done a great deal for a
small author, and enabled some favourites of literary fashion to enjoy
a usurped reputation; but it is not so evident that Eliza Ryves was a
comic writer, although, doubtless, she appeared another Menander to
herself. And thus an author dies in a delusion of self-flattery!

The character of Eliza Ryves was rather tender and melancholy, than
brilliant and gay; and like the bruised perfume--breathing sweetness
when broken into pieces. She traced her sorrows in a work of fancy,
where her feelings were at least as active as her imagination. It is a
small volume, entitled "The Hermit of Snowden." Albert, opulent and
fashionable, feels a passion for Lavinia, and meets the kindest
return; but, having imbibed an ill opinion of women from his
licentious connexions, he conceived they were slaves of passion, or of
avarice. He wrongs the generous nature of Lavinia, by suspecting her
of mercenary views; hence arise the perplexities of the hearts of
both. Albert affects to be ruined, and spreads the report of an
advantageous match. Lavinia feels all the delicacy of her situation;
she loves, but "she never told her love." She seeks for her existence
in her literary labours, and perishes in want.

In the character of Lavinia, our authoress, with all the melancholy
sagacity of genius, foresaw and has described her own death!--the
dreadful solitude to which she was latterly condemned, when in the
last stage of her poverty; her frugal mode of life; her acute
sensibility; her defrauded hopes; and her exalted fortitude. She has
here formed a register of all that occurred in her solitary existence.
I will give one scene--to me it is pathetic--for it is like a scene at
which I was present:--

"Lavinia's lodgings were about two miles from town, in an obscure
situation. I was showed up to a mean apartment, where Lavinia was
sitting at work, and in a dress which indicated the greatest economy.
I inquired what success she had met with in her dramatic pursuits. She
waved her head, and, with a melancholy smile, replied, 'that her
hopes of ever bringing any piece on the stage were now entirely over;
for she found that more interest was necessary for the purpose than
she could command, and that she had for that reason laid aside her
comedy for ever!' While she was talking, came in a favourite dog of
Lavinia's, which I had used to caress. The creature sprang to my arms,
and I received him with my usual fondness. Lavinia ende