ing one in the hand of another man, he would exclaim, with a most moving pathos, “Ob, apple!”—well and good-oh, apple! is a very affecting speech, but in the mean time profits him nothing. The man that holds it, eats it, and he goes away with Oh apple in his mouth, and with nothing better. Reflecting on his disappointment, and that perhaps it arose from his not being more explicit, he contrives a term to denote his idea of transfer or gratuitous communication, and the next occasion that offers, of a similar kind, performs his part accordingly. His speech now stands thus, "Oh give apple!" The appleholder perceives himself called upon to part with his fruit, and, having satisfied his own hunger, is perhaps not unwilling to do so. But, unfortunately, there is still room for a mistake, and, a third person being present, he gives the apple to him. Again disappointed, and again perceiving that his language has not all the precision that is requisite, the orator retires to his study, and there, after much deep thinking, conceives that the insertion of a pronoun, whose office shall be to signify, that he not only wants the apple to be given, but given to himself, will remedy all defects; he uses it the next opportunity, and succeeds to a wonder, obtains the apple, and, by his success, such credit to his invention, that pronouns continue to be in great repute ever after.

Now, as my two syllable-mongers, Beattie and Blair, both agree that language was originally inspired, and that the great variety of languages we find upon Earth at present took it's rise from the confusion of tongues at Babel, I am not perfectly convinced, that there is any just occasion to invent this very ingenious solution of a difficulty, which Scripture has solved already. My opinion, however is, if I may presume to have an opinion of my own, so different from theirs, who are so much wiser than myself, that, if man had been his own teacher, and had acquired his

words and his phrases only as necessity or convenience had prompted, his progress must have been considerably slower than it was, and, in Homer's days, the production of such a poem as the Iliad impossible. On the contrary, I doubt not, Adam, on the very day of his creation, was able to express himself in terms both forcible and elegant, and that he was at no loss for sublime diction and logical combination, when he wanted to praise his Maker. Yours, my dear friend, W. COWPER.

TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

September 18, 1784.

FOLLOWING your good example, I lay before me a sheet of my largest paper. It was this moment fair, and unblemished, but I have begun to blot it, and, having begun, am not likely to cease till I have spoiled it. I have sent you many a sheet, that, in my judgment of it, has been very unworthy of your acceptance; but my conscience was in some measure satisfied by reflecting, that, if it were good for nothing, at the same time it cost you nothing, except the trouble of reading it. But the case is altered now. You must pay a solid price for frothy matter; and, though I do not absolutely pick your pocket, yet you lose your money, and, as the saying is, are never the wiser.

My greenhouse is never so pleasant, as when we are just on the point of being turned out of it. The gentleness of the autumnal suns, and the calmness of this latter season, make it a much more agreeable retreat than we ever find it in the summer; when, the winds being generally brisk, we cannot cool it by admitting a sufficient quantity of air, without being, at the same time, incommoded by it. But now I sit with all the windows and the door wide open, and am regaled with the scent of every

flower, in a garden as full of flowers as I have known how to make it. We keep no bees, but if I lived in a hive, I should hardly hear more of their music. All the bees in the neighbourhood resort to a bed of mignonette, opposite to the window, and pay me for the honey they get out of it, by a hum, which, though rather monotonous, is as agreeable to my ear, as the whistling of my linnets. All the sounds that nature utters are delightful, at least in this country. I should not perhaps find the roaring of lions in Africa, or of bears in Russia, very pleasing, but I know no beast in England, whose voice I do not account musical, save and except always the braying of an ass. The notes of all our birds and fowls please me, without one exception. I should not indeed think of keeping a goose in a cage, that I might hang him up in the parlour for the sake of his melody, but a goose upon a common, or in a farmyard, is no bad performer: and as to insects, if the black beetle, and beetles indeed of all hues, will keep out of my way, I have no objection to any of the rest; on the contrary, in whatever key they sing, from the gnat's fine treblé, to the bass of the humble bee, I admire them all. Seriously, however, it strikes me as a very observable instance of providential kindness to man, that such an exact accord has been contrived between his ear and the sounds with which, at least in a rural situation, it is almost every moment visited. All the world is sensible of the uncomfortable effect, that certain sounds have upon the nerves, and consequently upon the spirsts.

Your mother and I walked yesterday in the wilderness. As we entered the gate, a glimpse of something white contained in a little hole in the gate-post, caught my eye. I looked again, and discovered a bird's nest, with two tiny eggs in it. By and by they will be fledged and tailed, and get wing-feathers and fly. My case is somewhat si

milar to that of the parent bird. My nest is in a little nook. Here I brood and hatch, and in due time my progeny takes wing and whistles.

We wait for the time of your coming with pleasant expectations. Yours truly, W. CowPER.

TO LADY HESKETH.

October 12, 1785.

MY DEAR COUSIN,

IT is no new thing with you to give pleasure. But I will venture to say, that you do not often give more than you gave me this morning. When I came down to breakfast, and found upon the table a letter franked by my uncle, and when opening that frank I found that it contained a letter from you, I said within myself—“ This is just as it should be. We are all grown young again, and the days, that I thought I should see no more, are actually returned." You perceive, therefore, that you judged well when you conjectured, that a line from you would not be disagreeable to me. It could not be otherwise, than as in fact it proved, a most agreeable surprise, for I can truly boast of an affection for you, that neither years, nor interrupted intercourse, have at all abated. I need only recollect how much I valued you once, and with how much cause, immediately to feel a revival of the same value if that can be said to revive, which at the most has only been dormant for want of employment, but I slander it when I say that it has slept. A thousand times have I recollected a thousand scenes, in which our two selves have formed the whole of the drama, with the greatest pleasure; at times, too, when I had no reason to suppose, that I should ever hear from you again. I have laughed with you at the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, which afforded us, as you well know, a fund of merriment,

that deserves never to be forgot. I have walked with you to Netley Abbey, and have scrambled with you over hedges in every direction, and many other feats we have performed together, upon the field of my remembrance, and all within these few years. Should I say within this twelvemonth I should not transgress the truth. The hours, that I have spent with you, were amongst the pleasantest

of

my

former days, and are, therefore, chronicled in my mind so deeply, as to feel no erasure. Neither do I forget my poor friend, sir Thomas; I should remember him, indeed, at any rate, on account of his personal kindness to myself, but the last testimony that he gave of his regard for you endears him to me still more. With his uncommon understanding (for, with many peculiarities, he had more sense than any of his acquaintance), and with his generous sensibilities, it was hardly possible, that he should not distinguish you as he has done. As it was the last, so it was the best proof, that he could give, of a judgment that never deceived him, when he would allow himself leisure to consult it.

me.

You say, that you have often heard of me: that puzzles I cannot imagine from what quarter, but it is no matter. I must tell you, however, my cousin, that your information has been a little defective. That I am happy

in

my situation, is true; I live and have lived these twenty years, with Mrs. Unwin, to whose affectionate care of me, during the far greater part of that time, it is under Providence, owing, that I live at all. But I do not account myself happy in having been for thirteen of those years in a state of mind, that has made all that care and attention necessary; an attention, and a care, that have injured her health, and which, had she not been uncommonly supported, must have brought her to the grave. But I will pass to another subject; it would be cruel to particularize only to give pain, neither would I by any means give a