But why continue the quotation, when half our readers could complete it from their own memory? We proposed to ourselves a glance at _The Citizen of the World_ and _The Vicar of Wakefield_. It can only be a glance. Is this really the same—we are tempted to ask ourselves—is this really the same _Citizen of the World_ that, on our first introduction to the acquaintance of books, we read, amongst the _British Essayist_, with so grave attention, and so implicit a faith? Yes, it is the same; for here is the Man in Black, and here is the unmistakeable Beau Tibbs. Can we possibly forget the invitation to dinner—on the first floor down the chimney—something elegant, a turbot or an ortolan, which finally resolves itself into “a nice little piece of ox-cheek, piping hot, which Mrs Tibbs shall dress herself with that sauce the Duke dotes upon,”—and which dinner, if his hungry guest will but wait, shall be “ready in at least two hours.” Yes, here is Beau Tibbs as full of life as ever. But the Chinese philosopher—he is gone;—there is left of _him_, or of China, nothing but his name, and the suspicious name of his correspondent, “Fum, the son of Fo.” Instead thereof, we have Oliver Goldsmith writing his series of clever _Idlers_ and _Spectators_. Pity this Chinaman ever made his appearance. All the humour and satire of the piece might have been preserved, if some simple Englishman, some Parson Adams or Dr Primrose, had been the writer of the letters; and we should have been spared the constant incongruity of a Chinese who is not only a palpable European, but a European of the literary class. So completely versed is this Chinese philosopher in the feuds and vexations of critics and authors, that we must suppose him commissioned by the Grub Street of Pekin, to inquire into the condition of distressed poets and discontented playwrights amongst the “outer barbarians.” We should have been spared also those episodes, or adventures, which _his_ Eastern correspondents detail to him, and which, indeed, are neither European nor Eastern, but very tedious stories. In vain does the Chinaman assume the prejudices of his country: he may amuse us; but he cannot even get a momentary credit for the outlandish taste he affects. He cannot disparage the beauty of Englishwomen, without insinuating his praise of them. There is as much flattery as abuse, when he says:— “I shall never forget the beauties of my native city of Nanfew. How very broad their faces! how very short their noses! how very little their eyes! how very thin their lips! how very black their teeth. Here a lady with such perfections would be frightful: Dutch and Chinese beauties, indeed, have some resemblance, but Englishwomen are entirely different; red cheeks, big eyes, and teeth of a most odious whiteness, are not only seen here, but wished for; and then they have such masculine feet, as actually serve some for walking.”