The features of Fuseli are as strongly marked as if they had been cut in marble, but his character, which I suspect is naturally violent, seems tempered with philosophy and adorned with an exquisite taste. Eccentric from his cradle, age has taken nothing from the impetuosity of his conceptions, which by turns dazzle, elevate and astonish. It is now, a profound remark, then, general satire, and presently, a romantic excursion. In short, Fuseli, in all the relations of life, is a respectable man.

The Scotch gentleman, who is publishing Ossian with the original language, had come to London to mortgage a large quantity of Scotch land. One of the company whispered, He ought to have gone to Norway or Lapland; there, Scotch lands might be praised.

The new edition of Ossian gave rise to several observations. I endeavoured to obtain Fuseli's opinion of the authority of those poems, but was prevented by the rapidity of his conversation. He seemed to treat the poems with no great respect, and at length let off a shot at the whole clan of Scotch poets, by roundly asserting that, all the Scotch rhymers put together would not amount to half a poet. Fuseli, I discovered, would allow no man to be a poet who is not in the habit of attaining to the sublime. Himself deals altogether in the

sublime of painting. He has even attempted the sublime in the three witches in Macbeth.

But

if the object of the various kinds of poetry be to please, to enrapture, to soothe, to elevate, he is a true poet who can attain his object in either way. The Greeks were not so nice: Anacreon, Theocritus and Pindar were acknowledged by all Greece. Then why should Allan Ramsay, Thompson and Burns be questioned? For my part, I should be loath to see the more humble Beattie whipped from Parnassus.

It seemed to be the opinion of the Scotch gentleman, if the original language was printed with the translation, every doubt respecting the authority of the poems would be silenced. I objected the possibility that the original language might have been translated from Macpherson's Ossian, and would probably raise another storm of criticism. Adieu.

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LETTER XXXIV.

LONDON, JULY 20th.

An excursion to Oxford, on foot, with an intelligent fellow traveller, at this season of the year, will afford all that the charms of nature can give, in addition to what one may collect as a tourist.

Having procured a letter of introduction to a gentleman, Mr. Portall, a fellow of St. John's, Oxford, we proceeded by the way of Windsor, the summer residence of their Majesties. Nine miles from the city, on the road to Windsor, is Turnham Green. Here dwells the venerable Dr. Griffiths,* the original of the Monthly Review. Having formerly been introduced, and received by him with the affectionate compliment, "That he had a reverence for the citizens of the United States," we called on this literary patriarch, and ran over fifty years in about an hour and a half. Sociable, as most old men are, when you have their confidence, and highly interesting, by having at command the cream of all the literature, with the connecting anecdotes of the last half century, he requires only your atten

* Lately deceased.

tion to carry you into the green room of the republic of letters. Fortunately for most celebrated authors, their books live, and their memories perish; otherwise the glory of their names would rarely save their characters from contempt.

I asked, if David Hume did not once reside in that vicinity, and if he was acquainted with him? He pointed from the window to a house, in which he resided while at Turnham Green. He added, "Both Hume and Rousseau have spent many an hour in this room." I was transported to be conversing with a man, who had been intimate with Rousseau. I was earnest to collect every particular respecting that wonderful character. Dr. Griffith thought Rousseau knew the human heart much better in the closet, than he did in the world, which led him frequently to discover, notwithstanding the goodness of his heart-" Then," added I, interrupting him, he had an excellent heart ?"—“ which, notwithstanding the goodness of his heart," repeated the Dr. "frequently led him to discover a jealousy, which rendered it extremely difficult for people of the world to accommodate themselves to him."-" But, sir, this jealousy was nothing more, than the excess of sensibility; it did not originate in envy?" "No, who was there for Rousseau to envy? Rousseau envied no man." "But," added I,

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"Voltaire, I suspect, envied Rousseau." "No wonder," said the Dr. "the world gave Voltaire a rival, and Voltaire had not sufficient magnanimity to admire a man, who, like Minerva, sprung full grown from the head of Jupiter; and who seemed to usurp part of that temple, in which Voltaire alone had been so long worshipped.

I asked the Dr. "How Rousseau spent his time, when he visited him?" "As little like a philosopher," he replied, “as you can imagine. He had a little sagacious dog, called Cupid, which always followed him, and whenever he was urged to converse on subjects either disagreeable or fatiguing to him, he would begin to sing, at the same moment, Cupid would begin to dance, and thus he would frequently spend two hours together, excepting those short intervals, when Cupid would make a blunder, and then Rousseau would fall a laughing. In this manner, would the philosopher of Ermenonville spend many an hour in that window seat, while he resided in this town with Hume."

We left this civil old gentleman, who made us promise to come and eat a bit of mutton with him, and proceeded to Windsor. The castle is on a high hill of gentle ascent, and commands from the Round Tower, a fine prospect of not less than twelve Counties. But nothing gave me more pleasure, than