'Dame Foljambe,' said the old man, 'the march of thy tale is like the course of the Wye, seventeen miles of links and windings down a fair valley five miles long. […] '
while upon the shaded top of the box, drawn in perspective, the artist had pictured a plate with the beautifully executed, twin-lobed, brainlike, halved kernel of a walnut.
When they did, they were flash crowds-—not much advance tickets, but lots of game-day sales.
On the clouds in the background stand little baby sans-culottes and blood-spouting decapitatees; disconcertingly, they are comically drawn, as if Gillray couldn’t sustain the print’s epic ambition.
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