Cover of Broad Grins Comprising, With New Additional Tales in Verse, Those Formerly Publish'd Under the Title "My Night-Gown and Slippers." — Reading Notes

Broad Grins Comprising, With New Additional Tales in Verse, Those Formerly Publish'd Under the Title "My Night-Gown and Slippers." — Reading Notes

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Authors: Colman, George, 1762-1836 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2008 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: English poetry Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 16,152

Reading time 71 min

Text sections 8

This digital edition of Broad Grins Comprising, With New Additional Tales in Verse, Those Formerly Publish'd Under the Title "My Night-Gown and Slippers." — Reading Notes is described by source-level measurements including 16,152 words, 1 hr 11 min estimated reading time, and 8 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 23.3 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “English poetry,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #25426

George Colman the Younger's comic verse collection, expanded from 'My Night-Gown and Slippers,' uses frame-tale banter, mock-heroic digressions, and grotesque imagery—like a monk dragged by the toes—to satirize poetic pretension and clerical hypocrisy.

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File: pg25426

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They were so few: But to cast up the scores of men Who wield a stump they call a pen, Lord! they had much to do,-- They were so many!

Buoy'd on a sea of fancy, Genius rises, And like the rare Leviathan surprises; But the _small fry_ of scribblers!--tiny souls! They wriggle thro' the mud in shoals.

It would have raise'd a smile to see the faces They made, and the ridiculous grimaces, At many an author, as they overhaul'd him. They gave no quarter to a calf, Blown up with puff, and paragraph; But, if they found him bad, they maul'd him.

On modern Dramatists they fell, Pounce, _vi et armis_--tooth and nail--pell mell. They call'd them Carpenters, and Smugglers; Filching their incidents from ancient hoards, And knocking them together, like deal boards: And Jugglers; Who all the town's attention fix, By making--Plays?--No, Sir, by making _tricks_.

The Versifiers--Heaven defend us! They play'd the very devil with their rhymes. They hope'd Apollo a new set would send us; And then, invidiously enough, Place'd modish verse, which they call'd stuff, Against the writing of the elder times.

To say the truth, a modern versifier Clap'd cheek by jowl With Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior, Would look most scurvily, upon my soul!

For Novels, should their critick hints succeed, The Misses might fare better when they took 'em; But it would fare extremely ill, indeed, With gentle _Messieurs Lane_ and _Hookham_.

"A Novel, now," says WILL, "is nothing more Than an old castle,--and a creaking door,-- A distant hovel;-- Clanking of chains--a gallery--a light,-- Old armour--and a phantom all in white,-- And there's a Novel!"

"Scourge me such catch-penny inditers Out of the land," quoth WILL--rousing in passion-- "And fy upon the readers of such writers, Who bring them into fashion!"

WILL rose in declamation. "'Tis the bane," Says he, "of youth;--'tis the perdition: It fills a giddy female brain With vice, romance, lust, terror, pain,-- With superstition.

"Were I Pastor in a boarding-school, I'd quash such books _in toto_;--if I couldn't, Let me but catch one Miss that broke my rule, I'd flog her soundly; damme if I wouldn't."

WILLIAM, 'tis plain, was getting in a rage; But, Thomas dryly said,--for he was cool-- "I think no gentleman would mend the age By flogging Ladies at a Boarding-school."

DICK knock'd the ashes from his pipe, And said, "Friend WILL, You give the Novels a fair wipe; But still, While you, my friend, with passion run 'em down, They're in the hands of all the town.

"The reason's plain," proceeded DICK, "And simply thus-- Taste, over-glutted, grows deprave'd, and sick, And needs a _stimulus_.

"Time was,--(when honest Fielding writ)-- Tales full of Nature, Character, and Wit, Were reckon'd most delicious boil'd and roast: But stomachs are so cloy'd with novel-feeding, Folks get a vitiated taste in reading, And want that strong provocative, a Ghost.

"Or, to come nearer, And put the case a little clearer:-- Mind, just like bodies, suffer enervation, By too much use; And sink into a state of relaxation, With long abuse.

"Now, a Romance, with reading Debauchees, Rouses their torpid powers when Nature fails; And all these Legendary Tales Are, to a worn-out mind, Cantharides.

"But how to cure the evil?" you will say: "My _Recipe_ is,--laughing it away.

"Lay bare the weak farrago of those men Who fabricate such visionary schemes, As if the night-mare rode upon their pen, And trouble'd all their ink with hideous dreams.

"For instance--when a solemn Ghost stalks in, And, thro' a mystick tale is busy, Strip me the Gentleman into his skin-- What is he?

"Truly, ridiculous enough: Mere trash;--and very childish stuff.

"Draw but a Ghost, or Fiend, _of low degree_, And all the bubble's broken!--Let us see."

ON a wild Moor, all brown and bleak, Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse, There stood a tenement antique; Lord Hoppergollop's country house.

Here Silence reign'd, with lips of glue, And undisturb'd maintain'd her law; Save when the Owl cry'd "whoo! whoo! whoo!" Or the hoarse Crow croak'd "caw! caw! caw!"

Neglected mansion!--for, 'tis said, Whene'er the snow came feathering down, Four barbed steeds,--from the Bull's head, Carried thy master up to town.

Weak Hoppergollop!--Lords may moan, Who stake, in London, their estate, On two, small, rattling, bits of bone; On _little figure_, or on _great_.

Swift whirl the wheels.--He's gone.--A Rose Remains behind, whose virgin look, Unseen, must blush in wintry snows, Sweet, beauteous blossom!----'twas the Cook!

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George Colman the Younger's Broad Grins opens with a mock-Advertisement in which the poet defends his meager output against booksellers urging more tales. This self-deprecating frame sets the tone for a collection that treats poetic labor as a joke and the reader's patience as a gamble. The work reprints and expands the earlier My Night-Gown and Slippers, adding new tales in verse while preserving the original conceit: three friends—Tom, Dick, and Will—gather at an alehouse to recite stories. Their debates and interruptions become a running commentary on the art of storytelling itself.

Frame-Tale Banter and the Alehouse Setting

The collection is structured as a series of tales told by three companions—Tom, Dick, and Will—who meet at an alehouse to discuss modern poets. Their voices are distinct: one is earnest, another skeptical, and the third prone to digression. Colman uses their exchanges to puncture the solemnity of verse, as when a speaker interrupts a moralizing passage with a pun or a complaint about the length of a story. The alehouse itself is a recurring setting, a place where high-flown rhetoric meets low-comedy reality. The frame allows Colman to shift tone abruptly, from mock-heroic battles to domestic farce, without losing coherence. Readers should attend to how the narrators' asides—often in parentheses or dashes—undermine the very tales they tell, creating a layered effect that rewards attention to voice.

Recurring Images: The Brick-Bat and the Moat

In The Knight and the Friar, a central episode involves a monk named John who is struck dead by a brick-bat thrown by the choleric Roger. The image recurs: the brick-bat is described as a "huge" missile aimed "like a marksman at a crow," and the victim falls "like Pedants' periods." Later, Roger drags the body to a moat, hauling it "as fishermen haul up a boat." The moat itself becomes a stage for grotesque comedy: the corpse is propped upright near the water, mistaken for "some fat gentleman who bobb'd for eels." These physical details—the brick, the moat, the dragging—anchor the poem's slapstick violence in concrete, almost cinematic imagery. Colman lingers on the mechanics of the act, contrasting Roger's sweaty labor with Achilles' heroic dragging of Hector, a deliberate deflation of epic pretension.

Movement Between Scenes: From Alehouse to Convent Garden

Colman shifts scenes with little transition, leaping from the alehouse debate to a convent garden, then to a knight's moat, and back to the frame. In The Knight and the Friar, the action moves from the garden wall (where John falls) to the moat's edge, then to Sir Thomas's chamber. Each shift is marked by a change in tone: the garden scene is violent and farcical; the moat scene is darkly comic; Sir Thomas's interior is anxious and scrupulous. Colman often signals movement with a new stanza or a direct address to the reader ("Here is another Picture, reader mine!"). This technique keeps the narrative brisk but can disorient. The effect is deliberate: the poet treats the reader as a companion on a rambling walk, pausing to point out a "fine incident" before hurrying on.

Mock-Heroic Digressions and Self-Conscious Narration

Colman frequently interrupts his own tales with mock-heroic invocations, as when he calls for a painter to depict Roger standing over John's corpse: "Come, Limners, hither come! and draw / A finer incident than e'er ye saw!" These digressions parody the epic tradition of invoking the muse, but Colman's muse is a tavern wit. He also addresses the reader directly, commenting on his own rhymes ("my pun was a vile one") or anticipating criticism. In the Advertisement, he worries his additions may end in "Wide Yawns." This self-awareness extends to the structure: the tales are framed as performances, and the narrators occasionally lose their thread. Readers should watch for moments when the poet steps back to remark on his own craft, as these asides often contain the sharpest satire—of critics, of booksellers, and of the very act of writing verse.

Colman's Broad Grins rewards readers who enjoy verse that refuses to take itself seriously. The collection's structure—tales within a frame, punctuated by digressions—invites skipping or rereading. Pay attention to the footnotes and asides, where Colman often buries his best jokes. The work is best approached as a performance: imagine the alehouse fire, the clinking glasses, and the three friends arguing over who tells the better tale.

There’s a particular ache in Colman’s monk, dragged by the toes through mud—comic, sure, but also oddly tender. It reminds me of winter mornings spent inside, turning pages by lamplight. Snow-Bound A Winter Idyll — Reading Notes carries that same hush, that willingness to sit with what the cold leaves behind. I think of both books as old friends, patient with my wandering attention.