utter ignorance of the habits and incidents which marked the course of that period in which he lived at Derby.

My attempt ought long since to have been finished, but ill-health frequently precluding my use of the pen; the perpetual claims of social engagements upon my time; a ten weeks absence from home, and the incessant and unavoidable business of answering letters from literary strangers, have retarded the progress of my little Darwiniana.

It has been shown to several of my lettered friends, who adjure me to offer it to Dr Darwin conditionally only, viz. that he prints it unmutilated, and in my name; and they urge, that unless he pledges his honour so to do, I will publish it myself. Its characteristic traits and incidents are not confined solely to Dr Darwin. Interesting circumstances, and characteristic traits of his friends, are introduced, and also criticism on his writings.

I have spoken of him as he was. Every merit he possessed of intellect and action, is placed in the fullest and fairest light, in which I had power to place it. My anecdotes, as yet, only cover sixty quarto pages, and perhaps eighty will involve all I have to say on the subject.

Be assured I remember with pleasure the pre

possessing manner, and richly-blossoming talents of Mr Bilsbury, in years past,

"When smooth as Hebe's his unrazor'd lip,"

and remain, with much esteem, his obedient ser

vant.

LETTER XI.

MISS PONSONBY.

Lichfield, Nov. 9, 1802.

No indeed, my dearest Madam, I could not suspect yourself, or Lady Eleanor, of forgotten promises. Were the Mysterious Mother and the Orestes never to arrive, I should feel assured that their non-appearance was owing to some difficulty in procuring them. I intreat such difficulty, if it exists, may not be combated, since my curiosity to re-peruse the former, after the lapse of so many years since it was lent me for a hasty reading in manuscript, has been so lately gratified by your lending it me. I can willingly repose upon that

gratification, as the occasional vigour of the composition does not recompense the odious horror, and I trust total improbability, of the story. Mr Sotheby is a pleasing poet, but not of the prime amongst his contemporaries; nor does his former tragedy awaken any restless desire to read the Orestes.

British genius, so rich in every other species of poetic excellience, has, within the last seventy years, given us very few good tragedies. Godwin, of whom I had the highest hopes, from the throbbing terrors of his prose works, has presented a tragic drama to the public which is almost below mediocrity; and Coleridge, who holds the lamp of genius so far higher than Sotheby, soars on waxen plumes in the Fall of Roberspierre; since surely few will read that composition twice, though it is not without some emanations of the Aonian light from whence it sprung.

But in the midst of this, at least, partial dramatic impotence, where most we looked for strength, Lewis has given us what we failed to obtain from either of his superior rivals, a grand, interesting, and original tragedy, Alphonso of Castile.

The general style is not equal to that of Jephson's truly noble dramas, nor yet, though con

siderably poetic, is it so poetic as Miss Baillie's, in her Count Basil and sublime De Montfort; but as to plot, it is superior to any of theirs; busy, animated, and involved, without perplexity. We listen with breathless interest to the progress of the scenes, and cannot pretend to guess at the denouement. Orsino is a grand tragic personage. The author does not aim to make any of the characters perfect; the best of them have their fault, and therefore are they so much the more natural. But if this play deals not in human angels, demoniac villany seems to its utmost bound existing, and is gradually developed in two of the dramatic persons. Like Lovelace, its hero is beautiful and brave, while revenge, ambition, treachery, and murder, busily whisper their fell instigations, as unseen they hover" and glide around Cesario's laurell'd car."

But I am perhaps talking to you of that with which you are familiar. If so, while you have admired the excellencies of this work, you have perceived that the play, as well as its best characters, has its defects; that there is too much about Venus's doves in it; and that similies, and a moral soliloquy are made in situations big with fate. The language of passion, in such moments, is boldly metaphoric, but cannot pause for comparison, or abstract reflection.

Though I know her not, I am pleased that Mrs Spencer has had the good fortune to interest and delight you; for I am always desirous that men of genius should not do what they are so prone to do, marry every-day women.

Naughty brook, for having behaved outrageously again! That little stream of the mountain is a true spoiled child, whom we love the better for its faults, and for all the trouble and alarm they occasion. You see I presume to involve myself, as if, in some sort, the interesting little virago belonged to me. Certainly it is my peculiar pet amongst your scenic children, dear to my taste, as they are beautiful; to my heart, as being

yours.

LETTER XII.

WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq. on his Life of Cow

PER.

March 7, 1803.

My dear Sir,-You have sent me an estimable and very costly present, in addition to a number