The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/Blue-Stocking Revels; or, the Feast of the Violets

by James Henry Leigh Hunt

BLUE-STOCKING REVELS;

OR,

THE FEAST OF THE VIOLETS.

CANTO I.

Shewing what sort of rebuke Apollo gave his Nymphs, and how gods furnish houses.

Lo! I, who in verse flowing smooth as the wine("Modest youth!") once recorded a dinner divine,^[1]And shew'd the great god of the sun, entertainingWith wit and crack'd walnuts the poets then reigning;Now sing, in a dance fitter still for the crupperWhose wings bore me thither, a more divine supper;For that was of man, though of Phœbus; but this isOf Phœbus, and woman, and blue-stocking blisses.

The god, you must know, then, like other bright souls,Attends not to ev'ry dull curfew that tolls,But often pays visits at night-time, and sitsConversing till morning with beauties and witsIn guise of some talker renown'd,—my Carlyle,Jeffrey, Wilson, or Wordsworth;—joy listens the while;—And in case he 's too late for Aurora, they say,Some proxy, I know not who, brings up the day;Which is likely;—for after a night such as that,The day, you may notice, is terribly flat.

Well; the eve of last May-day, his work being done,Apollo sat playing his lute in the sun, As backward his car in the deep began sinking;And round it, the Water-Nymphs, with their eyes winking,Plash'd, patting the horses, and loos'ning the reins,While the lute through the lustre sent flooding its strains,When lo! he saw coming towards him, in pairs,Such doves of Petitions, and loves of sweet Pray'rs,All landing, as each touch'd his chariot, in sighs,And begging his aid in behalf of bright eyes,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$That it made him look sharper, to see whence they came:—The windows on earth, at the flash of that aim,Burst suddenly all into diamonds and flame.

"By Jove!" said Apollo, "well thought on.—I've dinedWith the Poets:—'tis now highly proper, I find,To descend (and with finger-tips here he fell trimmingHis love-locks celestial) and sup with the Women."

He said; and some messages giving those daughtersOf Ocean,—arch-eyed,—buxom dancers in waters,—They gave him some answer (I never heard what)Which they paid for, i'faith, with a dance on the spot;For shaking his locks, and a pleasant frown casting,He thrust his car back with his foot everlasting,And sprang up in air with a bound so divine,As sous'd their sweet souls in the roar of the brine.Then laughing the laugh of the gods, he rose higher,And higher, and higher, on the whirl of his fire,Lark mighty; till choosing his road, like the doveWhich bears at its warm bosom letters of love,He shot, all at once, in a long trail of light,Like the star that comes liquidly through the soft night,And stood in a "House to Let," facing Hyde Park,"Unfurnish'd;"—but not so, ye gods, before dark!

O Seddon! Gillow! Mr. Morell!O Taprell and Holland! Minter! Snell!O ev'ry one else, dear to new married spouses,Don't speak any more of your fitting up houses;Don't mention your sèvres, your buhls, or-moulus;And for ever henceforth have no customers, Hughes:Quench the light of your lustres, great Perry and Co.:Ye Bantings, be counted extremely so-so:Nay, hold your tongue, Robins; amaze us no longerIn paragraphs, "coming it" stronger and stronger:Cease roaring in great A, and wheedling in small;And thou, even thou, greatest gusto of all,Tasteful shade of magnificent, house-warming Guelph,Turn about in thy tomb, and say, "Laid on the shelf!"

The house not an instant had felt the god's presence,When something—I know not what—but a quintessenceOf fragrance and purity hallow'd the place,Some spirit of lilies, and crystal, and grace.His height he had stoop'd, as he enter'd the door,Tow'rds the human; but still his own costume he wore,Or at least a Greek vest; and be sure he wore bay;In short, was a kind of Apollo d'Orsay.Then gliding from room to room, like a slow bee,Half a foot from the floor, his lute went playing he,And the sound was a magical charm to investWhatsoever he look'd on with all he lik'd best.Nor indeed was it strange that his lute should do this,When Amphion, you know, built a city with his.

Thus the ball-room, whose wainscot was stucco before,Rose in arches of flowers, midway from the floor,All dabbled with dew-drops, and stirr'd with a breath;While the rest (for no cold could give shoulders "their death," Where Phœbus was present) was all a fair sightOf iv'ry, and cushions of silk, bridal white:—(More colours for these would flow in with the ball):And betwixt the fair couches were services smallOf ices, and creams, and clear jellies smooth-soul'd,The very tip-ends of refreshment and cold.

Then the drawing-room—What, think ye, hung the walls there?Cloth of gold? No, of sunbeams. 'Twas made of his hair.The immense window-curtains, Calypso's own woollen,Like clouds to the sunset, hung gorgeously sullen.

But as to the supper-room! O thou Aladdin,Thy genii had found it a thing to go mad in;Such wealth (which yet somehow fell soft on the eyes)Branch'd it over with jewels of wonderful size,All carv'd into fruit, thick and leafy, and allEncrusting white marble, as vines do a wall.The fruit, colour's minions, like ecstacy shone;While the marble, most fair, and yet mellow of tone,Came cooling the warmth, the rich masses between;But the ceiling was one mighty sapphire serene,From the centre of which, and their stamens of gold,Lilies shed such a light, as 'twas peace to behold.

And forth, from all sides, issued tap'stry and table,And sopha, with pictures of loveliest fable,And portraits, with eyes that seem'd happy to come,Of wits and sweet women; and every roomHad music, unseen in it, waiting to play;A note, now and then, would come chuckling away,As though with its rapture it vainly was striving;—And hark! the burst comes! the fair guests are arriving.

But first, I must tell you who form'd the spectators;—Imprimis, the Poets, the happy Translators, The Wits, the Physicians (they say that the godheadTo Knighton, Smith, Elliotson, specially nodded);^[2]All Artists, all Archers (a bright blushing starePut a bud in the cheeks of their green-gowned fair);The Musicians, the Singers (of course the chief only);And lastly (for fear any heart should feel lonely,Although with a god,—and to crown it besidesWith the sweetest of glories, home-glory), all pridesWere consulted, of husbands, and friends, and relations,And lovers, and children.—Of all adorationsCommend me to that, which enwrapt ev'ry featureIn love tow'rds the god, for this household good-nature.

"Well said!" cries the reader; "but stop, Mr. Poet;—The god's invitation—pray how could they know it?We hear of no message; no list had enroll'd 'em."'Tis true; 'twas not wanted; their Geniuses told 'em;—The Spirit that's born with us, but becomes visibleSolely with those to such suppers admissible.^[3] Beauteous it was, to see each how he led His charge by the hand, with the flame on his head, She walking, he gliding. It gave her such grace, As made the crowd happy to look in her face (For never did crowd gather yet at a door so); The plain became handsome, the handsomest more so,If plain any face can be call'd that has eyesSuch as almost all brain with its deep look supplies: The music ceas'd playing, as each was presented; And Silence, with sighs, 'twas so ultra-contented, Felt tears in the eyes of its rapture, to see How they kiss'd the god's hand, and their eyelids kiss'd he; And then, on each entrance, there pour'd forth again Some characteristic and exquisite strain, And thus came each charmer of verse, or of story, In a sort of sweet tempest of pleasure and glory.

I tell not the dresses. Suffice it that Titian Had own'd himself conquer'd at this exhibition; So rich were the colours! such autumn! such May! For spirits and years made them more or less gay; And the elder in orange and russet came, queenly; The younger in lily and rose, sprinkled greenly: The buxom, uniting both tastes, fill'd the doors With their shoulders and frills, à la Louis Quatorze; Or with robes à l'antique, and with crowns from their graperies:Blest were the eyes that beheld their broad draperies!

CANTO II.

How the Visitors were presented to Apollo, and what sort of a Ball he gave them.

Now as to the names (how much less then the natures,And writings, and beauties!) of all the dear creatures,I boast not to mention the whole of them;—nay,I live so sequester'd, so out of the way,That perhaps I don't know them,—perhaps shall omitSome bud of such promise, such sweet virgin wit,Or for want of due reading, shall fail in due noticeOf some such delight of all earth's epiglottis,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$That when I am told what I've done, I shall tearFrom my head, in pure anguish, whole masses of hair:You will think it a barber's shop all round my chair.And yet, when I vow that I'll seize all occasionOf loading "the love" with my best reparation,My "startling," "intense," "truly new," "soul-subduing,"And other fond truths of impartial reviewing,I fancy I hear her, in tones of caresses,Exclaim, "God preserve his dear elderly tresses!"

Lo! first then (for not in stern order of fame,But in blest alphabetical order they came,Though she that first enter'd, well headed the dears)Mrs. Adams,^[4] rare mistress of thought and of tears;Then Aikin judicious;—discreet Mrs. Austin,Whose English her German you'll never find lost in;—And Madame d'Arblay, mighty grave all the while,Yet at heart smitten still betwixt fun and a style, And longing to tell us more ladies' distresses'Twixt lords, and vulgarians, and debts for their dresses.So deep was her curtsey, the hoop that she woreSeem'd fairly conveying her right through the floor.

But up she swam round, and Miss Baillie succeeded:No queen could have come with such pages as she did;For who, do you think, held her train up?—The Passions:They did indeed; all too in elegant fashions.The god in his arms with gay reverence lock'd her,For two sakes,—her own, and her brother's, the doctor.

A young lady then, whom to miss were a caretIn any verse-history, named, I think, Barrett,(I took her at first for a sister of Tennyson)Knelt, and receiv'd the god's kindliest benison.—"Truly," said he, "dost thou share the blest powerPoetic, the fragrance as well as the flower;The gift of conveying impressions unseen,And making the vaguest thoughts know what they mean.

"Lady Blessington!" cried the glad usher aloud,As she swam through the doorway, like moon from a cloud:I know not which most her face beam'd with,—fine creature!Enjoyment, or judgment, or wit, or goodnature.Perhaps you have known what it is to feel longingsTo pat silken shoulders at routs, and such throngings;—Well, think what it was at a vision like that!A Grace after dinner! A Venus grown fat!Some "Elderly Gentleman" risked an objection;But this only made us all swear her "perfection."His arms the host threw round the liberal bodice,And kiss'd her, exactly as god might do goddess.

$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$Betham, Blackwood, Bowles, Bray, and Miss Browne, too, were there;What a sweet load of B's! But then what a despair!For I know not their writings. (I'm tearing my hair!)

Cary Burney came next,^[5] so precise yet so trusting,Her heroines are perfect, and yet not disgusting."However," said Phœbus, "I can't quite approve them:Conceit follows close on the mere right to love them."

Then came Fanny Butler, perplex'd at her heartBetwixt passion and elegance, nature and art;The daughter of sense and of grace, yet made wrothWith her own finer wit by o'er-straining at both.Phœbus smil'd on her parents, who stood there in sight,And quoted some lines from her play about "Night."

Marg'ret Cullen succeeded, whose novels one lives in,Like one of her hamlets, where talk never gives in;Dear, kind-hearted, arch-humour'd, home-loving dame;And to sum up all eulogy,—worthy her name.^[6]"You make me sleep sometimes," quoth Phœbus, "'tis true;But I do even that, let me tell you, with few."

"Lady Dacre."—'Twas pleasant to see the god raise,In honour of her and of Petrarch, his bays.^[7] "And how go your own winged horses?" quoth he:Then he asked after Margaret Gillies and Mee,Seyffarth, Carpenter, Robertson, Barrett, and Sharp,The Corbaux, the Chalons:—in short, more than his harpHas strings to outnumber, or haste can disclose;And look'd at the gall'ries, and smil'd as they rose:For they all sat together, in colours so rareThey appear'd like a garden, enchanting the air;But what pleas'd me hugely, he call'd to my wife,And said, "You have done Shelley's mood to the life."Some lady musicians completed the bower,At head of whom earnestly gaz'd Betsy Flower.

At the sight of Miss Edgeworth, he said, "Here comes one,As sincere and as kind as lives under the sun;Not poetical, eh?—nor much giv'n to insistOn utilities not in utility's list(Things, nevertheless, without which the large heartOf my world would but play a poor husk of a part),But most truly, within her own sphere, sympathetic,And that's no mean help tow'rds the practic-poetic.Then, smiling, he said a most singular thing,—He thank'd her for making him "saving of string"!!But for fear she should fancy he didn't approve her inMatters more weighty, prais'd much her 'Manœuvring;'A book, which if aught could pierce craniums so dense,Might supply cunning folks with a little good sense.And her Irish (he added) poor souls! so impress'd him,He knew not if most they amus'd, or distressed him.

No fault had Miss Ferrier to find with her lot;She was hail'd by the god as the "lauded of Scott."

"Mrs. Gore." Phœbus open'd his arms, with a face,In the gladness of which was the coming embrace."For her satire," he said, "wasn't evil, a bit;But as full of good heart, as of spirits and wit;Only somewhat he found, now and then, which dilatedA little too much on the fashions it rated,And heaps of 'Polite Conversation' so true,That he, once, really wish'd the three volumes were two;But not when she dwelt upon daughters or mothers;Oh, then the three made him quite long for three others;And poor 'Mrs. Armytage,' warning exaction,Sits arm-chair'd for ever, a dread petrifaction.$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$Then how much good reading! what fit flowing words!What enjoyment, whether midst houses or herds!'Twas the thinking of men with the lightness of birds!"

Never prais'd be prose-love in a style so poetic.—Then he kiss'd Mrs. Gillies by right sympathetic,And somebody smiling, and looking askance,He said, "Honi soit, my friend, qui mal y pense;$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$What in gods is a right and confirms a good fame,Were in you a presumption. The same's not the same."\And with this profound speech, and a bow to the dame(Whom he thank' d for 'Cleone' and 'Gentile and Jew',And for other things far more didactic and blue,But advis'd, for the future, to preach reformationWith all of her sweets, and no exacerbation)He rais'd Mrs. Hall from her rev'rence profound,Saying, "Nonsense, my dear; clasp me honestly round:— For the gods love the pleasure you take, 'tis so hearty, In all sorts of characters, careless of party."

And now came Miss Hamilton. Phœbus presented A look to her curtsey so little contented, It seem'd less for poetess fit than for beldam! In fact, she provok'd him by writing so seldom.

Mrs. Hoffland he tenderly welcom'd and styled "Good motherly soul;" and benignantly smiled On the close cap of Howit. "These Muse Quakeresses Are Noes (he said) turn'd to the sweetest of Yesses.

Lo! Jameson accomplish'd; and Lamb, the fine brain, (News of Charles in Elysium brought balm to its pain); And Landon, whose grief is so dulcet a treasure, We'd weep to oblige her, but can't for the pleasure.

"Ah! welcome home, Martineau, turning statistics To stories, and puzzling your philogamystics! I own I can't see, any more than dame Nature,Why love should await dear good Harriet's dictature!But great is earth's want of some love-legislature.

"And, Mitford, all hail! with a head that for greenFrom your glad village crowners can hardly be seen." And with that he shone on it, and set us all blinking; And yet at her kind heart sat tragedy, thinking. Then Montagu,—Eleanora Louisa! Was ever name finer 'twixt Naples and Pisa? But not in name only the lady hath merit; Her thoughts have an eye, and the right inward spirit.

And dear Lady Morgan! Look, look how she comes. With her pulses all beating for freedom, like drums,— So Irish, so modish, so mixtish, so wild,So committing herself, as she talks, like a child,So trim yet so easy, polite yet big-hearted,That truth and she, try all she can, won't be parted.She'll put on your fashions, your latest new air,And then talk so frankly, she'll make you all stare:—Mrs. Hall may say "Oh," and Miss Edgeworth say "Fie,"But my lady will know all the what and the why.Her books, a like mixture, are so very clever,The god himself swore he could read them for ever;Plot, character, freakishness, all are so good;And the heroine's herself, playing tricks in a hood.So he kiss'd her, and call'd her "eternal good wench;"But ask'd, why the devil she spoke so much French?

"Mrs. Norton." The god, stepping forward a pace,Kiss'd her hand in return, with respect in his face,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$But said, "Why indulge us with nothing but sighs?You best prove your merits when cheerful and wise:Be still so; be just to the depth of your eyes."Then he turn'd to us all, and repeated, in tonesOf approval so earnest as thrill'd to one's bones,Some remarks of hers (bidding us learn them all too)On the art of distinguishing false love from true.After which, as he seated her near him, he cried,"'Twas a large heart, and loving, that gave us this guide."^[8]

Well advanc'd, at this juncture, with true loving eyes, Mrs. Opie, delightful for hating 'White Lies.' 'Good Temper' too, prince of the Lares (God bless him), owes Thousands of thanks to her nice duodecimos.^[9]—"What! and you too must turn Quakeress, must you?" Cried Phœbus;—"well, spite of your costume, I'll trust you: Though truth, you dear goose, as all born QuakeressesWill tell you, has nothing in common with dresses: Besides, 'tis blaspheming my colours and skies:— However, it shews you still young, and that's wise; And since you must needs have no fault, let us see If you can't mend it somehow, betwixt you and me." He said; and threw round her a light of such love, As turn'd her slate hues to the neck of the dove.

Enter Pardoe all spirits, and Porter all state, But sweet ones, like ladies whom knights made elate (The latter wore some foreign order, whose name I forget; but it well graced the chivalrous dame). Then hearty good Roberts; and Roche (dear old deathless Regina, whose lovers my boyhood made breathless), And Shelley, four-fam'd,—for her parents, her lord, And the poor lone impossible monster abhorr'd. (So seek and so smiling she came, people stared, To think such fair clay should so darkly have dared; But Apollo the very name lov'd so, he turn'd To a glory all round her, which shook as it burn'd, And a whirlwind of music came sweet from the spheres):— Then his shape he resumed, with the bay round his ears, And on Sheridan smil'd, name with wit ever found, And on Somerville, head most surprisingly crown'd; For instead of the little Loves, laughing at colleges, Round it, in doctors' caps, flew little Knowledge! Then came young Twalmley, nice sensitive thing, Whose pen and whose pencil give promise like spring; Then Whitfield,—then Wortley,—and acridly bright In her eyes, but sweet-lipp'd, the slaves' friend, Fanny Wright.

And now came the dance; for, lo! catching up two, Since the guests had all come, Phœbus made, as he flew,A grace and a beauty of waiving decorum (For wit and warm heart carry all things before 'em) And leading the way, swept them off to the ball, Into which he plung'd instantly, music and all; For the band felt his coming, and gave such a rare Storm of welcome, as seem'd to blow back his bright hair; And so he came whirling it, gods! how divinely! The hearts of the whole room, I warrant, beat finely: In fact, hadn't he himself kept their wits sound, The room, the whole evening, had seem'd going round: But, what was amazing, he so danc'd with all, He suffic'd for the total male part of the ball! $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$Not as dancer theatrical, making a shew(Bah!—shocking to think of—Excessively no!)But gentleman-god-like, and all comme-il-faut.Now with one, now with t'other he danc'd, now with ten!For your god in his dancing is several men.Fanny Butler he waltz'd with; he jigg'd it with Morgan;With Hall he develop'd the rigadoon organ;To Pardoe he shew'd Spain's impassion'd velocity;Norton, the minuet's high reciprocity.—Then he took Landon, ere she was aware,Like a dove in a whirlwind, and whisk'd her in air;Or as Zephyr might catch up some rose-haunting fay,Or as Mercury once netted Flora, they say:^[10]And then again, stately, like any SultaùnWith his Queen, he and Blessington trod a pavaùn,—Which meaneth a "peacock dance." Truly 'twas grand to seeHow they came spreading it, pavoneggiàndosi!^[11]—Up, at the sight, rose the oldest at last,And join'd in a gen'ral dance, "furious and fast,"With which the god mingled, like fire in a wheel,Pervading it, golden; till reel after reel,Bearing sheer off its legs with them giddy three-score,They spun to the supper-room, clean through the door. Then quoth Madame d'Arblay, panting much from her journey,"Well—this beats my father himself, Doctor Burney!!"

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CANTO III.

Of the Supper that Apollo gave his Visitors, and with what sort of spectacle and of after-course he amazed them.

You remember those supper-room walls, made of flowers,Which beat whatsoever for dead paramoursThe lords of the east in white temples have done,Where in emeralds and rubies fond epitaphs run?^[12]Well,—a gallery lurk'd sweetly behind them; and thereWe spectators, scarcely knowing what took us, or where,Got somehow, as soon as the guests had down sat 'em,And found ourselves gazing most snugly down at 'em.

And thus as they sat before supper, to rest 'em,Fresh airs through the rooms came increasing, and blest 'em;—So sweet, all grew silent, exchanging rapt looks;And the silence ran thick with a bubbling of brooks.—

Not long:—for commingling, by finest degrees,With the stir of the foliage, and swell of the breeze,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$A concert arose,—so delicious, so new,So earnest, so fond, so appealing to you,The notes seem'd to bathe in the tears which they drew.

Then there issued (get Vincent Novello, some day,To show you the strain, for he took it away)A world-heavy gust, like all organs in one,Or as though had swept earthward the roar of the sun,Or the face of some god with his thunder-loud tresses,Who comes like a terror, stays gently, and blesses,And leaves us secure in the strength of humility.—Phœbus however, with host-like civility,Tried them no farther with godhead so grave:To his sprites, on the sudden, blithe orders he gave,And quoting the line about "lips being fed,"(Which applied not alone to one heaven, he said,For ambrosia and nectar sustain'd the realms upper)There rose, veil'd in mist, to soft music, a supper.

Very beauteous the mist was,—thin, white, with a bloom;An odour of violets fill'd the whole room;Ever trembled the music; and as the mist clear'd,First, bunches of violets gently appear'd,—Then silver,—then gold,—then the tops of decantersOf diamond,—then peaches, those cheek-like enchanters,And other fruit, some in white baskets, and someEnleaf'd on the bough, with a dew on the plum;Then dishes, half seen, fit to make a physicianTurn glutton, from dairies and pastures Elysian;$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$The peaches hung over them, ready to drip;And now the guests sat, and the mirth was let slip,And white went the fingers from foliage to lip.Then the music came sweet over all, like the soundOf their fame; and behind ev'ry lady stood, crown'dWith the flame on his forehead, her Genius, who wentTo and fro with his pinions, on messages bent'Twixt her friends and herself, some sweet fruit or sweet word;And ave at the table sweet laughter was heard. $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$But the best of it was, the god's wit so embrac'dThe whole room with its kindness and exquisite taste, Every guest seem'd to feel his arm round her own waist.

And well might seem palpable all which he said! For as Pallas leap'd arm'd out of Jupiter's head, So gods, when they please, utter things, and not words!'Tis a fact!—solid visions!—clouds, armies, trees, herds:—You see them—nay, feel them. Thus, talks he of roses? They come, thick and globy, caressing your noses.Of music? 'tis heard: of a sword? you may grasp it: Of love, and the bosom you long for? you clasp it.^[13]

Conceive then the joy, when in toasting the women Whom wit hath made deathless, we saw them all swim in! Each crossing the end of the room!—What a sight!—The guests thrust their chairs back at first, in a fright. I declare I beheld them so plainly, it took All the self-command in me (so sweet was her look) Not to jump from the gallery, and kiss Mrs. Brooke.^[14] Lady Winchelsea cost me still more to go through it:^[15]But at Lady Ann Barnard, I said "I must do it."^[16]

I cannot name all who thus issued from air, As the god made us see them;—but Sappho was there,As brown as a berry, and little of size; But lord! with such midnight and love in her eyes! Aspasia's however we thought still more loving: Heart sat in their pupils, and gentlest approving. We saw (only fancy it!) Pericles hand her; And both (I can testify) look'd up at Landor.Of Romans (whose women more startle than lull us) Came none but the dame that's bound up with Tibullus;^[17] But France furnished many, and Italy fair; The laurel look'd sweet in their wild flowing hair. Colonna came noble, in widow's black gown;^[18] And Stampa, who worshipp'd a living renown;^[19] Navarre's fair Boccaccio;^[20] the Rope-maker too;^[21] Deshoulieres, kind and pensive; De Launay the true;^[22] Sévigné, good mother, a little too fussy; But how, when she will, she beats Walpole and Bussy!Old selfish Du Deffand, more knowing than wise; And Genlis didactic, and D'Houdetot's eyes;^[23]And De Stael, mighty mistress, par Napoleoni, (For so he would make her), and dear Riccoboni;^[24] Then Newcastle's Duchess, fantastic but rare;^[25]And Behn and Centlivre, that plain-spoken pair;And Wortley, who, had she been bred in a haram,Had turn'd it, infallibly, all harum-scarum;And sweet Brooke aforesaid, all cover'd with May,And Lady Ann, lovely for "Auld Robin Gray;"And dearest dear Winchelsea, whom I prefer,After all, she so jumps with me, even to her:(For although Lady Ann lov'd maternity, sheLov'd love and the trees so, she might have lov'd me:)But I see high-born Devonshire, who with such pithWrote of Tell and his platform;^[26] and poor Charlotte Smith,Whose muse might have bless'd so her nooks and old houses,Hadlawyers not plagued her, and debts of her spouse's:And Tighe, her own Psyche: and Elliott, sweet Jane,Who made the lone dairies mourn Flodden again;^[27] And Radcliffe, fear-charm'd, ever breathlessly creeping Through castles and corridors, frightful to sleep in: Then Barbauld, fine teacher, correcting impatience, Or mounting the stars in divine meditations;^[28] Thrale, Brunton, Trefusis, her heart pit-a-patting, And Hemans, behind her grand organ-loft chatting; With others I can't well remember at present, Except Hannah Moore, looking very unpleasant.

You'll fancy there could not have possibly been A sight now, which females would sooner have seen Than all this; and in truth, when you mark, in a street, How they turn and inspect ev'ry bonnet they meet, And how light, in comparison, seem to hold men, 'Tis a point I shall leave to some weightier pen. Only pray be assur'd, that whatever the case, It tells not a jot to our sex's disgrace; And for this simple reason,—that us they are sure of, But each other's claims are not quite so secure of. Thus much I can swear,—that what follow'd this show Was a sight made their cheeks with new gratitude glow, And that half the dear souls fell in love on the spot, And with posthumous men too! gallants living not! Alas! did I say so? Oh impious misgiving! Than Shakspeare and Petrarch pray who are more living?Whose words more delight us? whose touches more touch? For these were the shapes that now pass'd us,—all such As the sex should most long to see, out of all story,—The men that have done them most honour and glory.

First, Homer Andromache brought, like his child;And beside them was Helen, who blushingly smil'd:—Old trav'ller was he, and he walk'd with a sword.Then Antigone came with the Samian lord,Close-clinging, yet gentle.—Then Petrarch appear'd,Looking still on the face by down-looking endear'd;First exalter of animal passion with mind.Him follow'd, still modestly keeping behind,With book under arm, and in scholarly gown,(Oh! ill have the gross understood his renown!)^[29]Boccaccio, with faces a martyr might bless,Griselda's among them, the patient excess.Her look was the sweetest that never knew laughter:And backward she turn'd tow'rds the shape that came after,Great Chaucer. As humbly as maiden went he.Young queens held their diadems of him in fee;Young mothers and beauties, clear angels of earth;I know not which grac'd them most, sorrow or mirth.

Great Cervantes was next, fine romance-loving soul(For his very jest lov'd it), with whom came a shoalOf such blithe and sweet beauties, some courtly, some nurstIn Arcadia, I thought they were Shakspeare's at first;But when he came, good lord! what a heaven upon earthOf young beauty was there! what sweet sorrow and mirth!What most womanly women! what passion all beauteousWith patience! What love irrepressibly duteous!What players at boyhood, as sweet as in gown!What bosoms, where care might for ever lie down! Did Heav'n keep a boarding-school, these were its blushers;—But Shakspeares would never have done for the ushers.

The women at table, I thought, at this sight,For pure, tongue-tied bliss, would have fainted outright;But Apollo in pity dismiss'd it; and broughtRichard Steele on the carpet, the heart of light thought;Who pass'd, with his wit and his wig, midst a bevyOf hoops and bright eyes, as if bound for a levee;Some cheeks were among them, more sweet for a sprinkleOf tears; and the dupe of that horrid beast, Inkle.Steele led by the hand his own wife in the crowd,And as if re-assuring her, kiss'd it, and bow'd.

In discourse of this kind, and such rapturous expressionsAs perfectly scorn'd all the old self-possessions,(For really I can't say which rattled most gaily,Dear frank Lady Morgan, or quiet Miss Bailey;Though somebody said, that tow'rds three, Mrs. HallWas, beyond any question, the merriest of all;And I'm told that Miss Edgeworth became so vivacious,The damsels from boarding-school whispered, "My gracious!")In talk of this kind, and a world of sweet will,Which turn'd all our heads ('tis in mine dancing still)The delight ran its rounds, till 'twas time to break up;When Apollo, instead of the old parting cup,(Which with ladies might not have been quite so decorous)Exclaim'd, "Set the new parting dishes before us."

No sooner exclaim'd than accomplish'd. BeholdEv'ry guest had a cover of exquisite mould, Rich yet simple, of porcelain. Angelica's selfHad had twice her attractions, with one on her shelf.The sides were all painted, not only with MusesAnd Loves, but with Lares, and sweet Household Uses:Good Temper was laying a cloth for Good Heart,And the Graces were actually making a tart!Each cover for knob had a ruby, heart-shap'd;And the whole stood on legs, with white elegance drap'd,—Legs bewitching, most feminine, tipp'd with a shoe;And the stockings (mark that!) were a violet blue.

All the room fell a whispering;—"What can they be?""Is it sweets?"—"concert-tickets?"—"It cannot be tea?""I'd give millions to know," said Miss Porter. "And I,"Said Miss Barrett, "my head." Said Miss Landon, "I'd die.""You may see it ex pede," said Mrs. Gore, chuckling:"'Tis something dress'd à la Sir John—à la Suckling.^[30]

And 'twas so.—O Suckling, O gallant Sir John,Thou gentleman poet, first plume of the ton;Who the reign of two Charleses by anticipationDidst mingle in one with thy cordial flirtation;Fresh painter of "Weddings," great author of rare"Poet-Sessions," and petit-soupés to the fair; Unto whom thou didst make happy milliner-lovesWith bijou for the sweetmeats, and dishes of gloves,And sent'st home the darlings in flutters of fanAt the wit of the thought of the exquisite man!O facile princeps of "wit about town,"What a bay clips thee now! What a crown above crown!Homer's self had but men for his copiers; but theeHomer's very god copies, thou great bel esprit!

The genius that stood behind each lady's chair,From her dish took the cover; when forth, in glad air,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$Leap'd a couple of small merry Loves, who display'dWhat d'ye think?—a new girdle? a busk? a new braid?No;—the sweetest blue stockings that ever were made.The blue was a violet fresh as first love;And the garters were blush-colour, mingled with dove.

To describe the "sensation" produced by this sight,The dismays, pretty doubtings, the laughs, the delight,Were a task I should never have done, if I told ye,And haste does not let me; for lo and behold ye!As doves round a house-top, in summer-time blue,Take a sudden stoop earthwards, and sweep from the view,So the Loves, one and all, rising first with a clappingOf pinions, pass'd by us, tempestuously flapping;Then stoop'd, quick as lightning, and gliding right underThe table, all vanish'd!—A shriek of sweet wonderRose sudden and brief, as of fear come and gone;And 'twas felt thro' the room, that the stockings were on!

Mute, curious, respectful (for all were inspir'dWith the feelings so nice an occasion requir'd) $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$We sat for some moments, as still as Apollo'sOwn table; till sweet, as when breath fills the hollowsOf organs, mild waking,-he utter'd what follows:—

"Dear souls with fine eyes (may they never be kiss'dBy a fool!) fear no more the mistakes that existWith regard to these footings of yours, and their blue;Fear no more the confusion of false and of true;Strange confusion at any time, seeing its grounds!For who, in his taste, sweet and bitter confounds?And whence rose it? An authoress, once on a time,^[31]Could discover, it seems, no such wonderful crimeIn the legs of an honest old soul at her party,Who came in his blue stockings, ancient and hearty,—(Ben Stillingfleet namely, fine-hearted old codger!A loving old bachelor,—real Sir Roger);But coxcombs (themselves a pedantical crew)Palm'd, in spite, upon her, the old gentleman's blue;And thence, by as clever and handsome transition,Assum'd it of all in like letter'd condition.As nicknames, however, are things we've a dread ofIn heaven itself, they 're so hard to get rid of, And as the best way to divert their abuse(If we use them at all) is to give them right use,I hereby ordain, that in future the wordBe confined to the masculine, vain, and absurd,And that all real women, ev'n though they may speakNot with Sappho's eyes only, but even her Greek,All the flow'rs of the flock, the true breathers of sweets,Take their name from the queen of the sylvan retreats;—From the hue which but now had your eyes fix'd upon it,—The Violet,—charmer of all that light on it. "No Blue," 'twill be said, "is the she who so bears her;She's Violet:—happy the bosom that wears her.

Here somebody happening to cough where we sat,Phoebus threw up a frown at us none could look at,—An eye of so sudden a flame, and tremendous,I thought he was going to "flare up" and end us;But seeing us all look submissive, he shoneWith the former mild beams in his hair, and went on:—

"And in truth it depends on yourselves, darling creatures,Which shade of the hue shall illustrate your natures;For though ye set out with the right one, nay, thoughI myself, as I now do, the blessing bestow,Yet the stockings themselves, I must tell you, are fated,And just as they 're worn, will be lov'd or get hated;—Remaining true violet,—glimpses of heaven,—As long as you're wise, and your tempers are even$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$But if you grow formal, or fierce, or untrue,Alas, gentle colour! sweet ankle, adieu!Thou art chang'd; and Love's self at the changing looks blue. Seize the golden occasion then.—You, who already Are gentle,^[32] remain so; and you, who would steady Your natures, and mend them, and make out your call To be men's best companions, be such, once for all. And remember, that nobody, woman or man, Ever charm'd the next ages, since writing began, Who thought by shrewd dealing sound fame to arrive at, Had one face in print, and another in private.

"Unaffectedness, Gentleness, Lovingness.—This Be your motto. And now give your teacher a kiss."

He said: and the whole house appearing to rise, Rooms and all, in a rapture of love, tow'rds the skies, He did really, by some divine privilege of his, Give and take of the dames an ubiquitous kiss; Which exalted us all so, and rapt us so far, We undoubtedly touch'd at some exquisite star; Very likely the morning-star, Venus's own, For the odour proclaim'd it some violet zone: And to prove 'twas no dream, any more than the bedding Which Prince Camaralzaman had, or Bedreddin, I woke, just as they did, at home, about seven, The moment Miss Landon was saying, "Good Heaven!"

1. The "Feast of the Poets."
2. Sir William Knighton has died since these verses were written. I had hoped, by this mention of his name, to give a moment's pleasure to one whose skill, manners, and liberality were worthy of a profession eminent for its friendliness to men of letters; and who, in zealously discharging his duties in the highest quarter, did not forget the least influential of his acquaintances.—With regard to "Smith," it may be allowed me to mention, considering the numerous respectable Smiths existing, doubtless, in the medical as in other professions, that the name of the most eminent of them, Dr. Southwood Smith, is here intended.
3. It hardly need be observed, that the word "Genius," here used in its mythological sense, does not, of necessity, imply that higher order of faculty, which gifts the possessors with something peculiar to them, and leaves a gap when they are gone. And as little does it imply equality of faculty. The difference of degree, in this respect, among the ladies ensuing, is as great, as specification of it would be ungallant. All the criticisms which follow relate to the individuals themselves only, and insinuate no comparison with others, whether of preference or the reverse.
   I take this opportunity of adding, that for obvious reasons no mention is made of anonymous writers
4. Authoress of the tragedy founded on early Christian history entitled "Vivia Perpetua."
5. Authoress of "Traits of Nature" "Country Neighbours," &c. A niece of Madame d'Arblay.
6. Miss Cullen, authoress of "Home," &c., a descendant, if I mistake not, of the great and good Scottish physician.
7. See translations of sonnets from Petrarch in Ugo Foscolo's masterley Essays on that poet, particularly the one about the pilgrim. Lady Dacre is celebrated for her powers in sculpture, especially in animals. A horse, after a model of hers, full of grace and fire, is well known in the plaster-cast shops. The names which follow in the text are those of reigning female artists and amateurs.
8. The following is the passage alluded to. It is from one of the lady's novels, but I cannot remember which, having made the extract some time ago, without adding the reference. As it is a female who speaks, the caution is given with respect to men only; but it need not be added, that it equally applies to the love professed by man or woman:—
   "We are too apt to think only how we are treated; too little accustomed to observe what is the treatment of others by the same person. Watch and weigh. If a man speak evil of his friends to you, he will also speak evil of you to his friends. Kind and caressing words are easily spoken, and pleasant to hear; but the man who hears a kind heart, hears it to all, and not to one only. He who appears to love only the friend he speaks to, and slanders or speaks coldly of the rest, loves no one but himself."
   Every one of these sentences is a jewel.
9. Mrs. Opie's Tales ("Simple Tales," "Tales of Real Life," &c.) and her admirable novel, "Temper," are all printed in good, comfortable-sized, portable volumes, not too big for the pocket, yet with a largish type; so that, in every respect, they may literally be said to furnish some of the easiest reading in the language.
10. See a charming stanza in Ariosto, a picture by itself, in which he describes this adventure,—a fiction, I believe, of his own. (Orlando Furioso. Canto xv. st. 57.) A collection of additions to ancient mythology by modern poets, Ariosto, Spenser, and others, would make a delightful book.
11. I find this word, accompanied by a due relish of it, in some papers on Dancing in the New Monthly Magazine. (See the number for May, 1836.) There is no language like the Italian for a happy magniloquence between jest and earnest. What a word is this pavoneggiàndosi for expressing the stately flow of an imitation of the peacock, with that lift too and sudden movement in the midst of it, marked by the accent! But I must not be tempted into these luxuries of annotation.
12. Alluding to the accounts of the mausoleum, in particular, built by one of the Mogul emperors for his mistress, the walls of which were of marble, flowered, as here described, with jewellery.
13. See a curious speculation in Tucker's "Light of Nature Pursued," in which a guess is made at the mode of speech in a future state.
14. Frances Brooke, authoress of "Rosina," "Emily Montague," &c. &c., "as remarkable," says Gorton's Biographical Dictionary, "for the suavity and gentleness of her manners, as for her literary talents." She had the candour, in a dispute with Garrick, to confess publicly that she was in the wrong.
15. Anne, Countess of Winchelsea, in the time of Pope, whom she knew. Gay introduces her among Pope's welcomers home from Greece (his finish of the Iliad) as

    —"Winchelsea, still meditating song."

    Her poems, amidst a good deal of inferior matter, contain evidences of a true feeling for nature, which has obtained the praise of Wordsworth. "It is remarkable," says he, in the Essay in his Miscellaneous Poems, "that excepting a passage or two in the 'Windsor Forest' of Pope, and some delightful pictures in the Poems of Lady Winchelsea, the poetry of the period intervening between the publication of the 'Paradise Lost,' and the 'Seasons,' does not contain a single new image of external nature." In Mr. Dyce's "Specimens of British Poetesses" are to be found two of her best specimens, the "Nocturnal Reverie," and the truly philosophical and fine-hearted effusion entitled the "Spleen;" but I am surprised that he has omitted her "Petition for an Absolute Retreat," a charming aspiration after one of those sequestered states of felicity which poets love to paint. It is equally beautiful for its thoughts, its pictures, and the music of the burthen which it repeats at the close of each paragraph.

16. Lady Ann Barnard, of the house of Balcarres, authoress of "Auld Robin Grey,"—the most beautiful ballad that ever was written.
17. Sulpicia; respecting whom, after all, there is much dispute.
18. Vittoria Colonna, the chief Italian poetess, famous for her adoring constancy to the memory of her husband, the Marquis of Pescara, a distinguished soldier.
19. Gaspara Stampa, another celebrated Italian poetess, whose writings are full of the passion she entertained, not with a like return, for Collaltino di Collalto, Conte di Trevigi, an eminent soldier. It has been generally supposed that she died of her love; but she did a much wiser thing,—transferred it to a more loving person.
20. Margaret of Valois, Queen of Navarre, sister of Francis the First, and grandmother of Henry the Fourth—authoress of the set of tales called "The Heptameron."
21. Louise Charly, generally called Louisa Labe, or La Belle Cordière, wife of a rope-maker at Lyons, celebrated for her numerous accomplishments; which included Greek and Latin, as well as wit and the guitar.
22. Madame de Stahl, an attendant on the Duchess du Maine in the time of the Regency, here called by her maiden name of de Launay (which she bore almost all her life) to distinguish her from Madame de Stael. Her autobiography is perhaps unique for candour and self-knowledge.
23. Which charmed Rousseau with their expression, in spite of the small-pox, and their own not very great beauty in other respects. But every one's mind, such as it is, looks out through the eyes,—those windows of the habitation of the soul; and Rousseau thought he discovered, in hers, the natural, affectionate woman, in the midst of a selfish and artificial generation. Madame d'Houdetot wrote, in the decline of life, some touching verses on love, beginning "Jeune j'aimai."
24. Wife of an Italian actor in Paris, and authoress of numerous popular novels, remarkable for their good-hearted liberality of sentiment. She was a friend and correspondent of Garrick. She is said to have died in a state approaching to want.
25. Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle in the time of Cromwell and Charles the Second. With an ill-regulated judgment, and fantastic notions of her dignity, personal and conventional, she possessed real genius and knowledge, and great consideration for others. She was one of those people who seem to have had a fool for one parent and a sage for the other.
26. Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, sister of the late Earl Spencer, and mother of the present Duke, who so well sustains the reputation of the ever liberal and graceful house of Cavendish. See, in Mr. Dyce's collection above noticed, the Duchess's "Ode on the Passage of Mount Saint Gothard," which excited the enthusiasm of Coleridge—
    "O lady, nurs'd in pomp and pleasure, Where gat you that heroic measure?"
    
27. Jane Elliot, authoress of the exquisite lament for the battle of Flodden, called the "Flowers of the Forest," which Sir Walter Scott had such difficulty in believing a modern production. It is like the sullenness of a still morning in the country, before rain.
28. See, in Aikin's "Miscellanies" her admirable essay upon "Inconsistency in our Expectations;" and in Mr. Dyce's collection, "A Summer Evening's Meditation." containing, among other beauties, the following sublime passage:
    "This dead of midnight is the noon of thought; And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars."
    
29. See it vindicated in a manner at once the most pleasant and affecting in that beautiful book, the "Pentameron" of Mr. Landor
30. Sir John Suckling, the most genuine poet of his class, stood midway between the sentiment of the first Charles's time and the careless gallantry of the second. His "Ballad on a Wedding" is as fresh as a painting done yesterday; and will remain so, as long as animal spirits and a taste for nature exist. He is the inventor of "Sessions of the Poets." It is recorded of him, that he once gave a supper to the ladies of his acquaintance, at which, upon the covers being removed, one of the courses turned out to consist of haberdashery and other such amenities; doubtless of a taste and costliness proportioned to the spirit of the entertainer.
31. The appellation of "Blue-Stockings" is understood to have originated, as here described, in the dress of the excellent old Benjamin Stillingfleet (grandson of the Bishop) as he used to appear at the parties of Mrs. Montagu, in Portman-square. He was jilted by a mistress to whose remembrance he remained faithful; and in spite of a disappointment which he thus deeply felt, remained, to the last, one of the most amiable of men, and entertaining of companions. See his "Literary Life and Select Works," published by Longman, in the year 1811. "Mr. Stillingfleet," (says a passage quoted in it from Bisset's Life of Burke) "almost always wore blue worsted stockings, and whenever he was absent from Mrs. Montagu's evening parties, as his conversation was very entertaining, the company used to say, "We can do nothing without the blue stockings," and by degrees the assemblies were called Blue-Stocking Clubs, and learned bodies Blue Stockings."-Vol. i. p. 237.
32. The word "gentle" is here to be understood in its fine old sense as implying, in the inner nature, all which gentle manners ought to imply, and which, when really gentle, they do. Such is the meaning of the word in Chaucer, Spenser and Shakspeare; in Mr. Wordsworth's

    "Gentle lady married to the Moor;"

    and in the "cor gentile" and "Donna gentil" of the Italians.