confidential correspondents, not only with the utmost frankness and fidelity, but with an enchanting talent peculiar to himself, it has been my constant endeavour to illustrate the different periods of his life by such documents as time and chance enabled me to discover in the custody of his surviving friends. I had often heard him mention his very early and his renewed intimacy with an accomplished and amiable scholar, once numbered among his favorite school-fellows at Westminster, now the Reverend Walter Bagot, of Blithfield, in Staffordshire. The kindness of a young and zealous coadjutor afforded me a safe and easy communication with this gentleman. I had soon the gratification of perceiving, that he retains in advanced life all the cheerful, active good-nature, and the classical erudition, which endeared him to Cowper in his juvenile days. He expressed a most obliging readiness to assist me in promoting the renown of that excellent writer, whose memory both as a poet and a friend we equally revere; and he most kindly submitted to my inspection and use the collected manuscripts of Cowper, that he had preserved from their earliest intercourse. After a sportive juvenile Letter, dated November, 1749, their correspondence was suspended for many years. But it was renewed in 1785, and continued with reciprocal kindness, till the depression of Cowper's health precluded him from that affectionate intercourse with distant friends, in which he delighted, and excelled.

I have made such a selection from the whole correspondence as my sentiments of regard both to the living and the dead have suggested. Those who feel the charm of Cowper's epistolary language, will be pleased to find several new Letters, both

serious and sportive. There is a passage in one Letter, of the recent selection, in which the author displays his moralizing disposition with peculiar felicity. Perhaps that rich and ample field of morality, his whole collected works, afford not any remark more truly original and sublime.

The public will make all due allowance for my partiality to the Letters of my friend which I am ever ready to allow, and in which (I am inclined to believe) the majority of readers will sympathize with me in proportion as they compare him with the most eminent Letter-writers of the ancient and modern world; a comparison, which these desultory remarks were designed to promote. I have been fortunately enabled to select and preserve such an extensive collection of Cowper's Letters, as may give my reader a great degree of intimacy with this excellent personage. Yet many (I am persuaded) have perished, that were perfectly worthy of the press. A correspondence once existed between Cowper and his early friend, Mr. Rowley, a gentleman, who died not long ago in Ireland. His Letters to Cowper were French. The poet replied in Latin, a language, of which he was particularly fond, and which he wrote with great facility and elegance. These Letters have been all destroyed. But it may gratify the relations and friends of Mr. Rowley to observe, that Cowper has spoken of him repeatedly to other correspondents in terms of the most cordial esteem. The praise of Cowper is so singularly valuable from the reserve and purity of his disposition, that it would almost seem a cruel injury to suppress a particle of it, when deliberately, or even cursorily bestowed. His sensibility was of a generous kind, his perception of excellence was exquisite, and his

delight in praising it most liberal, even when he was a stranger to the person he praised. Witness the affectionate warmth and eloquence, with which he describes the writings of Beattie! Those Letters of Cowper will not be esteemed the least interesting, in which he has expressed his own critical opinions on several of his most celebrated contemporaries. Some readers will probably think, that his own attachment to the graces of simplicity in composition has rendered him severe, to excess, in criticizing the style of two eminent historians, Robertson and Gibbon.

It is pleasing however to discover the genuine sentiments that literary characters, of high distinction, entertained of other successful candidates for fame, who lived in their days. Cowper in criticizing the popular authors of his own nation, cannot fail to interest an English reader. Indeed the Letters of the poet have been honoured with the notice, and the applause, of foreigners. A polite and liberal scholar of France, deeply versed in our literature, has confessed that he never thought the writers of this country equal to those of his own, in all the excellencies of epistolary writing, till he read the Letters of Cowper.

Gratified as I am by a compliment so honorable to my departed friend, I am too zealous an advocate for the literary glory of our country to admit, that the Letter-writers of England are collectively inferior in merit to those of any nation in the modern world.

I am aware that some elegant and respectable critics of our island have made this humiliating concession in favour of France. Melmoth and Warton have both expreseed their regret, that we have not equalled our neighbours, the French, in this branch

of literature, but I apprehend a reference to a few remarkable, and well known, English Letters will be sufficient to vindicate our national honour in this article of taste and refinement.

If we turn to an early season of our epistolary language, we may observe, that the Letter of Sir Philip Sidney to his sister Lady Pembroke, prefixed, as a dedication to his Arcadia, is distinguished by tender elegance, and graceful affection. The Letters of Essex, the idol and the victim of the imperious and wretched Elisabeth, have been deservedly celebrated for their manly eloquence. At a period still more early, the Letter of Ann Boleyn, to Henry the Eighth, so justly recommended to public admiration by Addison in the Spectator, displays all the endearing dignity of insulted virtue, and impassioned eloquence. I know not any Letter in the female writers of France, distinguished as they are by their epistolary talents, that can be fairly preferred to the pathetic composition of this lovely martyr. The French indeed have one celebrated writer of Letters, the Marchioness de Sevigne, to whom we can hardly produce any individual as an exact parallel. But the Letters of Lady Russel, (not to mention. the Letters of Queen Mary to King William) may be cited as equalling those of Madam Sevignè in tenderness of heart; and Lady Mary Wortley Montague is assuredly a powerful rival to the Marchioness, in all the charms of easy, elegant, language, and in vivacity of description. But in the highest charm of epistolary writing, the charm of gracefully displaying, without disguise and reserve, a most amiable character, and exciting by that display a tender and lively affection in the reader; in this

epistolary excellence, Lady Mary is indeed as unequal to Madame Sevignè, as a thistle is inferior to a rose.

Maternal tenderness is the most lovely, the most useful and the sublimest quality, that God has given to mortals! It was the great characteristic of Madame Sevignè, and shews itself so repeatedly in her Letters, that it may sometimes prove wearisome to readers not perfectly prepared to sympathize in her predominant feelings; but I question if any tender parent ever felt fatigued in perusing even the excesses of her maternal solicitude. She has herself explained the powerful charm of her own Letters, by describing in the following words, the Letters of her daughter

"Je cherche quelquefois où vous pouvez trouver si précise"ment tout ce qu'il faut penser et dire ; c'est en veritè, dans "votre cœur; c'est lui, qui ne manque jamais ; et quoique vous 66 ayez voulu dire autrefois à la louange de l'esprit, qui veut "contrefaire le cœur, l'esprit manque, il se trompe, il bronche " à tout moment; ses allures ne sont point égales, et les gens "éclairès par le cœur n'y sauroient être trompês. Aimons donc, 66 ma fille, ce qui vient si naturellement de ce lieu."

The enchanting mother of Madame de Grignan had the tenderest of hearts: the mother of the eccentric traveller Wortley Montague, seems to have had a heart of a very different description, when we consider the manner in which she alludes to the indiscretions of her son, and the legacy of a guinea, which she bequeathed to him by her will. The lady, in truth, must have been deplorably deficient in the compassionate virtues of her sex, who could pour forth her spleen with such unmerciful, and