"
Think, Kitty, my dear, if I heard his words right,
What a mint of half-guineas this small head contains;
If for nothing to write is itself a delight,
Ye Gods, what a bliss to be paid for one's strains!
Having dropt the dear fellow a courtesy profound,
Off at once, to inquire all about him, I ran;
And from what I could learn, do you know, dear, I've found
That he's quite a new species of literary man;
One, whose task is--to what will not fashion accustom us?--
To _edit_ live authors, as if they were posthumous.
For instance--the plan, to be sure, is the oddest!--
If any young he or she author feels modest
In venturing abroad, this kind gentleman-usher
Lends promptly a hand to the interesting blusher;
Indites a smooth Preface, brings merit to light,
Which else might, by accident, shrink out of sight,
And, in short, renders readers and critics polite.
My Aunt says--tho' scarce on such points one can credit her--
He was Lady Jane Thingumbob's last novel's editor.
'Tis certain the fashion's but newly invented;
And quick as the change of all things and all names is,
Who knows but as authors like girls are _presented_,
We girls may be _edited_ soon at St. James's?
I must now close my letter--there's Aunt, in full screech,
Wants to take me to hear some great Irvingite preach.
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