was published in the summer of 1781, having been written chiefly in the preceding winter. It was undertaken at the instance of Mrs. Unwin, who, on his recovery from a long fit of unusual dejection, urged him to devote his attention to a work of some extent, and such as should require a considerable share of application and attention. At the same time she suggested as a subject the “Progress of Error,” which is the second piece in the volume. Cowper had already written many of his lighter pieces, and that at the times when he was labouring under the severest depression. He accounts for this singular phenomenon with his peculiar and playful humour. “The mind, long wearied with the sameness of a dull, dreary prospect, will gladly fix its eyes on anything that may make a little variety in its contemplations, though it were but a kitten playing with its tail.” Early in 1780, Cowper lost a valued friend, and almost his only associate, by the removal of Mr. Newton to London. In the following year he became acquainted with Lady Austen, who, for a short time, fills a prominent place in the poet’s history. We must refer to fuller memoirs for the tale of her introduction, and the gradual growth of that strict intimacy which ensued between herself, Mrs. Unwin, and Cowper. For some time the three friends spent a considerable portion of every day in each other’s society; and Cowper was indebted to Lady Austen’s liveliness in conversation and varied accomplishments for a great alleviation of his mental sufferings. The famous history of John Gilpin owes its birth to a story told by her one evening, to rouse the poet out of a fit of despondency; and it engaged his fancy so strongly, that in the course of the night, during which he was kept awake by fits of laughter, he turned it into verse. The ballad soon got abroad, and obtained unusual popularity: it was long before the author was known. “The Task” was composed at Lady Austen’s request. She saw the benefit which Cowper derived from earnest literary employment, and often urged him to try his strength in blank verse. After some pressing, he promised to comply, if she would furnish him with a subject. “Oh, you can write on anything,” she said; “write on this sofa.” The lively answer chimed in with his peculiar humour, and he adopted it literally: his sofa forms the subject of the poem; the first book of which is entitled “The Sofa,” and opens with a history of the invention and merits of that piece of furniture, which is unsurpassed in its peculiar vein of humour. But the author soon rises into a higher strain, and in his discursive range paints the beauty of the country with that fidelity and exquisite sense of natural beauty which constitutes his chief poetic merit; describes the peculiar appearances and occupations of the winter season; weighs the evils and advantages attendant on a high state of civilization; exhibits, in reproving the faults of the age, his power both in the lighter