hum, the motion, and the life of creation, that the sensation produced
was rather that of freshness and invigoration, than of languor and heat.

"We have a beautiful country, Sir," said my hero of the box. "It is like
walking through a garden, after the more sterile and sullen features of
the Continent--a pure mind, Sir, loves the country; for my part, I am
always disposed to burst out in thanksgiving to Providence when I behold
its works, and, like the vallies in the psalm, I am ready to laugh and
sing."

"An enthusiast," said I, "as well as a philosopher!--perhaps (and I
believed it likely), I have the honour of addressing a poet also."

"Why, Sir," replied the man, "I have made verses in my life; in short,
there is little I have not done, for I was always a lover of variety;
but, perhaps, your honour will let me return the suspicion, Are you not a
favourite of the muse?"

"I cannot say that I am," said I. "I value myself only on my common
sense--the very antipodes to genius, you know, according to the orthodox
belief."

"Common sense!" repeated my companion, with a singular and meaning smile,
and a twinkle with his left eye. "Common sense. Ah, that is not my forte,
Sir. You, I dare say, are one of those gentlemen whom it is very
difficult to take in, either passively or actively, by appearance, or in
act? For my part, I have been a dupe all my life--a child might cheat me!
I am the most unsuspicious person in the world."

"Too candid by half," thought I; "the man is certainly a rascal; but