the way, you must either send me or bring me some more paper; for before the moon shall have performed a few more revolutions, I shall not have a scrap left; and tedious revolutions they are just now, that is certain.

I give you leave to be as peremptory as you please, especially at a distance; but when you say that you are a Cowper, (and the better it is for the Cowpers that such you are, and I give them joy of you, with all my heart,) you must not forget, that I boast myself a Cowper too, and have my humours, and fancies, and purposes, and determinations, as well as others of my name, and hold them as fast as they can. You indeed tell me how often I shall see you when you come. A pretty story, truly. I am an he Cowper, my dear, and claim the privileges that belong to my noble sex. But these matters shall be settled, as my cousin Agamemnon used to say, at a more convenient time.

I shall rejoice to see the letter you promise me; for though I met with a morsel of praise last week, I do not know that the week current is likely to produce me any; and having lately been pretty much pampered with that diet, I expect to find myself rather hungry by the time when your next letter shall arrive. It will therefore be very oppor. tune. The morsel above alluded to, came fromwhom do you think? From - but she de

sires that her authorship may be a secret. And in my answer I promised not to divulge it, except to you. It is a pretty copy of verses, neatly written, and well turned; and when you come, you shall see them. I intend to keep all pretty things to myself till then, that they may serve me as a bait to lure you here more effectually. The last letter that I

had from

I received so many years since, that it seems as if it had reached me a good while before I was born.

I was grieved at the heart that the general could not come, and that illness was in part the cause that hindered him. I have sent him, by his express desire, a new edition of the first book, and half the second. He would not suffer me to send it to you, my dear, lest you should post it away to Maty at once. He did not give that reason, but being shrewd I found it.

The grass begins to grow, and the leaves to bud, and everything is preparing to be beautiful against you come. Adieu!

You inquire of our walks, I perceive, as well as our rides. They are beautiful. You inquire also concerning a cellar. You have two cellars. Oh! what years have passed since we took the same walks, and drank out of the same bottle! But a few weeks more, and then!

WM. COWPER.

Dr. Franklin to Miss Stevenson.

Craven Street, June 17, 1767.

WE were greatly disappointed yesterday, that we had not the pleasure, promised us, of our dear Polly's company.

Your good mother would have me write a line in answer to your letter. A muse, you must know, visited me this morning! I see you are surprised, as I was. I never saw one before-and shall never see another,-so took the opportunity of her help to put the answer into verse, because I was some verse in your debt ever since you sent me the last pair of garters.

This muse appeared to be no housewife. I suppose few of them are. She was dressed (if the expression is allowable) in an undress, a kind of slatternly negligé, neither neat and clean, nor well made; and she has given the same sort of dress to my picce. On reviewing it, I would have reformed the lines, and made them all of a length, as I am told lines ought to be; but I find I can't lengthen the short ones without stretching them on the rack, and I think it would be equally cruel to cut off any part of the long ones. Besides, the superfluity of these makes up for the deficiency of those; and so, from a principle of justice, leave them at full length, that I may give you, at least in one sense of the word, good measure. Adieu, my dear good girl, and believe me ever Your affectionate, faithful friend,

B. FRANKLIN.

Dr. Beattie to Robert Arbuthnot, Esq.

Aberdeen, December 12, 1763.

SINCE you left us, I have been reading Tasso's Jerusalem," in the translation lately published by Hoole. I was not a little anxious to peruse a poem which is so famous over all Europe, and has so often been mentioned as a rival to the "Iliad," "Eneid," and Paradise Lost." It is certainly a noble work; and though it seems to me to be inferior to the three poems just mentioned, yet I can not help thinking it in the rank next to these. As for the other modern attempts at the "Epopée," the "Henriade" of Voltaire, the "Epigoniad" of Wilkie, the "Leonidas" of Glover, not to mention he "Arthur" of Elackmore, they are not to be compared with it. Tusso possesses an exuberant

and sublime imagination; though in exuberance it seems, in my opinion, inferior to our Spenser, and in sublimity inferior to Milton. Were I to compare Milton's genius with Tasso's, I would say that the sublime of the latter is flashy and fluctuating, while that of the former diffuses an uniform, steady, and vigorous blaze: Milton is more majestic, Tasso more dazzling. Dryden, it seems, was of opinion, that the "Jerusalem Delivered" was the only poem of modern times that deserved the name of epic; but it is certain that criticism was not this writer's talent; and I think it is evident, from some passages of his works, that he either did not, or would not, understand the "Paradise Lost." Tasso borrows his plot and principal characters from Homer, but his manner resembles Virgil's. He is certainly much obliged to Virgil, and scruples not to imitate, nor to translate him on many occasions. In the pathetic, he is far inferior both to Homer, Virgil, and to Milton. His characters, though different, are not always distinct, and want those masterly and distinguished strokes, which the genius of Homer and Shakspcare, and of them only, knows how to delineate, Tasso excels in describing pleasurable scenes, and seems peculiarly fond of such as have a reference to the passion of love. Yet, in characterizing this passion, he is far inferior, not only to Milton, but also to Virgil, whose fourth book he has been at great pains to imitate. The translation is 8100th and flowing; but in dignity, and variety of numbers, is often defective, and oftens labours uder a feebleness and prolixity of phrase, evidentproceeding either from want of skill, or from nt of leisure in the versifier. JAMES BEATTIE

Dr. Beattie to the Honourable Charles Boyd.

Aberdeen, November 16, 1766.

Or all the chagrins with which my present infirm state of health is attended, none afflicts me more than my inability to perform the duties of friendship. The offer which you were generously pleased to make me of your correspondence, flatters me extremely: but alas! I have not as yet been able to avail myself of it. While the good weather continued, I strolled about the country, and made many strenuous attempts to run away from this odious giddiness; but the more strug. gled, the more closely it seemed to stick to me. About a fortnight ago the hurry of my winter business began; and at the same time my malady recurred with more violence than ever, rendering me at once incapable of reading, writing, and thinking. Luckily I am now a little better, so as to be able to read a page, and write a sentence or two without stopping; which, I assure you, is a very great matter. My hopes and my spirits begin to revive once more. I flatter myself I shall soon get rid of this infirmity; nay, that I shall ere long be in the way of becoming a great man. For have I not head-aches, like Pope? vertigo, like Swift? gray hairs, like Homer? Do I not wear large shoes (for fear of corns,) like Virgil? and sometimes complain of sore eyes (though not lippitude,) like Horace? Am I not at this present writing invested with a garment not less ragged than that of Socrates? Like Joseph the patriarch, I am a mighty dreamer of dreams; like Nimrod the hunter, I am an eminent builder of castles (in the air.) I procrastinate, like Julius Cæsar; and very lately, in imitation of Don Quix