MISS RICH. You'll be surprised, sir, with this visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for choosing my little library. HONEYW. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary, as it was I that was obliged by your commands. Chairs here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch, and Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony. MISS RICH. Who can these odd-looking men be? I fear it is as I was informed. It must be so. _Aside._ BAILIFF (_after a pause_). Pretty weather, very pretty weather, for the time of the year, madam. FOLLOWER. Very good circuit weather in the country. HONEYW. You officers are generally favourites among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been upon very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The fair should, in some measure, recompense the toils of the brave. MISS RICH. Our officers do indeed deserve every favour. The gentlemen are in the marine service, I presume, sir? HONEYW. Why, madam, they do—occasionally serve in the Fleet, madam. A dangerous service. MISS RICH. I'm told so. And I own, it has often surprised me, that, while we have had so many instances of bravery there, we have had so few of wit at home to praise it. HONEYW. I grant, madam, that our poets have not written as our soldiers have fought; but, they have done all they could, and Hawke or Amherst could do no more. MISS RICH. I'm quite displeased when I see a fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. HONEYW. We should not be so severe against dull writers, madam. It is ten to one, but the dullest writer exceeds the most rigid French critic who presumes to despise him. FOLLOWER. Damn the French, the parle vous, and all that belongs to them. MISS RICH. Sir! HONEYW. Ha, ha, ha, honest Mr. Flanigan. A true English officer, madam; he's not contented with beating the French, but he will scold them too. MISS RICH. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not convince me but that severity in criticism is necessary. It was our first adopting the severity of French taste, that has brought them in turn to taste us. BAILIFF. Taste us! By the Lord, madam, they devour us. Give Monseers but a taste, and I'll be damn'd, but they come in for a bellyful. MISS RICH. Very extraordinary this. FOLLOWER. But very true. What makes the bread rising? the parle vous that devour us. What makes the mutton five pence a pound? the parle vous that eat it up. What makes the beer threepence halfpenny a pot— HONEYW. Ah! the vulgar rogues, all will be out. Right, gentlemen, very right upon my word, and quite to the purpose. They draw a parallel, madam, between the mental taste, and that of our senses. We are injured as much by French severity in the one, as by French rapacity in the other. That's their meaning. MISS RICH. Though I don't see the force of the parallel, yet, I'll own, that we should sometimes pardon books, as we do our friends, that have now and then agreeable absurdities to recommend them. [Illustration: