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in prose, between Abelard and Eloisa, are finely written, and warranted original ;-yet are they not an hundredth part so often read as Pope's beautiful epistle, in which he has involved the most striking sentiments and descriptions contained in the whole of those mutual letters. The reverse would happen, for a course of time, were those letters, and the rhyme translation to appear at the same 'period, and were each of them new to the curiosity of the Public.

That partial, and limited taste for poetic writ ing, which you, Sophia, profess, is an arcanum of the understanding, into which I cannot penetrate. From sense and reason, it appears to me utterly unaccountable. I must therefore conclude it a prejudice. All prejudices are unworthy a cultivated mind. Your's extends to the names of compositions; my correspondent, Mr's, to the names of authors. You shut your eyes against the beauties of sentiment, imagery, satire, and landscape, if they appear before you in the lyric,

or sonnet measure.

To become superior to this prejudice, you have only to reflect that all the various orders of rhythm, as blank verse, the couplet, the lyric, which is the ode stanza, the elegiac, and the sonnet, are, to all which constitutes genuine poetic excellence, but as the riding-habit, the Italian night-gown,

the levee and the court dress, are to a fine young woman. Has she beauty and grace, though we may prefer one dress, and think it more becoming than another, it is not in any of them to annihilate the elegance of her form, the glow of her complexion, the symmetry of her features, or the expression of her countenance. So in poetic com

position, are lovely, or terrible objects strongly brought to the eye?—are the metaphors, similes, and allusions, ingenious and happy?-does the sentiment speak to the heart, or the understanding?-and is every line in itself harmonious,-how little can it matter whether that line rhymes to its immediate predecessor, or to one farther removed, as in odes, or whether it is precisely of the same length with the verses that precede, or follow?

Fain would I have Sophia fix her taste on a more rational basis, by discarding a groundless aversion. It is not a singular one certainly, but it will be disgraceful to a mind of any expansion.

As to Mr, he is utterly incorrigible, and so decisive that, maugre all his wit, it transcends my patience to listen to him. He sets out well, with an enthusiastic veneration for Shakespeare and Milton. He thinks the best of Milton's sonnets equal to any thing he has written, and I am almost of his opinion; believes him, what he certainly was, the greatest poet the world has pro

duced, Homer and Shakespeare only excepted. After them he admires Dryden, Gray, Addison, and Prior does not admire Pope; utterly despises Mason; affects to think Mr Hayley a flimsy poet, and Dr Johnson a mere bombastic pedant, with moderate learning, and no genius; asserts that Miss Williams, and myself, write better both in verse and prose than any of the three. Now this makes me sick, and so angry, that his letters become a perpetual blister upon that love of literary, as well as moral justice, which is one of the best qualities about me.

And so you fancy you do not like Ossian. You, who are so alive to the sweet, the majestic, and the terrible graces in actual prospect, to be insensible when they are finely presented by the old Bard to your internal sight!!! Surely it is whimsical. The poetry of Ossian is not perhaps very valuable as a story; and though many of the speeches of the heroes have fine dramatic spirit, with true and exquisite touches of the pathetic, yet the dissimilarity of customs and manners, to those of our day; the chain of events, so broken by the perpetual episodes, prevent very awakened sympathy with the heroes and heroines. The scenic painting in Ossian's works gives them their high and exquisite value. They represent, in every variety possible, amidst an uncultivated, and naturally barren

country, its wild and solemn features. The mythology, if less various, and less interesting than the Pagan machinery of Homer, is much more grand, awful, and impressive.

I confess, however, that inevitable weariness attends a long perusal of Ossian. We should not attempt to read him regularly, but to contemplate him in detached passages. We should look attentively at his landscapes, but perhaps not consider them for a much longer time than we could, without weariness, gaze at a landscape of Claude's, or Salvator's. Could I persuade you thus to take up Ossian, at intervals, I am persuaded you would grow accustomed to his manner, and feel the truth of the poet Gray's assertion respecting these poems, that "imagination resided, in all her pomp, many centuries ago, upon the bleak and barren mountains of Scotland."

Adieu!

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LETTER LII.

GEORGE HARDINGE, ESQ.

Lichfield, Dec. 29, 1786.

"I BLUSH, and hide my sword." You have disarmed me by the kindness of your letter, which I received yesterday. The love, respect, and veneration which I feel for my superiors in the science most dear to me; the gratitude which burns in my bosom for the delight their works have afforded me, and which will not admit my hearing, with unwounded ear, or without indignant justification, their just claims to admiration disputed; these, I know are amongst the best qualities of my heart; yet I begin to fear that this, I hope, generous zeal may have carried me, in my late letters to you, somewhat beyond the bounds of politeness.

Beneath your preceding reproofs for what I perceived you considered as arrogance, I could pout and be sullen; wrap myself up in conscious. integrity of spirit, and say to myself, “ He is a fine gentleman, and lives with senators, judges, and lords; he looks down upon contemporary genius in the poetic line, upon existing bards, and me,

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