is what I am going to sing, said the Abbe, who
therefore warbles out the tune, directing his pupil all the
while by the pistol. When the minuet was over, the Abbe
required a country dance, then a hornpipe, rigadoon, &c. At
last throwing aside his pistol, and drawing his sword, we
have now nothing, sir, to reproach each other with; let us
fight. No, cried the Count, we will not; you are too brave
a conqueror, you have corrected my folly . . . [They end as
friends.]
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