. Chambers's
Gardening, Dr. Nowel's Sermon, Whittington and his Cat, Sir
John Dalrymple's History and Life of Henry II. What a
library of poetry, taste, good sense, veracity, and
vivacity! Ungrateful Shebbear! indolent Smollett! trifling
Johnson! piddling Goldsmith! how little have they
contributed to the glory of a period in which all arts, all
sciences are encouraged and rewarded! Guthrie buried his
mighty genius in a review, and Mallet died of the first
effusions of his loyalty. The retrospect makes one
melancholy, but Ossian has appeared, and were Paradise once
more lost, we should not want an epic poem!"

We take other passages from the letters exhibiting the same spirit--now
simply entertaining:

"Dr. Goldsmith has written a comedy--no, it is the lowest of
all farces, it is not the subject I condemn, though very
vulgar, but the execution. The drift tends to no moral, no
edification of any kind--the situations, however, are well
imagined, and make one laugh in spite of the grossness of
the dialogue, the forced witticisms, and total improbability
of the whole plan and conduct. But what disgusts me most is,
that though the characters are very low, and aim at low
humor, not one of them says a sentence that is natural or
marks any character at all. It is set up in opposition to
sentimental comedy, and is as bad as the worst of them.
Garrick would not act it, but bought himself off by a poor
prologue.

"You will be diverted to hear that Mr. Gibbon has quarrelled
with me. He lent me his second volume in the middle of
November. I returned it with a most civil panegyric. He came
for more incense, I gave it, but alas! with too much
sincerity, I added, 'Mr. Gibbon, I am sorry you should have
pitched on so disgusting a subject as the Constantinopolitan
history. There is so much of the Arians and Eunomians, and
semi-Pelagians; and there is such a strange contrast between
Roman and Gothic manners, and so little harmony between a
Consul Sabinus and a Ricimer, Duke of the Palace, that
though you have written the story as well as it could be
written, I fear few will have patience to read it.' He
colored; all his round features squeezed themselves into
sharp angles; he screwed up his button-mouth, and rapping
his snuff-box, said, "It