ou vid Vit,
when you are studying a la Francoise? I'll vous assurez, I'll vous
assurez, if you will have us for your masters, you must have no vit at
all." [_The sciences taken off._]

Poor Wit being turned out of doors, wandered about friendless, for
it was never yet known that a man's wit ever gained him a friend. He
applied himself to the proprietors of the newspapers, but upon their
inquiring whether he understood politics, and being totally ignorant of
them, they would not employ him. He enquired after Friendship, but found
Friendship was drowned at the last general election; he went to find out
Hospitality, but Hospitality being invited to a turtle-feast, there was
no room for Wit; he asked after Charity, but it being found that Charity
was that day run over by a bishop's new set of coach-horses, he died
broken-hearted, being a distemper which, although {26}not catalogued in
the Materia Medica, is very epidemical among beautiful women, and men
of genius, who, having worn themselves out in making other people
happy, are at last neglected, and left to perish amid age and infirmity,
wondering how the world could be so ungrateful.

Here is the Head of a Connoisseur. [_Takes the head._]--Though born in
this kingdom, he had travelled long enough to fall in love with every
thing foreign, and despise every thing belonging to his own country,
except himself. He pretended to be a great judge of paintings, but only
admired those done a great way off, and a great while ago; he could not
bear anything done by any of his own countrymen; and one day being in
an auction-room where {27}there was a number of capital pictures, and,
among the rest, an inimitable piece of painting of fruits and flowers,
the Connoisseur would not give his opinion of the picture until he had
examined his catalogue, and finding it was done by an Englishman, he
pulled out his eye-glass [_Takes the eyeglass,_] "O, Sir," says he,
"these English fellows have no more idea of genius than a Dutch skipper
has of dancing a cotillion; the dog has spoiled a fine piece of canvas;
he's worse than a Harp-Alley sign-post dauber; there's no keeping,
no perspective, no fore-ground;--why there now, the fellow {28}has
attempted to paint a fly upon that rose-bud, why it's no more like a fly
than I am like an a--a--." But as the connoisseur approached his finger
to the picture, the fly flew away---His eyes are half closed; this is
called the wise man's wink, and shews he ca