jection to his writings; of which in truth there are How often have we occasion to re

but too many. gret in the course, of this survey, that great talents fhould be prostituted to such unworthy uses!

Perhaps it is more difficult to acquire an easy un, affected natural stile in writing, than any other; and when it is acquired, though it affords more pleasure to the attentive reader than any other, it excites lefs enthusiastic admiration than that turgid, ' unnatural, and affected mode of writing I have so often had occasion to reprehend in these letters. I have dwelt the more upon this head at present; because you are yet young, and may be supposed to be affected by the things that naturally catch youthful minds,-glitter and fhow. I remember when I was young, I used to read with extacy Rafselas, prince of Abyssinia, and other jargon of the same sort; which I now nauseate as the filth of literature. Of all the writers already named, Franklin is, in this respect, the purest; Hume and Robertson follow after. The others I wish not more to name, because I could not do it without exprefsions of high disgust.

But if you wish to see the natural stile in the highest perfection, read the works of the late Dr JOHN GREGORY, all of which possess that charm which Horace would have called the simplex munditiis in a high degree. But in particular, his Comparative View, which in respect to natural ease, and unaffected elegant simplicity of stile is not to be exceeded in any language; and in as far as my reading has extended, has not been equalled by any other

103 composition in English. You have probably read it, and if you have, I will venture to say, you went through the whole book without ever once having had your attention called off from the subject to admire the stile. So properly are the words chosen to convey the idea, that they always lead the mind directly forward to the object in view, without the smallest rub of any kind to call off the attention; and it is only after you have completed your journey, and have time to look back, that you begin to perceive the beauty and the perfection of that road which conducted you so happily to the journey's end. A writer may be compared, in some respects, to a player. He who by unnatural gestures, and exaggerated contortions of countenance, outrages nature, is sure to set the whole house in an uproar, by the continued plaudits of the undiscerning multitude. But when a Garrick appears, the player is forgot; he seems to be the very simple clown, himself, he represents; and the uninformed spectator wonders why any one fhould admire that which he sees every day among his simple neighbours. Or if he represents a scene of dignified distrefs, the representation is so natural, so irresistibly pathetic, that the mind has no leisure to attend to any thing else but the affecting object before them. Admiration, applause, and every other feeling, are suspended in the agony of silent heart-felt sympathy; and a stranger at that time entering and observing the audience, without attending to the stage, would wonder why they were so silent.' Never is a player treading, with proper dignity, the tragic stage, when, in an interesting scene, the au

dience can find leisure to admire the art, and the high attainments of the actor. It was a high eulogium, indeed, that a friend of mine once paid to Mrs Crawford, then Mrs Barry, as an actress, when he said, that, in a very full house, the audience were. so overcome as scarcely to venture to breathe ; "You might have heard a pin, (said he,) drop upthe floor." How different this from the noisy applause that overstrained grimace so necefsarily excites Gregory's stile may be compared to the acting of Garrick ;-it is only by a retrospective view that its superior excellence can be discovered.

I am happy, my dear boy, that I can close this letter with one sincere eulogium at least; for I am afraid the preceding part of my remarks would ap-. pear to you so severe, that you might suspect they were dictated by ill nature, or envy of some sort. To those who know me lefs than you do, this would be so natural, that I fhould not perhaps have ventured on giving my opinion so freely to others as I have done to you. I have not yet exhausted this subject; but I will not run the risk of effacing these pleasing imprefsions on your mind, by any farther remarks at present; as it is but very seldom indeed that I can have occasion to bestow applause with as little abatement as in the case just now before us. It is by contemplating the chaste models of antiquity, and the very few modern productions that can vie with them, that you can attain a just notion of what is meant by beauty of composition; but when you do attain it, you will find it is a source of great enjoy ment. Adieu.

Life's necefsary blessings, bread to eat,
A house to live in, clothes to cover us,
And beds to sleep on.

Sir Thomas. There my daughter spoke.
I will defy the hardest lot of life.

Can'st thou believe it, Marg'ret, that the king
Gave me the noble office which I hold,

Only to bribe me, to procure my voice
Against poor Catharine! And shall I give it?
No! though it rouse his anger mountain high,
And for my loyalty I lose my head!

There is but one thing that with-holds my hand;
Making me cautious how I give offence,

And 'tis indeed a circumstance that grieves me.
'Tis that our fortunes are so interwoven,
The blow that ruins me will ruin you;
Will sensibly affect my innocent house,
And make my children beggars like myself.
Margaret. Sir let it not disturb you.

Sir Thomas. I would fall,

God knows how willingly, and beg my bread,
Rather than trespass as the king desires.
But how fhall I requite it to my children!
Dancy depends on me; my own son
Has nothing yet to live on; thou hast little.
My father could not help us; all he had
Goes to his widow ere it comes to us.
My lady Alice will have no support.

We shall be scatter'd like the worried flock,
And each must seek for fhelter with her own.

Thou must retire with Roper to his farm.
Cecilia must with Heron to his father's.

The little I have left must be bestow'd

On lady Alice, Dancy, and Eliza.

John and myself must starve, or be content
To earn by labour every meal we eat.

VOL. xiv.

Margaret. Dear Sir, you break my heart. Be more compos'd. Our little fortunes will be wealth enough. Send Dancy to his father's. You, and John, And lady Alice, come and live with us; Or let us hire adjoining houses, small And suited to our incomes.

Sir Thomas So we will.

I will not part from my whole happiness;
Tho' cruel fortune scatter all the rest,

Marg'ret fhall be my hope and comfort still.

Margaret. We will be modest in our wants;-discharge
All but one servant each; live on plain diet;
And nicely manage our exhausted means.
We will fhun pleasure and expensive dress,
And live secluded from the public eye,
Contented though reduc'd. We will not ask
The neighbour or the stranger to our board,
But steal away to solitude and books,

Pleas'd with the mem'ry of triumphant virtue,
And poverty preferr'd to vicious wealth.

If yet our wants are more than we can feed,
We will be unattended. My own hand

Shall do the housewife's work; fhall spin and knit,
And earn by industry sufficient bread.

Thou wast born

Sir Thomas. My most deserving daughter!
To teach thy father virtue. I was sad;
But the sweet patience of thy pious heart
Revives and gives me comfort. Yes, I'll go,
And gladly bid farewell to courts and princes.
Poor we must be, but we will still be just,
And live upon the hope of better days.
We will presume the Author of events
Approves of our endeavours; and perhaps
Yet ere we come to sorrow and the grave,
Will blefs our patience with an easier lot.
Come, we will hence contented. For my father,
Let us esteem him happy that he died."
He saw our glory, and withdrew in peace.
Go to my lady; tell her my intent.
Reveal it to your sisters; honest girls!

They will be griev'd to hear how soon we part.
Tell thy unwelcome story by degrees,
And mingle comfort with it. I'll to court,
And when we meet again, meet me with joy,
Tho' I return as poor as I was born.
I shall not be long absent.