the creation of art alone. I wonder and exclaim at them both in vain. Such prejudices, in such minds, are, to me, the most unaccountable things in nature. They deify Dryden, who, with all the riches of his invention, and often beautiful numbers, is, in my opinion, thrown much below Pope, by his slovenly vulgarities, and wild absurdities.

There is a sonnet of unmatched beauty in the last Gentleman's Magazine, addressed to Cary and Lister. It has the same initials, J. W., with that sublime poem in my praise in the Gentleman's Magazine for October 1784. I have little doubt that Mr Hayley is the author of both.

I do not believe Lister ever sent you his charming sonnet addressed to yourself. Behold it :

"Newton, whose soft and sweetly varied strain
Enchants the raptur'd sense, what power divine
Taught thee, dear bard, the blooming wreaths to twine,
Cull'd from fair poesy's luxuriant plain

With art so lovely!-Not the pensive swain

Musaeus, favo'rite of the tuneful nine,

Wak'd purer melody. Thou bright shalt shine
The boast, the wonder of the laurell'd train :
Thou, who wert born the arduous paths to explore
Of steep Parnassus; from its mazy ways
Dauntless to pluck the golden-vested flower,
Chaste reputation; nor shall that fierce ray,
Shot from malignant Envy's glaring eye,
Or tarnish, or embrown its glowing dye."

LETTER XLI.

H. REPTON, Esq.

Lichfield, Oct. 14, 1788.

I SHOULD Suppose nobody has ever been so well qualified as yourself for the profession you purpose to assume, that of landscape gardener; I mean who has ever taken it up, skilled, as you have long been, in all its scientific branches, and possessing, as you do, the poet's feeling and the painter's eye.

Neither acquaintance nor connection have I with Mr Mason, the tuneful and accomplished master of the art you profess. I have, however, found a channel of conveyance to him, for one of those beautiful proofs of ability, to execute the task you undertake. My poetic friend, Mr Whalley, is intimate with a bosom friend of Mr Mason's, and that is my channel. Mr W. has also engaged to disperse three or four more of these landscapes amongst nabobs and purchasers of new situations, who may happen to fall in his way, and who may wish to see an Eden opening in their wilderness;

"Hills, that swell with gradual ease,
Wood-skirted lawns, and tufted trees,
With vallies, seen down distant glades,
That break the mass of mingling shades."

Mr W. will be at Bath this winter. He is very warm-hearted, and oratorically persuasive. I have interested him in your fame and success.

You have considerable connections amongst the people of rank. Once introduced, the woodnymphs and the naiads will be your acknowledged handmaids.

I am not blind to the poetic faults of the Temple of Folly. It has many; but I find in it what appear to me indubitable marks of genius,— bold invention, picturesque imagery, strong satire, and sonorous versification. The acrimony against the harmonic science is certainly a little impertinent, at least in the manner. But we must forgive poetic genius, so neglected in this soul-less silly age-this age, that strikes medals in honour of talents, that can personate naturally a detestable indecent Hoyden! We must, I say, forgive poetic genius, if we find her stung by the consciousness how much more the musicians are patronized and admired than the bards-though she certainly ought not, therefore, to express contempt for a sister-art-younger, less important, but still a sister.

The notes are, it must be confessed, often superfluous and extravagant; but if they wander, it is into the regions of learning, from whence they bring back, to me at least, amusing information and ingenious disquisition, though frequently in too familiar, and sometimes in coarse language. I think all about Lunardi splendid, and judicious irony. The first discovery of the aerostatic powers seemed interesting and important; but when their uselessness was proved, by its being found impossible to navigate the machine, why pursue the expensive, the dangerous experiment? When life is thrown at the mercy of the viewless winds, to answer no better purpose than that of a raree-show, there cannot, I think, be a fitter object of poetic satire.

It was not well to lay out the Garden of Folly upon a totally exploded plan. Existing and nonexisting absurdities should not be jumbled together. There is the same objection to the literary dunce being made to present Moria with a species of novel that nobody either writes or reads in the present day.

The patron goddess, on her regal couch; her dress, and the allegoric personages that form her court, strike me as ingenious in no common degree, though an ill-judged employment is allotted to Credulity. We find a coxcomb-parson admi

rably hit off. "The new Adonis, fresh from Lebanon," the Birth-Day Carriage, drawn and coloured with classic elegance, and the modern fine lady who occupies it, are displayed in characteristic strength. I do not know a more spirited portrait in poetry than that of the Votary of Scandal, the Detestable Old Maid, on the pages 53 and 54,-nor, had the description of the female Jockey been Pope's, would it have disgraced him. But the poem is too long for me to pursue it farther through its maze of faults and beauties.

Adieu! Success attend you.

LETTER XLII.

GEORGE HARDINGE, Esq.

Lichfield, Oct. 19, 1788.

THIS struggle with my pride, and my resolution for the resumption of our epistolary commerce, is flattering, I grant you; but nothing is more astonishing to me than that you should think it worth your while to make it-for what, alas! can it give you? It is only once in many