The essays of Elia . ridget was doomedto apply after the game was over : and, as I do not muchrelish appliances, there it should ever bubble. Bridgetand I should be ever playing. A CHAPTER ON EARS I HAVE no ear.— Mistake me not, reader—nor imagine that I am bynature destitute of those exterior twin appendages,hanging ornaments, and (architecturally speaking)handsome volutes to the human capital. Better mymother had never borne me.—I am, I think, ratherdelicately than copiously provided with those conduits;and I feel no disposition to envy the mule for his plenty,or the mole for her exactness,
The essays of Elia . ridget was doomedto apply after the game was over : and, as I do not muchrelish appliances, there it should ever bubble. Bridgetand I should be ever playing. A CHAPTER ON EARS I HAVE no ear.— Mistake me not, reader—nor imagine that I am bynature destitute of those exterior twin appendages,hanging ornaments, and (architecturally speaking)handsome volutes to the human capital. Better mymother had never borne me.—I am, I think, ratherdelicately than copiously provided with those conduits;and I feel no disposition to envy the mule for his plenty,or the mole for her exactness, in those ingenious labyrin-thine inlets—those indispensable side-intelligencers. Neither have I incurred, or done anything to incur,with Defoe, that hideous disfigurement, which con-strained him to draw upon assurance—to feel quiteunabashed, and at ease upon that article. I wasnever, I thank my stars, in the pillory; nor, if I readthem aright, is it within the compass of my destiny, thatI ever should be. 62. _^^^.? ? - ??. .--I^jU^ BRIDGET AND I SHOULD BC EVER PLAVIWO A CHAPTER ON EARS When therefore I say that I have no ear, you willunderstand me to mean—for music. To say that thisheart never melted at the concord of sweet sounds,would be a foul self-libel. Water parted from the sea never fails to move it strangely. So does In they were used to be sung at her harpischord (theold-fashioned instrument in vogue in those days) bya gentlewoman—the gentlest, sure, that ever meritedthe appellation—the sweetest—why should I hesitate to name Mrs. S , once the blooming Fanny Weatheral of the Temple—^who had power to thrill the soul of Elia,small imp as he was, even in his long coats; and tomake him glow, tremble, and blush with a passion thatnot faintly indicated the dayspring of that absorbingsentiment which was afterwards destined to over-whelm and subdue his nature quite for Alice W n. I even think that sentimentally I am disposed toha
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