So the world is pleased to let it be obscured by the paunch of Bull.

We have, however, isolated groups, individuals in all classes, by no means delighting in his representation of them.

When such is felt to be the case among a sufficient number, his bards blow him away as a vapour; we hear that he is a piece of our English humour--we enjoy grotesques and never should agree to paint ourselves handsome: our subtle conceit insists on the reverse.

Nevertheless, no sooner are the hours auspicious to fatness than Bull is back on us; he is our family goat, ancestral ghost, the genius of our comfortable sluggishness.

And he is at times a mad Bull: a foaming, lashing, trampling, horn-driving, excessive, very parlous Bull.