The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—Sir, the English lady should have asked how the Italian lady’s husband could bear it. The phials of my wrath would overflow if poor dear Mrs. Folliott —: sir, in return for your story, I will tell you a story of my ancestor, Gilbert Folliott. The devil haunted him, as he did Saint Francis, in the likeness of a beautiful damsel; but all he could get from the exemplary Gilbert was an admonition to wear a stomacher and longer petticoats.
Mr. Crotchet.—Sir, your story makes for my side of the question. It proves that the devil, in the likeness of a fair damsel, with short petticoats and no stomacher, was almost too much for Gilbert Folliott. The force of the spell was in the drapery.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—Bless my soul, sir!
Mr. Crotchet.—Give me leave, sir. Diderot—
The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—Who was he, sir?
Mr. Crotchet.—Who was he, sir? the sublime philosopher, the father of the Encyclopædia, of all the encyclopædias that have ever been printed.
The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—Bless me, sir, a terrible progeny: they belong to the tribe of Incubi.
Mr. Crotchet.—The great philosopher, Diderot—
The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—Sir, Diderot is not a man after my heart. Keep to the Greeks, if you please; albeit this Sleeping Venus is not an antique.
Mr. Crotchet.—Well, sir, the Greeks: why do we call the Elgin marbles inestimable? Simply because they are true to nature. And why are they so superior in that point to all modern works, with all our greater knowledge of anatomy? Why, sir, but because the Greeks, having no cant, had better opportunities of studying models?