I do not recollect, whether I mentioned in my former letter two recent publications, in the poetical way, of considerable merit. The one is called Aurelia, or the Contest, a mock epic, in censure of the ladies for painting their faces, and other fashionable female foibles. This is written by the younger Hoole, son of the translator of Ariosto, who published a pretty imitation of the Bath Guide, entitled Modern Manners. He is a young man, and I think a rising genius; his last poem has not many faults, it is indeed rather too long. The other publication is called, The Village, a very classical composition, but also too long; and very unnecessarily, and I think absurdly, divided into two books. It seems designed as a contrast to Goldsmith's Deserted Village, in one point of view; that is, so far as Goldsmith's expatiates on the felicities and innocencies of rural life. The author of The Village takes the dark side of the question; he paints all with a sombre pencil; too justly, perhaps, but, to me at least, unpleasingly. We know there is no unmixed happiness in any state of life, but one does not wish to be perpetually told so. The author of the above is a Mr. Crabbe, who published a poem, called The Library, about two years ago. I am told he was an apprentice to a surgeon in Suffolk, but, on the display of his poetical talents, met with friends, who advised him to take orders, and gave him a living. Literary merit, in this age, rarely meets such encouragement.