Miss Ryves was, I fancy, author of The Hermit of Snowdon. I do not think she ever conducted the historical department of the Annual Register. Her comedy, which Mr. Sheridan, and, I believe, Mr. Harris, rejected, as too barren of incident for the stage, was intituled The Debt of Honour.
A woman more benevolent than this God never created. When her affairs were in a most "poetical posture" (as indeed they often were, for she managed them but inconsiderately), and she lodged in an obscure part of the city, she would spend her last shillings, herself unprovided with a dinner, in the purchase of a joint of meat for a starving family that occupied the floor above her. Poor Eliza Ryves! Thou wast deserving of a better friend than Dr. —. Thou shouldst not, kind-hearted as thou wast, have been forsaken on thy death-bed!