literature; for, though the principles were the same as his own, yet he never took any notice at all of them. For this I might have naturally reflected upon myself, did I not possess testimonials from other men of eminence, too flattering to be here inserted, which fairly rescue me from such humiliation. And yet I must, in a great measure, attribute my want of success to my own folly and inexperience, since, Leacroft having failed in business, through neglect or forgetfulness no other publisher was appointed. Hence the country printer substituted the name of his own correspondent who sent him magazines, &c.; upon which some one afterwards very justly observed that, I had published my works at the bottom of a well!

"In short, disappointment, expenditure, and want of all support, completely discouraged me from all further literary attempts, until the doubly-gloomy period of December 1797, when our jacobin neighbours franticly vowed and decreed the total extirpation of the British people, excepting only, first, the mutineers at the Nore; secondly, the Defenders in Ireland and Scotland; and, thirdly, those generous members of Opposition, who unceasingly demand peace with France, and a REFORM in the English government.' (See the Redacteur of the above date.) Nearly at the same time, a letter was handed about in the House of Lords, from Condorcet to some one of our self-called patriots, in which it was said, 'Get REFORM, REFORM by all possible means; for if you once bring about REFORM, REVOLUTION must inevitably follow. On the spur of such an occasion, being tempted to try whether broad humour might not help a little to dissipate the gloom, I threw out a political satire, called Infant Institutes' (printed for Rivingtons), and fraught with matter so eccentric and laughable as might chance to arrest the attention, and raise the spirits of the public. Yet again I was unlucky. A gentleman setting off for Bath, ordered a parcel of them, which, through a mistake, were not sent. Some loyal and friendly Reviewers, especially the British Critic, failed me; for, though Mr. Nares had once by letter invited me to join his, corps, yet, not knowing this to be mine, as he afterwards explained, he left it to some assistant, and

"Fas est ab hoste doceri. Yet I am sorry to find that a certain law lord still talks about reform, and fancies faction would be silenced if the right of voting could be extended fairly and judiciously, without violating the Constitution! Can we do a thing and not do it, both at the same time? Would the millions who must still be left out be persuaded that it was fair and judicious to break the constitution for others, but not for them? The elective franchise would indeed be a very great curse to the lower ranks; but they will never believe this, for they are blinded by their demagogues, as papists are by their priests. But in some places there are far too many voters already. A Westminster election always shows what the people would do could they ever get the upper hand; and an election should surely be rather set aside for brutal outrages than for peaceable bribing."

that assistant, plainly appearing to have seen but a single page, treated the whole with contempt. Hostile critics, however, seemned to have conned it thoroughly, and even to have been constrained to praise. One set represented the author just as he would have wished, as a sort of mystagogue extracting recondite wisdom from the lullabies, or childish sing-songs that used to be learned in our nurseries; and another sot (the Analytical), called him 'A wag of the first water;' but all agreed that he was sadly illiberal Į

"Thus far, though it has led me into too great egotism, I have ventured to explain; and yet, having always been anxious to raise my voice, however feeble, in my country's cause, and being ready, in the same glorious cause, to do so again on any future emergency, I am not indubitably convinced that any apology is necessary.

:

"All I can do further at present is, to account for his Lordship's alarm respecting my danger from irascible critics. The case is this having always particularly admired, and frequently recited that capital work of Dryden's, his Alexander's Feast, I discovered in it defects, perhaps unnoticed before. The Poet's noble plan clearly was, to represent six different passions as successively awakened in the royal breast by the varied strains of the skilful musician. These passions are ambition, fondness for wine, martial ardour, pity, love, and revenge. Yet from some unhappy cause, such as the res angusta domi, a pressure for time, &c. he was prevented from writing, even upon such a subject, con amore, or finishing it satisfactorily. In fact, the second incitement is left without its corresponding passion or effect, and the third passion or effect is without an incitement. Hence I have long amused myself by an humble attempt to fill up the outline of the Poet's grand idea, as I had successfully done to some inferior authors. To aim at rivalling the spirit of Dryden would indeed have been a vain presumption*; but all I wanted was, to see how the bard's great work would appear, if finished in the best manner it could be now, and in the form intended, had its admirable author been blessed with the otium literarium. Having also by me, as I said, some scribblings of my own, which, to use an expression of Sterne's, have long looked up to me for light,' I had pleased myself with the project of trying to dignify these by introducing, at their conclusion, a piece, decidedly excellent in itself, and not, it is hoped, unpardonably disgraced by the new supplementary matter. But this, I own, is treading on dangerous ground; for, too true it is I fear, that

"Speaking of coining and forging, Dr. Johnson once said to me, 'Why, Sir, what one man can do, another man can do.' This is true with respect to the arts, but men cannot counterfeit works of genius. It is one thing to have mechanical skill, but quite another thing to have the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling,' &c. And this shows the folly of those who say, 'all men are equal.'

"

in these times, as Hayley, I think, somewhere suggests, with regard to the Epic and the Pindaric, The table is full!

"It might indeed be said, that the principal manuscript from which Dr. Percy extracted his Reliques, was so mutilated and defaced, that the world is indebted for that charming work to the Doctor's judicious and tasteful additions. Yet I call not this a case in point, since the splendour of Dryden's sun has always concealed its spots from common eyes. But had not these better be removed, if possible? If so, then alterations are allowable. As a better illustration, let me observe, that, at Bottesford in Leicestershire, there are many beautiful monuments of the Rutland family, the present Head of which displays the principles of the ancient peerage in its genuine lustre, untainted by the sophisms of modern times. Now these monumental figures having been much impaired by time, one perhaps having lost a finger, and another a toe, or some of their appropriate ornaments, my late worthy and learned friend and neighbour, the Rev. William Mounsey, on taking that curacy some years ago, for his own amusement set himself to work, and most ingeniously restored them to their original elegance and beauty *. At first, then, I had no apprehension that I should be more liable to censure for my own undertaking than my ingenious neighbour was for his. Reflection, however, soon pointed out the difference. Alarıned at my own seeming success, what I asked my estimable friend was, whether I should not appear, on such an attempt, like one who had stretched out an adventurous hand to shoot with the bow of Ulysses? His answer assures me that the defects I have mentioned in Dryden's poem do certainly exist; that he really thinks the whole has been better executed than could possibly have been expected; and that, should I persevere in the resolution of bending the bow of Ulysses, he shall stand in the circle of applauding critics.' Yet he finally warns me, with great pleasantry, not to think of escaping from the host of bawling adversaries I shall have to encounter, unless I can transfix them in the same part where Ulysses hit Antinous, viz. in the throat.' As, however, I am far from being so dextrous a marksman as to execute such a plan of defence, the only prudent way will be, to lay aside all thoughts of the hazardous attempt, unless some such arguments should appear as might tend to remove, or greatly to diminish, the above scruples and apprehensions. B. N. TURNER.'

For that matchless industry Mr. Mounsey was rewarded in 1792 with the two small vicarages of Saltby and Sproxton, at which latter place he afterwards resided, and in 1811 presented to his noble patron an urn found there, containing 100 silver coins. Mr. Mounsey gave Mr. Nichols great assistance in the description of his two parishes; and also contributed to the History of Leicestershire a scientific account of the petrifactions, strata of stone, and fossil bodies, found in the Vale of Belvoir. As a parish priest be exbibited the character of a conscientious pastor and an Israelite without guile. He died at Sproxton, April 30, 1811, leaving a widow and one daughter.

5. Rev. B. N. TURNER to Mr. J. B. NICHOLS. "DEAR SIR, 13, Dorset-place, April 5, 1826. "It being now your leisure time at the beginning of a month, I take the liberty of saying, that I should be happy to see you could you take your tea with me any afternoon at my oldfashioned and countryfied hour of six; and indeed it is rather too much to expect you to come so far to visit a man so inefficient and useless in point of literature as myself. I am now too a trifle further off than I was, having purchased what I now occupy, a new house, No. 13, in Dorset-place, just beyond the square.

"My motive for addressing you at this particular time is, my seeing in this month's Magazine in the extract from Mr. Polwhele's Traditions and Recollections, a surprise expressed at Mason's finding many faults in Dryden's celebrated Ode*. This has strongly engaged my attention for a long time together some years ago (no sign of disapprobation): in short, I was so charmed with its beauties, and disgusted by the blemishes with which they are disgraced; I was so delighted with the grandeur of the plan, and disappointed at the listlessness with which the great Poet executed it himself at last, that I could not help thinking, however rash it may now appear, that it was possible for a modern to improve it even now, by filling out the grand idea, as manifestly intended by the Bard himself, i. e. to render every passion regularly excited by Timotheus, and the corresponding effects as regularly produced on the Monarch. This, however charming and fascinating, notwithstanding, as the Poem is in reality, is far from being the case; and, could it be effected, the lighter blemishes might perhaps be easily removed at the same time: but you may have some time foreseen that this opening leads only to a confession that I was once so adventurous, or rather perhaps so simple, as to have executed the plan myself. This, however, I once submitted to Bishop Bennet, who returned it with his own unqualified approbation, yet warned me by no means to print it, for, if you do, said he, you can expect nothing but abuses thrown out against you all the

"We conversed much upon poetry; and particularly upon Dryden. Would you conceive it, that he (Mr. Mason) disapproves of many parts of the celebrated Ode on St. Cecilia's-day. He objected, in some respects, against the measure, as partaking too much of the ballad species; and as being too remote from the lyric genius; such as

War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble," &c. "With ravish'd ears

he said was devoid of all meaning; and that it rather tended to excite something bordering on the ludicrous, than to add to the pathetic impressions already excited." Rev. R. Greville to Rev. R. Polwhele, July 28, 1788.

way from Edinburgh to Charing-cross. This advice is too good I fear, and it is what I have since acted upon; yet, as my friend Bennet was constitutionally timid, I have thought there would be no harm in handing you a copy, to show to your venerable father, or any friend who may condescend to notice it, so it may at least afford a little temporary amusement. If the time of your coming be a matter of indifference, I might point out some time when I was likely to be alone, and we might converse more freely.

"I received a most polite and friendly note, with a respectable dramatic piece, from my old friend Mr. Cradock, whom I should be exceedingly happy to see again, and who am glad to find by his writing appears to have retained his faculties better than myself. He has done himself great honour too by his "Memoirs.' He says he has imitations of mine, Theophrastus I know; but I doubt he has nothing of mine in manuscript. If he has, I shall be obliged by the sight of them, for I have been bringing together my own scribblings. I am, dear Sir, your sincere friend and obedient servant, B. N. TURNER."

6. After the diffidence expressed in the preceding letters, it is conjectured that the reader can scarcely attribute to presumption Mr. Turner's alteration of Dryden's Ode; nor will its production be otherwise than satisfactory to the curiosity which may probably have been excited.

Prolegomena to the Alexander's Feast.

"This Ode," Johnson tells us, perhaps the last (he might have added, perhaps the happiest) effort of Dryden's poetry, has always been considered as exhibiting the highest flight of fancy, and the exactest nicety of art. This is allowed to stand without a rival." Yet the same great Critic observes, "It is said to have cost Dryden a fortnight's labour; but it does not want its negligences." How the acknowledgement of negligences is consistent with what was just before said about possessing "the exactest nicety of art," I do not clearly comprehend, unless the nicety of art could be supposed to refer not to correctness of composition, but to a peculiar felicity and excellency of plan. Since, however, these negligences will be found, I fear more considerable than the great Critic was aware of, it is a pity that the Poet did not employ more labour and attention upon it; or at least afterwards give it the finishing touches of his own masterly hand. Some I have met with are so offended at its defects as to depress the piece itself even below mediocrity: I am by no means of this opinion, but think that its general effect is exquisite, and that its faults or negligences might be literally compared to solar spots, since the general effulgence of beauties is