LETTER XVIII. TO MISS HELEN WILLIAMS. Lichfield, Aug. 25, 1785. I WRITE to you, dear Helen, amidst the bustle of those feminine preparations, which necessarily precede the design of attending an harmonic festival at Manchester, where the abbey drums are to thunder, Mara exhibit vocal miracles, and, what is much more to the genuine lovers of musical pathos and energy, our friend Saville is to open the Messiah, and take all the principal tenor and contra-tenor songs. He unites poetic taste, and the vivid emotions of a feeling heart, and of an high and kindling spirit, to a rich, extensive, and powerful voice, and the most perfect knowledge of his science. It is the former which direct, with unerring power, the energy and pathos of his expression. Others sing with as much, perhaps more musical fancy, and artful elegance; but he alone, of all his brethren of the lyre, sings with impulses congenial to those with which Milton wrote and Handel composed, though he never aims to dazzle or astonish his audience. I long to see your poetic spectres, whose mournful habiliments will, I am sure, be woven by the hand of genius. The dear bard has been so good as to send me Boyd's translation of Dante into English verse. Appearing after Mr Hayley's version of the three first cantos of the Inferno, it suffers by a comparison with their matchless excellence; yet, even had he condescended to lead us through the long succession of fiery furnaces, the result must have been a certain weary horror, of which we grow impatient. The Dantean Angel of Vengeance is diabolically insatiable; and this seems to me the sum and substance of his inflictions, Immerse him in that boiling tide, Then on yon gridiron burn him; The last letters I received from Mr and Mrs Whalley, were written from their summer retreat, in the neighbourhood of Vaucluse, seven miles from Avignon. Their villa commanded a view of what appears like an immense park, graced with the shade of innumerable mulberry trees. Beyond the considerable extent of open ground, various landscapes present themselves, rich in chateaus, villages, and ruins, while the Alps of Dauphiné form a majestic back-ground, and close the scene. Mr Whalley speaks with delight of their little green drawing-room, whose windows are curtained with foliage from a small grove of planes, elms, and flowering limes. Between the irregular trunks of the trees, and beneath their branches, are seen the pure waters of the Sorgue. They are perfectly azure, and flow an hundred yards distant from this romantic habitation. Think, dear Miss Williams, how the consciousness of this river's poetic consecration, by Petrarch, must enhance the delight with which the kindred spirit of Mr Whalley gazed on its waves, as they wandered by this villa. He tells me, that, to complete the magic of the scene, their near grove was the mansion of nightingales, which, when he wrote, were in full song. Many English families of rank, residing for a time at Avignon, followed our friend's example, and formed a sort of colony in the muse-hallowed scene; pleased with the idea of passing a summer in the vicinity of that immortal fountain and valley, which had witnessed the beauty of Laura, and heard the songs of Petrarch, "That spread the fame of his disastrous love." Adieu ! LETTER XIX. To MRS G Lichfield, Aug. 27, 1785. BE assured, dear Madam, it was with no cold ear that I listened to Dr B when he talked to me of the obligations which Lord Hacknowledged to the valour and conduct of your gallant brother-in-law. Yet, had my spirit still more fervently hailed a theme so welcome, but for the consciousness, which your late letters have inspired, that this distinguished supporter of our naval glory was less sensible than he ought to be of your merit, and of those tender and constant attentions, with which your high-strung esteem impels you to honour him. Will you, however, forgive me, if I observe, that, as his virtues are cast in a sterner mould than yours, the effusions of so poignant a sensibility may probably not only be incomprehensible, perhaps they are displeasing. Do they not seem a tacit reproof to his own colder temperament? They may perhaps more induce him to question the sincerity of your regard, than to tell himself that he is ungrateful. Heroic spirits are often proud ones; and pride will not endure the weight of incessant obligation. Affection, we all know, is the only coin in which we can be allowed to repay our debts to that affection which is demonstrated for us. Where native disposition brings on inevitable insolvency, how can the noble mind observe, without pain, the sum of those debts increasing by hourly accumulation? Since you hint to me, that your brother seems rather oppressed than gratified by the generous extreme of so much apparent veneration, I could wish you to avoid letting him perceive its fervours: that you would demonstrate only such a degree of it as he can hope to equal and return. We must rein in our enthusiasms towards those who are not themselves enthusiasts, lest the warm ingenuous heart defeat, by its excess, its dearest purposes. I cannot doubt your having been infinitely amused by Mr Boswell's tour. The general style is somewhat too careless, and its egotism is ridiculed; but surely to the cold-hearted and fastidious reader only, will it seem ridiculous. The slip-shod style is richly compensated by the palpable fidelity of the interesting anecdotes; the egotism, by that good humoured ingenuousness with which it is given, and by its unsuspecting |