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But my heart renounces the ungenerous sarcasm on that voyage of humanity, with which this episode, of so much melancholy beauty, concludes.

The description of the peasant's hut on the mountain; of the garden; the green-house; the conservatory; the portraits of the foppish and of the good clergyman; the apostrophe to London; the winter's walk; and, above all most dear to me, a winter's evening in the country, and its social domestic pleasures.

But, in this very fine writer, most justly to be disliked is the uncharitable acrimony, and envious grudging of well-earned praise, which lour so dark, and so livid, through his poem. While its author looks on all human frailty with haughty scorn, and seems to hate his own species, he lavishes all his tenderness, all his kind fear of inflicting pain, upon brutes. I have not unfrequently observed this extreme affection for the lower orders of the animal world, accompanied by a cruel aptness to look on the dark side of human characters, and to aggravate folly into baseness, and frailty into vice. In other great men, we have seen pity for the miseries of cold and hunger exist, with a lamentable degree of spleen and envy rankling over every contemplation of the fortunate and the celebrated amongst mankind:—

Yet, even as men, Swift had his admirers-Cowper has his, and Johnson his idolaters. This is my ideas for all three:

the

summary of

"I mourn their nature, but admire their art,
Adore their head, while I abjure their heart."

You plead Cowper's constitutional melancholy in excuse for his misanthropy. That plea is of ten made for Johnson also; but if it is possible that melancholy can so narrow the mind, as to render a man of genius, like Mr Cowper, the avowed satirical foe of national gratitude, and of honour to the manes of such beings as Shakespeare and Handel, it then becomes a vice, against which every generous reader will bear the most renouncing testimony.

I have just sent a short Ode to Cadell for publication, on the speedily expected return of General Elliot from Gibraltar. His private virtues, the bravery of his defence of that garrison, which threw such lustre on the termination of a war, unjust, ill-managed, and every way inglorirous, entitle him to far higher poetical distinctions, than it is in my power to confer. My literary friends here assure me, that this Ode is inferior to nothing of mine which preceded it. That is some recompense for the trouble, ever irksome to me,

of publication. It would be trebled, were it accompanied by a consciousness of poetic degeneracy. Be this little poem what it may, it is sure to receive the darts of malice from some one's pen, shot from behind the screen of anonymous publications.

Soon after our troops returned from Gibraltar, leaving their glorious General, intent upon the restoration of the ravaged fortifications, a military gentleman, of pleasing appearance, announced himself Lieutenant Seward, the son of a merchant at Southampton, to whom we knew ourselves related. He told us he had travelled from that place purposely to see me, whom he considered as the source of one the most important, as well as flattering circumstances of his life.

I was much surprised. He continued,—“ I was at the siege of Gibraltar, adoring the virtues and the abilities of the Commander in Chief, without the most distant hope of obtaining the honour of his notice, much less of his friendship, to which high rank, or particular recommendation, were considered as the only channels, unless an officer could be fortunate enough to render. very conspicuous service to the British cause.

"I received an invitation to dine with General Elliot, and was charmed and surprised at my good

fortune, without an idea to what circumstance I

could possibly owe it.

"The General met me half-way on my entrance into his apartment, where he was surrounded by officers of distinction. His eyes shone with benevolent pleasure; and he held in his hand the Monody on Major André.

"Mr Seward," said he, " I am glad to see you. The instant I read this poem, it occurred to me, that I had seen the name of Seward on my list of the garrison's officers. I inquired your character. It was answerable to my wishes. Are you related to the author of the Monody on Major André ?"

" I replied, that I had the honour of being very distantly related, but had not the happiness of her acquaintance." "It is sufficient, Mr Seward, that you bear her name, and a fair reputation, to entitle you to the notice of every soldier, who has it in his power to serve and oblige a military brother. You will always find a cover for you at my table, and a sincere welcome; and whenever it may be in my power to serve you essentially, I shall not want the inclination."

You will not wonder that this narration gave me unutterable pleasure, and that individual gratitude, uniting with patriot admiration, stimulated my muse to her best efforts. O! that she had

possessed the powers of Gray, or Mason, or Hayley, to have embalmed his laurels in the bright dews of immortal celebration!

Farewell!

LETTER LXV.

MISS POWYS.

Lichfield, May 28, 1787.

I PURPOSE venturing to forsake my household-gods, dear friend, for a few weeks, and do not like to leave your letter, unanswered, in their protection. Miss Weston has been long desirous that I should visit her at Ludlow. From year to year I have designed it, but always thought my dear father's health too precarious for the experiment. Since he has passed the last six months without actual disease, and as Ludlow will next winter cease to be the home of my friend, who removes to town, I have resolved upon the journey,

Sophia is, like myself, an enthusiast in scenery; and she has set her heart upon shewing me the sublime and luxuriant beauty of that which sur

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