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bétises, et toutes les démiconnaissances qui n'appartiennent qu'a lui. Par tout il m'a traduit réellement, il m'a ou tout-a-fait mal compris, ou traduit sans esprit et sans gout. Cet ouvrage absurde (mis au pillory par mon excellent Traducteur Italien) est imprimé à Paris en 1774, en trois volumes; et l'auteur de ce forfait ou si vous voulez, ce pretendu Traducteur François, s'appelle La Febure, Docteur en Médicine.
"Enfin, pour sucroit de malheur pour moi, un médecin Anglois respectable's'est imaginé que l'ouvrage de ce fourbe Le Febvre est mon ouvrage, et l'a traduit en Anglois et publié à Londres en 1782, avec de très bonnes notes de sa façon. Ce medecin Anglois, s'il'sçavoit l'Allemand, et's'il pouroit comparer mon ouvrage Allemand avec sa traduction Anglois, seroit bien étonné du mal qu'il ma fait sans le'sçavoir et sans la vouloir."—p. 152 & seq.
The following is of a very different kind, and from a very different person; but it is not less characteristic. It is from the late Mr Pratt, a gentleman to whom we dare say it never once occurred that there could exist a greater poet than the author of Sympathy, or a greater critic than "the almost divine woman" who wrote a favourable criticism on that poem.
"Dear Doctor.—I could not have received larger, speedier, or sweeter interest for Sympathy, unless you had generously bestowed a criticism, or rather, to substantive the word, a candour, on that poem.
"A cluster of engagements hold me (by the heart) for the present, more salutary to the springs of life than all the waters of Bethesda perhaps. I shall of course bask in the lustre of Grove Hill, and its master's friendship, before I seek the "hoarse-resounding main." To-morrow I am particularly bespoke. But possibly you may have the goodness to name a day in the interval of Wednesday and Saturday; as, after that, I can call no period my own even till my return to Bath.
"Surely your question is,—'Is Miss Seward, who has criticised your poem, the celebrated poetess? It is impossible you should not have heard, with pleasure, of the almost divine woman who wrote the Elegy on Captain Cook, and the Monody on André. Last night I received from her a stricture on the second book of Sympathy, with a very beautiful letter, desiring him to adjust her remarks to the paper, and publish the rest with her name. She is not like the Turk who can bear no rival near her throne. O God, sir! What an additional ornament to the examples of sympathy has your anecdote of the Carren family afforded me! I have worn your tale of the reformed highwayman to tatters, with reading it to fifty of my friends; and here is another stroke upon the soul as gloriously distressing. Your life seems to be like the Countess of Coventry's beauty—
Chased by a charm still lovelier than the last.'
Who is that first muse of the age, which has made Grove Hill live in description, and look green in song?" p. 392-3.
The Memoir of Dr Lettsom's Life (in which, by the way, by the way, we must observe that there are some marks of very hasty composition) occupies about half of the first volume; the remainder of that, and the whole of the second volume, comprises the miscellaneous correspondence; and the third volume contains papers and correspondence on medical subjects only. This last is therefore published separately from the other two.
HORÆ SINICÆ.
No I.
Groo-loo-kri-tchi (or the Brown-plumed Condor).
In the cold Tartarian sky,
The Prince and Lord his nest hath made
In the Black Forest's thickest shade.
Afar on fearful pinions borne;
The clouds did part to let him through,
The wind was hushed as by he flew.
Like brazen shields his ample wings,
His talons and his beak reveal
The splendour and the point of steel.
Rejoicing from the grim black wood;
While shuddering fowl and skulking beast
The terrors of their king confest.
Behind thee come, before thee go;
A chilly breath of Panic springs
From the rustling of thy wings.
When thou soarest in thy power,
Safe be Kroo-ri-tsan-koo's path
From the searchings of thy wrath!
Of yon rude and shaggy Bear,
Or yon mild-eyed bleating Wether,
Whom thou didst devour together
I see thee in that hour of ruin,
Torn and gasping 'neath the blow
Of thy proud unequal foe.