ground. No snake, said he, exists in Ireland, and no poet can be found in America.

You are too severe, said I, in your strictures. This country, as a native author observes, can furnish her quota of poets.

Name, will you, one?

Is not Dwight, a candidate for the epic crown? Is he, Sir, not a poet?

I think not. He wants imagination, and he also wants judgment; Sir, he makes the shield of Joshua to mock the rising sun ?

Is not Barlow a poet? Is not his Vision of Columbus a fine poem?

The opening is elevated; the rest is read without emotion ? What think

you

of Freneau ? Freneau has one good ode: Happy the Man who safe on Shore! But he is voluminous; and this ode may be likened to the grain in the bushel of chaff What is

your opinion of Trumbull ? He can only claim the merit of being a skilful imitator.

Well, what think you of Humphreys ?

Sir, his mind is neither ductile to sentiment, nor is his ear susceptible of harmony.

What opinion do you entertain of Honeywood?

I have read some of his wretched rhymes. The bees, as it is fabled of Pindar, never sucked honey from his lips.

a

Of the existence of an Anerican poet, I perceive, Sir, your mind is rather sceptical. But, I hope, you will allow that America abounds with good prose.

Yes, Sir; but, then, mind me, it is imported from the shores of Great Britain.

Oh! monstrous! Is not Dennie a good prosewriter ?

Sir, the pleasure that otherwise I should find in Dennie, is soon accompanied with satiety by his unexampled quaintness.

Of Brown, Sir, what is your opinion ?

The style of Brown, Sir, is chastised, and he is scrupulously pure. But nature has utterly disqualified him for subjects of humour. Whenever he endeavours to bring forth hunour, the offspring of his throes are weakness and defor. mity. Whenever he attempts humour, he inspires the benevolent with pity, and fills the morose with indignation.

What think you of the style of Johnson, the Reviewer ?

It is not English that he writes, Sir ; it is American. His periods are accompanied by a yell, that is scarcely less dismal than the warhoop of a Mohawk.

George Town is built on the South bank of Sampit river ; the houses are handsome, and the little streets intersect each other at right angles. But so lovely are the women, that, had this

place existed in an age of antiquity, it would not have been said that Venus fixed her abode at Cytherea.

The academy at George Town, is under the direction of Mr. Spierin, an Irish clergyman of the episcopal persuasion ; a man profoundly versed in the languages of Greece and Rome, not unconversant with the delicacies of the English, and a powerful preacher.

I was delighted with Mr. Spierin's eldest boy. This little fellow, always followed his cousin (Mr. George) to his room, and took more pleasure in hearing the bard repeat to him his compositions, than in listening to the talk of the boarders, whose topic was either horse-racing, cock-fighting, or gunning.

I make the same use of this boy, said Mr. George to me, that Moliere did of his old house. keeper. His feelings are not perverted by the subtilties of criticism ; his mind so tender, has acquired no fastidiousness from cultivation; and what charms the boy will charm also the multitude.

I wish, cousin, said the boy, you would read me that poem again about Papa and Doctor

who went over to Waccamaw to a ball, and, when they got there, found they could not dance.

What, George, said I, have you been satirizing your

the man who instituted and supports your Academy !

Sir, said my friend, whatever may be their attributes, they ruined our dance; nor could the laughter they provoked atone for the time they made us lose.

Do, cousin, said the boy, let me read the poem to this gentleman. It is so funny !-My friend put his manuscript into the boy's hand, who read it aloud.

Then shine the train, in two collected rows,
The left a range of belles, the right of beaux ;
Of these the forms in figur'd muslin veild,
Of those the legs in silken hose conceal'd.
Now all at once two swift for sight they rise,
With nimble footsteps, and with glowing eyes ;
So the round wheels in giddy circles roll,
And bear along the fix'd spectator's soul,
Seiz'd with the scene, the solemn Priest lays down
His band, his bible, and his sable gown;
For when Divinity to mirth’s inclinod,
No text intrusive enters in the mind.
The Doctor too, forgetful that his heels,
As lead were heavy, through the circle wheels;
This
way

and that he stumbles as he goes, And oft results upon his neighbour's toes,

And now the merry violin resounds, And now the DOCTOR, now the PARSON bounds! All gravity was lost; the solemn air, The frowning eye-brow, and adjusted hair, No more so venerably met the view, To damp the ardoar of the dancing crew.

The PARSON now, revolving from his place, As down the ring he ran his godly race, His partner leaving in the midst to chance, Casts off behind and leads alone the dance. His Nymph with eager eye displays her hand, To call his Reverence to his proper stand; But not for hands or nods he car'd at all, This way and that he whirls around the hall ; One calls aloud, one stops his rapid flight, Both nymphs and youths contend to set him right; “ This way! this way! you turn ; lead out of sides, “ That lady's hand you take! and next the bride's ;" But while the merry violins resound, The ready Parson ceases not to bound,