Miss Seward, in my idea, is a star of the first magnitude in the hemisphere of imagination. She has given us chiefly little, fugitive pieces; a monody on the death of captain Cook, and major Andre; a poem to the memory of lady Miller, and a few stanzas to mr. Wright on taking her father's picture. The last always gave me the highest pleasure. It required, indeed, no great effort, but is a most pleasing specimen of filial affection, and of a rich, fervid, glowing imagination. Her Louisa, though her largest, is not, in my idea, her happiest performance. A novel is too much dignified by the charms of poetry. It is a courtesan dressed like a queen.