“I told you in my last that I was going to take a flight into Berkshire; and here I have been ever since Friday evening, leading a Pastoral life in the finest weather I ever saw. Tho’ the most sage Horace says we change our climate without changing our disposition, I must be of another opinion, for by only the difference of latitude and longitude between Hill Street and Sandleford I am become one of the most reasonable, quiet, good, kind of country gentlewoman that ever was. In the days when misses employ’d their crimping and wimpling irons upon cheese-cakes and tarts, not on flounces and furbelows, and matrons used no rouge, but a little cochineal to give a fine colour to a dried neat’s-foot tongue, they could not be further from the temper and qualities and conditions of a fine lady than your humble servant at this present writing. My health is much improved by the country air; I saunter all day, and when Phœbus sets in the material world, he rises in the Intellectual; then I sit down to read what he has inspired, and I find the amusements of the day here prepare me well for my evening’s lecture.... “The mention of poetry puts me in mind to tell you I am very well satisfied with the share of praise you give to Cowley.[325] He had a rich vein of thought, but being too ostentatious of it, we are disgusted at the proud display of his treasures, as at the pomp of a rich man, when it goes beyond the bounds modesty and a sound judgment should set to it. I agree with you that his love verses are insufferable. I think you and I who have never been in love, could describe it better were we ask’d, _what is it like?_ I think some of his verses, like Anacreon, very pretty, and the verses by the god of love in honour of Anacreon are very pretty tho’ a little too long. I think you was too temperate in your commendation of ‘La Mort D’Abel.’[326] I was infinitely delighted with it as a work of genius. On your recommendation I lent it to my Lord Lyttelton, who sent it back with great approbation. But to be sincere in spite of you both, some silly prejudices against the Author and the language the poem was originally written in, a little damped my expectations, and the beginning, in which he imitates Milton, with all the faintness of reflected beams, make me advance very soberly. But what a feast is the Patriarchal dinner! How sweetly innocent their manners! Eve’s horror at the first storm, her surprize at Adam’s fastening up the mouth of the cave, concern at the first sight of death, which is finely supposed to seize a dove, because in that animal only could the grief of a surviving friend be shown, with ten thousand other circumstances in hers and Adam’s narration, all so natural and yet so new that I must call Mr. Gesner a Poet. A Poet should create, but he should not make monsters. I think our Author has not the sublime, but his genius suits his subject. What a noble piety! what a purity of heart in