condemn the work of which they treat. The definition was superfluous; because my preface contains Mr White's so much more comprehensible analysis, the principles of which Mr C. Loft does not combat. However, I consider his warm praise as highly honourable to my sonnets, and take it thankfully.

I have never seen a British Critic, since the arrogant nonsense of its pages, respecting Mr Polwheel's poems, met my eye, and sickened me afresh of that publication. I by no means desired to peruse what it has said about my last work, nor have I seen it,—though I am, within these three months, become acquainted with the known, and, I believe, acknowledged editor of the British Critic, Mr Nares. He is lately made canon of this cathedral, and kept his first residence during the months of August and September. I returned home in the close of it. My cousin, Thomas White, and his wife, Henry's brother and sister, live in Mr Nares' canonical house. They, cousin H. White, and Mr Nares, dined and supt with me a few days before our new canon left Lichfield. His countenance and manners are of very prepossessing sweetness, and they have obtained for him general praise and esteem. could not resist their influence, in despite of a pretty strong sensation in disfavour of a man,

who, as editor of the work, could sanction such a pragmatical and unjust criticism as had met my eye in the British Critic, even supposing it had not descended from his own pen.

Mr Nares is full of anecdote-loves music, sings agreeably, smiles ingenuously, and is gay. What portion of that knowledge he may possess, which is termed scholastic, I know not; but that his taste is not at all awakened to the irradiations of fancy in English literature, I had proof in the apathy with which he listened to the sublime Glenfinlas, by Mr Scott, not yet printed, and also to his original and interesting dramatic ballad, the Eve of St John. His eye marked none of their beauties while he listened. Unpublished and unheard-of compositions, are the tests of the taste and judgment of the listener. Towards them feeling is either dead or alive; it is no puppet danced upon the wires of others. However, when these poems shall emerge, I think, from what Mr Nares heard said of them that day, he will not venture to permit his publication to abstain from praising them.

You ask my opinion of the new poem, Pleasures of Hope, and observe that it is thought an ingenious counterpart to the Pleasures of Memory. It was lent me, for a short time, and my perusal was single and hurried. I rose from it

without any impression of having found on its pages much of the strength of original genius. Adieu! Your ever obliged, &c.

LETTER XLVII.

CH. SMYTH, Esq. of Lincoln's Inn.

Lichfield, Nov. 29, 1799.

THE packet before me, for which I thank you, is rich in testimonies of kindness and of genius. The sonnet* with which you honour my late publication of Sonnets and Horatian Paraphrases, praises them in a strain which might gratify an ear made delicate by riot of encomium. The

* Sonnet to Miss SEWARD. By CHRISTOPHER SMYTH, Esq.

NOT in thy bowers, Valclusa, when the strain,

Breath'd by the Spirit of love to night's still ear,
Fondly bewail'd fair Laura's timeless bier,
And mourn'd, on Sorga's banks, her loss in vain,

Did purer melody the soul enchain,

Than when, of late, the Muse, to Britain dear,
Tun'd her chaste lyre, that heaven might stoop to hear,
And with its magic charm'd her native plain.

little gems, with which you enrich my Delphic cabinet, shall not, through my means at least, steal into the day-light they would adorn, through the channel of your aversion. I do not partake that aversion: names of high poetic celebrity have graced the monthly repositories, and I often think little compositions of genuine beauty, appear with added brilliance from the foils with which, so situated, they are sure to be surrounded.

Were you, by frequent association, to exchange acquaintance with Mrs Childers of Cantly Lodge, for intimacy, you would find your trust in her talents, and presentiment of her virtues, confirmed. She has that vivid sensibility of the powers of genius, and that cultured judgment, which stamp the highest value on her praise, and teach us to rely on its being the harbinger of lasting fame. An exquisite little poem on the beauty, utility, and comfort of the Sabbath-institution, was, at my earnest

Then why, thou sweet enthusiast, bid farewell

To the rich music of its various chime*?
O sweep, with volant touch, thy chorded shell,
Yet, yet again, and swell the lofty rhyme,

To virtue's praise; nor with less rapture dwell
On nature's awful scenes and works sublime!

* Vide last of Miss Seward's Centenary of Sonnets.

request, sent to the Gentleman's Magazine for last March; though I could not prevail upon her to permit her name to be annexed. It is an answer to Southey's Sunday Morn.

Alas! how has her gentle heart been torn by suspence and anxiety for the fate of her son-inlaw and affectionate friend, Colonel Childers, and for that of her own and only son, cornet in the same regiment! It was in that ill-planned, and worse executed invasion of Holland, which had never been made, at least on the verge of winter, if our cabinet had set the slightest degree of value on the lives and property of Englishmen. I thank God the name of Childers is not on the long and dreadful list of the sacrifices.

This horrid war exhibits, in broad and bloody characters, a lesson against different nations combining in such military league as involves their acting in concert. Austria and Prussia combined against France, they quarrelled and failed. Austria and England combined against France,— they quarrelled and failed. Austria and Russia combine against France, they quarrel, and their conquests melt from their grasp. England and Russia invaded Holland, now a province to France, and each lays upon the other the miserable result.

Buonaparte proves a second Oliver. This resemblance of epoch, character, and conduct, to