pany;-hours which they do not like to spare. But his fame as a botanic florist flies far. On the side of Johnson's favourite gigantic willow, and in the bosom of that pretty valley which slopes from the east end of our cathedral, lies his little garden. It is become one of the Lichfield lions which strangers go to see.

Not beginning this letter till past ten, I have borrowed from sleep to prolong it—yet it may be some days ere the packet sets out for town. I wish to write to Mr Gregory. The discriminating manner in which he speaks of my works, is a thousand times more gratifying than any general praise can be. I have received no more power ful stimulus to encounter again the trouble and anxiety of publication than his last letter extends in reviewing my ode to Eliot;-but the visits of distant-dwelling friends passing through this thorough-fare city-those of strangers who procure admissive letters, or messages-nursing;filial stewardship, spiritual, as well as temporal, together with my overgrown correspondence, weigh heavy against the claims of the muses.

Remember me with the kindest thoughts of my heart to the dear Mathias's. I hope they and your mother and sisters are well, in whose obliging recollections I shall be happy to live. Adieu.

LETTER XLIV.

REV. DR GREGORY.

Lichfield, Oct. 30, 1788.

I CONSIDER it one of the highest honours ever conferred upon me, that you should have expunged from your valuable work, a note by Professor Michaelis, in consequence of my comments. It is exalted minds only that we find so condescending......

I feel impelled to meet you, once more, on the ground of Sterne's pretensions to literary fame. It appears to me, upon the most mature deliberation, that few, if any, of the ancient or modern writers have greater claims to originality.

Passing over the notorious imitations of the Latin poets, with Virgil at their head, of the Greek ones, recollect that Shakespeare borrowed almost all his plots, and the outlines of many of his characters from old novels-that Milton was indebted to the Scriptures for his story in the Paradise Lost, and to Homer, Dante, and Ariosto, for the chief features of his supernatural scenes.

Taking designs from others, was never reckoned plagiarism.

Mr Warton has proved, in his edition of Milton's lesser works, that the most considerable part of that fine imagery, and of those beautiful descriptions of natural objects in the Lycidas, L’Allegro, Il Penseroso, and Comus, were taken from Brown, Drayton, and, above all, from Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess.

Dryden and Pope took as largely from their predecessors. Swift borrowed from Rabelais. Imitative traces, of one kind or other, may be found in all works of imagination, up to Homer; and that he is not detected in the same practice, is certainly owing to the little that remains of the writings of his predecessors.

When a great genius condescends to imitate a less, he always excels him; and then the authors, from whom he took, sink, eclipsed, into darkness, if not into total oblivion.

In equal degree that I think the above-named juvenile poems of Milton superior to those of Browne, Drayton, and even that of the sweet fanciful Fletcher, do I think the Tristram Shandy, in natural humour, in dramatic spirit, and in truth of character, superior to the Scribleriad Family, in Pope's Miscellanies.

It cannot be denied, that this joint work of

Pope, Swift, and Arbuthnot, suggested to Sterne the plan of Tristram Shandy;-but how has he drawn it out!-how glow his colours in the vivid tints of Nature!

Much wit, some humour, and a great deal of learning, may doubtless be found in the Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus;—but, after all, it is a strained caricature burlesque of antiquarianism. It deviates from its original plan, and soon becomes a mere vehicle for very spirited critical satire upon the fustian poets of that day. It is true, this critical satire is, in itself, very valuable, but all the characteristic traits of the hero are lost in its mazes, and the work ceases to be, in any degree, a memoir, or an history.

A child educated in absurdity, or false science, becomes a very able ironical critic-consciously, purposely ironical, or he would not call what he pretends to admire by its proper name-instance, "We cannot too earnestly recommend to our authors the study of the abuse of speech!"

Neither can we conceive that such a character as Cornelius Scriblerus ever existed, while Shandy's pedantries and systematic absurdities are natural living manners-he is of our acquaintance;

we sit at table with him. Every personage in his family, down to the fat scullion, lives-and they are, by those happy characteristic touches,

that mark the hand of genius, brought to our eye, as well as to our ear.

You observe that Toby Shandy is the Commodore Trunnion of Smollett. It is long since I read Peregrine Pickle, and it made so little impression, that I have no remembrance of the Commodore. It is impossible that I should ever, even after the slightest perusal, have forgotten the warm-hearted, honest, generous Toby Shandy, by whose absurdities, so happily mingling with his kindness, and with his virtues, we are betrayed at once into the tears of admiration, and into the convulsions of laughter.

Then the Corporal!—how finely are the traits of his disposition and manners, though of the same complexion, kept apart from those of his master! What mutual and beautiful light do they throw upon each other! besides affording an admirable moral lesson, concerning the duty of that indulgent kindness, which lightens and sweetens servitude, and of that reverence to which a good master has a claim from his dependents!

Then Slop!-you must allow me to say inimitable Slop ! Where will you shew me his prototype?—and O! the acute angle of the gardenwall ! Obadiah ! the coach horse ! the mud! the doctor ! and his poney ! That story alone, sooriginally conceived, so happily told, outweighs, in