stand by this expression, what he probably intended, a constant inclination and care to employ our faculties fervently and steadily on some grand object of laudable pursuit, perhaps the whole Materia Medica could have furnished him with nothing so likely to promote the preservation of health; especially in a frame distinguished by nerves of the most delicate and dangerous sensibility.

Cowper was himself aware of this truth and he was looking deliberately around him for some new literary object of magnitude and importance, when his thoughts were directed to Milton, by an unexpected application from the literary merchant with whom he had corresponded, occasionally, for some years; and with whom his acquaintance, though confined to letters of business, had ripened into a cordial esteem.

The great author of the Rambler (intimately acquainted with all the troubles that are too apt to attend the votaries of literature) has said, "That a bookseller is the only Mecenas of the modern world." Without assenting to all the eulogy, and all the satire implied in this remarkable sentiment, we may take a pleasure in observing, that in the class of men so magnificently and sportively commended, there are seve

ral individuals, each of whom a writer of the most delicate manners and exalted mind, may justly esteem as a pleasing associate, and as a liberal friend.

In this light Cowper regarded his bookseller, Mr. Johnson, to whom he had literally given the two volumes of his Poems, with that modest and generous simplicity of spirit, which formed a striking part of his character. He entertained no presumptuous ideas of their pecuniary value; and when the just applause of the world had sufficiently proved it, he nobly declined the idea of resuming a gift, which the probity of his merchant would have allowed him to recall. He was however so pleased by this, and by subsequent proofs of liberality in the conduct of Mr. Johnson, that on being solicited by him to embark in the adventure of preparing a magnificent edition of Milton, he readily entered into the project, and began those admirable Translations from the Latin and Italian poetry of Milton, which I have formerly mentioned in print, and to which I hope to render more justice, by a plan of devoting them, not to the purpose of raising a national monument to their author, as I at first proposed, but to one that appears to me better suited to the modest and beneficent spirit of the poet, I mean the purpose of befriending his orphan

god-child.

I hope to find a more favorable oppor

tunity of explaining and recommending this plan to the kindness of the public.

As it is to Milton that I am in a great measure indebted for what I must ever regard as a signal blessing, the friendship of Cowper! The reader will pardon me for dwelling a little on the circumstances that produced it circumstances which often lead me to

repeat those sweet verses of my friend, on the casual origin of our most valuable attachments.

Mysterious are his ways, whose power

Brings forth that unexpected hour,

When minds that never met before,

Shall meet, unite, and part no more:

It is th' allotment of the skies,

The hand of the Supremely Wise,

That guides and governs our affections,

And plans and orders our connexions.

These charming verses strike with peculiar force on my heart, when I recollect, that it was an idle endeavour to make us enemies, which gave rise to our intimacy, and that I was providentially conducted to Weston at a season when my presence there afforded peculiar comfort to my affectionate friend, under

the pressure of a domestic affliction, which threatened to overwhelm his very tender spirits.

The entreaty of many persons, whom I wished to oblige, had engaged me to write a Life of Milton, before I had the slightest suspicion that my work could interfere with the projects of any man; but I was soon surprized and concerned in hearing that I was represented in a news-paper, as an antagonist of Cowper.

I immediately wrote to him on the subject, and our correspondence soon endeared us to each other in no common degree. The series of his Letters to me I value not only as memorials of a most dear and honourable friendship, but as exquisite examples of epistolary excellence. My pride might assuredly be gratified by inserting them all, as I have been requested to do in this publication; but, I trust, I am influenced by a proper sense of duty towards my departed friend in with-holding many of them, at present, from the eye of the public. The truth is, I feel that the extreme sensibility of my affectionate correspondent, led him, very frequently, to speak of me in such terms of tender partiality, that the world must not be expected to forgive him for so over-rating even the merit of a friend, till that friend is sharing

with him the hallowed rest of the grave. In the mean time my readers, I hope, will approve my confining myself to such a selection from them, as appears to me necessary for the completion of this narrative; which I seize every opportunity of embellishing with numerous Letters to his other correspondents.

It is time to resume the series of such Letters, and in doing so I embrace with a melancholy gratification, an opportunity of paying tender respect to the memory of a scholar and a poet, who in 1791, solicited and obtained the regard of Cowper, and saw him for the first time at Eartham in the following year.-I speak of the late professor of poetry the reverend James Hurdis; a man whose death must be lamented as peculiarly unseasonable, did not piety suggest to the persons most deeply afflicted, by a loss so little expected, that it is irrational and irreligious to repine at those decrees of Heaven which summon to early beatitude the most deserving of its servants. As this exemplary divine was tenderly idolized by several accomplished Sisters, it may be hoped that his collected works will be republished by some member of his family, with a memorial of the learned, elegant, and moral writer, adapted to the extent and variety of his merit. My intercourse with him was brief