 the treat, and let them feed upon it, heartily.—Sensibility is, in my mind, as necessary, as taste, to intitle us to judge of a work, like this; and a cold criticism, formed upon rules for waiting, can, therefore, be of no manner of use but to enable the stupid to speak, with a seeming intelligence, of what they neither feel nor understand.
L'ABBE Troublet, in his essays, on literature and morals, says,
"Si un ouvrage sans defaut ètoit possible, it ne le seroit qu' á un bomme mediocre."
And in anothet place,
"Il n'y a rien de plus different, qu'n ouvrage sans defaut, & un ouvrage parfait."

I SHALL only add, that I sincerely wish the subsequent pages had fewer faults to exercise the good, or ill nature, of my several readers; but I must, now, throw myself, and my book with all its imperfections on its bead, upon the indulgence of the public, from whom I have received many favours, and to whom I am a truly grateful, and
Most obedient servant, FRANCES.


TELL me, my dear philosophie, wise sister, why those gloomy mortals, stiled moralists, take so much pains to put us out of humour with our present state of existence, by declaring that happiness is not the lot of man, &c. &c. Do they think these dogmas enhance the value of felicity, as unexpected blessings are mostly prized? or is it that themselves, soured by mortifications and disappointments, which their vanity or caprice have occasioned, they are unwilling to acknowledge that degree of perfection, in any state of being, which they do not themselves enjoy? but why do I argue, where I can at once confute? by declaring your Emily blessed to the utmost extent of her most romantic wishes; and feeling, if possible, an addition to her felicity, by knowing that you share it.

OUR journey was delightful; even the sun, which had not appeared for some days, shone forth on us, in its full lustre: creation smiled; the gladness of my heart gilded every object; I thought the birds sung hymeneals, and I was sorry when even Miss Weston's fine voice interrupted their still sweeter notes. My lord was—himself. I cannot say more, to express all that is tender, elegant, and polite.
LADY Harriet, who you know, is of the gentle kind, looked assent to our happiness; yet frequent sighs escaped her. Why should she sigh? I have
