from me, and I must run the gauntlet as well as I can.  Another circumstance that adds to the difficulty of doing justice to all parties is, that I happen to have had a personal acquaintance with some of these jealous votaries of the Muses; and that is not the likeliest way to imbibe a high opinion of the rest.  Poets do not praise one another in the language of hyperbole.  I am afraid, therefore, that I labour under a degree of prejudice against some of the most popular poets of the day, from an early habit of deference to the critical opinions of some of the least popular.  I cannot say that I ever learnt much about Shakspeare or Milton, Spenser or Chaucer, from these professed guides; for I never heard them say much about them.  They were always talking of themselves and one another.  Nor am I certain that this sort of personal intercourse with living authors, while it takes away all real relish or freedom of opinion with regard to their contemporaries, greatly enhances our respect for themselves.  Poets are not ideal beings; but have their prose-sides, like the commonest of the people.  We often hear persons say, What they would have given to have seen Shakspeare!  For my part, I would give a great deal not to have seen him; at least, if he was at all like any body else that I have ever seen.  But why should he; for his works are not!  This is, doubtless, one great advantage which the dead have over the living.  It is always fortunate for ourselves and others, when we are prevented from exchanging admiration for knowledge.  The splendid vision that in youth haunts our idea of the poetical character, fades, upon acquaintance, into the light of common day; as the azure tints that deck the mountain’s brow are lost on a nearer approach to them.  It is well, according to the moral of one of the Lyrical Ballads,—­“To leave Yarrow unvisited.”  But to leave this “face-making,” and begin.—­

I am a great admirer of the female writers of the present day; they appear to me like so many modern Muses.  I could be in love with Mrs. Inchbald, romantic with Mrs. Radcliffe, and sarcastic with Madame D’Arblay:  but they are novel-writers, and, like Audrey, may “thank the Gods for not having made them poetical.”  Did any one here ever read Mrs. Leicester’s School?  If they have not, I wish they would; there will be just time before the next three volumes of the Tales of My Landlord come out.  That is not a school of affectation, but of humanity.  No one can think too highly of the work, or highly enough of the author.

The first poetess I can recollect is Mrs. Barbauld, with whose works I became acquainted before those of any other author, male or female, when I was learning to spell words of one syllable in her story-books for children.  I became acquainted with her poetical works long after in Enfield’s Speaker; and remember being much divided in my opinion at that time, between her Ode to Spring and Collins’s Ode to Evening.