feeble, is not inelegant, and as I understand she is a woman of education.

་

When Emeline first says of the fainting Adelaide," she is coming to," I concluded the press had accidentally omitted to add the word “herself;" but in a page after, the same kitchenphrase is repeated by Emeline, " yes, she is certainly coming to." In another place we find, "Emeline grew white at the intelligence." White, instead of pale, I have often heard servants say, but never a gentleman or a gentlewoman.

I fancy this lady has been so fortunate to engage yours and Mr Hayley's benevolent amity; that it draws a veil over all the defects, and magnifies every grace of her compositions; but you will remember, that I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs Smith, and, therefore, read her works with the same indifference I do those whose authors died before I was in existence.

My very foes acquit me of harbouring one grain of envy in my bosom; yet it is surely by no means inconsistent with that exemption, surely it belongs to a native love of justice, to feel a little indignant, and to enter one's protest, when compositions of mere mediocrity, such as I own I think Mrs Smith's Sonnets, are extolled far above those of real genius. These same sonnets have been

more extolled than the classic elegance and refined grace of Mrs Barbauld's poems; than the correct and perspicuous good sense of Miss More's, often animated by original, striking, and graceful imagery; than the wit and attic spirit of Mrs Piozzi's writings; and greatly more than the sublime and beautiful creations of our Helen Williams's imagination.

My poor father, who was all honesty in his literary opinions, and who warmly delighted in the genius of his contemporaries, used to feel just in this manner over the undue celebration of Glover's Leonidas, when the whole national taste seemed under the fascination of investing it with the highest honours. However, my father's existence has more than thirty years survived the fame of Leonidas :-" a new blown bubble of the day," which burst almost as suddenly as it was

formed.

With my learned, but too fastidious, neighbour, Mr Grove, I was the other day contending for the existence of more genius in one of our minor poets, than he would hear of. "Ay," said he,

you always sit down to see new verses with such a disposition to praise, that I do not always trust your encomiums. They must be bad, indeed, if you can find nothing in them with which to be pleased."

It is true, I often fight Mr G.'s coldness, but

he thinks scarce less

highly of the dear bard's

writings than myself.

This similarity proves as good as the bark to our literary hectics.

I am glad you find Mr Hayley's adopted boy a pleasing companion; that his understanding is firm, and his heart good; but you say he is not poetical. The absence of that faculty in him, proves that poetry is a present that nature only can make; and not to be implanted by any power of education, by the force of early habit, or by the imitative ardour of childhood. I cannot help being sorry to hear that the coarse wit of Swift, and the burlesque of Anstey, are preferred to the finer sallies of the imagination by a young mind, especially his, around which her purest emanations so perpetually play.

Why sleeps Mr Sargent's muse, that once awaked "so sweetly, and so well?" Adieu!

Lichfield, Jan. 20, 1789.

IT has been in vain that I wished earlier to transmit my congratulations on the brightning prospect in the region of friendship from Lady Moira's amendment. May all the clouds of disease soon disperse from that fair horizon!

I am sure you have felt for dear Lady Carhampton, mourning the loss of her justly darling son. The resignation with which she sustains this heavy blow is saint-like. O blessed hope of immortality, it is thou only, operating upon the consciousness of a virtuous life, that, beneath deprivations like these, canst assuage the storm of anguish, and silence the murmurs of complaint.

You plead the controul of the House of Lords for passing three times through Lichfield, as if you had not a friend within its walls. Hang aristocracy, if such are its fruits.

I cannot say that I have read Dr Kippis's Life of Cook, though I have looked into it. When I was upon a visit, of a few days, in Mr Gell's fa

mily, in Derbyshire, it first met my eye. Our society was too interesting, to permit much attention to books; and, I confess, the style did not please me sufficiently, to excite much avidity for an entire and attentive perusal. Familiar as are the public with the events of that great man's life, and with all the traits of his character, it required more than common abilities that should strike out new lights, and, at least, throw the splendour of fine style over a subject so perfectly known.

Miss William's Ode seems the gem of the Doctor's work. It is very sublime. That young lady's talents are indeed an honour to our sex. Her disposition is as amiable as her imagination is vivid and original.

It will probably be thought, that we both ought to make low curtseys to the learned editor, for the praise he deigns to bestow on the efforts of the Misses; but, lest we should grow too vain of that praise, immediately after having bestowed it, he observes how much it must be regretted, that some writer of eminence, Cowper or Hayley, does not take up a subject, so worthy of their pen, and do justice to merit and heroism so distinguished.

However true this may be, and with whatever propriety the observation might have been made in any other part of the work, it was pedant im