naturally ask, "Which sex?"

Some "_pert and affected author_" with anxiety on his brow, will be apt
to step forward, and say, "Will you celebrate the man of the sword, who
transfers the blush of his face to his back, and neglect the man of the
quill, who, like the pelican, portions out his vitals to feed others?
Which is preferable, he who lights up the mental powers, or he who puts
them out? the man who stores the head with knowledge, or he who stores
it with a bullet?"

The antiquarian supports his dignity with a solemn aspect; he treats a
sin and a smile as synonimous; one half of which has been discarded from
his childhood. If a smile in the house of religion, or of mourning, be
absurd, is there any reason to expel it from those places where it is
not? A tale will generally allow of two ingredients, _information_ and
_amusement_: but the historian and the antiquarian have, from time
immemorial, used but _one_. Every smile, except that of contempt, is
beneficial to the constitution; they tend to promote long life, and
pleasure while that life lasts. Much may be said in favour of tears of
joy, but more on joy without tears. I wonder the lively fancy of Hogarth
never sketched the _dull_ historian, in the figure of an ass, plodding
to market under his panniers, laden with the fruits of antiquity, and
old time driving up the _rear_, with his scythe converted into an
hedge-stake.

The bellows-maker proclaims the _honor_ of his art, by observing, he
alone produces that instrument which commands the winds; his soft
breeze, like that of the south, counter-acts the chill blasts of winter:
by his efforts, like those of the sun, the world receives light: he
creates when he pleases, and gives _breath_ when he creates. In his