my opinion, all the writings of Smollett, in the scale of genius.

Then for the simply pathetic, shew me the equal of Le Fevre, and his duteous boy!—Ah! my friend, can I learn to think these thrilling recollections the prejudices of girlism, and the echo of other people's opinions?

Surely there is no shadow of resemblance between the Dorothea of Cervantes, and the Maria of Sterne, except in their itinerancy, and in the perfidy of their lovers. Nothing can be more unlike than their characters. The soft shades of insanity thrown over the woes of Maria, render her little mournful sallies a million of times more touching than the studied and minute circumlocution with which Dorothea relates her story.

The wild, yet slow air, which Maria plays to the virgin her pathetic address to the dog, which she has in a string-" Thou shalt not leave me Sylvio!" alluding at once, in those few words, to the desertion of her lover, and to the death of her father;-ah! surely these traits, with many resembling ones, are in the genuine hues of tender sorrow! Strange does it appear to me, when such hearts as Mr Gregory's refuse to recognise, with the thrill of admiration, their pathos, and their truth! More do they interest me for the fair bereaved, than I could ever be interested for a bushel

of such indistinct personages of the imagination as Dorothea. We are told that she weeps, but she says nothing that inclines us to weep with her. She yielded to her lover, not through affection, but interest, nor deigns she to bestow one regret on the parents she has deserted. Nature and probability are outraged, when such a character is held up to us as amiable; and surely justice is not less violated, when it is pronounced the prototype of the forsaken, gentle, duteous, tender, and simply-eloquent Maria.

It appears from Gray's letters, that he despised, as a stupid, uninteresting, affected performance, the Nouvelle Heloise, though Mason had professed himself fascinated by its gracesand also, that while Gray idolized Ossian, to Mason it appeared a worthless, bombastic impo-sition on the credulity of the public. I believe it comes to this at last,

"Some wayward spirit hovers o'er the brain,
And twists opinions, in contempt of justice;"

That though highly to please a mind of genius is proof of an author's merit, yet, that to displease a man of ability, is not by any means so sure a sign that he writes ill. Ossian must have sublimity, though Mason and Hayley are blind to it, or

Gray would not have asserted that imagination resided, many hundred years since, in all her pomp, on the bleak and barren mountains of Scotland. So, in despite of Gray, is the Nouvelle Heloise an exquisite performance, or it could not, like the writings of Sterne, have delighted numbers who are familiar with the requisites of fine writing, and know how to separate the dross of composition from its gold.

Forgive this second struggle for the fame of Sterne. With less honour for your judgment I had not molested your disapprobation. If your dislike is invincible, we will mention him no more—since, were I to become your proselyte on this subject, it must be at the expence of my gratitude, for many an hour that has been softened by his pathos, and gilded by his wit. Adieu!

LETTER XLV.

WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq. on his REVOLUTION

POEM.

Lichfield, Nov. 9, 1788.

My dear Bard, after having been vainly looking and longing, through four whole months, for a letter from Eartham, permit me to thank you for your billet, and for the kindness of its style. For the intelligence it conveyed, that your health was somewhat amended, my heart offered up its instant thanks to Heaven.

It is with unclouded gratitude, that I acknowledge the receipt of your infinitely welcome poetic present. The centennial birth-day of English liberty, and the memory of Doctor Johnson's rascal (blistered should have been the tongue that called him so) had a just claim upon the pen of Britain's darling bard. Well has it discharged the debt it owed. I feel assured, that the poetic beauties are more numerous than any other lyrist could have given to a subject so hackneyed, and where the calm phlegmatic character of its hero, restrained the efflorescence of the imagination, under the guid

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ance of a judgment, chaste and veritable as Mr Hayley's.

Mr Mason I see advertises an ode on the same occasion. I long to read it. Interesting indeed is the poetic race, when two such coursers start a-breast,

"With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long resounding pace."

His muse has given an impression not much in favour of the heart of our deliverer, in the first book of his English Garden:

"Great Nature lay,

Defac'd, deflower'd, thro' many a ruthless year,
Alike when Charles, the abject tool of France,
Came back to smile his subjects into slaves,
Or Belgic William, with his warrior frown,
Coldly declar'd them free."

For your ode my dear bard-Poetry, in all her stores, has no sublimer painting, than the conclusion of the 5th stanza. After that grand picture, which, to the muse-directed eye, comes so forward in the composition, my next favourite parts, are the nervous conclusion of the 2d stanza; and, in the 9th, the just exaltation of the plain, honest, brave, moderate spirit of William, over the oppressive selfishness of that polished despot, Lewis