FLORENCE MISCELLANY. Dedication (writer not specified). WHAT a whimsical task, my dear friends, you impose Our Piozzi, methinks, is much fitter for this, We mean not our book for the public inspection, Preface, by Mrs. Piozzi.* PREFACES to Books, like Prologues to Plays, will seldom be found to invite readers, and still less often to convey importance. Excuses for mean Performances add only the baseness of submission to poverty of sentiment, and take from insipidity the praise of being inoffensive. We do not however by this little address mean to deprecate public Criticism, or solicit Regard; why we wrote the verses may be easily explain'd, we wrote them to divert ourselves, and to say kind things of each other; we collected them that our reciprocal expressions of kindness might not be lost, and we printed them because we had no reason to be ashamed of our mutual partiality. Portrait Painting, though unadorn'd by allegorical allusions and unsupported by recollection of events or places, will be esteem'd for ever as one of the most durable methods to keep Ten *See ante, p. 90. derness alive and preserve Friendship from decay; nor do I observe that the room here where Artists of many Ages have contributed their own likenesses to the Royal Gallery is less frequented than that which contains the statue of a slave and the picture of a Sybil. Our little Book can scarcely be less important to Readers of a distant Age or Nation than we ourselves are ready to acknowledge it; the waters of a mineral spring which sparkle in the glass, and exhilarate the spirits of those who drink them on the spot, grow vapid and tasteless by carriage and keeping; and though we have perhaps transgress'd the Persian Rule of sitting silent till we could find something important or instructive to say, we shall at least be allow'd to have glisten'd innocently in Italian sunshine, and to have imbibed from its rays the warmth of mutual Benevolence, though we have miss'd the hardness and polish that some coarser Metal might have obtain❜d by heat of equal force. I will not however lengthen out my Preface ; if the Book is but a feather, tying a stone to it can be no good policy, though it were a precious one; the lighter body would not make the heavy one swim, but the heavy body would inevitably make the light one sink. SOCIAL VERSES. ON Tuesday evening, the 26th December, 1815 (writes Mr. Fellowes), we met at the Vineyards, our conversation led to the House of Commons, and my father expressed a wish that I had been a member, adding that he believed I should have followed that line with more pleasure than physic. Mrs. Piozzi assented to this, in her usual good-humored complimentary manner. I made an observation about illusion, &c., and something was said about Spain, and the beauties of the language, and I read the following Spanish verses to her, which pleased from their simplicity and neatness: "La otra noche soñaba, Que feliz sueño, A decirte lo iva, Pero no quieso. Permita el Amor, Que algun dia tu sueñes, Lo que soné yo." On the following morning I received from Mrs. Piozzi these lines: "The amorous Spaniard's glowing dream, Caused in my brain confusion; "O, if the stream of eloquence, And turn to dream again. "Mr. Linton takes this imitation of the verses you showed me last night. H. L. P." During her stay in Italy (writes Sir J. Fellowes) in this delightful society, upon the banks of the Arno, which was duly enlivened by brilliant wit and classic taste, the conversation often turned upon more serious subjects, and one day it was proposed to write an impromptu upon the fatal monosyllable now, the present passing away even before the word is written that explains it. This pretty quatrain was produced by Della Crusca, who had been asserting that all past actions are nihilitic, and that the immediate moment was the whole of human existence: "One endless Now stands o'er th' eventful stream Of all that may be with colossal stride; And sees beneath life's proudest pageants gleam, To this H. L. P. replied: "'T is yours the present moment to redeem, And powerful snatch from Time's too rapid stream; LINES WRITTEN JULY 28TH, 1815. Is it of intellectual powers, Which time develops, time devours, Which twenty years perhaps are ours, That man is vain? Of such the infant shows no sign, And childhood shuns the dazzling shine, Of knowledge bright with rays divine, Still less when passion bears the sway, With scorn avowed. For twenty years she reigns at most, Above the crowd. ON AGAINST A WEEPING WILLOW PLACED OVER Mark how the weeping willow stands It seems to blame our idle hands, Thus conscience holds our fancy fast, Yet shall the swift improving plant Loiter no more, then, near the tree, If but an hour be given to thee, THE SUNDIAL |