secreted himself in any of the outhouses, it is hardly possible but that some of the family must have been bitten; he might have been trodden upon without being perceived, and have slipped away before the sufferer could have distinguished what foe had wounded him. Three years ago we discovered one in the same place, which the barber slew with a trowel.

I have two goldfinches, which, in the summer, occupy the greenhouse. A few days since, being employed in cleaning out their cages, I placed that which I had in hand upen the table, while the other hang against the wall: the windows and the doors stood wide open. I went to fill the fountain at the pump, and, on my return, was not a little surprised to find a goldfinch sitting on the top of the cage I had been cleaning, and singing to, and kissing the goldfinch within. I approached him, and he discovered no fear; still nearer, and he discovered none. I advanced my hand towards him, and he took no notice of it. I seized him, and supposed I had caught a new bird, but, casting my eye upon the other cage, perceived my mistake. It's inhabitant, during my absence, had contrived to find an opening, where the wire had been a little bent, and made no other use of the escape it had afforded him, than to salute his friend, and to converse with him more intimately than he had done before. I returned him to his proper mansion, but in vain. In less than a minute, he had thrust his little person through the aperture again, and again perched. upon his neighbour's cage, kissing as at the first, and singing, as if transported with the fortunate adventure. I could not but respect such friendship, as, for the sake of it's gratification, had twice declined an opportunity to be free; and, consenting to their union, resolved, that, for the future, one cage should hold them both. I am glad of such incidents. For, at a pinch, and when I need entertainment, the versification of them serves to divert me.

I transcribe for you a piece of Madam Guion, not as the best, but as being shorter than many, and as good as most of them.

Yours ever,

W. COWPER.

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

It is hard upon us striplings, who have uncles still living (N. B. I myself have an uncle still alive), that those venerable gentleman should stand in our way, even when the ladies are in question; that I, for instance, should find in one page of your letter, a hope, that miss Shuttleworth would be of your party, and be told in the next, that she is engaged to your uncle. Well, we may perhaps never be uncles, but we may reasonably hope, that the time is coming, when others, as young as we are now, shall envy us the privileges of old age, and see us engross that share in the attention of the ladies, to which their youth must aspire in vain. Make our compliments, if you please, to your sister Eliza, and tell her, that we are both mortified at having missed the pleasure of seeing her.

i

Balloons are so much the mode, that even in this country we have attempted a balloon. You may possibly remember, that at a place called Weston, a little more than a mile from Olney, there lives a family, whose name is Throckmorton. The present possessor is a young man, whom I remember a boy. He has a wife, who is young, genteel, and handsome. They are papists, but much more amiable than many protestants. We never had any intercourse with the family, though ever since we lived here, we have enjoyed the range of their pleasure grounds, having been favoured with a key, which admits us into all. When this man succeeded to the estate, on the death of his elder brother, and came to settle at Weston, I sent him a com

plimentary card, requesting the continuance of that privilege, having till then enjoyed it, by favour of his mother, who, on that occasion, went to finish her days at Bath. You may conclude, that he granted it, and, for about two years, nothing more passed between us. A fortnight ago, I received an invitation in the civilest terms, in which he told me, that the next day he should attempt to fill a balloon, and if it would be any pleasure to me to be present, should be happy to see me. Your mother and I went. The whole country were there, but the balloon could not be filled, The endeavour was, I believe, very philosophically made, but such a process depends for it's success upon such niceties as make it very precarious. Our reception was, however, flattering to a great degree, insomuch, that more notice seemed to be taken of us, than we could possibly have expected, indeed, rather more than any of his other guests. They even seemed anxious to recommend themselves to our regards. We drank chocolate, and were asked to dine, but were engaged. A day or two afterwards, Mrs. Unwin and I walked that way, and were overtaken in a shower. I found a tree, that I thought would shelter us both, a large elm, in a grove, that fronts the mansion. Mrs. T. observed us, and, running towards us in the rain, insisted on our walking in. He was gone out. We sat chatting with her till the weather cleared up, and then at her instance took a walk with her in the garden. The garden is almost their only walk, and is certainly the only retreat in which they are not liable to interruption. She offered us a key of it, in a manner, that made it impossible not to accept it, and said she would send us one; a few days afterwards, in the cool of the evening, we walked that way again. We saw them going toward the house, and exchanged bows and curtsies, at a distance, but did not join them. In a few minutes, when we had passed the house, and had almost reached the gate, that opens out

of the park into the adjoining field, I heard the iron gate belonging to the courtyard ring, and saw Mr. T. advancing hastily towards us, we made equal haste to meet him, he presented to us the key, which I told him I esteeemed a singular favour, and, after a few such speeches as are made on such occasions, we parted. This happened about a week ago. I concluded nothing less, than that all this civility and attention was designed, on their part, as a prelude to a nearer acquaintance; but here at present the matter rests. I should like exceedingly to be on an easy footing there, to give a morning call now and then, and to receive one, but nothing more. For though he is one of the most agreeable men I ever saw, I could not wish to visit him in any other way; neither our house, furniture, servants, nor income, being such as qualify us to make en tertainments, neither would I, on any account, be introduced to the neighbouring gentry. Mr. T. is altogether a man of fashion, and respectable on every account.

I have told you a long story. Farewell. We number the days as they pass, and are glad, that we shall see you and your sister soon. Yours, &c,

W. COWPER

TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.

MY DEAR WILLIAM,

April 5, 1784.

I THANKED you in my last for Johnson, I now thank you, with more emphasis, for Beattie, the most agreeable and amiable writer I ever met with: the only author I have seen, whose critical and philosophical researches are diversified and embellished by a poetical imagination, that makes even the driest subject, and the leanest, a feast for an epicure in books. He is so much at his ease, too, that his own character appears in every page,

and, which is very rare, we see not only the writer, but the man; and that man so gentle, so well tempered, so happy in his religion, and so humane in his philosophy, that it is necessary to love him, if one has any sense of what is lovely. If you have not his poem called the Minstrel, and cannot borrow it, I must beg you to buy it for me; for though I cannot afford to deal largely in so expensive a commodity as books, I must afford to purchase at least the poetical works of Beattie. I have read six of Blair's Lectures, and what do I say of Blair? That he is a sensible man, master of his subject, and, excepting here and there a Scotticism, a good writer, so far at least as perspicuity of expression, and method, contribute to make one. But oh the sterility of that man's fancy! if indeed he has any such faculty belonging to him. Perhaps philosophers, or men designed for such, are sometimes bora without one; or perhaps it withers for want of exercise. However that may be, Dr. Blair has such a brain as Shakespeare somewhere describes-" dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage."

I take it for granted, that these good men are philosophically correct (for they are both agreed upon the subject) in their account of the origin of language; and, if the Scripture had left us in the dark upon that article, I should very readily adopt their hypothesis, for want of better information. I should suppose, for instance, that man made his first effort in speech, in the way of an interjection, and that ah, or oh, being uttered with wonderful gesticulation, and variety of attitude, must have left his powers of expression quite exhausted; that, in a course of time, he would invent many names for many things, but first for the objects of his daily wants. An apple would consequently be called an apple; and, perhaps, not many years would elapse before the appellation would receive the sanction of general use. In this case, and upon this supposition, see