LETTER XXXIII.

To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr.

Olney, Feb. 20, 1783.

Suspecting that I should not have hinted

at Dr. Franklin's encomium under any other influence than that of vanity, I was several times on the point of burning my Letter for that very reason. But not having time to write another by the. same post, and believing that you would have the grace to pardon a little self-complacency in an Author on so trying an occasion, I let it pass. One sin naturally leads to another, and a greater, and thus it happens now; for I have no way to gratify your curiosity, but by transcribing the Letter in question. It is addressed by the way, not to me, but to an acquaintance of mine, who had transmitted the Volume to him without my knowledge.

"Sir,

Passy, May 8, 1782.

I received the Letter you did me the honour of writing to me, and am much obliged by your kind present of a Book. The relish for reading of Poetry had long since left me, but there is something so new in the manner, so easy and yet so correct in the language, so clear in the expression, yet concise, and so just in the sentiments, that I have read the whole with great pleasure, and some of the pieces more than once. I beg you to accept my thankful acknowledgements, and to present my respects to the Author.

Your most obedient humble Servant,

MY DEAR FRIEND,

LETTER XXXIV.

To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr.

Great revolutions happen in this Ant's nest of ours. One Emmet of illustrious character, and great abilities pushes out another, parties are formed, they range themselves in formidable opposition, they threaten each other's ruin, they cross over, and are mingled togother, and like the coruscations of the Northern Aurora, amuse the spectator, at the same time that by some they are supposed to be forerunners of a general dissolution.

There are political earthquakes as well as natural ones, the former less shocking to the eye, but not always less fatal in their influence than the latter. The image which Nebuchadnezzar saw in his dream was made up of heterogeneous and incompatible materials, and accordingly broken. Whatever is so formed must expect a like catastrophe.

I have an Etching of the late Chancellor, hanging over the parlour chimney. I often contemplate it, and call to mind the day when I was intimate with the original. It is very like him, but he is disguised by his hat, which though fashionable is aukward, by his great wig, the tie of which is hardly discernable in profile, and by his band and gown, which give him an appearance clumsily sacerdotal. Our friendship is dead and buried, yours is the only surviving one of all with which I was once honoured. Adieu.

LETTER

LETTER XXXV.

To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr.

May 26, 1783.

I feel for my Uncle, and do not wonder that his loss afflicts him. A connection that has subsisted so many years could not be rent asunder without great pain to the survivor. I hope, however, and doubt not but when he has had a little more time for recollection, he will find that consolation in his own family, which is not the lot of every father to be blessed with. It seldom happens that married persons live together so long, or so happily but this which one feels oneself ready to suggest as matter of alleviation, is the very circumstance that aggravates his distress; therefore he misses her the more, and feels that he can but ill spare her. It is however a necessary tax, which all who live long must pay for their longevity, to lose many whom they would be glad to detain, (perhaps those in whom all their happiness is centered) and to see them step into the grave before them. respect at least this is a merciful appointment. When life has lost that to which it owed its principal relish, we may ourselves the more chcarfully resign it. I beg you would present him with my most affectionate remembrance, and tell him, if you think fit, how much I wish that the evening of his long day may be serene and happy.

In one

LETTER

LETTER XXXVI.

To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr.

October 20, 1783.

I should not have been thus long silent,

had I known with certainty where a letter of mine might find you. Your summer excursions however are now at an end, and addressing a line to you in the centre of the busy scene, in which you spend your winter, I am pretty sure of my mark.

I see the winter approaching without much concern, though a passionate lover of fine weather, and the pleasant scenes of summer; but the long evenings have their comforts too, and there is hardly to be found upon the earth, I suppose, so snug a creatùre as an Englishman by his fire-side in the winter. I mean however an Englishman that lives in the country, for in London it is not very easy to avoid intrusion. I have two ladies to read to, sometimes more, but never less-at present we are circumnavigating the globe, and I find the old story with which I amused myself some years since, through the great felicity of a memory not very retentive, almost new. I am however sadly at a loss for Cook's Voyage, can you send it? I shall be glad of Foster's too. These together will make the winter pass merrily, and you will much oblige me.

The last Letter contains a slight sketch of those happy winter evenings, which the Poet has painted so exquisitely in verse. The

two

two ladies whom he mentions as his constant auditors were Mrs. Unwin and Lady Austen. The Public, already indebted to the friendly and chearful spirit of the latter for the pleasant Ballad of John Gilpin, had soon to thank her inspiring benevolence for a work of superior dignity, the very master-piece of Cowper's unbounded imagination!

This lady happened, as an admirer of Milton, to be partial to blank verse, and often solicited her poetical friend to try his powers in that species of composition. After repeated solicitation, he promised her, if she would furnish the subject, to comply with her request.—“Oh," she replied, "you can never be in want of a subject:—you can write upon any:-write upon this Sofa!" The Poet obeyed her command, and from the lively repartee of familiar conversation arose a Poem of many thousand verses, unexampled perhaps both in its origin and its excellence!

A Poem of such infinite variety, that it seems to include every subject, and every style, without any dissonance or disorder; and to have flowed, without effort, from inspired philanthropy, eager to impress upon the hearts of all readers whatever may lead them most happily to the full enjoyment of human life, and to the final attainment of

Heaven.

A great part of the Task appears to have been composed in the winter-a circumstance the more remarkable, as the wintery months were generally unfavourable to the health of the Poct.

In

the