Miss More, though far from being a woman of genius, or equal to many females that have become eminent of late years, is not destitute of talent. Neither can she be accused of hiding it. She has given the world the benefit of her opinions in numerous works, prose and verse; and held forth from her paper pulpit, rather in violation, we must say, of the advice of her favourite apostle St. Paul. However, if she amuses herself, and saves any of her readers from a still greater sum of uncharitableness, her books are are not without their use as far as her own class of religionists are concerned. But we must beg to be excused from regarding her as a fit teacher out of that particular pale. In any thing metaphysical, or of a large humanity, she is born sister to that solemn-looking worthy, of whom it was said, "He thinks he's thinking." — "A babbler" indeed, not "of green fields," but of eternal fires, at a rate prodigiously satisfied; and with this interminable rod in one hand, wonders that all the world does not attend to her invitations to religious love with the other.