The malignant deity criticism dwelt on the top of a snowy mountain in nova zembla: momus found her extended in her den upon the spoils of numberless volumes half devoured. At her right hand sat ignorance, her father and husband, blind with age; at her left, pride, her mother, dressing her up in the scraps of paper herself had torn. There was opinion, her sister, light of foot, hoodwinked and headstrong, yet giddy and perpetually turning. About her played her children, noise and impudence, dulness and vanity, positiveness, pedantry, and ill manners.

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