George's learning, and his mother's genius, marching hand in hand over Horatian ground?

I, who was always enamoured of the legitimate Miltonic sonnet, write one now and then, upon that model. It is the intermediate style of poetry, between rhyme and blank verse; and the undulating and varied pauses of the latter, give to the true sonnet an air of graceful freedom, beyond that of all other measures-though, from the restraint respecting the exact number of the lines, and the demand of four rhymes, twice used in the first eight verses, it is in reality the most difficult.

However, where there is tolerable vigour of intellect, difficulty rather stimulates than discourages. An appearance in rural nature, a thrill of the spirit from affectionate recollections, or a sentiment, or a reflection, strikes us. It would do little towards the composition of an extensive poem, but it happily, perhaps, occupies the dimensions of a sonnet. Therefore is it that that order of verse suits a mind which has more propensity to poetic efforts, than leisure to employ them. It is true, we may sooner write forty lines, in any other measure, than fourteen in that of the true sonnet-but I can easier write fourteen on that arduous model, than an hundred on the easier ones-and where new matter is allowed to flow

in to the first idea, we are led into expansion, inconsistent with the claims of domestic business, the stewardship of a fluctuating income, the intercourse of society, and the duties of correspondence. I present you with four* of my sonnets, that have not yet passed the press—but which, if I may trust the report of several literary friends, rank with the best of my compositions.

In what more than usual austerity did winter frown upon us, in the late zenith of his blank dominion! You will be sure I trembled for its effects upon the full of days; yet, by the counteraction of large fires, and an increased quantity of vinous cordials, he seemed not to suffer from it at all. Your poor friend Giovanni was not so fortunate. He is but now recovering from a severe illness.

You are, as usual, often inquired after in our circles; which inquire after little that is ingenious, except yourself. Though such inquiry may be, on that account, the higher personal compliment, it will not, therefore, be more welcome. Adieu!

* Viz. That to Ingratitude-the Summer Evening-why Retirement is shunn'd-and that to a Botanic Friend.

LETTER LV.

MRS TAYLOR.

Lichfield, Feb. 3, 1789.

THOUGH many letters lie unanswered in my drawer, of remoter date than my dear Mrs Taylor's, and from friends whom I much regard, yet I wave every other claim, that I may answer her kind epistle, before the important hour confines her person, and expands her heart, for the reception of the maternal pleasures.-May they prove an all-recompensing happiness!

Hitherto you have seemed as chiefly born to suffer. I had a strong presentiment that pregnancy would have banished your long oppressive train of previous indispositions, and am disappointed to know that they harassed you so much in the beginning of that period.

Highly amiable are your filial regrets.—O! I can well imagine them! how poignant they were on quitting the home of your youth, the apartment hallowed by the ideal presence of a dying mother, who so lately expired in your arms!—Let us quit the subject.

Your present local sensations must be sweet, from living in the mansion in which that dear fascinating enthusiastic saint, Mrs Rowe, once inhabited. From twelve years old to twenty, not a year elapsed in which I did not rush to a reperusal of her letters, nor have they yet ceased to thrill my imagination, and to soothe my heart.

It was indeed fervently my design, never again to have sent any thing of mine to the Gentleman's Magazine-but placability, amounting perhaps to weakness, clings about my heart upon every occasion, short of premeditated and apparent treachery practised against me. Nichols, the editor of that publication, is certainly a very ingenious, and, by the report of those who know him well, a very worthy man. It seems he does not take upon himself the department of reviewing poetry. Business brought him through Lichfield last autumn. He called upon me, and expressed concern so fervent for the slight shewn to one of my best works, the Ode to General Elliot, and for the insolence with which his magazine had reviewed Mr Whalley's noble poem, Mont Blanc, that I could not help being softened, nor refuse to remit to him the offences of his reviewer. After he got to town, I received a letter of earnest supplication, to resume my accustomed contributions to his publication

my placability, not my judgment, induced me to comply.

There are prodigiously fine passages in Mr Hayley's Revolution Ode, and in the Ovidian Epistle subjoined to it. Both are stupidly and impudently criticized in a letter to the Magazine for December last. Nichols ought to have spurned, instead of inserting that letter. About the middle of last month, I sent one of indignant comment, upon that ridiculous censor, and signed mine Anti-Zoilus.

Yet on the whole, perhaps, neither the Ode nor the Epistle are quite equal to some other of Mr Hayley's writings. It is possible to fall somewhat short of them, yet be very fine poems.

We have two youths, not yet either of them seventeen, who display very shining poetic talents. England has had no Aonian flowers of such early beauty and luxuriance, since Chatterton's sun set in blood. Adieu! Adieu!