People who bought nine volumes of a correspondence like this were expected, as the editor warns them, to derive from it "moral, literary, and religious improvement." It was in every way worthy of a lady who had translated Epictetus, and who had the "great" Mrs. Montagu for a friend. But, as Miss Seward pathetically remarked, "any well-educated person, with talents not above the common level, produces every day letters as well worth attention as most of Cowper's, especially as to diction." The perverseness of the public in buying, in reading, in praising these letters, filled her with pained bewilderment. Not even the writer's sincere and sad piety, his tendency to moralize, and the transparent innocence of his life could reconcile her to plain transcripts from nature, or to such an unaffecting incident as this:—
"A neighbour of mine in Silver End keeps an ass; the ass lives on the other side of the garden wall, and I am writing in the greenhouse. It happens that he is this morning most musically disposed; either cheered by the fine weather, or by some new tune which he has just acquired, or by finding his voice more har-
