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 be put upon a par with an artist of luxury, who can only turn a sonata, or figure a minuet, or daub a picture?"

"Why, Mr. Scope, a person who pipes a tune, or dances a jig, or paints a face, may be called, if you will, an artist of luxury; but then 'tis of your luxury, not his."

"Mine, Sir?"

"Yes, yours, Sir! And Mrs. Maple's; and Mrs. Bydel's; and Miss Brinville's; and Miss Sycamore's; and Mrs. and Miss every body's;—except only his own."

"Well, this," said Miss Bydel, "is curious enough! So because there are such a heap of squallers, and fidlers, and daubers, I am to have the fault of it?"

"This I could not expect indeed," said Mrs. Maple, "that a gentleman so amazingly fond of charity, and the poor, and all that, as Mr. Giles Arbe, should have so little principle, as to let our worthy farmers and trades-people languish for want, in order to pamper a