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Updated: May 18, 2025
"A celebrated German writer," lisped the modest Miss Macdonald. "I never heard his name," persevered the indefatigable Boreall; "how do you spell it?" "GOETHE," re-lisped modesty. "Oh! Goty!" exclaimed the querist. "I know him well: he wrote the Sorrows of Werter." "Did he indeed, sir?" asked Vivian, with the most innocent and inquiring face.
"Well said, old gentleman!" said the querist "Here's to thee, and I wish you joy of your good principles. You owe me a cup of thanks for having taught you them; nay, thou shalt pledge me in thine own sack sour ale sits ill upon a loyal stomach. Now comes your turn, young man; what think you of the matter in hand?"
I considered myself quite fortunate to have fallen in with such a querist, for the Americans are usually too much taken up with their own business to trouble themselves about yours, beyond such questions as, "Are you bound west, stranger?" or, "You're from down east, I guess." "Why do you take me for a down-easier?" I asked once.
His fellow-traveller took the liberty of inquiring the subject of his studies. He lifted up his eyes with something of a sarcastic glance, as if he supposed the young querist would not relish, or perhaps understand, his answer, and pronounced the book to be Sandy Gordon's Itinerarium Septentrionale,* a book illustrative of the Roman remains in Scotland.
"Lord preserve us!" said the female voice, "an he had worried our cat, Mr. Pleydell would ne'er hae forgi'en me!" "Na, Mr. Pleydell's ne'er in the house on Saturday at e'en," answered the female voice. "And the morn's Sabbath too," said the querist "I dinna ken what will be done."
Indeed, one who stood among the crowd might hear from those who were stationed at the greatest distance from the table, such questions as the following: "Is the thing in it, Art?" "No; 'tis nothin' but the law Bible, the magistrate's own one." To this the querist would reply, with a satisfied nod of the head, "Oh is that all?
"The father of our tribe if I choose to obey him," said the guide, "otherwise I have no commander." "You are, then," said the wondering querist, "destitute of all that other men are combined by you have no law, no leader, no settled means of subsistence, no house or home. You have, may Heaven compassionate you, no country and, may Heaven enlighten and forgive you, you have no God!
Alciphron, or The Minute Philosopher, directed against Shaftesbury, and in 1734-37 The Querist. His last publications were Siris, a treatise on the medicinal virtues of tar-water, and Further Thoughts on Tar-water. He d. at Oxford in 1753. His affectionate disposition and genial manners made him much beloved. As a thinker his is the greatest name in English philosophy between Locke and Hume.
My pertinacious querist stopped, I suppose, when he had got to the end of his list, and apparently spent the rest of the evening in a slow process of digestion; for he would break out, now and then, at the most irrelevant times, with a repetition of one of his former interrogations, which I had to answer again, briefly as I might.
This trying query, coming upon her unexpectedly as it did, threw her into palpable confusion. Her face became at once suffused with a deep scarlet hue, occasioned by mingled shame and resentment, as was at once evident from the malignant and fiery glare which she turned upon her querist. "Get out," she replied; "do you think I'd think it worth my while to answer the likes o' you?
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