net to Pitt*. I like the two first lines the leastand do not approve of two torches in one sonnet, the light of virtue, and the flame of honour. If it was mine I would alter the opening, thus, Genius and virtue's prodigy, thy fame Through ages shall diffuse its cloudless light. "Thee Britain found," I do not think sufficiently clear, unless it had been in her late emergency, that she had first found her political sa viour. * SONNET TO MR PITT, By G. HARDINGE, ESQ. written March 1789. O! miracle of sure, tho' early fame, By genius prov'd, and sacred virtue's light, Threaten'd in radiant panoply the fight; In shapeless folds of dusky hue;-the pale Obsequious---idiot Scorn, tho' nature bled, My objection might be obviated thus "Thee Britain found, strong in her stormy night." Invincible is the word, but there is not room for it. In the sonnet, how often does language find herself on the bed of Procrustes! All the rest of this composition has Miltonic sublimity. The picture, as an whole, is infinitely grand. The night fiends brooding o'er the regal bed, and discovered by the torch of honour! Nothing can be more sublime; though poets only will perhaps properly feel this oracular imagery, at least without a key, but it is the kind of thing in which a portion of obscurity is rather an excellence than a defect-I mean as to the imagery merely, for nothing can preserve from just censure obscurity of expression. My poor sonnets are made delectable nonsense in the General Evening Post for the 7th of this month, March, by the carelessness of the printer, who, in reversing the words hills and rills, has caused my hills to wind and to murmur, and my brooks to be convex. He has also of the word illume made illums, and for the word idiocy, as synonymous to idiotism, (See Lord Bacon's authority in Johnson's folio Dictionary,) he has given idiotcy. Why do you praise me for praising Miss Williams's poem on the Slave Trade? So doing, you are worse than the folk who extol Joseph's virtue, as almost super-human, because he would not be a scoundrel,—not dishonour the man who had raised him from a dungeon to wealth, and power, and happiness, and trust. If I had not thought the work ingenious, I would have been silent as to the production of my friend, for my encomiums shall not be partial; but thinking it charming, I were despicable had I suppressed the consciousness. "For all that wealth, and power, and fame bestow, On the 27th of last month I was honoured and blest by a two hours' personal conversation with the most distinguished excellence that ever walked the earth, since saints and angels left off paying us morning visits. To say that his name is Howard would be superfluous. This is the third time he has favoured me with his conversation on his way through this town. I am truly glad of our king's recovery, but yet I should not walk half so tall upon a visit from him. Mr Howard presented me with his new publication, and had previously given me the former. This is enriched with beautiful engravings of the foreign Lazarettos. He sets out next spring, to encounter again the shafts that speed through the darkness, and "the pestilence that walketh at noon-day," stimulated by the hope of being enabled to avert, in future, some of their mischiefs from the human race. Last Friday evening was the "Feast of Lights" with us; I assure you every window shone, many with transparent paintings, whose emblems were well imagined, while loyal enwreathed thanksgivings glowed in phosphorus. Our corporation, our esquires, our choir, and our principal tradesmen, preceded by a band of music, sung God Save the King through the streets. If our little city loved genius, science, and art, half as well as it loves its king, and his minister, our societies would be more animated than they are. LETTER LXIII. REV. T. S. WHALLEY. Lichfield, April 10, 1789. IT is our fate, my dearest friend, that the wish of answering each other's letters should often and long precede our power. I hope I am not strongly tainted with the female frailty, curiosity, yet I must be interested in all that has agitated the feelings of those I love; and I thirst to know from what quarter could proceed that storm which threatened to blow your summer hopes from their cottage anchor. The harassing perplexities of which your last complains, grieved me; but I hope they are past away, without having left any nest-eggs to annoy you in future, and to vex and afflict my dear Mrs Whalley. Precious are the assurances you give me, that I possess her partial love. I am happy in your glowing approbation of my long Horatian Paraphrase on the Pleasures of rural life. There is nobody whom my muse more ardently wishes to please than her Edwy; nor have I less pleasure in the similarity of our |