Well! this picture is at last finished, and well finished I can assure you. Every creature that has seen it has been astonished at the resemblance. Sam's Boy bowed to it, and Beau walked up to it, wagging his tail as he went, and evidently shewing that he acknowledged its likeness to his Master. It is a half-length, as it is technically, but absurdly called; that is to say, it gives all but the foot and ankle. To-morrow it goes to Town, and will hang some months at Abbot's, when it will be sent to its due destination in Norfolk.

I hope, or rather wish, that at Eartham I may recover that habit of study which, inveterate as it once seemed, I now seem to have lost-lost to such a degree, that it is even painful to me to think of what it will cost me to acquire it again.

Adieu my dear, dear Hayley; God give us a happy meeting. Mary sends her love-she is in pretty good plight this morning, having slept well, and for her part, has no fears at all about the journey.

Ever yours,

W. C.

The affectionate little prayer at the close of the last Letter prevailed, and Providence conducted these most interesting travellers very safely to my retreat. The delights that I enjoyed in promoting the health and cheerfulness of Guests so dear to me; in sharing

the

the high gratification of Cowper's society, with my old sympathetic friend Romney; and in beholding that expressive resemblance of the Poet, which forms a Frontispiece to this work, grow under the pencil of the friendly Artist (agreeably inspired by the mental dignity of his subject); these delights are indeed treasured in my memory, among those prime blessings of mortal existence, which still call for our gratitude to Heaven, even when they are departed; for even then they still afford us that sweet secondary life which we form to ourselves, from the pleasing contemplation of past hours very happily employed.

It is however unnecessary for me to dwell on the memorable period that Cowper passed under my roof, because a few of his Letters written to different friends, while he was with me, will sufficiently describe the beneficial effect which the beautiful scenery of Sussex, very visibly produced on his health and spirits. I fear not the imputation of vanity, for inserting the vivid praise of my Friend on the spot I inhabited, for I now inhabit it no more, and if I ever had any such vanity, it must have perished with the darling Child, for whom I wished to embellish and preserve the scene, that Cowper has so highly commended.

The tender partiality which this most feeling Friend had conceived for rendered him not a little partial to whatever engaged his thoughts as mine. Many endearing marks of such partiality oc

me,

curred

curred during his residence at Eartham; but the one which gratified me most, I cannot forbear to mention. I mean the very sweet condescension with which he admitted to his friendship and confidence the Child to whom I have alluded, at that time a boy of eleven years, whose rare early talents, and rarer modesty, endeared him so much to Cowper, that he allowed and invited him to criticise his Homer. The good-natured Reader will forgive me, if he happens to find a brief specimen of such juvenile criticism in their future correspondence.

Homer was not the immediate object of our attention, while Cowper resided at Eartham. The morning hours that we could bestow upon books, were chiefly devoted to a complete revisal and correction of all the Translations, which my Friend had finished from the Latin and Italian Poetry of Milton: and it was generally our pastime after dinner to amuse ourselves in executing a rapid metrical version of Andreini's Adamo. But the constant care which the delicate health of Mrs. Unwin required, rendered it impossible for us to be very assiduous in study, and perhaps the best of all studies was, to promote and share that most singular and most exemplary tenderness of attention, with which Cowper incessantly laboured to counteract every infirmity, bodily and mental, with which sickness and age had conspired to load this interesting guardian of his afflicted life.

I have myself no language sufficiently strong, or sufficiently

tender,

tender, to express my just admiration of that angelic, compassionate sensibility, with which Cowper incessantly watched over his aged invalide; but my Reader will yet be enabled to form an adequate idea of that sensibility by a copy of his Verses, to which it gave rise, when these infirmities grew still more striking on her return to Weston.

The air of the South infused a little portion of fresh strength into her shattered frame, and to give it all possible efficacy, the boy, whom I have mentioned, and a young associate and fellow student of his, employed themselves regularly twice a day, in drawing this venerable cripple in a commodious garden-chair, round the airy hill of Eartham. To Cowper, and to me, it was a very pleasing spectacle, to see the benevolent vivacity of blooming youth thus continually labouring for the ease, health, and amusement of disabled age. But of this interesting time I will speak no more, since I have a better record of it to present to my Reader in the following Letters.

LETTER XXXV.

To the Revd. Mr. GREATHEED.

MY DEAR SIR,

Eartham, August 6, 1792:

Having first thanked you for r your af

fectionate and acceptable Letter, I will proceed, as well as I can,

to

to answer your equally affectionate request, that I would send you early news of our arrival at Eartham. Here we are, in the most elegant mansion, that I have ever inhabited, and surrounded by the most delightful pleasure grounds, that I have ever seen; but which, dissipated as my powers of thought are at present, I will not undertake to describe. It shall suffice me to say, that they occupy three sides of a hill, which, in Buckinghamshire, might well pass for a mountain, and from the summit of which is beheld a most magnificent landscape, bounded by the sea, and in one part of it by the Isle of Wight, which may also be seen plainly from the window of the library, in which I am writing.

It pleased God to carry us both through the journey with far less difficulty and inconvenience, than I expected. I began it indeed with a thousand fears, and when we arrived the first evening at Barnet, found myself oppressed in spirit to a degree that could hardly be exceeded. I saw Mrs. Unwin weary, as she might well be, and heard such a variety of noises, both within the house, and without, that I concluded she would get no rest. But I was mercifully disappointed. She rested, though not well, yet sufficiently; and when we finished our next day's journey at Ripley, we were both in better condition, both of body and mind, than on the day preceding. At Ripley we found a quiet Inn, that housed, as it happened, that night no company but ourselves. There we slept well, and rose perfectly refreshed. And except some terrors, that I felt at

passing