Artist unseen! that dipt in frozen dew Hast on the glittering glass thy pencil laid, Ere from yon sun the transient visions fade, Swift let me trace the forms thy fancy drew! Thy towers and palaces of diamond hue, Rivers and lakes of lucid crystal made, And hung in air hoar trees of branching shade, That liquid pearl distil:--thy scenes renew, Whate’er old bards, or later fictions feign, Of secret grottos underneath the wave, Where nereids roof with spar the amber cave, Or bowers of bliss, where sport the fairy train, Who frequent by the moonlight wanderer seen Circle with radiant gems the dewy green. SOTHEBY. * * * * * ~Characters.~ MRS. AURELIA SPARR. _For the Table Book._ Mrs. Aurelia Sparr is a maiden lady, rather past fifty, but fresh and handsome for her age: she has a strong understanding, a retentive memory, a vast deal of acquired knowledge, and with all she is the most disagreeable woman breathing. At first she is amusing enough to spend an evening with, for she will tell you anecdotes of all your acquaintance, and season them with a degree of pleasantry, which is not wit, though something like it. But as a jest-book is the most tiresome reading in the world, so is a narrative companion the most wearisome society. What, in short, is conversation worth, if it be not an emanation from the heart as well as head; the result of sympathy and the aliment of esteem? Mrs. Aurelia Sparr never sympathized with any body in her life: inexorable to weaknesses of every kind, more especially to those of a tender nature, she is for ever taxing enthusiasm with absurdity, and resolving the ebullition of vivacity into vanity, and the desire to show off. She is equally severe to timidity, which she for ever confounds with imbecility. We are told, that “Gentle dulness ever loved a joke.” Now Mrs. Aurelia Sparr is neither gentle nor dull; it would be a mercy to her hearers if she were either, or both: nevertheless, she chuckles with abundant glee over a good story, is by no means particular as to the admission of unpleasant images and likes it none the worse for being a little gross. But woe to the unlucky wight who ventures any glowing allusion to love and passionate affection in her hearing! Down come the fulminations of her wrath, and indecency--immorality--sensuality--&c. &c. &c.--are among the mildest of the epithets, or, to keep up the metaphor, (a metaphor, like an actor, should always come in more than once,) the _bolts_ which the tempest of her displeasure hurls down upon its victim. The story of Paul and Virginia she looks upon as very improper, while the remembrance of some of the letters in Humphrey Clinker dimples her broad face with retrospective enjoyment.