I have corresponded much, of late years, with a fastidious critic of your acquaintance, who has more wit and genius, than candour, judgment, or generous perception of contemporary excellence, in beautiful writing. With the tetchiness of a spoiled child, he kicks at every word that is either older or younger than the chit-chat of polite companies; and, when used by the moderns, he quarrels with all the witcheries of Shakespearean simplicity, and with the grandeur of the Miltonic phrases; together with the thrice-happy grammatic licences, that give grace and spirit to their writings.

Such forwardness is more oppressive to me than stupidity itself, and it has often made me so cross, that Hardinge thinks me ill-tempered.

Candid disquisition I have always thought delightful; and I am acknowledged to be patient of criticism, but then my reason must be convinced. I demand the why and wherefore, of objection; and, obtaining them, gratefully kiss the correcting hand--but save me, ye Powers of sensibility and justice, from literary correspondents, who hate for they do.

There is no end of producing what they call feeling, as a critical criterion. Mr Hardinge, perhaps, detests a particular mode of expression; Mr Hayley thinks it charming-yet Mr Hardinge

says, there is no reasoning upon these matters, they must be referred to feeling-let it be so, respecting his own likings and dislikings—but it is arrogance to expect, that I should deem his feelings the unerring judges of propriety, harmony, and grace. Why may I not be allowed to have as much respect for my own?

But how I have forgotten your passion for conciseness, thus suffering myself to prate about it, and about it!

Adieu !-May health and happiness like to be near you, as well as I do, for at least forty years to come!

LETTER XXXVI.

H. CARY, ESQ.

Lichfield, Sept. 25, 1788.

YOUR letter, my dear C, has inspired a cheering hope for the fate of the gallant, interesting, and grateful Howel. I did not happen to see the paragraph in question. All, however, is silence from Eartham. Not a week did I delay to answer that mournful letter of Mr Hayley's,

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announcing his fears on this subject. My answer expressed sincere and tender sympathy. It observed that, since he well knew the lively interest I had long taken in Howel's destiny, and must ever take in what so nearly concerns his own peace, I could not doubt receiving an instant line of information upon the dawn of any hope in that now dark quarter. If indeed they are now happy in a reunion, this silence is at once unkind and unfeeling, and will convince me that they did not slander the dear illustrious bard, who whispered to me that his affections were subject to ague fits. Sure I am, that I never deserved to lose one atom of that fervent friendship which Mr Hayley's letters, during the first years of our correspondence, pledged to me should be eternal. The letters with which he has honoured me, during the past three years, have had intervals of several months between their dates, are shorter and less affecionate than those which blest me in the years that are flown. Never will he find a being more devoted to his genius, more interested in his happiness, more attached to his virtues.

It is of Colonel Barry that I mean to inquire concerning the safety of Howel, since, if the person mentioned in the papers prove some other of that name, it would be tearing open the poor bard's wounds to ask the question of him.

Alas! my dear C-, the night before last my father had another dreadful seizure; and though the present danger seems past away, it has left him weaker than ever, both in body and mind. During yesterday, I could not find a moment in which to take up my pen; and my spirits were so oppressed, that if I had not wanted leisure, I should probably have wanted resolution.

Burns is honoured by your having adopted his word "chittering;" yet I know not if it is well to apply the epithet generally to so sweet a songster. Burns does not say the chittering red-breast; but he mentions the chittering wing of that little bird, when he sits forlorn on a leafless bough through a snowy night. Unwaking, for the sleep of death, is a fine epithet, which I believe you have created.

The new poet you mention, is said to be a distinguished classic scholar. If so, he adds strength to my long conviction, that though familiarity with the Greek and Latin poets may improve a fine genius, yet that it will never enable a moderate one to write elegantly in his own language. Adieu!

LETTER XXXVII.

H. CARY, ESQ.

Lichfield, Oct. 4, 1788.

SEND me a copy of your sonnet addressed to Mr Swift, on his Temple of Folly. I want to show to one of my literary correspondents, who affects to despise that ingenious, though not faultless work, what are your sentiments of its merit:

"Their praise is fame, that makes the poet live,
Who knew themselves to win the palm they give."

Did I conceive that I should catch myself writing an epigram, who have so little antithetical point in the constitution of my fancy? There's a word

for you, fresh from the mint.

You must have

discovered that I am a prodigious coiner.

Alas! your hope for Howel's safety was fallacious. Too certainly

"He floats upon his watery bier."