Squire Headlong. Push about the bottle.

Mr Foster. Do you suppose the mere animal life of a wild man, living on acorns, and sleeping on the ground, comparable in felicity to that of a Newton, ranging through unlimited space, and penetrating into the arcana of universal motion—­to that of a Locke, unravelling the labyrinth of mind—­to that of a Lavoisier, detecting the minutest combinations of matter, and reducing all nature to its elements—­to that of a Shakespeare, piercing and developing the springs of passion—­or of a Milton, identifying himself, as it were, with the beings of an invisible world?

Mr Escot. You suppose extreme cases:  but, on the score of happiness, what comparison can you make between the tranquil being of the wild man of the woods and the wretched and turbulent existence of Milton, the victim of persecution, poverty, blindness, and neglect?  The records of literature demonstrate that Happiness and Intelligence are seldom sisters.  Even if it were otherwise, it would prove nothing.  The many are always sacrificed to the few.  Where one man advances, hundreds retrograde; and the balance is always in favour of universal deterioration.

Mr Foster. Virtue is independent of external circumstances.  The exalted understanding looks into the truth of things, and, in its own peaceful contemplations, rises superior to the world.  No philosopher would resign his mental acquisitions for the purchase of any terrestrial good.

Mr Escot. In other words, no man whatever would resign his identity, which is nothing more than the consciousness of his perceptions, as the price of any acquisition.  But every man, without exception, would willingly effect a very material change in his relative situation to other individuals.  Unluckily for the rest of your argument, the understanding of literary people is for the most part exalted, as you express it, not so much by the love of truth and virtue, as by arrogance and self-sufficiency; and there is, perhaps, less disinterestedness, less liberality, less general benevolence, and more envy, hatred, and uncharitableness among them, than among any other description of men.

(The eye of Mr Escot, as he pronounced these words, rested very innocently and unintentionally on Mr Gall.)

Mr Gall. You allude, sir, I presume, to my review.

Mr Escot. Pardon me, sir.  You will be convinced it is impossible I can allude to your review, when I assure you that I have never read a single page of it.

Mr Gall, Mr Treacle, Mr Nightshade, and Mr Mac Laurel. Never read our review! ! ! !

Mr Escot. Never.  I look on periodical criticism in general to be a species of shop, where panegyric and defamation are sold, wholesale, retail, and for exportation.  I am not inclined to be a purchaser of these commodities, or to encourage a trade which I consider pregnant with mischief.