is, we shortly shall be, let us preserve that sacred sensibility which will never embitter the enjoyments of life, if it effectually remind us of its use!

MEMOIRS OF MRS. CHAPONE.
Written by Mrs. Barbauld.

So may some gentle Muse,

With lucky words favour my destined urn,
And as he passes turn,

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

MRS. Chapone, who died, December 25th, 1801, in her 75th year, has long been known to the publick, as an elegant and highly moral writer. The first productions of hers which were given to the world, were the interesting story of Fidelia in the Adventurer, and a Poem, prefixed to her friend Mrs. Carter's translation of Epictetus; but her name only became known on the publication of a deservedly popular work, Letters on the Improvement of the Mind, addressed to a Young Lady. This was printed in 1773, and will long, it is to be hoped, maintain its place in the library of young women. It is distinguished by sound sense, a liberal, as well as a warm, spirit of piety, and a philosophy applied to its best use, the culture of the heart and

affections. It has no shining eccentricities of thought, no peculiarities of system; it follows experience as its guide, and is content to produce effects of acknowledged utility, by known and approved means. On these accounts, it is perhaps the most unexceptionable treatise, that can be put into the hands of female youth. These letters are particularly excellent, in what relates to regulating the temper and feelings. Their style is pure and unaffected, and the manner grave and impressive. Those who choose to compare them in this respect with another widely circulated publication, addressed about the same time to young women, (Dr. Fordyce's Sermons) will probably be of opinion that the dignified simplicity of the female writer is much more consonant to true taste, than the affected prettiness and constant glitter of the preacher. Mrs. Chapone soon after published a volume of Miscellanies, containing one or two moral essays, and some elegant poems. The poems, which have the merit of many beautiful thoughts, and some original images, seem not to have been sufficiently appreciated by the publick; for they were not greatly noticed, owing perhaps to the mode of their publication. It was not then so common as it has been since, to mix new matter with old.

Mrs. Chapone's maiden name was Mulso: her family was a respectable one, in Northamptonshire. Her married life was short, and not very happy. She probably alluded to her own

nuptial choice, when she speaks in one of her poems of

"Prudence slow, that ever comes too late.”

When left a widow, her very limited circumstances prevented her not from enjoying a large acquaintance among the first circles of society, who admired her for her talents, and respected. her for her virtues.

She understood and relished conversation. Her discourse was seasoned occasionally with a vein of humour; and having the advantage (for it is an advantage) of associating in early life with the best company, the ease and polish of the gentlewoman accompanied the talents of the writer. Her person was plain; but in her youth she had a fine voice, and always had a strong taste for musick. Mrs. Chapone was one of those women who have shewn that it is possible to attain a correc and elegant style, without an acquaintance with the classicks. The French and Italian she understood; and from the latter she made some translations. Mrs. Chapone, Mrs. Montague, and another lądy, who stands confessedly at the summit of female literature, and upon a par with the most distinguished scholars of the other sex, were friends and intimates: the two former have left the stage; but their venerable senior still survives to receive the homage of another cen tury. Mrs. Chapone had been declining in health for many years. The loss of a beloved

niece, the lady to whom the letters were addressed, and of a more beloved brother to whom she was united in affection and similarity of taste, hastened the infirmities of age; and for some time before her death, she was laid aside from society. It is not unusual for those, who in some period of their lives have filled a certain space in the eye of the publick, if they have been sometime withdrawn from it, to glide silently out of life unnoticed, except by the attendants at their bedside; so was it with Mrs. Chapone -But if there are those of her sex, now happy wives and mothers, who have in any measure been formed to those characters by the early impressions they may have received from her writings, they will drop a grateful tear to the memory of their benefactor, and rank her among those who, in the French phrase, “have deserved well of their country."

BEAUTIES OF THE DRAMA.

SCENE from a Comick Opera called The Blind Girl, by T. Morton, Esq.

Sligo. Is it done, I wonder? Hist! Don Valentia! Not here-Then I suppose the job is settled-Faith considering this Don Valentia is the son in law of his Excellency Don Gallardo, viceroy of Peru, he has but paltry notions of

matters. Now, first, to fall in love with the daughter of an Apothecary; why that's unlike a gentleman; and then, to carry her away from her father's by force ;-faith, I've a notion that's very unlike a gentleman.-Hold, I must not go too near her father's old Bonito's—And this is the place her maid, Viletta, was to meet me in. Poor Viletta! what, between her conscience on one hand, her love for me on the other, and a purse of gold on the other, the poor girl's quite bother'd-Now, I'm a man of accuracyI calculate every thing. I say, injury to conscience, twenty pistoles;-received for a secret service thirty;-balance, fifteen.

Vil. (without) Signor! signor!
Sligo. That's Viletta's voice.

Enter VILETTA.

Vil. Oh, Mr. Sligo, I'm so terrified, I can't speak-I can't speak indeed.

Sligo. So I hear-Come, try again.

Vil. They have carried off my mistress. Oh dear, Oh dear! what a wicked man Don Valentia must be! and so must you, to persuade. me to consent to it. You think I have no conscience?

Sligo. Oh, no; I sincerely hope you haveFor Don Valentia order'd me to give you part of the contents of this purse; so, the more conscience you have, the more will remain for me. (she snatches the purse) What, all! Faith, and