author's compositions are little worth-they are as Cowper's verses in rhyme, compared to his Task and his Yardly-Oak. Adieu !

LETTER LXI.

REV. H. F. CARY.

Lichfield, May 10, 1807.

MORE immediately should I have noticed the kind contents of your letter, had it arrived at a less interesting juncture. At two that day, Friday last, the poetically great Walter Scott came "like a sun-beam to my dwelling." I found him sturdily maintaining the necessity of limiting his inexpressibly welcome visit to the next day's noon. You will not wonder that I could spare no minutes from hours so precious and so few.

Ah !'fortunate if one of your filial sojourns here had proved the means of introducing my poetic friends to each other. Such presentations are amongst my heart's luxuries. Respecting Lister, that possibility was within one day of having occurred; he called upon me on Thursday morning, and returned to Armytage after tea.

measure.

This proudest boast of the Caledonian muse is tall, and rather robust than slender; but lame in the same manner as Mr Hayley, and in a greater Neither the contour of his face, nor yet his features, are elegant; his complexion healthy, and somewhat fair, without bloom. We find the singularity of brown hair and eye-lashes, with flaxen eyebrows, and a countenance open, ingenuous, and benevolent. When seriously conversing, or earnestly attentive, though his eyes are rather of a lightish grey, deep thought is on their lids; he contracts his brow, and the rays of genius gleam aslant from the orbs beneath them. An upper-lip, too long, prevents his mouth from being decidedly handsome, but the sweetest emanations of temper and of heart play about it when he talks cheerfully, or smiles; and, in company, he is much oftener gay than contemplative. His conversation, an overflowing fountain of brilliant wit, apposite allusion, and playful archness, while, on serious themes, it is nervous and eloquent. The accent decidedly Scotch, yet by no means broad. On the whole, no expectation is disappointed, which his poetry must excite in all who feel the powers and the graces of Aonian inspiration.

Not less astonishing than was Johnson's memory is that of Mr Scott; like Johnson also, his

recitation is too monotonous and violent to do justice, either to his own writings, or that of others. You are almost the only poet I know, whose reading is entirely just to his muse.

Mr White and Mr Simpson breakfasted with us on Saturday morning. One hour only before that which he fixed for his departure, our northern luminary, by repeated and vehement solicitation, was persuaded to shine upon us till ten the next day. Mr Simpson would have no nay to his request, that the party should dine and sup with him and Mrs Simpson. The stranger guest, Scott, delighted us all by the unaffected charms of his mind and manners. He had diverged many miles from his intended track of return from our capital, to visit me ere he repassed the Tweed. Such visits are the most high-prized honours which my writings have procured for me.

I shewed Mr Scott the passage in your Dante which mentions his work, and the Magician it celebrates. He had heard of your translation, but not read it. On looking at a few of the passages, and comparing them with the original, he said there was power and skill in having breathed so much spirit into a translation so nearly literal; but he confessed his inability to find pleasure in that author, even in his own language, which Mr S. perfectly understands. The plan, he said, ap

peared to him unhappy, as it was singular, and the personal malignity and strange mode of revenge, presumptuous and uninteresting. However, he promised to examine your English version more largely when he could find leisure.

Constable, Scott's Edinburgh publisher, dined with me a fortnight ago, and said he had agreed with Mr Scott to give a thousand guineas for Flodden-Field, a poem now on the anvil. The muses drive a thriving trade for Scott, as once they did for Hayley, and since for Darwin; but, alas! look at their bankrupts, from Spenser's day down to Chatterton, and in the present period. Mr Scott told me Gray and Mason* have been heard to declare the pecuniary barrenness of their deathless laurels. The honours of future times, inevitable indeed, but promissory only, are he sole rewards of Southey's energies, though awakened by all the nine. Adio.

* On mentioning this circumstance to Mr Scott he expressed his opinion that Miss Seward must have misunderstood him. Gray left his literary property to Mason, as is well known. It is not equally well-known that Mason considered the profits (and Mr Scott always understood that they were considerable) as a fund for the exercise of the noblest charity, in educating young men of talents, many of whom rose to considerable distinction.-Note by the Editor.

LETTER LXII.

DR HUSSEY, at Portsmouth.

Lichfield, July 28, 1807.

IN pain of body and feverish irritation, which banished night-rest, and in consequent languor of spirits through the days, I have seen a tedious month elapse since I received your letter. I saw your brother yesterday, and he told me you had not even yet sailed for the Cape, but were on board the Alfred, lying off Portsmouth, and, with General Weatheral and his family, were there waiting the appointment of a new convoy. In that situation I find you have passed several

weeks.

I sincerely pity the long inactivity to which a spirit, energetic as yours, has been doomed; your books packed up, and inaccessible. Succeeding to a life of anxious cares, and exertion which knew not an hour's remission, this total, this spiritless contrast must be most oppressively felt. If you had books, those precious silent friends, or the social intercourse of a few, or even one