Letters of Anna Seward. 
‘written by herself, in the novel form of 
letters to her friends. He who loves 
“literature and is not grateful to the au- 
thoress for this legacy, must have a cold 
heart and a fastidious judgment. For 
our parts we recollect no work, for some 
time ‘past, which has afforded us equal 
pleasure. Ascompositions, these letters 
are elegant and spirited; in their opi- 
hions, they are generally liberal and 
always sensible; and their information is 
often as original and interesting as it is 
comprehensive and universal. 
* The form of biography which Miss 
Seward has thus ingeniously invented, 
has enabled her to incorporate her obser- 
¥ations on current ‘public events, with 
details of her course of reading and study, 
and with anecdotes of her private life. 
Her work would, however, have been 
more approved of, if all strictures on 
living characters had been expunged ; 
Miss Seward having, like other fallible 
censors, imbibed prejudices, by viewing 
some characters through false mediums, 
‘Miss Seward’s praises of Mr. Hayley, 
Mr, Whalley, Mr. Southey, Mr. Cole- 
ridge, Mr. Scott, Mr. Park, and many 
other surviving literati are liberally and 
judiciously bestowed. Her just execra- 
tion of Reviews, and of the principles and 
practices of anonymous criticism, will, 
however, draw upon her the denuncia- 
tions of those. who live by that species 
of FeLony, and probably tarnish the 
lustre, and diminish the immediate sale 
of her work. 
JOHNSON’S LAST ILLNESS. 
I have lately been in the almost daily 
habit of contemplating a very melancholy 
spectacle. The great Johnson is here, 
labouring under’ the paroxysms of a 
disease, which must speedily be fatal. 
He shrinks from the consciousness with 
the extremest horror. It is by his re- 
peatedly expressed desire that I visit hira 
often: yet I am sure he neither docs, nor 
ever did feel much regard for me; but he 
would fain escape, for a time, in any 
society, from the terrible idea of his ap- 
proaching dissolution. I never would be 
awed by his sarcasms, or his frowns, into 
acquiescence with his general injustice to 
the merits of other writers; with his na- 
tional or party aversions; but I feel the 
truest compassion for his present suffer- 
ings, and fervently wish I had power to 
relieve them. 
A few days since IT was to drink tea 
‘with him, by his request, at Mrs, Porter's. 
When I went into the room, he was in 
639 
deep but agitated slumber, in an arm. 
chair. Opening.the door with that caus 
tion due to the sick, he did not awaken 
at my entrance. I stood by him several 
minutes, mournfully contemplating the 
temporary suspension of those vast intel. 
lectual powers, which must so soon, as to 
this world, be eternally quenched. 
Upon the servant entering to announce 
the arrival of a gentleman of the univer- 
sitys introduced by Mr. White, he awoke 
with convulsive starts,—but rising, with 
more alacrity than could have been ex= 
pected, he said ‘‘Come, my déar lady, 
Jet you and I attend these gentlemen in 
the study.” He received them with 
more than usual complacence; but whims 
sically chose to get astride upon his 
chair-seat, with his face to its back, 
keeping a trotting motion as if on horseé= 
back; but, in this odd position, he poured 
forth streams of eloquence, illumined by 
frequent flashes of wit and humour, with- 
out any tincture of malignity. That 
amusing part of this conversation, which 
alluded to the learned Pig, and his demi- 
rational exhibitions, I ‘shall transmit to 
you hereafter. 
DR. JOHNSON. 
The old literary Colossus* has been 
some time in Lichfield. The extinction, 
in our sphere, of that mighty spirit ap- 
proaches fast. A confirmed dropsy 
deluges the vital source. [ft is melan- 
choly to observe with what terror he con- 
templates his approaching fate. The 
religion of Johnson was always:deeply 
tinctured with that gloomy and servile 
superstition which marks his political 
Opinions, He expresses these terrors, 
and justly calls them miserable, which 
thus shrink from the exchange of a 
diseased and painful existence, which 
gentler human beings consider as the all- 
recompensing reward of a well-spent life. 
Yet have not these humiliating terrors by 
any means subdued that malevolent and 
envious pride, and literary jealousy, 
which were ever the vices of his heart,’ 
and to which he perpetually sacrificed, 
and continues to sacrilice, the fidelity of 
representation, and the veracity of deci- 
sion. His memory is considerably im- 
paired, but his eloquence rolls on in its 
customary majestic torrent, when he 
speaks at all. My heart aches to see 
him labour for his breath, which he draws 
with great effort indeed. It is wot impro= 
bable that this literary comet may set 
LLL, 
* Johnson, 
where 
