Gellert. Homer, in point of genius and creation, is certainly entitled to the preference.

The King. Virgil is more correct.

Gellert. We live in an age too remote from that of Homer, to be able to decide, with any degree of confidence, on the style and manners of those early days: it is on the authority of Quintilian that I give the preference to Homer.

The King. We ought not to pay, in my judgment, too servile a deference to the opinion of the ancients.

Gellert. I do not bow to their opinion merely because they are ancients--that would be a blind submission indeed; but I am obliged to consult the sentiments of others in such a case as that in question, which time has enveloped in a cloud, that I cannot pierce with my own eyes.

The King. I am told that your fables are justly admired; would you favour me with the recital of one of them?

Gellert. I do not know, in truth, Sire, that I can trust to my memory.

The King. Try, I entreat you; I shall pass a moment in my closet in order to give you time to recall your ideas. (The King, on his return.) Well, have you succeeded?

Gellert. Yes, Sire, a short one: "A certain Athenian painter, in whose bosom the love of fame had extinguished every thought of fortune, requested,

one

one day, that a judge of his art would give his opinion of a painting which represented the God of war. The connoisseur very candidly pointed out what struck him as defects, particularly the too great appearance of art throughout the whole of the composition. At the instant, a person of less refined taste stepped in, who, at the first glance, exclaimed with transport, 'Good Hea

ven, what a picture! Mars is all alive; he breathes!-what terror in his looks!Survey • that foot-those fingers those nails!—what taste! what an air of grandeur in that helmet, ' and in all the armour of the terrible God!' The painter blushed, and let fall this whisper in the ear of the connoisseur: I am convinced of the solidity of your judgment, and the justness of 6 your taste;' on which he drew his brush over the painting."

The King. Now for the moral.

Gellert. You shall have it: When the pro ductions of an author, on any subject whatever, do not meet with the approbation of a man of taste and judgment, it militates very much against them; but when they call forth the ad miration of the weak and the ignorant, they ought to be committed to the flames..

The King. Excellent. M. Gellert, I feel all the truth of your apologue, and the beauty of the composition; but when Gottsched read his translation

translation of the Iphigenia of Racine, I had the original before my eyes, and I assure you, that I did not understand a word of what he read to me. If I should remain a few days here, will you come and see me, and read some of your fables to me?

Gellert. I am afraid, Sire, that I should not please; I have got a kind of habitual tone that is not pleasing to a polished ear: I contracted it in our mountains.

:

The King. I understand: the tonation of our Silesians you should endeavour, however, to read your own productions, if you wish that they should not lose a great deal of their merit. -But see me soon again, and often.--Farewell, M. Gellert.

The King was heard to say that night, at supper, "M. Gellert is a man very different from Gottsched; and of all the German writers, he is the most ingenious."

DIALOGUE BETWEEN HANDS AND FEET.

Hands.

NOW, cousin Feet, as we have lived so many years in amity, what do you think if we were to converse a little together, on our past conduct?

Feet. I hate to think of what is past-I hate to talk of what is past;-I always like to look forward.

Hands. So far you are a philosopher.

Feet. Yes, I'm descended from a celebrated sect; the Peripatetics were all pedestrians.

Hands. Buta little conversation can do us no harm.

Feet. Proceed.

Hands. You recollect that I once stole a pair of shoes for you.

Feet. What then?

Hands. You walked off with them.

Feet. Or rather, ran off; for, if I had not, you would have been caught in maner, as the lawyers say.

Hands. But you never stole a pair of gloves for me.

Feet. But I was fettered for the gloves you stole for yourself.

Hands. And I was handcuffed for the shoes I stole for

you.

Feet. Didn't I kick the fellow that handcuffed you?

Hands. And didn't I cuff the fellow that fettered you?

Feet, So far we acted like sworn brothers. I hope you don't forget that I was put in the stocks for the bottle of brandy you stole.

Hands.

Hands. That bottle was for our throat-our common friend.

Feet. I am afraid our poor throat will pay for all at last.

Hands. Away with your predictions! You say you like to look forward; you should sometimes look behind you.

Feet. No, I leave that to my heels.

Hands. In all our transactions, I never betrayed you.

Feet. Do you mean to say that I betrayed you?

Hands. Remember the great snow.

Feet. True; I was traced, and we were caught. Didn't I assist you, however, to scale the wall?

Hands. You did and to swim the river.

Feet. Yes-and to climb the tree.

Hands. Don't talk of trees-trees have been

fatal to gentlemen of our professions.

Feet. And will be so, I fear. Since you have touched on old sores, it has not escaped your memory, I believe, that before you entered on your present line of life, you signed a warrant of attorney, by which you got us all, back, belly, and bones, into a stone doublet.

Hands. It was in that very stone doublet I learned all my tricks.

Feet. I wish you could unlearn them, but that I see is impossible; let me advise you now,