well formed as in a society not so heterogeneous
and unsocial as that crowd termed, with the sort of modesty peculiar to
our times, "a small party:" the simplicity of parade, the humility of
pride engendered by the egotism which multiplies itself in proportion to
the numbers it assembles.

It may, too, be a question whether the literary man and the artist are not
immolating their genius to society when, in the shadowiness of assumed
talents--that counterfeiting of all shapes--they lose their real form,
with the mockery of Proteus. But nets of roses catch their feet, and a
path, where all the senses are flattered, is now opened to win an
Epictetus from his hut. The art of multiplying the enjoyments of society
is discovered in the morning lounge, the evening dinner, and the midnight
coterie. In frivolous fatigues, and vigils without meditation, perish the
unvalued hours which, true genius knows, are always too brief for art, and
too rare to catch its inspirations. Hence so many of our contemporaries,
whose card-racks are crowded, have produced only flashy fragments.
Efforts, but not works--they seem to be effects without causes; and as a
great author, who is not one of them, once observed to me, "They waste a
barrel of gunpowder in squibs."

And yet it is seduction, and not reward, which mere fashionable society
offers the man of true genius. He will be sought for with enthusiasm, but
he cannot escape from his certain fate--that of becoming tiresome to his
pretended admirers.

At first the idol--shortly he is changed into a victim. He forms,
indeed, a figure in their little pageant, and is invited as a sort of
_improvisatore_; but the esteem they concede to him is only a part of the
system of politeness; and should he be dull in discovering the favourite
quality of their self-love, or in participating in their volatile tastes,
he will find frequent opportunities of observing, with the sage at the
court of Cyprus, that "what he knows is not proper for this place, and
what is proper for this place he knows not." This society takes little
personal interest in the literary character. HORACE WALPOLE lets us into
this secret when writing to another man of fashion, on such a man of
genius as GRAY--"I agree with you most absolutely in your opinion about
Gray; he is the worst company in the world. From a melancholy turn, from
living reclusely, and from a little too much dignity, he never converses
easily; all his words are meas