beholders with her looks, claiming mankind as her property, and using them as her slaves—driving every thing before her, and playing the devil wherever she comes, Mr. Southey sticks to her in spite of every thing, and for very shame lays his head in her lap, paddles with the palms of her hands, inhales her hateful breath, leers in her eyes and whispers in her ears, calls her little fondling names, Religion, Morality, and Social Order, takes for his motto, ‘Be to her faults a little blind, Be to her virtues very kind’— sticks close to his filthy bargain, and will not give her up, because she keeps him, and he is down in her will. Faugh! ‘What’s here? Gold! yellow, glittering, precious gold! —— —— ——The wappened widow, Whom the spittle-house and ulcerous sores Would heave the gorge at, this embalms and spices To the April day again.’ The above passage is, we fear, written in the style of Aretin, which Mr. Southey condemns in the _Quarterly_. It is at least a very sincere style: Mr. Southey will never write so, till he can keep in the same mind for three and twenty years together. Why should not one make a sentence of a page long, out of the feelings of one’s whole life? The early Protestant Divines wrote such prodigious long sentences from the sincerity of their religious and political opinions. Mr. Coleridge ought not to imitate them. A LETTER TO WILLIAM SMITH, ESQ. M.P. _from_ Robert Southey, _Esq._ John Murray, Albemarle-street. 1817. _Price_ 2_s._ ‘What word hath passed thy lips, Adam severe?’ _May 11, 1817._