The Selector. [From Our London Magazine.] [About the year 18—, one R—d, a respectable London merchant (sinee dead,) stood in the pillory for some alledged fraud upon the Revenue. Among his papers were found the following "Reflections," which we have obtained by favour of our friend Elia, who knew him well, and had heard him describe the train of his feelings upon that trying occasion almost in the words of the MS. Elia speaks of him as a man (with the exception of the peccadillo a[?]oresaid) of singular integrity in all his private dealings, possessing great s[?]avity of manner, with a certain turn for humour. As our object is to present human nature under every possible circumstance, we do not think that we shall sully our pages by inserting it.—Editor.] Reflections in the Pillory. Scene, opposite the Royal Exchange. Time, Twelve to One, Noon
K[?]TCH, my good fellow, you have a neat hand. Prithee, adjust this new collar to my neck gingerly. I am not used to these wooden cravats. There, softly, softly. That seems the exact point between ornament and strangulation. A…
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