ed with a ruined castle. A small path leads beyond the village amongst the rocks, by the side of a stream, which forms itself from a variety of little springs issuing out of the foot of the mountain, till a dry channel appears, rising steep, with uncouth fragments interspersed in it. Here the valley narrows, and leads into a recess, where nothing but huge masses of stone and rock surround you, with, here and there, a bush of wild fig or olive growing out of the chinks of the craggy cliff. Opposite is a perpendicular mountain of stone, about six hundred feet high, like an immense quarry. The ground slopes considerably from our feet to its base, which opens into a large cavern, filled, as far as the eye can discern, with the purest water in the world. In April and May, this spring rises above the cavern, so as to fill the whole bason, which is surrounded with cliffs, except in the front, where it tumbles down the rocky channel, with loud and tumultuous violence, and is broken into a thousand cascades. The whole of the scene is majestic and imposing, but not, to my feelings, such as would fill the mind with images for amorous sonnets. If Dante, if Ossian, had frequented the retreat, I should have understood them better than I do Petrarch, who would have been more in his place in the quiet vales of Boconoli." And thus Lord Camelford.-I have, within this past week, looked into Mrs Dobson's Petrarch, which you told me is an abridgement of the Abbé de Sade's Life of that Poet. Mrs Dobson describes the Valley of Vaucluse as luxuriantly sylvan, and of incomparable beauty. There is no saying what devastations time may not have made; but I wonder her original did not supply her with reflections upon its present contrasting appearance, so rude and barren; that she did not inform herself, from recent visitants to a scene so remarkable, that it was shorn of its woods, and that not a leaf of the love-planted laurels remained. Equally strange, that she should make no mention of the Castle de Sommane, where Laura always resided during the summer months, and which remains to this day the property of her direct descendents. The desire of Petrarch to be near his mistress, accounts for the time which he habitually passed in that valley, and for his local devotion. If Lord Camelford had known to whom that ruined castle once, nay, to whom it yet belongs, he had surely not expressed his wonder at Petrarch's choice of retreat, nor fancied he could have been more in his place in any other valley, however superior in scenic beauty. Pray mention this subject when you write next, and account to me, if you can, for Mrs Dobson's omissions, and for the false description she gives of this scene. No romantic exagge ration should, in all policy, have been used in descanting upon a situation so known. With what delight, were it in my power, should I visit Vaucluse, and pay homage at its watery shrine ! LETTER LXxxvi. Miss HELEN WILLIAMS. Lichfield, Dec. 25, 1787. I AM glad you like my friend Colonel Barry. He has genius, literature, and an high sense of military honour. The laurel and the bays are entwined around his brow. It is singular that he should have succeeded Major André as AdjutantGeneral to our armies in America; and that both these young soldiers should, at different times, have found the charms of Honora Sneyd so tran scendant and impressive, as to have prevented any other attachment capable of extinguishing the impassioned recollection of her. Within these three years, Colonel Barry assured me, that she was the only woman he had ever seriously loved; that he never beheld a being in whom the blended charms of mind and person, could approach the lustre of those which glowed in the air, the look, the smile, the glance, and the eloquence of Honora Sneyd. Judge you, who know the idolatry of my spirit on that theme, how Colonel Barry must have engaged my regard, by exhibiting, in himself, a second proof of constancy, so rare in these gross times, to my Madam de Grignan,―now mouldering in the tomb, but surviving, in my memory, with all her matchless endowments, graces, and virtues. Yes, it is very true, on the evening he mentioned to you, when Mrs Piozzi honoured this roof, Colonel Barry's conversation greatly contributed to its Attic spirit. Till that day, I had never conversed with her. There has been no exaggeration, there could be none, in the description given you of Mrs Piozzi's talents for conversation; at least in the powers of classic allusion and brilliant wit. Comic humour, and declamatory eloquence are Mrs. Knowles's fort, and in them she is unrivalled. I speak of our sex, for in wit and classic spirit, who may transcend Mr Hayley? When Mrs Piozzi and I met the next morning, we agreed, that if Colonel Barry was a little less sententious, he would be divine. I have been attacked with some virulence, and an abundance of absurd sophistry, in the Gentleman's Magazine for July 1787, about my letters on Johnson, signed Benvolio. I replied in the next number, page 684. The answer to that reply, in the November number, is too feebly and evidently sophistical, to be worth any farther notice. Johnson's uncandid and intolerant bluster against the Dissenters has made every proud High Priest his idolater and champion. Whoever, therefore, speaks impartially of him, "Calls up a pitchy cloud Of locusts, warping on the funeral * winds, You will easily procure from Mr Whalley an introduction to Mrs Piozzi. It will delight you to hear with what energy she speaks of her Egyp * Parody on a fanious simile in the Paradise Lost.-S. |