_The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Very true, sir. As great philosophers hold that the _esse_ of things is _percipi_, so a gentleman’s furniture exists to be looked at. Nevertheless, sir, there are some things more fit to be looked at than others; for instance, there is nothing more fit to be looked at than the outside of a book. It is, as I may say, from repeated experience, a pure and unmixed pleasure to have a goodly volume lying before you, and to know that you may open it if you please, and need not open it unless you please. It is a resource against _ennui_, if _ennui_ should come upon you. To have the resource and not to feel the _ennui_, to enjoy your bottle in the present, and your book in the indefinite future, is a delightful condition of human existence. There is no place, in which a man can move or sit, in which the outside of a book can be otherwise than an innocent and becoming spectacle. Touching this matter, there cannot, I think, be two opinions. But with respect to your Venuses there can be, and indeed there are, two very distinct opinions. Now, Sir, that little figure in the centre of the mantelpiece—as a grave _paterfamilias_, Mr. Crotchet, with a fair nubile daughter, whose eyes are like the fish-pools of Heshbon—I would ask you if you hold that figure to be altogether delicate? _Mr. Crotchet_.—The sleeping Venus, sir? Nothing can be more delicate than the entire contour of the figure, the flow of the hair on the shoulders and neck, the form of the feet and fingers. It is altogether a most delicate morsel. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Why, in that sense, perhaps, it is as delicate as whitebait in July. But the attitude, sir, the attitude. _Mr. Crotchet_.—Nothing can be more natural, sir. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—That is the very thing, sir. It is too natural: too natural, sir: it lies for all the world like— I make no doubt, the pious cheesemonger, who recently broke its plaster facsimile over the head of the itinerant vendor, was struck by a certain similitude to the position of his own sleeping beauty, and felt his noble wrath thereby justly aroused. _Mr. Crotchet_.—Very likely, sir. In my opinion, the cheesemonger was a fool, and the justice who sided with him was a greater. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Fool, sir, is a harsh term: call not thy brother a fool. _Mr. Crotchet_.—Sir, neither the cheesemonger nor the justice is a brother of mine. _The Rev. Dr. Folliott_.—Sir, we are all brethren. _Mr. Crotchet_.—Yes, sir, as the hangman is of the thief; the squire of the poacher; the judge of the libeller; the lawyer of his client; the statesman of his colleague; the bubble-blower of the bubble-buyer; the slave-driver of the negro; as these are brethren, so am I and the worthies in question.