LETTER XLV.

MRS M. Powys.

Lichfield, Oct. 17, 1799.

THE literary world now asserts that the Plays on the Passions are not Mrs Radcliffe's. I should have been incredulous to the report that they are, had not the errors, as to responsibility of causes to their effects, and the atoning excellence, resulting from the horrible grandeur of those effects in themselves, been of the same complexion with the faults and beauties in her novels. Otherwise the occasionally rich vein of poetry, which we find in the single passages, together with a degree of deep insight into the human mind, are above that level of talent which produced her romances. When I spoke my sentiments to you of the plays, I had not read their introductory dissertation. Now, after perusal, I confess it is far from pleasing me. The ideas in that tract are confused and abortive, and the language has no felicity. Abounding in Scoticisms, that, at least, cannot have been written by an Englishwoman- and Mrs R. is an

English woman. They now tell us this work is from the other side the Tweed. A young poet, of the name of Scott, and a native of Edinburgh, has sent me poems of his in manuscript, Glenfinlas, and the Eve of St John; each of which bear the stamp of a genius fully responsible for the Plays on the Passions. I have not, however, any other reason to believe them his. The real author cannot be long of being deterré. It is rumoured that he does not mean to pursue his plan. I think it a fine one, but of very difficult execution. Gigantic miseries are seldom produced by one uncompounded passion; ungoverned vanity combines with ungoverned love to produce them in Count Basil, and even De Montford's character, which adheres more to the author's first design, is not simply illustrative of the mischiefs of hatred ;-originally hatred, that passion is, in the course of the play, so compounded with envy, as to make that the more operative feeling of the two.

I thank you for taking the kind trouble to point out those of my sonnets which best pleased you. It is agreeable to recur to them, and they meet my eye gilded by the consciousness that they are the favourites of so dear a friend; but I am sorry that you disapprove the publication of such as

breathe those sorrows which flowed from the cruel alienation of my forever loved Honora's affection.

I have shewn you the tinted print from Romney's fine picture of Serena in the Triumphs of Temper, and which bears such perfect, though accidental, resemblance to Honora, when she was in the glory of her virgin graces. It is in the very posture in which she often sat reading before she went to rest-so used she to fold her night-robe around her lovely limbs. The luxury of mournful delight with which I continually gaze upon that form, is one of the most precious comforts of my life.

My writings the Monody on André, his letters published with that poem-the sonnets that refer to Honora, which they had seen in manuscriptmy description of her, had so interested Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby, that, when they heard me say I had a perfect image of her in the print of Romney's Serena, they were extremely desirous to obtain one of the impressions; but they were all long since bought up. I was, however, fortunate enough to procure, though not to purchase, one for them. I got it framed and glazed, with an entablature over the figure, thus inscribed: "Such was Honora Sneyd!"

I am gratified that you take pleasure in reflect

ing upon the talents, graces, and virtues of that faithful lover, and too intrepid soldier, Major André-that you continue to read my poem on his destiny, and his own letters annexed to it, with melancholy delight. I believe that neither man nor woman, ever loving Honora, could cease to love her. All the dark colour of André's fate took its tint from disappointed and unconquerable attachment to her.

The grand expedition to Holland verifies the prediction of common sense. Our blood-lavish ministry now discover, after having sacrificed so large a part of our fine army, that it was too late in the year for the attempt upon so wet a country, and that the French are in too much force to allow the Dutch to venture a junction with the English and Russians. Here is no counteraction, from events not to be foreseen, to justify such a new waste of blood and treasure. Will no chastizing experience convince our rulers, that England can never send armies to the Continent but to their destruction? All our officers allow that, in despite of English bravery, the French, no less daring, excel us as much in military tactics as we excel them in the naval ones.

I do not think I have, or ever shall have, health to encounter the inevitable hurries of a short residence in London, and a long one would not

suit my convenience. My connections there are now large and complicated, and they would leave me none of that quietness necessary to my impaired constitution; but be assured, that I do not less regret than yourself, the distance which separates us. I wish I could spend a few more weeks with you, either at my house or yours, ere hence and be no more seen.-While I am, I am faithfully your friend.

I

go

LETTER XLVI.

THOMAS PARK, ESQ.

Lichfield, Nov. 10, 1799.

I GRIEVE that your plan of visisting me in September with Mrs Park, was arrested,—yet more that it was arrested by disease.

It will give me true satisfaction to learn that your and Mrs Park's lately disordered health is restored. The human frame must have partaken with vegetable nature in the mal-influence of this ungenial year. November, alas! is come, with all its storms, and the wreck of the drowned harvest perishes beneath them. For that and for its