cannot adopt your dislike to the word ire, perpe petually as it is used, by our best poets, as sy nymous to anger; not only by the elder, but the modern poets. Pope's Homer says of Achilles,

"Black choler fill'd his breast, that boil'd with ire."

And of another warrior,

"So rag'd Tydides, boundless in his ire,"

Milton also frequently uses that word in his blank verse, where its great convenience, as a rhyme, could be no temptation,

Thus, while he spoke, each passion dimm'd his face, Thrice chang'd to pale, ire, envy, and despair."

And Eve exclaims,

"Me, me, only just object of his ire."

Paradise Lost.

If, writing so well in rhyme, you were to write oftener in it, you would find the inconvenience of taking pet at words, and modes of expression in common use with our purest and finest writers. It would impede you more than you are aware of, in the ease, strength, and variety of your verses.

Dr Darwin is going to publish the second part of his brilliant poem, The Botanic Garden, from which I lately sent you extracts. Perhaps it may be too resplendent. Darwin polishes higher than even Pope, and is apt to fancy every thing prose which is not picture; forgetting that the sober parts of a composition, by contrasting the blazing ones, contribute to the general perfection of the work. He should reflect that admiration cannot exist long on the full stretch, but requires repose to recruit her strength and recover her elasticity; “that we gaze a while with delight on eminences glittering with the sun, but soon turn our dazzled eyes to verdure, and to flowers."

I am however surprised to find you cold to Darwin's poetic powers; to see you terming him too much of an epithet-monger to be a fine poet in your estimation. Surely his genius is strong, glowing, and original; his numbers grand, rich, and harmonious, though perhaps not sufficiently easy and various.

The feeble make-weight epithet I dislike, as much as you can do-but the plenteous use of judicious picturesque epithets is vital to poetry. Milton, who imitates Homer closely, has, like his model, more epithets than any of our bards; since, besides the frequent compound epithet, he often gives four or five to a single substantive.

I have lately been reading Professor Spence's criticisms on Pope's Odyssey. His opinions do not always strike me as just, indeed much the reverse; but I entirely subscribe to the truth of what he says about epithets, thus-" The chief method of enlivening the poetic style is, the free and various use of epithets. This occasions that large and unrestrained use of them in poetry, so much beyond what we find in oratory. Homer is, above all other bards, lavish in the use of them; yet not one of the ancient critics censures him on that account. Epithets, like pictures in miniature, are often entire descriptions in one word. This may be either from their own significance, or by some immediate connection with some known object. We see the very object by the force of the epithet, when Homer says, the nodding crest.' We often see the whole person in an epithet, from our being acquainted with some statue or picture to which it refers. Thus, when, Apollo is called the archer-god, it recalls to our memory the representation the painters have given us of that deity. The complete figure is brought to our eyes by touching on that single circumstance."

So much for criticism.-This is a long letter. -Adieu! for it is more than time.

LETTER LXXIII.

REV. T. S. WHALLEY.

Lichfield, Oct. 6, 1787.

MRS Piozzi completely answers your description; her conversation is that bright wine of the intellects which has no lees.

Your letter, that was to have introduced us to each other, did not reach me till three days after she and Mr Piozzi had left Lichfield. Dr Falconer obligingly called to tell me that she was in our city. I had my doubts whether an unintroduced visit might not be thought a liberty. While I was balancing the idea, Mr Parker came in and laught me out of the scruple.

I shall always feel indebted to him for eight or nine radiant hours of Mr and Mrs Piozzi's society. They passed one evening here, and I the next with them at their inn.

My cousin, Mr H. White, whom Dr Johnson once called "the rising strength of Lichfield," and who, when perfectly awake from an intellectual torpor, which is apt to overcloud him, is very ingenious; and when he rubs his eyes, and

looks, has very distinct perceptions of genius in others; our nabob of lively records, and his relation, Colonel Barry of Worcester, whose military exertions have had eclat; who, in early youth, succeeded the unfortune André in an admiring passion for Honora Sneyd; and, after his sad fate, succeeded that gallant officer in his appointments in America; who has studied politeness from Chesterfield, poetry after our best critics, and moral philosophy and style after Johnson;— personages met friends at my your little sup

these

per. The evening was Attic.

Mr Saville being last week at Birmingham oratorios, I could not have the pleasure of introducing him to Mr and Mrs Piozzi; but, as they desired me to bring any of my friends in the afternoon, I took his timid Philomela in my hand. Never had Mr Piozzi two beings of his audience who were more charmed with his perfect expression on his instrument, and with the touching and ever-varying grace with which he sings. Surely the finest sensibilities must vibrate through his frame, since they breathe so sweetly through his song, though his imperfect knowledge of our language prevents their appearing in conversation. I am sure he values, as he ought, the honour and happiness he has obtained, of which the elegances of wealth, and the blessings of independence,