to write on such subjects, as his title seems to announce. Some years have passed since I heard from him, and, considering his great age, it is probable that I shall hear from him no more, but I shall always respect him. He is truly a Philosopher according to my judgment of the character, every tittle of his knowledge in natural subjects, being connected in his mind, with the firm belief of an Omnipotent Agent. Yours, &c. W. C. MY DEAR FRIEND, LETTER XXXVIII. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. To condole with you on the death of a Mother aged 87 would be absurd-Rather therefore, as is reasonable, I congratulate you on the almost singular felicity of having enjoyed the company of so amiable, and so near a relation so long. Your lot and mine in this respect have been very different, as indeed in almost every other. Your Mother lived to see you rise, at least to see you comfortably established in the world. Mine dying when I was six years old, did not live to see me sink in it. You may remember with pleasure while you live, a blessing vouchsafed to you so long, and I, while I live, must regret a comfort, of which I was deprived so early. I can truly say that not a week passes, (perhaps I might with equal veracity say a day) in which I do not think of her. Such was the impression her tenderness made upon me, though the opportunity she had for shewing it was so short. But the ways of God are equal-and when I reflect on the pangs she would have suffered, had she been a witness of all mine, I see more cause to rejoice than to mourn that she was hidden in the grave so soon. We have as you say lost a lively and sensible neighbour in Lady Austen, but we have been long accustomed to a state of retirement, within one degree of solitude, and being naturally lovers of still life, can relapse into our former duality without being unhappy at the change. To me indeed a third is not necessary, while I can have the Companion I have had these twenty years. I am gone to the Press again; a Volume of mine will greet your hands some time either in the course of the Winter, or early in the Spring. You will find it perhaps on the whole more entertaining than the former, as it treats a greater variety of subjects, and those, at least the most of a sublunary kind. It will consist of a Poem in six books, called the Task. To which will be added another which I finished yesterday, called I believe Tirocinium, on the subject of Education. You perceive that I have taken your advice, and given the Pen no rest. LETTER LETTER XXXIX. MY DEAR FRIEND, To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. June 25, 1785. I write in a nook that I call It is a summer-house not much bigger than a sedan-chair, the door my Boudoir. of which opens into the garden that is now crowded with pinks, roses, and honey-suckles, and the window into my neighbour's orchard. It formerly served an Apothecary, now dead, as a smoking room, and under my feet is a trap door, which once covered a hole in the ground, where he kept his bottles. At sent however it is dedicated to sublimer uses. Having lined it with pregarden mats, and furnished it with a table and two chairs, here I write all that I write in summer time, whether to my friends, or to the public. It is secure from all noise, and a refuge from all intrusion; for intruders sometimes trouble me in the winter evenings at Olney. But thanks to my Boudoir, I can now hide myself from them, a Poet's retreat is sacred: they acknowledge the truth of that proposition, and never presume to violate it. The last sentence puts me in mind to tell you, that I have ordered my Volume to your door. My Bookseller is the most dilatory of all his fraternity, or you would have received it long since: it is more than a month since I returned him the last proof, and consequently since the printing was finished. I sent him the Manuscript Manuscript at the beginning of last November, that he might publish while the Town is full, and he will hit the exact moment when it is entirely empty. Patience you will perceive is in no situation exempted from the severest trials; a remark that may serve to comfort you under the numberless trials of your own. W. C. His second Volume of whose delay in the Press he speaks so feelingly, was published in the Summer of 1785. It not only raised him to the summit of poetical reputation, but obtained for him a blessing infinitely dearer to his affectionate heart, another female Friend, and lively Associate, now providentially led to contribute to his comfort, when the advanced age and infirmities of Mrs. Unwin made such an acquisition of new, or rather revived friendship, a matter of infinite importance to the tranquility and welfare of the sequestered Poet. The Lady to whom I allude had the advantage of being nearly related to Cowper. Their intercourse had been frequent, and endeared by reciprocal esteem in their early years, but the whirlwinds of life had driven them far from the sight of each other. During the Poet's long retirement his fair Cousin had passed some years with her Husband abroad, and others, after her return, in a variety of mournful mournful duties. She was at this time a Widow, and her indelible regard for her poetical relation, being agreeably inspirited by the publication of his recent works, she wrote to him, on that occasion, a very kind letter. It gave rise to many from him, which I am particularly happy in being enabled to make a part of this Work, because they give a minute account of their admirable Author, at a very interesting period of his life; and because I persuade myself they will reflect peculiar honor on my departed Friend in various points of view, and lead the Public to join with me in thinking that his Letters are rivals to his Poems, in the rare excellence of representing life and nature with graceful and endearing fidelity. LETTER XL. To Lady HESKETH, New Norfolk Street, Grosvenor-Square. MY DEAR COUSIN, October 12, 1785. 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 |