mulating; and, wondering that they have not hap piness, since they have riches, continue to heap up, till death, as greedy an accumulator as themselves, gathers them into his garner."

of an

It seems strange to me, than any person exalted mind, untainted with the vices of profusion, and undazzled by the splendour of ostentation, can wish a beloved child to imbibe the desire of increasing an affluent property ;—stranger still, that a pious character should so wish, since the Scriptures declare it easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. The expression, rich man, certainly means a miser; and how great a temptation to this exclusive vice, is the habit of living daily in contemplation, and constant attention, to heaps of sordid Mammon !

Forgive my ingenuousness; the sincerity of an almost life-long friendship.

You will soon see, if you have not already seen, our generous, open-hearted friend, Mr Saville. I am afraid you will think he looks ill. He will tell you all about himself, his Elizabeth, and about the dissolution of all acquaintance with Mr N. and myself.

I wish you would ask for a description of Mr Saville's disorder in his stomach. You must have skill and discernment, living so long with

an able physician, who had an ingenuous desire of imparting his knowledge. As to the magnetic art, if it really possessed the powers which are attributed to it, the fame of miracles, transcending those of the Saviour and his apostles, must spread and increase every day, instead of sinking, as it does, from the notice of the multitude.

Strong imagination, thirst for the marvellous! what will ye not do with the strongest minds, when once ye seize upon them?

Neither you nor I, my dear Mrs Knowles, ought to apologize to each for our sincerity, or for our hurried and defaced scribbling; both are habits of long standing, the one laudable, the other inconsequential. Adieu! adieu.

LETTER XCIV.

HENRY CARY, Esq.

March 16, 1790.

EXHAUSTED, spiritless, cold to every subject

of abstract disquisition, my pen can do little more

than briefly thank you, my dear young friend, for your two letters yet unacknowledged.

I feel the kindness, in some respects, and the justice in others, of your consolatory remarks on the death of my dearest father; but I feel also that I have lost one of the most precious blessings of my existence, the revered, the so fondly loved, the helpless object of those sweet, though anxious cares, that were their own reward. Now I seem to breathe in an atmosphere of cold silence. I press my pillow at midnight in gloomy serenity,

"And ask no more, at morn's returning ray,
If he has health, that I may bless the day."

The taste for Italian poetry, you have well defended by example ;-but I have always understood that modern Italian poetry is much degenerated; that it is disgraced by quaint ideas, and by playing with particular words, and bandying them about from line to line. This is a practice which always disgusts me, even when I find it in Spenser and Shakespeare. Of the Italian sonnets you sent me, not one is free from that miserable affectation.

Respecting the critics-Burke is a born poet; and though he writes not in rhyme or measure,

the poetic ray illuminates every thing he utters or writes. Blair's criticisms I have not seen. It is long since I read the elder Warton-but I recollect no impression to the honour of his powers, that was quite so vivid as that which I felt from those of his brother. But Joseph Warton has written very fine poetry. His dying Indian is sublime. The shortest work, if it is executed finely, almost equally with the longest, ascertains the possession of genius. He must, therefore, be an able critic, when, divesting himself of prejudice, he descants upon the beauties and blemishes of his brethren.

I regret, not having seen you when you were last at Lichfield. From sounds that would have smote my heart, with, perhaps, fatal violence, and from the last solemn ceremonies, I had fled to a distance that shielded me from their impression. I will never forget Mrs Lister's attention to me in the hours of my anguish. Adieu.

LETTER XCV.

MRS STOKES.

March 26, 1790.

ALAS, my dear friend, your letter, that so kindly rejoiced in a supposed existence, which, amidst all its dimness, was thrice precious to my heart, arrived when that existence had everlastingly ceased.

Long as the dart of death had been shook over the head of my dearest father, I could not see it descend without agony. Time is the great assuager. Already has it begun to give some degree of cheerfulness to my resignation; at least during those hours in which much and various business presses upon my attention, and when a number of my neighbours are calling upon me in succession, and while these vernal suns are gilding every object with hues so lively. Yet find I many minutes in these days, in which I regretfully miss those tender cares which, in their exertion, were so sweet to my spirit, when I protected, sustained, and comforted the dear Helpless, and