taste and candour have more favourable thoughts of it, I see reason to be less concerned than I have been about their judgment, hastily framed perhaps, and certainly not without prejudice against the subjects of which it treats. Your friendly intimation of the Doctor's sentiments reached me very seasonably, just when, in a fit of despondence, to which no man is naturally more inclined, I had begun to regret the publication of it, and had consequently resolved to write no more. For if a man has the fortune to please none but his friends and their connexions, he has reason enough to conclude that he is indebted for the measure of success he meets with, not to the real value of his book, but to the partiality of the few that approve it. But I now feel myself differently affected towards my favourite employment; for which sudden change in my sentiments I may thank you and your correspondent in France, his entire unacquaintedness with me, a man whom he never saw, nor will see, his character as a man of sense and condition, and his acknowledged merit as an ingenious and elegant writer, and especially his having arrived at an age when men are not to be pleased they know not why, are so many circumstances that give a value to his commendations, and make them the most flattering a poor poet could receive, quite out of conceit with himself, and quite out of heart with his occupations. If you think it worth your while, when you write next to the Doctor, to inform him how much he has encouraged me by his approbation, and to add my respects to him, you will oblige me still further; for next to the pleasure it would afford me to hear that it has been useful to any, I cannot have a greater, so far as my volume is in question, than to hear that it has pleased the judicious. Mrs. Unwin desires me to add her respectful compliments. I am, dear Sir, Your affectionate and most obedient servant, To John Thornton, Esq. W. C. Through this harsh and unwarrantable exercise of criticism, the world might never have possessed the immortal poem of " The Task," if an American philosopher had not awarded that honourable meed of just praise and commendation, which an English critic thought proper to withhold. But it is not merely the poetic claims of Cowper which have earned for him so just a title to public gratitude and praise. It would be unjust not to bestow particular notice on a talent, in which he singularly excelled, and one that friendship ought especially to honour, as she is indebted to it for a considerable portion of her happiest sources of delight-we mean the talent of writing letters. Those of Pope are generally considered to be too laboured, and deficient in ease. Swift is frequently ill-natured and offensive. Gray is admirable, but not equal to Cowper either in the graces of simplicity, or in the warmth of affection. The letters of Cowper are not distinguished by any remarkable superiority of thought or diction; it is rather the easy and graceful flow of sentiment and feeling, his enthusiastic love of nature, his touching representations of common and domestic life, and above all, the ingenuous disclosure of the recesses of his own heart, that constitute their charm and excellence. They form a kind of biographical sketch, drawn by his own hand. His poetry proclaims the author, his correspondence depicts the man. We see him in his walks, in the privacy of his study, in his daily occupations, amid the endearments of home, and with all the qualities that inspire friendship, and awaken confidence and love. We learn what he thought, what he said, his views of men and manners, his personal habits and history. His ideas usually flow without premeditation. All is natural and easy. There is no display, no evidence of conscious superiority, no concealment of his real sentiments. He writes as he feels and thinks, and with such an air of truth and frankness, that he seems to stamp upon the letter the image of his mind, with the same fidelity of resemblance that the canvass represents his external form and features. We see in them the sterling good sense of a man, the playfulness and simplicity of a child, and the winning softness and delicacy of a woman's feelings. He can write upon any subject, or write without one. He can embellish what is real by the graces of his imagination, or invest what is imagi He can smile nary with the semblance of reality. or he can weep, philosophize or trifle, descant with fervour on the loveliness of nature, talk about his tame hares, or cast the overflowings of an affectionate heart at the shrine of friendship. His Correspondence is a wreath of many flowers. His letters will always be read with delight and interest, and by many, perhaps, will be considered to be the rivals of his poems. They are justly entitled to the eulogium which we know to have been pronounced upon them by Charles Fox,-that of being "the best specimens of epistolary excellence in the English language." Among men distinguished by classical taste and acquirements, his Latin poems will ever be considered as elegant specimens of composition, and formed after the best models of antiquity. There is one exquisite little gem, in Latin hexameters, entitled " Votum," beginning thus: O matutini rores, auræque salubres. which we believe has never received an English dress. A gentleman of literary taste has kindly furnished us with a pleasing version, which we are happy to subjoin in a note.* We trust the author will excuse the insertion of his name. *THE WISH. "Ye verdant hills, ye soft umbrageous vales, VOL. V. ୯୯ We have thus endeavoured to exhibit the singular versatility of Cowper's genius, and the combination of powers not often united in the same mind. All that now remains is to consider the consecration of these faculties to high and holy ends; and the influence of his writings on the literary, the moral, and religious character of the age. The great end and aim which he proposed to himself as an author, has already been illustrated from his writings; we add one more passage to show the sanctity of his character. Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot, I never trusted in an arm but thine, Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine. Those meads, where erst, at morning's dewy prime, My vagrant feet your flowery margin press'd, Whilst Heaven gave back the sunshine in my breast :— Restore me to the lone paternal cot! There, far from folly, fraud's ensnaring wiles, The world's dark frown, or still more dangerous smiles, Let peaceful duties peaceful hours engage; Till, winding gently down the slope of age, Beneath the grassy turf, or silent stone; Unseen the path I trod, my resting-place unknown." T. Ostler |