that are ever brooding over my mind, that I think it no small proof of your partiality to me, that you will read my letters. I am not fond of longwinded metaphors; I have always observed, that they halt at the latter end of their progress, and so does mine. I deal much in ink indeed, but not such ink as is employed by poets, and writers of essays. Mine is a harmless fluid, and guilty of no deceptions, but such as may prevail, without the least injury, to the person imposed on. I draw mountains, valleys, woods, and streams, and ducks, and dab-chicks. I admire them myself, and Mrs. Unwin admires them; and her praise, and my praise put together, are fame enough for me. Oh! I could spend whole days, and moon-light nights, in feeding upon a lovely prospect: my eyes drink the rivers as they flow. If every human being upon earth could think for one quarter of an hour, as I have done for many years, there might, perhaps, be many miserable men among them, but not an unawakened one would be found, from the Arctic to the Antarctic circle. At present, the difference between them and me is greatly to their advantage. I delight in baubles, and know them to be so; for rested in, and viewed without a reference to their author, what is the earth, what are the planets, what is the sun itself, but a bauble? Better for a man never to have seen them, or to see them with the eyes of a brute, stupid and unconscious of what he beholds, than not to be able "The maker of all these wonders is my friend!" Their eyes have never been opened, to see that they are trifles; mine have been, and will be till they are closed for ever. They think a fine

to say,

estate, a large conservatory, a hot-honse, rich as a West-Indian garden, things of consequence; visit them with pleasure, and muse upon them with ten times more. I am pleased with a frame of four lights, doubtful whether the few pines it contains will ever be worth a farthing; amuse myself with a green-house which lord Bute's gardener could take upon his back, and walk away with; and when I have paid it the accustomed visit, and watered it, and given it air, I say to myself" This is not mine, 'tis a plaything lent me for the present, I must leave it soon."

LETTER XXIV.

WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. TO THE REV. W. UNWIN.

MY DEAR FRIEND, May 8, 1780. My scribbling humour has of late been entirely absorbed in the passion for landscape-drawing It is a most amusing art, and, like every other art, requires much practice and attention.

Nil sine magno

Vita labore dedit mortalibus.

Excellence is providentially placed beyond the reach of indolence, that success may be the reward of industry, and that idleness may be punished with obscurity and disgrace. So long as I am pleased with an employment, I am capable of unwearied app'ication, because my feelings are all of the intense kind: I never received a little pleasure from any thing in my life;

if I am delighted, it is in the extreme. The unhappy consequences of this temperature is, that my attachment to any occupation seldom outlives the novelty of it. That nerve of my imagination, that feels the touch of any particulár amusement, twangs under the energy of the pressure with so much vehemence, that it soon becomes sensible of weariness and fatigue. Hence I draw an unfavourable prognostic, and expect that I shall shortly be constrained to look out for something else. Then perhaps I may string the harp again, and be able to comply with your demand.

Now for the visit you propose to pay us, and propose not to pay us: the hope of which plays upon your paper, like a jack-o-lantern upon the ceiling. This is no mean simile, for Virgil (you remember) uses it. 'Tis here, 'tis there, it vanishes, it returns, it dazzles you, a cloud interposes, and it is gone. However just the comparison, I hope you will contrive to spoil it, and that your final determination will be to come. As to the masons you expect, bring them with youbring brick, bring mortar, bring every thing, that would oppose itself to your journey-all shall be welcome. I have a green-house that is too small, come and enlarge it; build me a pinery; repair the garden wall, that has great need of your assistance; do any thing, you cannot do too much. So far from thinking you and your train troublesome, we shall rejoice to see you, upon these, or upon any other terms you can propose. But, to be serious-you will do well to consider, that a long summer is before you-that the party will not have such another opportunity to meet, this great

while that you may finish your masonry long enough before winter, though you should not begin this month; but that you cannot always find your brother and sister Powley, at Olney. These, and some other considerations, such as the desire we have to see you, and the pleasure we expect from seeing you all together, may, and, I think, ought to overcome your scruples.

From a general recollection of lord Clarendon's History of the Rebellion, I thought (and I remember I told you so) that there was a striking resemblance between that period and the present. But I am now reading, and have read, three volumes of Hume's History, one of which is engross, ed entirely by that subject. There, I see reason to alter my opinion, and the seeming resemblance has disappeared, upon a more particular information. Charles succeeded to a long train of arbitrary princes, whose subjects had tamely acquiesced in the despotism of their masters, till their privileges were all forgot. He did but tread in their steps, and exemplify the principles in which he had been brought up, when he oppressed his people. But just at that time, unhappily for the monarch, the subject began to see, and to see that he had a right to property and freedom. This mark's a sufficient difference between the disputes of that day and the present. But there was another main cause of that rebellion, which, at this time, does not operate at all. The king was devoted to the hierarchy; his subjects were puritans, and would not bear it. Every circumstance of ecclesiastical order and discipline was an abom i nation to them, and in his esteem, an indispen

sable duty; and, though at last he was obliged to give up many things, he would not abolish episcopacy, and till that were done, his concessions would have no conciliating effect. These two concurring causes were indeed sufficient to set three kingdoms in a flame. But they subsist not now, nor any other, I hope, notwithstanding the bustle made by the patriots, equal to the production of such terrible events. Yours, my dear friend.

LETTER XXV.

WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. TO THE REV. W. UNWIN.

Aug. 6, 1780.

MY DEAR FRIEND, You like to hear from me-This is a very good reason why I should write—but I have nothing to say-This seems equally a good reason why I should not-Yet if you had alighted from your horse at our door this morning, and at this present writing, being five o'clock in the afternoon, had found occasion to say to me- "Mr. Cowper, you have not spoke since I came in, have you resolved never to speak again?" It would be but a poor reply, if in answer to the summons, I should plead inability as my best and only excuse. And this, by the way, suggests to me a seasonable piece of instruction, and reminds me of what I am very apt to forget, when I have any epistolary business in hand; that a letter may be written upon any thing or nothing, just as that any thing or nothing happens to occur. A man that has a journey be