LETTERS. LETTER I. MISS POWYS*. Lichfield, Oct. 23, 1784. You have obliged me by the translation of Rousseau's SECOND WALK. The perspicuity, and beauty of the language, leave no doubt of its doing every justice to the sentiments of the author;but, good heaven! what are those sentiments? how shockingly unamiable, how totally absurd! Every being of distinguished genius will, from the prevalence of envy, have a number of foes. Is he therefore to conclude human nature incapable of kind and generous affection? Basely shall he suspect, and ungratefully shall he repress, every glow of kindness and benevolence, when it would shine upon him? So doing, Rousseau was not fit * A lady of abilities and accomplishments, unmarried, and resident at Clifton near Bristol. January, 1810. to converse with the rest of his species, and was deservedly an outcast from them. What overweening vanity, as well as dark suspicion, appears in these reveries! No books are worth his attention! He has discovered mankind to be so despicable, its interests are below his care! and he deems the most trivial egotisms a more important legacy to society than any other subject of disquisition he could possibly choose. Proud and vain, selfish and cold, indeed, Rousseau didst thou become. Thy heart had lost its health, for philanthropy is the health of the heart. What splendour of style can have power to shield thy self-sufficient egotisms from just indignation and contempt? Ah! how little do we perceive in them of that open, sprightly, affectionate spirit, which warmed and illumined the morning of thy days! gave vigour to thy scientific researches ; drew to thee many amiable individuals, who ge nerously waved, in tribute to thy merit, those objections to plebeian birth which prevail in France with a force so generally exclusive; and who, by thus receiving thee into their society, enlarged thy sphere of characteristic contemplation, and ena bled thee to trace the motives of human action, in thy enchanting novel, with truth and accuracy. It is melancholy to reflect, on perusing these thy later works, how much less estimable thy age than thy youth; to see thee verifying, in thy example, the following exclamation in “the mournful and angry NIGHT THOUGHTS," "How few, of human kind, bring back at eve, A rheumatic complaint obliged me to make an excursion to Buxton this summer, though most unwilling to leave my dearest father, in his present weak, though not diseased state; but glad tidings of his exemption from every thing like illness blessed my absence, and I found a pleasing succession of animated hours in the medley society of that crowded scene. Many agreeable people sought my regard. Amongst them, my neighbour, the young, the brave, the gallant, unfortunate Captain Arden, who has lost his right-arm in the naval service of this country. He preceded me at Buxton near a fortnight; and, on my arrival, introduced me to all the very desirable intimacies which his pleasing manners had enabled him to form. Soon after I came, the youthful and lovely Lady Foster Cunliffe descended, like a goddess, amongst us. She unites the most engaging affability to the powers of an ingenious mind, and a cultivated understanding, and to the attractions of radiant beauty and majestic grace. She is on a larger scale, both as to face and figure, |