CHAPTER XXIII.
"To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he writ was all his own;
Horace's wit, and Virgil's state,
He did not steal, but emulate;
And when he would like them appear,
Their form, but not their clothes, did wear."
If there be an individual living who has read the "Essay on Man," or "The Rape of the Lock," without a wish to become more acquainted with the writings of the gifted poet that penned those exquisite poems, I confess that such an one is made of different materials from myself.
It is possible that I am too great a devotee to authors, and especially poets; yet such is my reverence for departed writers, that I would rather walk five miles to see a poet's grave than to spend an evening at the finest entertainment that could be got up.
It was on a pleasant afternoon in September, that I had gone into Surrey to dine with Lord C———, that I found myself one of a party of nine, and seated at a table
