graph which we have quoted. That "playfulness of fancy," that power to turn instantly, without violence, from the pathetic to the humorous, which Mr. Taylor mentions as a characteristic of his sister, is vividly displayed in her writings which she herself published, and is so far from being unpleasant, that it is rather one of their chief beauties. We regret, most sincerely, that any motive should have induced him to withhold other specimens of this power. The reason which he gives, appears to us altogether inadequate. Does he, or can he believe, that the public reverence for Cowper is at all diminished, by the same quality as manifested in his published letters? On the contrary, has he not felt that reverence softened into love by the affectionate playfulness, and gay good humor, alternating with the lofty censure of vice, and the outpourings of his own grief, which those letters occasionally exhibit?

Jane Taylor in several respects bears a greater resemblance to Cowper, that any other writer with whom we are acquainted. Her Essays, to which we have already alluded, are evidently modelled according to his style of writing; but they are not servile imitations. She has the same power of minute description of every-day life, so as to make the tritest matters interesting; the same strong sarcasm against folly and vice; the same wit and irony in attacking error, and the same lofty flights of imagination and language, in displaying the hopes of a Christian, and the sublime consolations of our holy religion. The tale towards the close of her poem, called " Experience," is almost unrivalled in pathos; he who can read it without a swelling of the heart, must be destitute of the kinder feelings of humanity. According to her biographer, she had in common with Cowper, and, indeed, with many sincere Christians, long and anxious doubts respecting her own religious safety. Here happily the parallel ends,-her peace was vouchsafed to her on this side the grave, and she died with the full hope of happiness hereafter, calmly looking back upon a life well spent, in which, while in the habitual performance of every domestic duty to her family and her friends, she had censecrated her high endowments of mind, in the employment of her leisure, to the glory of her Maker, and the good of her fellow-creatures at large. Of such a life, we would gladly know more than her brother has thought proper to communicate ; and we cannot but think, that more might have been told with increased benefit to most of his readers, and without injury to any. Of this however, he may say, that he is the better judge, and we ought in justice to him to add, that he has

well performed the task which he has appointed to himself, and which he thus announced in the first paragraph of his preface.

The following Memoir of my late sister I have aimed to compose, as if it had been intended especially for your perusul :-to you, then, it is dedicated. In keeping this idea before me, I have hoped to execute my task in a manner the most acceptable to the class of readers whom I would chiefly wish to please; I mean persons like yourself, to whom, through her writings, the name of Jane Taylor has been associated with some of their earliest intellectual pleasures, and perhaps, with their first impressions of virtue and piety.' p. v.

It is only to the narrowness of this plan, and to his reasons for adopting it, that we have been objecting. To those, who, like the friend to whom the work is addressed, were personally acquainted with Jane Taylor, and who made up her circle of friends, we doubt not this work will be highly pleasing; for they can, from their own knowledge, supply what is wanting to others, and understand the meaning of the initials and asterisks scattered through the pages; but we, who, divided by the Atlantic from the English world of letters, are in most respects in the situation of posterity, cannot understand much, which is, perhaps, familiar to almost every English reader of the present day. Still the work is valuable even to us; and the most indifferent reader cannot fail, we believe, to derive benefit from contemplating the union of plain common sense with the great literary talents, and the humble, yet exalted piety, which is exhibited in the life of Jane Taylor. It would be difficult, and we think not very useful, for us to abridge this Memoir. We recommend to such of our readers as love to see the effects of a guarded religious and literary education, to read the book, and assure them, that they will not have to complain that their time has been wasted. The peculiar religious opinions expressed in it, may be distasteful to some, but we trust even they will emulate the liberality with which the subject of it regarded those who differed from her on this important point.

The Memoir occupies but about half of the volume; about one third of the remainder is filled with the "Poetical Remains," and the residue consists of the "Extracts from the Correspondence." Of this last part we have already hinted our opinion. We are clear, that Jane Taylor can have written nothing, the publication of which could diminish the regard that her works published in her lifetime had won for her; and if "explanations" were necessary, surely her brother was competent to make them. As it is, he has

given us little except such extracts as she herself (fearful, as he represents her to have been, of writing letters too carefully) might have published as fragments of moral essays, or even of sermons-there is so little which exhibits her habitual playfulness of fancy. Now so far from injuring the character of his sister in the eyes of his readers, we think that the contrary effect would have been produced, had he given more examples of such letters as the one quoted below; and that by a sprinkling of such among the almost exclusively religious extracts which he has made, he would have shown, what every good man must be anxious to show on proper occasions, that religion is promotive of cheerfulness as well as seriousness.

*** We have already had some delightful evening rambles. When we are all out together on these happy occasions, I forget all my troubles, and feel as light-hearted as I can remember I used to do some seven or eight years ago, when I scarcely knew what was meant by depression. If I should ever lose my relish for these simple pleasures-if I thought, by growing older, my feelings would no longer be alive to them, I should be ready indeed to cling to youth, and petition old Time to take a little rest, instead of working so indefatigably, night and day, upon me. But alas! he is such a persevering old fellow, that nothing can hinder him one must needs admire his industry, even though one may now and then be a little provoked with his obstinacy. But seriously; it is not right to shrink from age, must less from maturity; and could I be sure of retaining some of my present ideas, feelings, and sentiments, and of parting only with those that are vain and childish, I think I could welcome its near approach with a tolerably gook grace. But I dread finding a chilling indifference steal gradually upon me, for some of those pursuits and pleasures which have hitherto been most dear to me-an indifference which I think I have observed in some in the meridian of life. I am always therefore delighted to discover, in people of advancing years, any symptoms of their being still susceptible of such enjoyments; and in this view the letters of Mrs. Grant afforded me peculiar gratification: increasing years seem to have deprived her of no rational enjoyment. If time clipped a little the wings of her fancy, she was still able to soar above the common pleasures of a mere housewife; no reflection, by the bye, upon that respectable character; believe me, I reverence it; and always regard with respect a woman who performs her difficult, complicated, and important duties with address and propriety. Yet I see no reason why the best housewife in the world should take more pleasure in making a curious pudding, than in reading a fine

poem; or feel a greater pride in setting out an elegant table, than in producing a well trained child. I perfectly glory in the undeniable example Mrs. Grant exhibits of a woman filling up all the duties of her domestic station with peculiar activity and success, and at the same time cultivating the minds of her children usefully and elegantly; and still allowing herself to indulge occasionally in the most truly rational of all pleasures-the pleasures of intellect.

"I dare say you read a paper in the Christian Observer for April, on Female Cultivation. I feel grateful to the sensible and liberally minded author. I do believe the reason why so few men, even among the intelligent, wish to encourage the mental cultivation of women, is their excessive love of the good things of this life they tremble for their dear stomachs, conluding that a woman who could taste the pleasures of poetry or sentiment, would never descend to pay due attention to those exquisite flavors in pudding or pie, that are so gratifying to their philosophic palates; and yet, poor gentlemen, it is a thousand pities they should be so much mistaken; for, after all, who so much as a woman of sense and cultivation, will feel the real importance of her domestic duties; or who so well, so cheerfully perform them?" pp. 236–238.

We have left ourselves little room to speak of the poetry contained in this volume. It is not equal, by many degrees, to the "Essays in Rhyme on Morals and Manners," and several of the pieces evidently show, by the inferiority of their execution to their conception, that the author did not intend them for publication. They are not, however, inferior to the generality of posthumous works. The hymns for children are delightful. The lines entitled "A Story," are an exquisite sample of elegant trifling. The "Fragment," at the beginning of the Remains, is the commencement of a poem, which is a curious proof, that Jane Taylor could imitate Crabbe as well as Cowper, and still preserve her own originality, having only a sufficient similarity to her model to recall him to the reader's mind.

The Life and Times of Frederick Reynolds. Written by himself. 2 vols. 8vo. Philadelphia. 1826.

THE author of this work has been before the public for nearly half a century, in the character of a dramatic writer. During this period, his productions have been numerous,-operas, five

act comedies, and farces. Of these, many have been outlived by their author, and a few are still known to the stage and the press. Most of them, however, to judge from his account, seem to have answered the end proposed, that of "raising the wind," which he has very successfully executed through a long life, in no other manner. With Mr. Reynolds's works, however, we have nothing to do at present, and shall dismiss them, with the expression of our surprise, that his success should have been so great, as it seems, on the whole, to have been. As a specimen of autobiography, this book certainly deserves credit. The writer confines himself to his proper subject, that is, himself and his acquaintance; and without concerning himself much with the great events of the day, dwells only upon those minutiae of life and character, which are rarely to be found in any other class of works. It would appear, that he has lived a very merry life; and though this, like many other good things, loses much in the recital, sufficient nevertheless is left to afford a good deal of entertainment. As a book of mere entertainment, indeed, it is to be considered; there is very little valuable instruction to be derived from it. It will serve to amuse a few idle hours, and we are not aware that there is any thing in it, which can do any harm. After these remarks, it will scarcely be expected of us to give any thing like an analysis of its contents; we shall merely select a few portions for the entertainment of such of our readers, as may not happen to see the work, or who may have a better use for their time, than seeking them for themselves.

The following scraps will be grateful to those, who have not been entirely satiated with the industrious collection of Boswell.

"Pope says of Dryden, Virgilium tantùm vidi; so I may say of Dr. Johnson. One morning shortly after our return, he called on my father concerning some law business, and was ushered into the drawing-room, where I and my three brothers, eager to see, and still more eager to say we had seen, the leviathan of literature, soon followed. All were, or affected to appear, struck with awe, except my brother Jack; who having just published his Indian Scalp,' was most anxious to elicit the Doctor's opinion. Accordingly, he seated himself close to him, and began :

666

Any news in the literary world, Sir?'

"Sir!' cried the Doctor.

Any thing new, Doctor, I say, in the literary world?' continued the unhesitating poet.

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Young man, talk to me of Ranelagh and Vauxhall, of what you may understand; but not a word on literature.'