Bless me, whom can you mean?
Nay, nay, you know well enough—Whom can I possibly mean but that eternal writer of poetry, who composes verses upon every trifling incident which occurs in the circles of fashion; prints whatever he composes, and recites them gratuitously both before and afterwards; whose collected works would fill half your library, but if they had been compelled to keep their peace nine years, would, in all probability, have never spoken at all. Who, if—
Stop, stop, I entreat you, look on the other side of the picture, and candidly allow that a better tempered creature never breathed; kind, benevolent, and friendly; and whatever may be your opinion, allowed by most people to possess an excellent memory, happy articulation, and no inconsiderable portion of taste. However, we will ask him on some other occasion.
But my dear have you any other exceptions to make?
No I think not—Yes, yes, I would on no account have that dull author.
Now, my good child, you are entirely incomprehensible, or rather perhaps you mean delicately to intimate that I am not to have my meditated Symposium. Have not all authors their intervals of dullness? Has not Homer himself been accused of occasionally nodding? Well, but to whom do you immediately look?
Why to that bonny man who has printed as many thick quartos as would outweigh himself, comprehending etymology, criticism, politics, geography, antiquity, poetry, nay, the whole circle of the sciences. I have no particular, and certainly not any personal, objection to his society, but as you do me the favour to admit me of your parties, I think it would be possible to find an individual of better conversation talents, of more interesting, if not of more diversified information.
See how it is—Whilst we have been deliberating about whom we shall invite to our party, without fixing even upon one, the whole morning has slipped away, and I have a particular engagement with my bookseller. We will talk the matter over again to-morrow, and I hope you will then be prepared to determine upon a few at least, from whose society we may derive mutual gratification. I fear we shall agree but on a few, for our board is small and our taste fastidious.
One thing has occurred this morning which will prevent my inviting the Bigot Author. You know his religious creed, and with that we have no right to interfere; but a friend of his lately though of the same persuasion, sent his son as a student to Trinity College, Cambridge. The alarm was spread throughout the sect, and the Bigot Author was deputed to remonstrate, first on the impropriety of the thing itself, and, above all, on the very gross and obvious offence to the society, in confiding the main branch of so distinguished a member to the possible influence of a seminary bearing so odious an appellation as that of Trinity.”