ss to your brother, Moses.--The great
fault of these elegiasts is, that they are in despair for griefs that
give the sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses her
muff, her fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to
versify the disaster.'

'That may be the mode,' cried Moses, 'in sublimer compositions; but the
Ranelagh songs that come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all cast
in the same mold: Colin meets Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together;
he gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents him with
a nosegay; and then they go together to church, where they give good
advice to young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as they can.'

'And very good advice too,' cried I, 'and I am told there is not a place
in the world where advice can be given with so much propriety as there;
for, as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a wife; and
surely that must be an excellent market, my boy, where we are told what
we want, and supplied with it when wanting.'

'Yes, Sir,' returned Moses, 'and I know but of two such markets for
wives in Europe, Ranelagh in England, and Fontarabia in Spain.' The
Spanish market is open once a year, but our English wives are saleable
every night.'

'You are right, my boy,' cried his mother, 'Old England is the only
place in the world for husbands to get wives.'--'And for wives to manage
their husbands,' interrupted I. 'It is a proverb abroad, that if a
bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies of the Continent would
come over to take pattern from ours; for there are no such wives in
Europe as our own. 'But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life,
and Moses give us a good song. What thanks do we not owe to heaven for
thus bestowing tranquillity, health, and competence. I think myself
happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such
fire-side, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now
growing old; but the evening of our life is likely to be happy. We are
descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good
and virtuous race of children behind us. While we live they will be our
support and our pleasure here, and when we die they will transmit our
honour untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a song: let
us have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia? That little cherub's
voice is always sweetest in the concert.'--Just as I spoke Dick came
running in. 'O pappa,