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of the reader. Between him who writes and him who reads, there must be a kind of coalition of interests, something of a partnership (however unequal the capital) in mental property; a sort of joint stock of tastes and ideas. The student must have been initiated into the same intellectual commerce with him whom he studies; for large bills are only negotiable among the mutually opulent.

There are perhaps other reasons why popularity is no infallible test of excellence. Many readers even of good faculties, if those faculties have been kept inert by a disuse of exertion, feel often most sympathy with writers of a middle class; and find more repose in a mediocrity which lulls and amuses the mind, than with a loftiness and extent which exalts and expands it. To enjoy works of superlative ability, as was before suggested, the reader must have been accustomed to drink at the same spring from which the writer draws; he must be at the expense of furnishing part of his own entertainment, by bringing with him a share of the science or of the spirit with which the author writes.

These are some of the considerations, which, while my gratitude has been excited by the favourable reception of my various attempts, have helped to correct that vanity which is so easily kindled where merit and success are evidently disproportionate.

For fair criticism I have ever been truly thankful. For candid correction, from whatever quarter it came, I have always exhibited the most unquestionable proof of my regard, by adopting it. Nor can I call to mind any instance of improvement which has been suggested to me by which I have neglected to profit.* I am not insensible to human estimation. To the approbation of the wise and good I have been perhaps but too sensible. But I check myself in the indulgence of the dangerous pleasure, by recollecting that the hour is fast approaching to all, to me it is very fast approaching, when no human verdict, of whatever authority in itself, and however favourable to its object, will avail any thing, but inasmuch as it is crowned with the acquittal of that Judge whose favour is eternal life. Every emotion of vanity dies away, every swelling of ambition subsides before the consideration of this solemn responsibility. And though I have just avowed my deference for the opinion of private critics, and of public censors; yet my anxiety with respect to the sentence of both is considerably diminished, by the reflection, that not the writings but the writer will very soon be called to another tribunal, to be judged on far other grounds than those on which the decisions of literary statutes are framed a tribunal at which the sentence passed will depend on far other causes than the observation or neglect of the rules of composition; than the violation of any precepts, or the adherence to any decrees of critic legislation.

With abundant cause to be humbled at the mixed motives of even my least exceptionable writings, I am willing to hope that in those of later date, at least, vanity, has not been the governing principle. And if in sending abroad the present collection, some sparks of this inextinguishable fire should struggle to break out, let it be at once quenched by the reflection, that of those persons whose kindness stimulated, and whose partiality rewarded, my early efforts; of those who would have dwelt on these pages with most pleasure, the eyes of the greater part are closed, to open no more in this world. Even while the pen is in my hand framing this remark, more than one affecting corroboration of its truth occurs. May this reflection, at once painful and salutary, be ever at hand to curb the insolence of success, or to countervail the mortification of defeat! May it serve to purify the motives of action, while it inspires resignation to its event! And may it affect both without diminishing the energies of duty--without abating the activity of labour !

Bath, 1801.

If it be objected that this has not been the case with respect to one single passage which has excited some controversy, it has arisen not from any want of openness to conviction in me, but from my conceiving myself to have been misunderstood, and, for that reason only, misrepresented.

THE PUPPET-SHOW:

A TALE.

A NOBLE earl!-the name I spare,
From reverence to the living heir-
Lov'd pleasure; but to speak the truth,
Not much refinement grac'd the youth.
The path of pleasure which he trod
Was somewhat new, and rather odd;
For, that he haunted park or play,
His house's archives do not say;
Or that more modish joys he felt,
And would in opera transports melt;
Or that he spent his morning's prime
In Bond-street bliss till dinner-time:
No treasur'd anecdotes record
Such pastimes pleas'd the youthful lord.
One single taste historians mention,
A fact, unmingled with invention;
It was a taste you'll think, I fear,
Somewhat peculiar for a peer,
Though the rude democratic pen
Pretends that peers are only men.
Whatever town or country fair
Was advertised, my lord was there.
Twas not to purchase or to sell-

And pays profusely for the treasure:
He bids them pack the precious thing
So careful not to break a spring;
So anxious not to bruise a feature,

His own new coach must fetch the creature!
He safely brought the idol home,
And lodg'd beneath his splendid dome;
All obstacles at length surmounted,
My lord on perfect pleasure counted.

If you have feelings, guess you may,
How glad he passed the live long day.
His eating room he makes the station
Of his new favourite's habitation.
'Convivial Punch!' he cried, 'to-day,
Thy genius shall have full display !
How shali I laugh to hear thy wit
At supper nightly as I sit !

And how delightful as I dine,

To hear some sallies, Punch, of thine!'
Next day, at table, as he sat,
Impatient to begin the chat,

Punch was produc'd; but Punch, I trow,
Divested of his puppet-show,

Why went he then? The Muse shall tell. Was nothing, was a thing of wires,

At fairs he never fail❜d to find

The joy congenial to his mind.

This dear diversion would you know?
What was it? 'twas a puppet-show!
Transported with the mimic art,

The wit of Punch enthrall'd his heart.
He went, each evening, just at six,
When Punch exhibited his tricks;
And, not contented every night
To view this object of delight,
lle gravely made the matter known

He must and would have Punch his own;
For if, exclaims the noble lord,

Such joys these transient views afford;
If I receive such keen delight
From a short visit every night,
'Tis fair to calculate what pleasure
Will spring from owning such a treasure.
I need not for amusement roam,
I shall have always Punch at home.
He rav'd with this new fancy bit,
Of Punch's sense and Punch's wit.
Not more Narcissus long'd to embrace
The watery mirror's shadowy face;
Not more Pygmalion long'd to claim
Th' unconscious object of his flame;
Than long'd the enamour'd legislator
To purchase this delightful creature.
Each night he regularly sought him,
Nor did he rest till he had bought him.
Soon he accomplishes the measure,

Whose sameness disappoints and tires.
Depriv'd of all eccentric aid,
The empty idol was betray'd.
No artful hand to pull the springs,
And Punch no longer squeaks or sings.
Ah me! what horror seiz'd my lord,
'Twas paint, 'twas show, 'twas pasted-board!
He marvell'd why the pleasant thing
Which could such crowds together bring;
Which charm'd him when the show was full!
At home should be so very dull.

He ne'er suspected 'twas the scenery,
He never dreamt 'twas the machinery;
The lights, the noise, the tricks, the distance,
Gave the dumb idol this assistance.
Preposterous peer! far better go
To thy congenial puppet-show;
Than buy, divested of its glare,

The empty thing which charm'd thee there.
Be still content abroad to roam,
For Punch exhibits not at home.

The moral of the tale I sing
To modern matches home I bring.
Ye youths, in quest of wives who go
To every crowded puppet-show;
If, from these scenes, you choose for life
A dancing, singing, dressing wife;
O marvel not at home to find
An empty figure, void of mind;
Stript of her scenery and garnish,
A thing of paint, and paste, and varnish

Ye candidates for earth's best prize, Domestic life's sweet charities! If long you've stray'd from Reason's way, Enslav'd by fashion's wizard sway; If by her witcheries still betray'd, You wed some vain fantastic maid; Snatch'd, not selected, as you go, The heroine of the puppet-show; In every ontward grace refin'd, And destitute of nought but mind; If skill'd in ev'ry polish'd art, She wants simplicity of heart; On her for bliss if you depend, Without the means you seek the end; You seek, o'erturning nature's laws, A consequence without a cause; A downward pyramid you place, The point inverted for the base. Blame your own work, not fate; nor rail If bliss so ill secur'd should fail. 'Tis after fancied good to roam, 'Tis bringing Punch to live at home. And you, bright nymphs! who bless our

eyes,

With all that art, that taste supplies;
Learn that accomplishments, at best,
Are but the garnish of life's feast;
And tho' your transient guests may praise
Your showy board on gala days:
Yet, while you treat each frippery sinner
With mere deserts, and call 'em dinner,
Your lord who lives at home, still feels
The want of more substantial meals;
Of sense and worth, which every hour
Enlarge Affection's growing power;
Of worth, not emulous to praise,
Of sense, not kept for gala days.

O! in the highest, happiest lot,
By woman be it ne'er forgot,

That human life's no Isthmian game, Where sports and shows must purchase fame.

Tho' at the puppet-show he shone,
Punch was poor company alone.
Life is no round of jocund hours,
Of garlands gay, and festive bowers;
Even to the young, to whom I sing,
Its serious business life will bring.
Tho' bright the suns which now appear
To gild your cloudless atmosphere,

Oft, unawares, some direful storm,
Serenest skies may soon deform;
In dim Afflictions dreary hour
The flash of mirth must lose its power;
Whilst faith a constant light supplies,
And virtue cheers the darkest skies.

To bless the matrimonial hours
Must three joint leaders club their powers,
GOOD-NATURE, PIETY, and SENSE,
Must their confederate aids dispense.
As the soft powers of oil assuage
Of ocean's waves the furious rage;
Lull to repose the boiling tide,
And the rough billows bid subside;
Till every angry motion sleep,
And softest tremblings hush the deep :
Good-nature! thus thy charms controul
The tumults of the troubled soul:
By labour worn, by care opprest,
On thee the wearied head shall rest;
From business and distraction free,
Delighted, shall return to thee;
To thee the aching heart shall cling,
And find that peace it does not bring.

And while the light and empty fair,
Form'd for the ball-room's dazzling glare;
Abroad, of speech, so prompt and rapid,
At home, so vacant and so vapid;
Of every puppet-show the life,

At home, a dull and tasteless wife ;-
The mind with sense and knowledge stor❜d
Can counsel, or can soothe its lord;
His varied joys or sorrows feel,
And share the pains it cannot heal.

But, Piety! without thy aid,
Love's fairest prospects soon must fade.
Blest architect! rear'd by thy hands,
Connubial Concord's temple stands.
Tho' Wit, tho' Genius, raise the pile,
Tho' Taste assist, tho' Talents smile,
Tho' Fashion, while her wreaths she twine,
Her light Corinthian columns join;
Still the frail structure Fancy rears,
A tottering house of cards appears;
Some sudden gust, nor rare the case,
May shake the building to its base,
Unless, bless'd Piety! thou join
Thy keystone to ensure the shrine;
Unless, to guard against surprises,
On thy broad arch the temple rises.

THE BAS BLEU; OR, CONVERSATION.

ADDRESSED TO MRS. VESEY.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The following trifle owes its birth and name to the mistake of a foreigner of distinction, who gave the literal appellation of the Bas-bleu to a small party of friends, who had been often called, by way of pleasantry, the Blue Stockings. These little societies have been sometimes misrepresented. They were composed of persons distinguished, in general, for their rank, talents, or respectable character, who met frequently at Mrs. Vesey's, and at a few other houses, for the sole purpose of conversation, and were different in no respect from other parties, but that the company did not play at cards.

May the author be permitted to bear her grateful testimony (which will not be suspected

of flattery, now that most of the persons named in this poem are gone down to the grave) to the many pleasant and instructive hours she had the honour to pass in this company; in which learning was as little disfigured by pedantry, good taste as little tinctured by affectation, and general conversation as little disgraced by calumny, levity, and the other censurable errors with which it is too commonly tainted, as has perhaps been known in any society.

VESEY! of verse the judge and friend!
Awhile my idle strain attend:
Not with the days of early Greece,
I mean to ope my slender piece;
The rare Symposium to proclaim
Which crown'd th' Athenian's social name;
Or how ASPASIA's parties shone,
The first Bas-bleu at Athens known;
Where SOCRATES unbending sat,
With ALCIBIADES in chat;

And PERICLES vouchsafed to mix
Taste, wit, and mirth, with politics.
Nor need I stop my tale, to show,
At least to readers such as you,
How all that Rome esteem'd polite,
Supp'd with LUCULLUS every night;
LUCULLUS, who, from Pontus come,
Brought conquests, and brought cherries
home.

Name but the suppers in th' Apollo,
What classics images will follow!

And LYTTLETON's accomplished name,
And witty PULTNEY shar'd the fame;
The men, not bound by pedant rules,
Nor ladies* Precieuses ridicules;
For polish'd WALPOLE show'd the way,
How wits may be both learn'd and gay;
And CARTER taught the female train,
The deeply wise are never vain;

And she whom SHAKSPEARE's wrongs re-
drest,

Prov'd that the brightest are the best.
This just deduction still they drew,

And well they practis'd what they knew ;
Nor taste, nor wit, deserves applause,
Unless still true to critic laws;
Good sense, of faculties the best,
Inspire and regulate the rest.

O! how unlike the wit that fell,
RAMBOUILLET !† at thy quaint hotel';
Where point, and turn, and equivoque
Distorted every word they spoke!

How wit flew round, while each might take All so intolerably bright,

Conchylia from the Lucrine lake;
And Artic salt; and Garum sauce,
And lettuce from the isle of Cos;

The first and last from Greece transplanted,
Us'd here-because the rhyme I wanted:

Plain Common Sense was put to flight;
Each speaker, so ingenious ever,
'Twas tiresome to be quite so clever ;
There twisted Wit forgot to please,
And Mood and Figure banish'd ease;

How pheasant's heads, with cost collected,No votive altar smok'd to thee,

And phennicopters stood neglected.
To laugh at SCIPIO's lucky hit,
POMPEY'S bon-mot, or CÆSAR's wit!
Intemperance, list'ning to the tale,
Forgot the mullet growing stale;
And Admiration balanc'd, hung
Twixt PEACOCKS' brains, and TULLY'S
tongue.

I shall not stop to dwell on these,
But be as epic as I please,
And plunge at once in medias res.
To prove the privilege I plead,
I'll quote from Greek I cannot read ;
Stunn'd by Authority, you yield,
And I, not Reason, keep the field.
Long was Society o'er-run
By Whist, that desolating Hun;
Long did Quadrille despotic sit,
That vandal of colloquial Wit:
And Conversation's setting light
Lay half-obscur'd in Gothic night;
At length the mental shades decline,
Colloquial Wit begins to shine;
Genius prevails, and Conversation
Emerges into Reformation.
The vanquish'd triple crown to you,
BOSCAWEN sage, bright MONTAGU,
Divided, tell;-your cares in haste
Rescued the ravag'd realms of Taste;

Chaste queen, divine Simplicity!
But forc'd Conceit, which ever fails,
And stiff Antithesis prevails;
Uneasy Rivalry destroys
Society's unlaboured joys:
NATURE, of stilts and fetters tir'd,
Impatient from the wits retir'd,
Long time the exile, houseless stray'd
'Till SEVIGNE receiv'd the maid.

Though here she comes to bless our isle,
Not universal is her smile.

Muse! snatch the lyre which CAMBRIDGE
strung,

When he the empty ball-room sung;
'Tis tun'd above thy pitch, I doubt,
And thou no music would'st draw out;
Yet, in a lower note, presume
To sing the full dull drawing room.‡
* See Moliere's comedy.

The society at the hotel de Rambouillet, though composed of the most polite and ingenious persons in France, was much tainted with affectation and false taste. See Voiture, Menage, &c.

The late earl of Mansfield told the author that when he was ambassador at Paris, he was assured that it had not been unusual for those persons of a purer taste who frequented these assemblies, to come out from their society so weary of wit and laboured ingenuity, that they used to express the comfort they felt in ther emancipation, by saying," Allons! faisons des so lecismes!"

Seneca says, that in his time the Romans were ar- These grave and formal parties now scarcely exist, fived at such a pitch of luxury, that the mullet was rec-having been swallowed up in the reigning multitudinous

koned stale which did not die in the hands of the guest.assemblies.

Where the dire circle keeps its station, Each common phrase is an oration; And cracking fans, and whisp'ring misses, Compose their conversation blisses. The matron marks the goodly show, While the tall daughter eyes the beauThe frigid beau! ah! luckless fair, 'Tis not for you that studied air; Ah! not for you that sidelong glance, And all that charming nonchalance; Ah; not for you the three long hours He worship'd the cosmetic powers;' That finish'd head which breathes perfume, And kills the nerves of half the room; And all the murders meant to lie In that large, languishing, gray eye; Desist ;-less wild th' attempt would be, To warm the snows of Rhodope: Too cold to feel, too proud to feign, For him you're wise and fair in vain; In vain to charm him you intend, Self is his object, aim, and end.

Chill shade of that affected peer, Who dreaded mirth, come safely here! For here no vulgar joy effaces Thy rage for polish, ton, and graces. Cold Ceremony's leaden hand, Waves o'er the room her poppy wand; Arrives the stranger; every guest Conspires to torture the distrest: At once they rise-so have I seenYou guess the similie I mean, Take what comparison you please, The crowded streets, the swarming bees, The pebbles on the shore that lie, The stars which form the galaxy; These serve t' embellish what is said, And show, besides, that one has read ;At once they rise-th' astonish'd guest Back in a corner slinks, distrest; Scar'd at the many bowing round, And shock'd at her own voice's sound, Forgot the thing she meant to say, Her words, half-uttered die away; In sweet oblivion down she sinks, And of her next appointment thinks. While her loud neighbour on the right, Boasts what she has to do to-night, So very much, you'd swear her pride is To match the labours of ALCIDES; "Tis true, in hyperbolic measure, She nobly calls her labours Pleasure; In this unlike ALCMENA's son, She never means they should be done; Her fancy of no limits dreams, No ne plus ultra stops her schemes; Twelve! she'd have scorn'd the paltry round,

No pillars would have mark'd her bound;
CALPE and ABYLA, in vain

Had nodded cross th' opposing main ;
A circumnavigator she

On Ton's illimitable sea.

We pass the pleasures vast and various,
Of routs, not social, but gregarious;
Where high heroic self-denial
Sustains her self-inflicted trial.
Day lab'rers! what an easy life,

To feed ten children and a wife!
No-I may juster pity spare

To the night lab'rer's keener care;
And, pleas'd, to gentler scenes retreat,
Where Conversation holds her seat.

Small were that art which would ensure
The circle's boasted quadrature !
See VESEY'S plastic genius make
A circle every figure take;

Nay, shapes and forms, which would defy
All science of Geometry;
Isosceles, and parallel,

Names, hard to speak, and hard to spell ! The enchantress wav'd her hand, and spoke!

Her potent wand the circle broke;
The social spirits hover round,
And bless the liberated ground.
Here, rigid CATO, awful sage!
Bold censor of a thoughtless age,
Once dealt his pointed moral round,
And, not unheeded, fell the sound;
The Muse his honour'd memory weeps,
For CATO now with Roscius sleeps!
Here once HORTENSIUS† lov'd to sit,
Apostate now from social wit:
Ah! why in wrangling senates waste
The noblest parts, the happiest taste?
Why democratic thunders wield,
And quit the Muses' calmer field?
Ask you what charms this gift dispense ?
'Tis the strong spell of COMMON SENSE.
Away dull Ceremony flew,

And with her bore Detraction too.

Nor only geometric art,

Does this presiding power impart;
But chymists too, who want the essence,
Which makes or mars all coalescence,
Of her the secret rare might get,
How different kinds amalgamate:
And he, who wilder studies chose,
Finds here a new metempsychose;
How forms can other forms assume,
Within her Pythagoric room;
Or be, and stranger is th' event,
The very things which Nature meant ;
Nor strive by art and affectation,
To cross their genuine destination.
Here sober duchesses are seen,
Chaste wits, and critics void of spleen;
Physicians, fraught with real science,
And whigs and tories in alliance;
Poets, fulfilling Christian duties,
Just lawyers, reasonable beauties;
Bishops who preach, and peers who pay,
And countesses who seldom play;
Learn'd antiquaries, who from College,
Reject the rust, and bring the knowledge;
And, hear it, Age, believe it, Youth,-
Polemics, really seeking truth;
And travellers of that rare tribe,
Who've seen the countries they describe;

This amiable lady was remarkable for her talent in breaking the formality of a circle, by inviting her parties to form themselves into little separate groups.

This was written in the year 1787, when Mr. Edmund Burke had joined the then opposition.

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