bserves, and Segrais knew
them intimately, that their conversation only turned on poetry; take
them from that, and they knew nothing. It was thus with one Du Perrier,
a good poet, but very poor. When he was introduced to Pelisson, who
wished to be serviceable to him, the minister said, "In what can he be
employed? He is only occupied by his verses."

All these complaints are not unfounded; yet, perhaps, it is unjust to
expect from an excelling artist all the petty accomplishments of
frivolous persons, who have studied no art but that of practising on the
weaknesses of their friends. The enthusiastic votary, who devotes his
days and nights to meditations on his favourite art, will rarely be
found that despicable thing, a mere man of the world. Du Bos has justly
observed, that men of genius, born for a particular profession, appear
inferior to others when they apply themselves to other occupations. That
absence of mind which arises from their continued attention to their
ideas, renders them awkward in their manners. Such defects are even a
proof of the activity of genius.

It is a common foible with poets to read their verses to friends.
Segrais has ingeniously observed, to use his own words, "When young I
used to please myself in reciting my verses indifferently to all
persons; but I perceived when Scarron, who was my intimate friend, used
to take his portfolio and read his verses to me, although they were
good, I frequently became weary. I then reflected, that those to whom I
read mine, and who, for the greater part, had no taste for poetry, must
experience the same disagreeable sensation. I resolved for the future to
read my verses only to those who entreated me, and to read but a few at
a time. We flatter ourselves too much; we conclude that what please us
must please others. We will have persons indulgent to us, and frequently
we will have no indulgence for those who are in want of it." An
excellent hint for young poets, and for those old ones who carry odes
and elegies in their pockets, to inflict the pains of the torture on
their friends.

The affection which a poet feels for his verses has been frequently
extravagant. Bayle, ridiculing that parental tenderness which writers
evince for their poetical compositions, tells us, that many having
written epitaphs on friends whom they believed on report to have died,
could not determine to keep them in their closet, but suffered them to
appear in the lifetime of those