composed of three laurels, a myrtle-tree, a weeping-willow, and a view
of the Avon, which has been new christened Helicon. Ten years ago there
lived a Madam Riggs, an old rough humourist who passed for a wit; her
daughter, who passed for nothing, married to a Captain Miller, full of
good-natured officiousness. These good folks were friends of Miss Rich,
who carried me to dine with them at Bath-Easton, now Pindus. They caught
a little of what was then called taste, built and planted, and begot
children, till the whole caravan were forced to go abroad to retrieve.
Alas! Mrs. Miller is returned a beauty, a genius, a Sappho, a tenth
Muse, as romantic as Mademoiselle Scuderi, and as sophisticated as Mrs.
Vesey. The Captain's fingers are loaded with cameos, his tongue runs
over with _virtu_, and that both may contribute to the improvement of
their own country, they have introduced _bouts-rimes_ as a new
discovery. They hold a Parnassus fair every Thursday, give out rhymes
and themes, and all the flux of quality at Bath contend for the prizes.
A Roman vase dressed with pink ribbons and myrtles receives the
poetry,[1] which is drawn out every festival; six judges of these
Olympic games retire and select the brightest compositions, which the
respective successful acknowledge, kneel to Mrs. Calliope Miller, kiss
her fair hand, and are crowned by it with myrtle, with--I don't know
what. You may think this is fiction, or exaggeration. Be dumb,
unbelievers! The collection is printed, published.--Yes, on my faith,
there are _bouts-rimes_ on a buttered muffin, made by her Grace the
Duchess of Northumberland; receipts to make them by Corydon the
venerable, alias George Pitt; others very pretty, by Lord Palmerston;
some by Lord Carlisle: many by Mrs. Miller herself, that have no fault
but wanting metre; an Immorality promised to her without end or measure.
In short, since folly, which never ripens to madness but in this hot
climate, ran distracted, there never was anything so entertaining or so
dull--for you cannot read so long as I have been telling.

[Footnote 1: Four volumes of this poetry were published under the title
of "Poetical Amusements at a villa near Bath." The following lines are a
fair sample of the _bouts-rimes_.

The pen which I now take and brandish
Has long lain useless in my standish.
Know, every maid, from her own patten,
To her who shines in glossy sattin,
That could they now prepa