. Thackerayana;. living who is not a Suffenus in one thingor other.—Catul. de Suffeno, xx. 14. * I yesterday came hither about two hours before the companygenerally make their appearance, with a design to read over allthe newspapers; but, upon my sitting down, I was accosted byNed Softly, who saw me from a corner in the other end of theroom, where I found he had been writing something. , says he, I observe, by a late paper of yours, thatyou and I are just of a humour; for you must know, of all imper-tinences, there is nothing which I so much hate as news. I neverread a gazette in
. Thackerayana;. living who is not a Suffenus in one thingor other.—Catul. de Suffeno, xx. 14. * I yesterday came hither about two hours before the companygenerally make their appearance, with a design to read over allthe newspapers; but, upon my sitting down, I was accosted byNed Softly, who saw me from a corner in the other end of theroom, where I found he had been writing something. , says he, I observe, by a late paper of yours, thatyou and I are just of a humour; for you must know, of all imper-tinences, there is nothing which I so much hate as news. I neverread a gazette in my life; and never trouble my head about ourarmies, whether they win or lose, or in what part of the world theylie encamped. Without giving me time to reply, he drew apaper of verses out of his pocket, telling me that he had some- the <tatler: 71 thing that would entertain me more agreeably; and that he woulddesire my judgment upon every line, for that we had time enoughbefore us until the company came 1 Finding myself unavoidably engaged in such a conversation,I was resolved to turn my pain into a pleasure, and to divertmyself as well as I could with so very odd a fellow. You mustunderstand, says Xed, that the sonnet I am going to read toyou was written upon a lady, who showed me some verses of herown making, and is, perhaps, the best poet of our age. But youshall hear it. 1 Upon which he began to read as follows :— TO MlRA, ON HER INCOMPARABLE POEMS. When dressd in laurel wreaths you shine, And tune your soft melodious notes,Yoii seem a sister of the Nine, Or Phoebus self in petticoats. I fancy when your song you sing (Your song you sing with so much art) Your pen was pluckd from Cupids wing ;For, ah ! it wounds me like a dart. Why, says I, this is a little nosegay of conceits, a verylump of salt. Every verse has something in it that piques; andthen the dart in the last line is certainly as pretty a sting on thetail of an epigram, for so I think you critics call
Size: 2391px × 1045px
Photo credit: © Reading Room 2020 / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No
Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookidthackerayana, bookyear1875
