d! Thou attemptedst to
give us thy definition of wit, that thou mightest have something to say,
and not seem to be surprised into silent modesty.

But as if she cared not to trust thee with the subject, referring to the
same author as for his more positive decision, she thus, with the same
harmony of voice and accent, emphatically decided upon it.

Wit, like a luxurious vine,
Unless to virtue's prop it join,
Firm and erect, tow'rd heaven bound,
Tho' it with beauteous leaves and pleasant fruit be crown'd,
It lies deform'd, and rotting on the ground.

If thou recollectest this part of the conversation, and how like fools we
looked at one another; how much it put us out of conceit with ourselves,
and made us fear her, when we found our conversation thus excluded from
the very character which our vanity had made us think unquestionably
ours; and if thou profitest properly by the recollection; thou wilt be of
my mind, that there is not so much wit in wickedness as we had flattered
ourselves there was.

And after all, I have been of opinion ever since that conversation, that
the wit of all the rakes and libertines down to little Johnny Hartop the
punster, consists mostly in saying bold and shocking things, with such
courage as shall make the modest blush, the impudent laugh, and the
ignorant stare.

And why dost thou think I mention these things, so mal-a-propos, as it
may seem!--Only, let me tell thee, as an instance (among many that might
be given from the same evening's conversation) of this fine woman's
superiority in those talents which ennoble nature, and dignify her
sex--evidenced not only to each of us, as we offended, but to the
flippant Partington, and the grosser, but egregiously hypocritical
Sinclair, in the correcting eye, the discouraging blush, in which was
mixed as much displeasure as modesty, and sometimes, as the occasion
called for it, (for we were some of us hardened above the sense of
feeling delicate reproof,) by the sovereign contempt, mingled with a
disdainful kind of pity, that showed at once her own conscious worth, and
our despicable worthlessness.

O Lovelace! what then was the triumph, even in my eye, and what is it
still upon reflection, of true jest, laughing impertinence, and an
obscenity so shameful, even to the guilty, that they cannot hint at it
but under a double meaning!

Then, as thou hast somewhere observed,* all her correctives avowed by her
eye. Not poorl