um* ■ ■ ; ,*,>' , ''V.', ■ ! 1 I 'mv;: ■ ;:...««. •i.M.H. 1 1 1 ■ ■ i, »:;■:.:,;'; Glass J^TX^Zg-O Bonk AS &>q Wi:LlL^Ar£ ; - YF2 I THE WORKS «» WILLIAM COWPER HIS LIFE, LETTERS, AND POEMS NOW FIRST COMPLETED BY THE INTRODUCTION OF COWPER'S PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE EDITED BY THE KEV. T. S. GRIMSHAWE, A.M., F.S.A., M.R.S.L,, VICAR OF BIDDENHAM, BEDFORDSHIRE ; HD AUTHOR OF "THE IIFE OF THE REV. LKGH RICHMOND.' ELEttANTLY ILLUSTRATED BOSTON: CROSBY AND NICHOLS. 1864. »A A- PREFATORY REMARKS. The very extensive sale of the former editions of the Works of Cowper, in eight volumes, now comprising an issue of no less than seventy thousand volumes, has led the publishers to contemplate the present edition in one volume 8vo. This form is intended to meet the demands of a numerous class of readers, daily be- coming more literary in taste, and more influential in their character on the great mass of our population. At a period like the present, when the great framework of society is agitated by convulsions pervading nearly the whole of continental Europe, and when so many elements of evil are in active* operation, it becomes a duty of the highest importance to imbue the public niind with whatever is calcu- lated to uphold national peace and order, and to maintain among us a due reverence for laws, both human and divide. The faculty also and taste for reading now ex- ists to so great an extent, that it assumes a question of no small moment how this faculty is to be directed ; whether it shall be the giant's power to wound and to destroy, or like the Archangel's presence to heal and to save ? Many readers re- quire to be amused, but it is no less necessary that they should be instructed. To seek amusement and nothing further, denotes a head without wit, and a heart and a conscience without feeling. An author, if he be a Christian and a patriot, will never forget to edify as well as to amuse. There are few writers who possess and employ this happy art with more skill than Cowper. His aim is evidently to in- terest his reader, but he never forgets the appeal to his heart and conscience. It is strange if amidst the flowers of his poetic fancy, and the sallies of his epistolary humor, the Rose of Sharon does not insinuate its form, and breathe forth its sweet fragrance. No one knows better than Cowper how to interweave the sportiveness of his wit with the gravity of his moral, and yet always to be gay without levity, and grave without dulness. He is also thoroughly English, in the structure cf his mind, in the honest expression of his feelings, in his hatred of oppression, his ardor for true liberty, his love for his country, and for whatever concerns the weal and woe of man. Nor does he ever fail to exhibit National Religion as the only sure foundation for national happiness and virtue. The works of such a writer can never PREFATORY REMARKS perish. Cowper. has earned for himself a name which will always rank him among the household poets of England ; while his prose has been admitted by the highest authority to be as immortal as his verse.* In presenting therefore to the class of readers above specified, as well as to the Dublic generally, this edition of the Works of Cowper, in -a form accessible to all, he Publishers trust that the undertaking will be deemed to be both seasonable and useful. In this confidence they offer it with the fullest anticipations of its success. It remains only to state that it is a reprint of the former editions without any mutilation or curtailment. It is gratifying to add that the Portrait, drawn from life by Romney in 1792. and now engraved by W. Greatbach in the first style of art, is esteemed by the few persons living who have a vivid recollection of the person and appearance of the Poet, as the most correct and happy likeness ever given to the public. The Illustrations, too, presented with this edition, are procured without regard to cost, so as to render the entire work, it is hoped, the most complete ever published. December 3, 1848. * Such is the recorded testimony of ChsrHw J^a^ee Fox, and the late Robert Hall. The latter observes as follows : — " The letters of Mr. Cowper are the finest specimens of the episto- lary style in our language. To an air of inimitable ease they unite a high degree of correct- ness, such as could rcsa't only from the clearest intellect, combined with the most finished taste. There is scarcely a Single word capable of being exchanged for a better, and of Lteraiy erne*. there are none. I have perused them with ?reat admiration and delight." DEDICATION. DOWAGER LADY THROCKMORTON. Yotjr Ladyship's peculiar intimacy with the poet Cowper, and your former residence at Weston, where every object is embellished oy his muse, and clothed with a species of poetical verdure, give you a just title to have your name associated with his endeared memory. But, independently of these considerations, you are recorded both in his poetry and prose, and have thus acquired a kind of double immortality. These reasons are suf- ficiently valid to authorize the present dedi- cation. But there are additional motives,-* the recollection of the happy hours, formerlj spent at Weston, in your society and in that of Sir George Throckmorton, enhanced b$ the presence of bur common lamented friend, Dr. Johnson. A dispensation which sparea neither rank, accomplishments, nor virtues/ has unhappily terminated this enjoyment, but it has not extinguished those sentiments of esteem and regard, with which I have the honor to be, My dear Lady Throckmorton, Your very sincere and obliged friend, T. S. GRIMSHAWE Biddenham, Feb. 28, 1835. PREFACE in presenting to the public this new and complete edition of the Life, Correspondence, and Poems of Cowper, it may be proper for me to state the grounds on which it claims to be the only complete edition that has been, or can be published. After the decease of this justly admired author, Hayley received from my lamented brother-in-law, Dr. Johnson, (so endeared by his exemplary attention to his afflicted rela- tive,) every facility for his intended biography. Aided also by valuable contributions from other quarters, he was thus furnished with rich materials for the execution of his inter- esting work. The reception with which his Life of Cowper was honored, and the suc- cessive editions through which it passed, afforded unequivocal testimony to the indus- try and talents of the biographer and to the epistolary merits of the Poet. Still there were many, intimately acquainted with the character and principles of Cowper, who con- sidered that, on the whole, a very erroneous impression was conveyed to the public. On this subject no one was perhaps more com- petent to form a just estimate than the late Dr. Johnson. A long and familiar inter- course with his endeared relative had af- forded him all the advantages of a daily and minute observation. His possession of docu- ments, and intimate knowledge of facts, en- abled him to discover the partial suppression of some letters, and the total omission of others, that, in his judgment, were essential to the development of Cowper's real char- acter. The cause of this procedure may be explained so as fully to exonerate Hayley from any charge injurious to his honor. His mind, however literary and elegant, was not precisely qualified to present a religious char- acter to the view of the British public, without committing some important errors. Hence, in occasional parts of his work, his reflections are misplaced, sometimes injurious, and often injudicious ; and in no portion of it is this defect more visible than where he at- tributes the malady of Cowper to the oper- ation of religious causes. It would be difficult to express the painful feeling produced by these facts on the minds of Dr. Johnson and of his friends. Hayley in- deed seems to be afraid of exhibiting Cowpei too much in a religious garb, lest he should either lessen his estimation, alarm the reader, or compromise himself. To these circum- stances may be attributed the defects that we have noticed, and which have rendered his otherwise excellent production an imperfect work. The consequence, as regards Cowper, has been unfortunate. "People," observes Dr. Johnson, "read the Letters with 'the Task' in their recollection, (and vice versa,) and are perplexed. They look for the Cowpei of each in the other, and find him not; the A PREFACE. correspondency is destroyed. The character of Cowper is thus undetermined; mystery hangs over it, and the opinions formed of him are as various as the minds of the in- quirers." It was to dissipate this illusion, that my lamented friend collected the " Pri- vate Correspondence," containing letters that had been previously suppressed, with the addition of others, then brought to light for the first time. Still there remains one more important object to be accomplished : viz., to present to the British public the whole Cor- respondence in its entire and unbroken form, and in its chronological order. Then, and not till then, will the real character of Cowper be fully understood and comprehended ; and the consistency of his Christian character be found to harmonize with the Christian spirit of his pure and exalted productions. Supplemental to such an undertaking is the task of revising Hayley's life of the Poet, purifying it from the errors that detract from its acknowledged value and adapting it to the demands and expectations of the religious public. That this desideratum has been long felt, to an extent far beyond what is com- monly supposed, the Editor has had ample means of knowing, from his own personal observation, and from repeated assurances of the same import from his lamented friend, the Rev. Legh Richmond* The time for carrying this object into effect is now arrived. The termination of the copy- right of Hayley's Life of Cowper, and access to the Private Correspondence collected by Dr. Johnson, enable the Editor to combine all these objects, and to present, for the first time, a Complete Edition of the Works of Coivper, which it is not in the power of any individual besides himself to accomplish, be- cause all others are debarred access to the Private Correspondence. Upwards of two hundred letters will be thus incorporated with the former work of Hayley, in their due and chronological order. The merits of " The Private Correspond- ence" are thus attested in a letter addressed to Dr. Johnson, by a no less distinguished udge than the late Rev. Robert Hall. — "It is quite unnecessary to say that I perused the letters with great admiration and delight. I have always considered the letters of Mr. Cowper as the finest specimen of the epis- tolary style in our language ; and these ap- pear to me of a superior description to the former, possessing as much beauty, with more piety and pathos. To an air of inimi- table ease and carelessness they unite a high degree of correctness, such as could result only from the clearest intellect, combimed * Of the letters contained in the " Private Corre- spondence" he emphatically remarked, " Cowper will never be clearly and satisfactorily understood without them." with the most finished taste. I have scarcely found a single word which is capable of be- ing exchanged for a better. Literary errors I can discern none. The selection of words, and the construction of periods, are inimita- ble ; they present as striking a contrast as can well be conceived to the turgid verbos- ity which passes at present for fine writing and which bears a great resemblance to the degeneracy which marks the style of Ammi- anus Marcellinus, as compared to that of Cicero or of Livy. In my humble opinion, the study of Cowper's prose may on this ac- count be as useful in forming the taste ot young people as his poetry. That the Let ters will afford great delight to all persons of true taste, and that you will confer a most acceptable present on the reading world by publishing them, will not admit of a doubt." All that now remains is for the Editor to say one word respecting himself. He has been called upon to engage in this undertak- ing both on public and private grounds. He is not insensible to the honor of such a com- mission, and yet feels that he is undertaking a delicate and responsible office. May he execute it in humble dependence on the Divine blessing, and in a spirit that accords with the venerated name of Cowper ! Had the life of his endeared friend, Dr. Johnson, been prolonged, no man would have been better qualified for such an office. His am- ple sources of information, his name, and his profound veneration for the memory of Cow- per, (whom he tenderly watched while living, and whose eyes he closed in death,) would have awakened an interest to which no other writer could presume to lay claim. It is un- der the failure of this expectation, w 7 hich is ex- tinguished by the grave, that the editor feels himself called upon to endeavor to supply the void ; and thus to fulfil what is due to the character of Cowper, and to the known wishes of his departed friend. Peace be to his ashes ! They now rest near those of his beloved Bard, while their happy spirits are reunited in a world where no cloud "obscures the mind, and no sorrow depresses the heart : and where the mysterious dispensations of Prov- idence will be found to have been ir. accord- ance with his unerring wisdom and mercy. It is impossible for the Editor to specif) the various instances of revision in the nar- rative of Hayley, because they are sometimes minute or verbal, at other times more en- larged. The object has been to retain the basis of his work, as far as possible. The introduction of new matter is principally where the interests of religion, or a regard to Cowper's character seemed to require it ; and for such remarks the Editor is solely responsible. CONTENTS. PART THE FIRST. Page the family, birth, and first residence of Cowper 23 His verses on the portrait of his mother 23 Epitaph on his mother by her niece 24 The schools that Cowper attended 24 His sufferings during childhood 24 His removal from Westminster to an attorney's office 25 Verses on his early afflictions 26 His settlement in the Inner Temple 26 His acquaintance with eminent authors 26 His translations in Duncombe's Horace 26 His own account of his early life 26 Stanzas on reading Sir Charles Grandison 26 His verses on finding the heel of a shoe 27 His nomination to the Office of Reading Clerk in the House of Lords 27 His nomination to be Clerk of the Journals in the House of Lords 27 To Lady Hesketh. Journals of the House of Lords. Reflection on the singular temper of his mind. Aug. 9, 1763 27 His extreme dread of appearing in public #8 His illness and removal to St. Albans 28 Change in his ideas of religion 29 His recovery 29 His .' eitlement at Huntingdon to be near his brother 29 The translation of Voltaire's Henriade by the two brothers 29 The origin of Cowper's acquaintance with the Unwins 29 His adoption into the family 30 His earlv friendship with Lord Thurlow, and J. Hill, Esq 30 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Account of his situation at Huntingdon. June 24, 1765 31 To Lady Hesketh. On his illness and subsequent recovery. July 1, 1765 31 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Huntingdon and its amuse- ments. July 3, 1765 32 To Lady Hesketh. Salutary effects of affliction on the human mind. July 4, 1765 32 To the same. Account of Himtingdon; distance from his Brother, &c. July 5, 1765 33 To the same. Newton's Treatise on Prophecy ; Re- flections of Dr. Young on the Truth of Christianity. July 12, 1765 34 To the same. On the Beauty and Sublimity of Scrip- tural Language. Aug. 1, 1765 34 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Expected excursion. Aug. 14, 1765 35 Tq Lady Hesketh. Pearsall's Meditations ; definition of faith. Aug. 17, 1765 36 To the same. On a particular Providence ; experi- ence of mercy, &c. Sept. 4, 1765 36 To the same. First introduction to the Unwin fam- ily ; their characters. Sept. 14, 1705 37 To the same. On the thankfulness of the heart, its inequalities, &c. Oct. 10, 1765 38 To the same. Miss Unwin, her character and piety. Oct. 18, 1765 7. 38 To Major Cowper. Situation at Huntingdon; his perfect satisfaction, &c. Oct. 18, 1765 39 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On those who confine all mer- its to their own acquaintance. Oct. 25, 1765 39 To the same. Agreement with the Rev. W. Unwin. Nov. 5, 1765 40 To the same. Declining to read lectures at Lincoln's Inn. Nov. 8, 1765 40 To Lady Hesketh. On so.itude ; on the desertion of his friends. March 6, 1766 41 To Mrs. Cowper. Mrs. Unwin, and her son; his cousin Martin. March 11, 1766 41 to the same. Letters the fruit of friendship ; his conversion. April 4, 1766 42 To the same. The probability of knowing each other inHeaven. Aprill7,1766 43 To the same. On the recollection of earthly affaire by departed spirits. April 18, 1766 43 To the same. On the same subject ; on his own state of body and mind. Sept. 3, 1766 44 To the same. His manner of living ; reasons for his not taking orders. Oct. 20, 1766 45 To the same. Reflections on reading Marshall. Mar. 11, 1767 46 To the same. Introduction of Mr. Unwin's son ; his gardening ; on Marshall. March 14, 1767 46 To the same. On the motive of his introducing Mr. Unwin's son to her. April 3, 1767 47 To Joseph Hill, Esq. General election. June 16, 1762 47 To Mrs. Cowper. Mr. Unwin's death ; doubts con- cerning Cowper's future abode. July 13, 1767 47 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Reflections arising from Mr. Unwin's death. July 16, 1767 48 The origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Mr. New- ton 48 Cowper's removal with Mrs. Unwin to Olney 49 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Invitation to Olney. Oct. 20, 1767 , 49 His devotion and charity in his new residence 49 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the occurrences during his visit at St. Albans. June 16, 1768 49 To the same. On the difference of dispositions ; his love of retirement. Jan. 21, 1769 49 To the same. On Mrs. Hill's late illness. Jan. 29, 1769 50 To the same. Declining an invitation. Fondness for retirement. July 3.1, 1769 50 His poem in memory of John Thornton, Esq 50 His beneficence to a necessitous child 51 To Mrs. Cowper. His new situation ; reasens for mixture of evil in the world. 1769 51 To the same. The consolations of religion on the death of her husband. Aug. 31, 1769 51 Cowper's journey to Cambridge on his brother's ill- ness 52 To Mrs. Cowper. Daugerous illness of his brother. March 5, 1770 52 The death and character of Cowper's brother 53 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Religious sentiments of his brother. May 8, 1770 53 To Mrs. Cowper. The same subject. June 7, 1770. 53 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Expression of his gratitude for instances of friendship. Sept. 25, 1770 54 To the same. Congratulations on his marriage. Aug. 27, 1771 55 To the same. Declining offers of service. June 27, 1772 55 To the same. Acknowledging obligations. July 2, 1772 55 To the same. Declining an invitation to London. Nov. 5, 1772 55 The composition of the Olney Hymns by Mr. Newton and Cowper 56 The interruption of the Olney Hymns by the illness of Cowper 5fl His long and severe depression 57 His tame hares, one of his first amusements on his recovery 57 The origin of his friendship with Mr. Bull 57 His translations from Madame de la Mothe Guion.. . 57 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On Mr. Ashley Cooper's recov- ery from a nervous fever. Nov. 12, 1776 57 To the same. On Gray's Works. April 20, 1777 .... 58 To the same. On Gray's later epistles. West's Let- ters. May 25, 1777 58 To the same. Selection of books. July 13, 1777 .. . 58 To the same. Supposed diminution of Cowper's in- come. Jan. 1, 1778. 38 To the same. Death of Sir Thomas Hesketh, Bart. April 11,1778 59 To the same. RaynaPs works. May 7, 1778 59 To the same. Congratulations on preferment. June 18,1778 59 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Disapproving a proposed application to Chancellor Thurlow. June 18, 1778 59 To the same. Johnson's Lives of the Poets. May 26,1779 60 To the same. Remarks on the Isle of Thanet. July, 1779 60 To the same. Advice on sea-bathing. July 17, 1779 60 To the same. His hot-house ; tame pigeons ; visit toGayhurst. Sept. 21, 1779 60 To Joseph Hill, Esq. With the fable of the Pine-ap- ple and the Bee. Oct. 2, 1779 61 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Johnson's Biography ; his treatment of Milton. Oct. 31, 1779 61 To Joseph Hill, Esq. With a poem on the promo- tion of Edward Thurlow. Nov. 14, 1779 62 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Quick succession of human events ; modern patriotism. Dec. 2, 1779 62 To the same. Burke's speech on reform ; Nightin- gale and Glow-worm. Feb. 27, 1780 62 To Mrs. Newton. On Mr. Newton's removal from Olney. March 4, 1780 63 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Congratulations on his profes- sional success. March 16, 1780 : 64 To the Rev. J. Newton. On the danger of innova- tion. March 18, 1780 - 64 To the Rev. W. Unwin. On keeping the Sabbath. March 28, 1780 64 To the same. Pluralities in the church. April 6, 1780 65 To the Rev. J. Newton. Distinction between a trav- elled man, and a travelled gentleman. April 16, 1780 66 To the same. Serious reflections on rural scenery. May 3,1780 66 To Joseph Hill, Esq. The Chancellor's illness. May 6,1780 66 To the Rev. W. Unwin. His passion for landscape, drawing ; modern politics. May 8, 1780 67 To Mrs. Cowper. On her brother's death. May 10, 1780 68 To the Rev. J. Newton. Pedantry of commentators ; Dr. Bentley, &c. May 10, 1780 68 To Mrs. Newton. Mishap of the gingerbread baker and his wife. The Doves. June 2, 1780 68 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Cowper's fondness of praise — Can a parson be obliged to take an ap- prentice ? — Latin translation of a passage in Para- dise Lost ; versification of a thought. June 8, 1780 69 To the Rev. J. Newton. On the riots in 1780 ; dan- ger of associations. June 12, 1780 70 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Latin verses on ditto. June 18,1780 70 To the same. Robertson's History ; Biographia Bri- tannica. June 22, 1780 71 To the Rev. J. Newton. Ingenuity of slander ; lace- makers' petition. June 23, 1780 72 To the Rev. W. Unwin. To touch and retouch, the secret of good writing ; an epitaph. July 2, 1780. 72 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the riots in London. July 3,1780 72 To the same. Recommendation of lace-makers' pe- tition. July8,1780 73 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Translation of the Latin verses on the riots. July 11, 1780 74 To the Rev. J. Newton. With an enigma. July 12, 1780 74 To Mrs. Cowper. On the insensible progress of age. July 29,1780 75 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Olney bridge. July 27, 1780 76 To the Rev. J. Newton. A riddle. July 30, 1780. . . 76 to the Rev. W. Unwin. Human nature not changed ; a modern, only an ancient in a different dress. August 6, 1780 76 o Joseph Hill, Esq. On his recreations. Aug. 10, 1780.. 77 To the Rev. J. Newton. Escape of one of his hares. Aug. 21, 17ri0 77 To Mrs. Cowper. Lady Cowper's death. Age a friend to the mind. Aug. 31, 1780 78 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Biographia ; verses, parson and clerk. Sept. 3, 1780 78 To the same. On education. Sept. 7, 1780 79 To the same. Public schools. Sept. 17, 1780 80 To the same. On the same subject. Oct. 5, 1780. . . 80 To Mrs. Newton. On Mr. Newton's arrival at Rams- gate. Oct. 5, 1780 81 Pag* To the Rev. W. Unwin. Verses on a goldfinch starved to death in his cage. Nov. 9, 1780 89 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On a point of law. Dec. 10, 1780 82 To the Rev. John Newton. On his commendations of Cowper's poems. Dec. 21, 1780 82 To J. Hill, Esq. With the memorable law-case be- tween nose and eyes. Dec. 25, 1780 S3 To the Rev. W. Unwin. With the same. Dec., 1780 83 To the Rev. John Newton. Progress of Error. Mr. Newton's works. Jan. 21, 1781 ... 84 To the Rev. W. Unwin. On visiting prisoners. Feb. 6,1781 8.5 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Hurricane in West Indies. Feb. 8,1781 85 To the same. On metrical law-cases ; old age. Feb. 15,1781 85 To the Rev. John Newton. With Table Talk. On classical literature. Feb. 18, 1781 86 To Mr. Hill. Acknowledging a present received. Feb. 19, 1781 86 To the Rev. John Newton. Mr. Scott's curacies. Feb. 25, 1781 8? To the same. Care of myrtles. Sham fight at Olney. March 5,1781 87 To the same. On the poems, " Expostulation," &c. March 18, 1781 88 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Consolations on the asper- ity of a critic. April 2, 1781 89 To the Rev. John Newton. Requesting a preface to "Truth." Enigma on a cucumber. April 8, 1781 90 To the same. Solution of the enigma. April 23, 1781 90 Cowper's first appearance as an author 91 The subjects of his first poems suggested by Mrs. Unwin 9 . To the Rev. W. Unwin. Intended publication of his first volume. May 1, 1781 91 To Joseph Hill, Esq. On the composition and pub- lication of his first volume. May 9, 1781 91 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Reasons for not showing his preface to Mr. Unwin. May 10, 1781 92 To the same. Delay of his publication ; Vincent Bourne, and his poems. May 23, 1781 92 To the Rev. John Newton. On the heat ; on disem- bodied spirits. May22, 1781 93 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Corrections of his proofs ; on his horsemanship. May 28, 1781 93 To the same. Mrs. Unwin's criticisms ; a distinguish- ing Providence. June 5, 1781 93 To the same. On the design of his poems; Mr. Unwin's bashfulness. June 24, 1781 95 Origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Lady Austen 96 Poetical epistle addressed to that lady by him 96 Diffidence of the poet's genius 9-j To the Rev. John Newton. His late visit to Olney. Lady Austen's first visit. Correction in "Progress of Error." Intended Portrait of Cowper. July 7, 1781 : 97 To the same. Humorous letter in rhyme, on his poetry. July 12, 1781 98 To the same. Progress of the poem, " Conversation." July 22,1781.... 99 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Though revenge and a spirit of litigation are contrary to the Gospel, still it is the duty of a Christian to vindicate his right. Anecdote of a French Abbe. A fete champetre. July 29, 1781 99 To Mrs. Newton. Changes of fashion. Remarks on his poem, " Conversation." Aug., 1781 100 To the Rev. John Newton. Conversion of the green- house into a summer parlor. Progress of his work. Aug. 16,1781 101 To the same. State of Cowper's mind. Lady Aus- ten's intended settlement at Olney. Lines on co- coa-nuts and fish. Aug. 21, 1781 102- To the Rev. W. Unwin. Congratulations on the birth of a son. Remarks on his poem, " Retirement." Lady Austen's proposed settlement at Olney. Her character. Aug. 25, 1781 102 To the itev. John Newton. Progress of the print- ing of his pofim, " Retirement." Mr. Johnson's corrections. Aug. 25, 1781 103 To the same. Heat of the weather. Remarks on the opinion of a clerical acquaintance concerning certain amusements and music. Sept. 9, 1781 104 To Mrs. Newton. A poetical epistle on a barrel of oysters. Sept. 16, 1781 104 To the Rev. John Newton. Dr. -Johnson's criticism on Watts and tJlackmore, Smoking. Sept. 18, 1781 IU& CONTENTS. Page To the Rev. W. Unwin. Thoughts on the sea. Char- acter of Lady Austen. Sept. 26, 1781 105 To the Rev. John Newton. Religious poetry. Oct. 4,1781 106 To the same. Brighton Amusements. His project- ed Authorship. Oct. 6, 1781 107 To the Rev. John Newton. Disputes between the Rev. Mr. Scott and the Rev. Mr. R. Oct. 14, 1781 107 To Mrs. Cow per. His first volume. Death of a friend. Oct. 19, 1781 108 Reasons why the Rev. Mr. Newton wrote the Preface to Cowper's Poems 109 To the Rev. John Newton. Remarks on the pro- ' posed Preface to the Poems. Mr. Scott and Mr. R. Oct. 22, 1781 109 To the Rev. W. Unwin. Brighton dissipation. Ed- ucation of young Unwin. Nov. 5, 1781 110 To the Rev. John Newton. Cowper'slndifference to Fame. Anecdote of the Rev. Mr. Bull. Nov. 7, 1781 110 To the Rev. Win. Unwin. Apparition of Paul White- head, at West Wycombe. Nov. 24, 1781 Ill To Joseph Hill, Esq. In answer to his account of his landlady and her cottage. Nov. 26, 1781 112 To the Rev. Wm. Unwin. Origin and causes of so- cial feeling. Nov. 26, 1781 112 To the Rev. John Newton. Unfavorable prospect of the American war. Nov. 27, 1781 113 To the same. With lines on Mary and John. Same date 114 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Advantage of having a tenant who is irregular in his payments. Sale of cham- bers. State of affairs in America. Dec. 2, 1781. . . 114 To the Rev. John Newton. With lines to Sir Joshua Reynolds. Political and patriotic poetry. Dec. 4, 1781 115 Circumstances under which Cowper commenced his career as an author 116 Letter to the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 17, 1781. Re- marks on his poems on Friendship, Retirement, Heroism, and ^Etna ; Nineveh and Britain 116 To the Rev. William Unwin, Dec. 19, 1781. Idea of a theocracy ; the American war 117 To the Rev. John Newton ; shortest day, 1781. On a national miscarriage ; with lines on a flatting- mill 117 To the same, last day of 1781. Concerning the print- ing of his Poems ; the American contest- 118 To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 5, 1782. Dr. John- son's critique on Prior and Pope 119 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 13, 1782. The Amer- ican contest 120 To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 17, 1782. Conduct of critics ; Dr. Johnson's remarks on Prior's Poems ; remarks on Dr. Johnson's Lives of the Poets ; po- etry suitable for the reading of a boy 120 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Jan. 31, 1782. Political reflec- tions 122 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 2, 1782. On his Poems then printing; Dr. Johnson's character as a critic ; severity of the winter 123 • To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, Feb. 9, 1782. Bishop Lowth's juvenile verses; acquaintance with Lady Austen 124 Attentions of Lady Austen to Cowper 124 Letter from him to Lady Austen 124 She becomes his next door neighbor 125 To the Rev. William Unwin. On Lady Austen's opinion of him ; attempts at robbery ; observations on religious characters ; genuine benevolence 125 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 16, 1782. Charms of authorship 126 To the Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 24, 1782. On the Eublication of his poems; his letter to the Lord hancellor 126 To Lord Thurlow, Feb. 25, 1782, enclosed to Mr. Unwin 127 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb., 1782. On Mr. N.'s Preface to his Poems. Remarks on a Fast Sermon 127 To the same, March 6, 1782. Political ■ remarks ; character of Oliver Cromwell 128 Decision and boldness of Cromwell 128 To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, March 7, 1782. Remon- strance again 6 ''. Sunday routs 128 Remarks on the reason's for rejecting the Rev. Mr. Newton's Preface to Cowper's Poems 129 To the Rev. John Newton, March 14, 1782. On the intended Preface to his Poems; critical tact of Johnson the bookseller 129 To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 14, 1782. < )n the publi- cation of his Poems 130 Pagf To the Rev. William Unwin, March 18, 1782. On his and Mrs. Unwin's opinion of his Poems 13* Improvements in prison discipline 13 1 To the Rev. John Newton, March 24, 1782. Case of Mr. B. compared with Cowper's 131 To the Rev. William Unwin, April 1, 1782. On his commendations of his Poems 131 To the same, April 27, 1782. Military music ; Mr. Unwin's expected visit ; dignity of the Latin lan- guage ; 'use of parentheses 132 To the same, May 27, 1782. Dr. Franklin's opinion of his poems ; remarkable instance of providential deliverance from dangers; effects of the weather; Rodney's victory in the West Indies 133 To the same, June 12, 1782. Anxiety of Authors respecting the opinion of others on their works. . . 134 Reception of the first volume of Cowper's Poems... 134 Portrait of the true poet 134 Picture of a person of fretful temper 135 PART THE SECOND. To the Rev. Wm. Bull, June 22, 1782. Poetical epis- tle on Tobacco 135 To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, July 16, 1782. Remarks on political affairs ; Lady Austen and her project 136 To the same, August 3, 1782. On Dr. Johnson's ex- pected opinion of his Poems ; encounter with a viper ; Lady Austen ; Mr. Bull ; Madame Guion's Poems 137 The Colubriad, a poem 138 Lady Austen comes to reside at the parsonage at Olney 138 Songs written for her by Cowper 138 His song on the loss of the Royal George 139 The same in Latin • 139 Origin of his ballad of John Gilpin 140 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Sept. 6, 1782. Visit of Mr. Small 140 To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, Nov. 4, 1782. On the bal- lad of John Gilpin ; on Mr. Unwin's exertions in behalf of the prisoners at Chelmsford ; subscrip- tion for the widows of seamen lost in the Royal George 140 To the Rev. William Bull, Nov. 5, 1782. On his ex- pected visit 141 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 11, 1782. On the state of his health; encouragement of planting; Mr. P , of Hastings 141 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov., 1782. Thanks for a pres- ent offish ; on Mr. Small's report of Mr. Hill and his improvements 14S To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 18, 1782. Ac- knowledgments to a beneficent friend to the poor of Olney ; on the appearance of John Gilpin in print 142 To the Rev. William Unwin. No date. Character of Dr. Beattie and his poems; Cowper's transla- tion of Madame Guion's pcems 143 To Mrs. Newton, Nov. 23, 1782. On his poems; se- verity of the winter ; contrast between a spendthrift and an Olney cottager ; method recommei.o 1 for settling disputes 143 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 7, 1782. Recollections . I the coffee-house ; Cowper's mode of spending his evenings ; political contradictions 144 To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 19, 1783. His oc- cupations ; beneficence of Mr. Thornton to the poor of Olney 145 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 26, 1783. On the an- ticipations of peace; conduct of the belligerent powers 145 To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, Feb. 2, 1783. Ironical con- gratulations on the peace ; generosity of England to France 146 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. b, 17SJ Remarks on the peace 146 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Feb. 13, 1783. Remarks on his poems 14? To the same. Feb. 20, 1783. With Dr. Franklin's letter on his poems 147 To the same. No date. On the coalition ministry Lord Chancellor Thurlow 148 Neglect of Cowper by Lord Thurlow 148 Lord Thurlow's generosity in the case of Dr. John- son, and Crabbe, the poet 148 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 24, 1783. On the peace. 148 To the Rev. William Bull, March 7, 1783. On the peace ; Scotch Highlanders at N wport Pagnel.. . 148 CONTENTS, To tho Rev. John Newton, March 7, 1783. Compar- ison of his and Mr. Newton's letters ; march of Highlanders belonging to a mutinous regiment. . . 149 To the same, April 5, 1783. Illness of Mrs. C. ; new method of treating consumptive cases 150 To the same, April 21, 1783. His occupations and studies : writings of Mr. ; probability of his conversion in his last moments 150 To the Rev. John Newton, May 5, 1783. Vulgarity in a minister particularly offensive 151 To the Rev. William Unwin, May 12, 1783. Re- marks on a sermon preached by Paley at the con- secration of Bishop L 151 Severity of Cowper's strictures on Paley 152 Important question of a church establishment 152 Increase of true piety in the Church of England 152 Language of Beza respecting the established church 152 To Joseph Hill, Esq., May 26, 1783. On the death of his uncle's wife 153 To the Rev. John Newton, May 31, 1783. On Mrs. C.'sdeath 153 To the Rev. William Bull, June 3, 1783. With stan- . zas on peace 153 To the Rev. William Unwin, June 8, 1783. Beau- ties of the greenhouse ; character of the Rev. Mr. Bull 153 To the Rev. John Newton, June 13, 1783. On his Review of Ecclesiastical History; the day of judg- ment ; observations of natural phenomena 154 Extraordinary natural phenomena in the summer of 1783 155 De la Lande's explanation of them 155 Earthquakes in Calabria and Sicily 155 To the Rev. John Newton, June 17, 1783. Ministers must not expect to scold men out of their sins — 156 Tenderness an important qualification in a minister 156 To the Rev. John Newton, June 19, 1783. On the Dutch translation of his " Cardiphonia" 156 To the same, July 27, 1783. A country life barren of incident ; Cowper's attachment to his solitude ; praise of Mr. Newton's style as an historian 156 Remarks on the influence of local associations 157 Dr. Johnson's allusion to that subject 157 To the Rev William Unwin, August 4, 1783. Pro- posed inquiry concerning the sale of his Poems ; remarks on English ballads ; anecdote of Cowper's goldfinches 158 To the same, Sept. 7, 1783. Fault of Madame Guion's - writings, too great familiarity in addressing the Deity 159 Vo the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 8, 1783. On Mr. Newtori's and his own recovery from illness ; anec- dote of a clerk in a public office ; ill health of Mr. Scott ; message to Mr. Bacon 159 To the same, Sept. 15, 1783. Cowper's mental suf- ferings 160 To the same, Sept. 23, 1783. On Mr. Newton's re- covery from a fever ; dining with an absent man ; his niche for meditation 160 To the Rev. William Unwin, Sept. 29, 1783. Effect of the weather on health ; comparative happiness of the natural philosopher ; reflections on air-bal- loons 161 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 6, 1783. Religious animosities deplored; more dangerous to the in- terests of religion than the attacks of its adversa- ries ; Cowper's fondness for narratives of vuvages 162 To Joseph Hill, Esq.. Oct. 10, 1783. Cowper declines the discussion of political subjects ; epitaph on sail- ors of the Roval George 163 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 13, 1783. Neglect of American loyalists ; extraordinary donation sent to Lisbon at the time of the great earthquake ; pros- pects of the Americans 163 To the same, Oct. 20, 1783. Remarks on Bacon's monument of Lord Chatham 164 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Oct. 20, 1783. Anticipations of winter 164 Cowper's winter evenings 165 The subject of his poem, "The Sofa," suggested. . . 165 Circumstances illustrative of the origin and progress of "The Task" 165 Extracts from letters to Mr. Bull on that subject 165 Particulars of the time in which "The Task" was composed 165 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 3, 1783. Fire at Ol- ney described 166 To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 10, 1783. On the neglect of old acquaintance ; invitation to Olney ; exercise recommended ; fire at Olney 166 Paf i To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 17, 1783. Humor- ous description of the punishment of a thief at Olney ; dream of an air-balloon 16*. To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 23, 1783. On his opinion of voyages and travels ; Cowper's reading 168 To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 24, 1783. Com- plaint of the neglect of Lord Thurlow ; character of Josephus's History 168 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 30, 1783. Specula- tions on the employment of the antediluvians; the Theological Review 16£ To the same, Dec. 15, 1783. Speculations on the in- vention of balloons ; the East India Bill 170 , To the same, Dec. 27, 1783. Ambition of public men ; dismissal of ministers ; Cowper's sentiments con- cerning Mr. Bacon ; anecdote of Mr. Scott 179 To the Rev. William Unwin, no date. Account of Mr. Throckmorton's invitation to see a balloon filled ; attentions of the Throckmorton family to Cowper and Mrs. Unwin 173 Circumstances which obliged Cowper to relinquish his friendship with Lady Austen . . 174 Hayley's account of this event 174 To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 3, 1784. Dearth of subjects for writing upon at Olney; reflections on the monopoly of the East India Company 175 To Mrs. Hiil, Jan. 5, 1784. Requesting her to send some books • 176 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Jan. 8, 1784. On his political letters ; low state of the public funds 17f To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 18, 1784. Cowper's religious despondency; remark on Mr. Newton's predecessor 176 To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan., 1784. Proposed alteration in a Latin poem of Mr. Unwin's ; re- marks on the bequest of a cousin; commenda- tions on Mr. Unwin's conduct ; on newspaper praise 177 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 25, 1784. Cowper's sentiments on East India patronage and East India dominion 178 State of our Indian possessions at that time 178 Moral revolution effected there 171 Latin lines by Dr. Jortin, on the shortness of human life 17 Cowper's translation of them 17. To the Rev. John Newton, Feb., 1784. On Mr. New- ton's •' Review of Ecclesiastical History ;" proposed title and motto ; Cowper declines contributing to a Review 179 To the same, Feb. 10, 1784. Cowper's nervous state ; comparison of himself with the ancient poets; his hypothesis of a gradual declension in vigor from Adam downwards 179 To the same, Feb., 1784. The thaw ; kindness of a benefactor to the poor of Olney ; Cowper's politics, and those of a reverend neighbor ; projected trans- lation of Caraccioli on self-acqUaintance 180 To the Rev. William Bull, Feb. 22, 1784. Unknown benefactor to the poor of Qlney ; political profes- sion 180 To the Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 29, 1784. On Mr. Unwin's acquaintance with Lord Petre ; unknown benefactor to the poor of Olney ; diffidence of a modest man on extraordinary occasions 181 To the Rev. John Newton, March 8, 1784. The The- ological Miscellany ; abandonment of the intended translation of Caraccioli 182 To the same, March 11, 1784. Remarks on Mr. New- ton's " Apology ;" East India patronage and do- minion 182 To the same, March 15, 1784. Cowper's habitual despoudence ; verse his favorite occupation, and why ; Johnson's " laves of ihe Poets" 183 To the same, March 19, 1784. Works of the Mar- quis Caraccioli ; evening occupations 184 To the Rev. William Unwin, March 21, 1784. Cow- per's sentiments on Johnson's "Lives of the Po- ets ;" characters of the poets 184 To the Rev. John Newton, March 29, 1784. Visit of a candidate and his train to Cowper ; angry preaching of Mr. S 185 To the same, April, 1784. Remarks on divine wrath ; destruction in Calabria 186 Effects of the earthquakes, and total loss of human lives 186 To the Rev. William Unwin, April 5, 1784. Charac- ter of Beattie and Blair ; speculation on the origin of speech 181 To the same, April 15, 1784. Further remarks on CONTENTS. Page Clair's u Lectures ;" censure of a particular obser- vation in that book 187 Vo the same, April S3, 1784. Lines to the memory of a halvbutt 188 ?0 the Rev. John Newton, April 26, 1784. Re- marks on Beattie and on Blair's " Lectures ;" economy of the county candidates, and its conse- quences 188 I'o the Rev. William Unwin, May 3, 1784. Reflec- tions on face-painting ; innocent in French women, but immoral in English 189 i'o the same, May b 1784. Cowper's reasons for not writing a sequel to John Gilpin, and not wishing that ballad to appear with his Poems; progress made in printing them 190 Vo the Rev. John .Newton, May 10, 1784. Conver- sion of Dr. Johnson ; unsuccessful attempt with a balloon at Throckmorton's 191 Circumstances attending Dr. Johnson's conversion. . 191 To the Rev. John Xewton. May 22, 1784. On Dr. Joiinson's opinion of Cowper's u Poems ;" Mr. Bull and his refractory pupils 192 To the same, June 5, 1784. On the opinion of Cow- per's u Poems" attributed to Dr. Johnson 192 To the Rev. John Xewton, June 21, 1784. Commem- oration nf Handel : unpleasant summer ; character of Mr. and Mrs. Unwin 192 To the Rev. William Unwin. July 3, 1784. Severity of the weather ; its effects on vegetation 193 To the Rev. John Xewton, July 5, 1784. Reference to a passage in Homer ; could the wise men of an- tiquity have believed in the fables of the heathen mythology ? Cowper's neglect of politics ; his hos- tility to the tax on candles 193 To the Rev. William Unwin, July 12, 1784. Remarks on a line in Vincent Bourne's Latin poems : draw- ing of Mr. Unwin's house ; Hume's " Essav on Sui- cide" ". 194 To the same, July 13, 1784. Latin Dictionary ; an- imadversions on the tax on candles; musical ass.. 195 To the Rev. John Xewton, July 14, 1784. Commem- oration of Handel 196 Mr. Newton's sermon on that subject .' 196 To the Rev. John Xewton. July 19, 1784. The world compared with Bedlam " 196 To the same, July 28. 1784. On Mr. Xewton's in- tended visit to the Rev. Mr. Gilpin at Lymington ; his literary adversaries 197 To the Rev.Wm. Unwin, Aug. 14, 1784. Reflections on travelling ; Cowper'a visits to Weston ; differ- ence of character in the inhabitants of the South Sea islands ; cork supplements ; franks 197 Original mode of franking, and reasons for the adop- tion of the present method 198 ''o the Rev. John Xewton. August 16, 1784. Pleas- ures of Olney ; ascent of a balloon ; excellence of the Friendly islanders in dancing 198 To the Rev. William Unwin. Sept. 11, 1784. Cow- per's progress in his new volume of poems ; opin- ions of a visitor on his first volume 199 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Sept. 11, 1784. Character of Dr. Cotton 199 To the Rev. John Xewton. Sept. 18, 1784. Alteration of franks ; Cowper's greenhouse ; his enjoyment of natural sounds 200 To the Rev. William Unwin. Oct. 2. 17>4. Punctua- tion of poetry ; visit to Mr. Throckmorton 200 To the Rev. j'ohn Xewton. Oct. 9, 1784. Cowper maintains not only that his thoughts are uncon- nected, but that frequently he does not think at all; remarks on the character and death of Captain Cook 201 To the Rev. William Unwin, Oct. 10, 1784. With the manuscript of the new volume of his Poems, and remarks on them 202 To the same, Oct. 20, 1784. Instructions respecting a publisher, and corrections in his Poems 203 To the Rev. John Xewton, Oct. 22, 1784. Remarks en Knox's Essays 204 To the same, Oct. 30, 1784. Heroism of the Sand- wich islanders; Cowper informs Mr. Xewton of his intention to publish a new volume 204 To the Rev. William Unwin, Nov. 1, 1784. Cow- per's reasons for not earlier acquainting Mr. New- ton with his intention of publishing again; he /esolves to include " John Gilpin" 205 To Joseph Hill, Esq.. Nov.. 1784. On the death of Mr. Hill's mother ; Cowper's recollections of his own mother : departure of Lady Austen ; his new ▼chime of Po«ras 206 Pag« To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 27, 1784. Sketch of the contents and purpose of his new volume. . . 201 To the Rev. William Unwin, Olney, 1784. On the transmission of his Poems ; effect of medicines on the composition of poetry 207 To the same, Nov. 29, 1784. Substance of his last ' letter to Mr. Xewton 207 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 4, 1784. Aerial vovages. 208 To the Rev. John Xewton, Dec*. 13, 1784. On the versification and titles of his new Poems ; propri- ety of using the word worm for serpent 20^ Passages in Milton and Shakespeare in which worm is so used 20| To the Rev. William Unwin, Dec. 18. 1784. Balloon travellers ; inscription to his new poem ; reasons for complimenting Bishop Bagot 208 To the Rev. John N T ewton, Christmas-eve, 1784. Cowper declines giving a new title to his new vol- ume of Poems; remarks on a person lately de- • ceased 210 General remarks on the particulars of Cowper's per- sonal history 219 Remarks on the completion of the second volume of Cowper's Poems 211 Gibbon's record of his feelings on the conclusion of bis History- 211 Moral drawn from the evanescence of life 211 To the Rev. John Xewton. Jan. 5, 1785. On the re- nouncement of the Christian character; epitaph on Dr. Johnson 21i To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, Jan. 15, 1785. On delay in letter-writing ; sentiments of Rev. Mr. Xewton ; Coyvper's contributions to the Gentleman's Maga- zine ; Lunardi's narratiy e 212 Explanations respecting Cowper's poem, entitled "The Poplar Field" 213 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Jan. 22, 1785. Breaking up of the frost : anticipations of proceedings in Parlia- ment 213 To the Rev. William Unwin, Feb. 7, 1785. Pro- gress of Cowper's second volume of Poems; his pieces in the Gentleman's Magazine; sentiments of a neighboring nobleman and gentleman re- specting Coyvper 213 To the Rev. John Xewton. Feb. 19, 1785. An inge- nious bookbinder ; poverty at Olney ; severity of the late winter ' 214 To Joseph Hill. Esq., Feb. 27. 1785. Inquiry con- cerning his health, and account of bis own 215 To the Rev. John Newton, March 19, 1785. Uses and description of an old card table ; want of ex- ercise dering the winter ; petition against conces- sions to Ireland 215 To the Rev. William Unwin. March 20, 1785. Re- marks on a nobleman's eye ; progress of his new volume; political reflections: cefebritv of "John Gilpin''.. 216 To the Rev. John Xewton, April 9, 1785. On the prediction of a destructive earthquake, by a Ger- man ecclesiastic ■ 211 To the same, April 22, 1785. On the popularity of "John Gilpin" 217 To the Rev. William Unwin, April 30, 1785. On the celebrity of "John Gilpin;" progress of Cowper's new volume ; Mr. Newton's sentiments in regard to him ; mention of some old acquaintances ; dis- covery of a bird's nest in a gate-post 21" To the Rev. John Xewton. May. 17>5. Sudden death of Mr. Ashburner ; remarks on the state of Cow- per's mind ; reference to his first acquaintance with Newton 218 To the same, June 4, 1785. Character of the Rev. Mr. Greatheed ; completion of Cowper'a new vol- ume ; Bacon's monument to Lord Chatham 221 To Joseph Hill, Esq.. June 25, 1785. Cowper's sum- mer-house ; dilatoriness of his bookseller 221 To the Rev. John Xewton, June 25. 1785. Allusion to the mental depression under which Cowper la- bored ; Xathan's last moments ; complaint of Johnson's delay ; effects of drought ; tax on gloves 221 To the s -ne, July 9, 1785. Mention of letters in praise oi his Poems : conduct of the Lord Chancel- lor and G. Colman ; reference to the commemora- tion of Handel ; cutting; down of the spinnev 222 To the Rev. William Unwin. July 27, 1785. Violent thunder-storm; courage of a dog; on the love of Christ 223 To the Rev. John Xewton. Aug. 6, 1785. Feelings on the subject of authorship ; reasons for introducing John Gilnin in his new volume 234 CONTENTS. Page To the Rev. John Newton, Aug. 17, 1785. Reasons for not writing to Mr. Bacon; Dr. Johnson's Di- ary; illness of Mr. Perry 225 Character of Dr. Johnson's Diary 226 Extracts from it 227 Arguments for the necessity of conversion 227 Tohnson's neglect of the Sabbath 227 Testimony of Sir'William Jones respecting the Holy Scriptures 228 To the Rev. William Unwin, Aug. 27, 1785. Thanks for presents ; his second volume of Poems ; re- marks on Dr. Johnson's Journal ; claims of who and that 228 To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 24, 1785. Recollec- tions of Southampton; recovery of Mr. Perry; pro- posed Sunday School 229 Origin of Sunday Schools 230 Their utility ......... 230 Sentiments of the late Rev. Andrew F\dler on the Bible Society and on Sunday Schools 230 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Oct. 11, 1785. Cowper excuses " himself for not visiting Wargrave ; on his printed epistle to Mr. Hill 231 Renewal of Cowper's intimacy with his cousin, Lady Hesketh • 231 To Lady Hesketh, Oct. 12, 1785. Recollections re- vived by her letter ; account of his own situation ; allusion to his uncle's health ; necessity of mental employment for himself 231 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 16, 1785. On the death of Miss Cunningham ; expected removal of the Rev. Mr. Scott from Olney ; Mr. Jones, stew- ard of Lord Peterborough burned in effigy 232 To the Rev. William Unwin, Oct. 22, 1785. Pro- gress of his translation of Homer ; course of read- ing recommended for Mr. Unwin's son 233 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 5, 1285. On his tar- diness in writing; remarks on Mr. N.'s narrative of his life ; strictures on Mr. Heron's critical opin- ions of Virgil and the Bible ; lines addressed by Cowper to Heron 234 Remarks on Heron's " Letters on Literature" 235 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 7, 1785. On the interrup- tions experienced by men of business from the idle 235 To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 9, 1785. Reference to his poems ; he signifies his acceptance of her offer of pecuniary aid ; his translation of Homer ; descrip- tion of his person 236 To the same, without date. His feelings towards her ; allusion to his translation of Homer 237 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Nov. 9, 1785. On Bishop Bagot's charge 237 To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 3, 1785. Causes which led him to undertake the translation of Ho- mer ; visit from Mr. Bagot ; renewal of his corre- spondence with Lady Hesketh ; complains of indi- gestion 238 To the same, Dec. 10, 1785. On the favorable re- . ?orts of his last volume of poems; censure of ope's Homer 239 To the Rev. William Unwin, Dec. 24, 1785. On his translation of Homer 239 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 24, 1785. On his transla- tion of Homer 240 To the Rev. William Unwin, 1 jc. 31, 1785. On his negotiation with Johnson respecting the Transla- tion of Homer ; want of bedding among the poor of Olney . v 240 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 10, 1786. His consciousness of defects in his poems ; on his Translation of Homer 241 To the Rev. William Unwin, Jan. 14, 1786. On Mr. Unwin's introduction to Lady Hesketh ; specimen of Cowper's translation of Homer, sent to General Cowper ; James's powder ; what is a friend good for ? unreasonable censure 242 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 14, 1788. On his translation of Homer 242 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 15, 1786. Explana- tion of the delay in the publication of his propo- sals ; allusion to Bishop Bagot 242 To the same, Jan. 23, 1786. Dr. Maty's intended re- view of " The Task ;" Dr. Cyril Jackson's opinion of Pope's Homer 243 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 31, 1786. Acknowledgment of presents from Anonymous ; state of his health ; progress of his translation of Homer; correspond- ence with General Cowper 243 To the same, Feb. 9, 1786. Anticipations of a visit Page from her ; description of the vestibul ; of his resi- dence 244 To the same, Feb. 11, 1786. He announces that he has sent off to her a portion of his translation of Homer; effect of,criticisms on his health ; promise of Thurlow to Cowper 245 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 18, 1786. On their correspondence ; his translation of Homer ; pro- posed mottoes 246 To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 19, 1786. Preparations for her expected visit ; character of Homer ; criticism on Cowper's specimen 247 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Feb. 27, 1786. Condo- lence on the death of his wife , 148 To Lady Hesketh, March 6, 1786. On elisions in his Homer ; progress of the work 248 To the Rev: W. Unwin, March 13, 1786. Character of the critic to whom he had submitted his Homer 249 To the Rev. John Newton, April 1, 1786. Expected visitors 249 To Joseph Hill, Esq., April 5, 1786. Reasons for de- clining to make any apology for his translation of Homer 250 Motives which induced Cowper to undertake a new version 250 To Lady Hesketh, April 17, 1786. Description of the vicarage at Olney, where lodgings had been taken for her; Mrs. Unwin's sentiments towards her ; letter from Anonymous ; his early acquaint- ance with Lord Thurlow 250 To Lady Hesketh, April 24, 1786. On her letters; ' anticipations of her coming ; General Cowper 25] To the same, May 8, 1786. On Dr. Maty's censure of Cowper's translation of Homer ; Colman's opin- ion of it ; Cowper's stanzas on Lord Thurlow ; in- vitation to Olney ; specimen of Maty's animadver- sions ; recommendation of a house at Weston ; blunder of Mr. Throckmorton's bailiff; recovery of General Cowper 252 To the same, May J 5, 1786. Anticipations of her ar- rival at Olney ; proposed arrangements for the oc- casion; presumed motive of Maty's censures; confession of ambition 254 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, May 20, 1786. His trans- lation of Homer ; reasons for not adopting Horace's maxim about publishing, to the letter 255 Secret sorrows of Cowper 256 To the Rev. John Newton, May 20, 1786. Cowper's unhappy state of mind ; his connexions 256 Remarks oh Cowper's depression of spirit • 257 Delusion of supposing himself excluded from the mercy of God 25' Religious consolation recommended in cases of dis- ordered intellect 258 To Lady Hesketh, May 25, 1786. Delay of her com- ing ; visit to a house at Weston ; the Throckmor- tons; anecdote of a quotation from "The Task;" nervous affections - 25fi To the same, May 29, 178fi. Delay of her coming ; preparations for it ; allusion to his fits of dejec- tion 259 To the same, June 4 and 5, 1786. Cowper rallies her on her fears of their expected meeting ; dinner at Mr. Throckmorton's 260 To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 9, 1786. Relapse of the Lord Chancellor ; renewal of correspondence with Colman ; the Nonsense Club ; expectation of Lady Hesketh's arrival 261 Arrival of Lady Hesketh at Omey 261 Influence of that event on Cowper 261 Extract from a letter from him to Mr. Bull 262 Description of a thunder-storm, from a letter to the same 262 Cowper's House at Olney 262 His intimacy with Mr. Newton 262 His pious and benevolent habits 262 He removes from Olney to the Lodge at Weston 263 His acquaintance with Samuel Rose, Esq., and the late Rev. Dr. Johnson 263 To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 19, 1786. His intended removal from Olney 26$ To the Rev. John Newton, June 22, 1786. His em- ployments ; interruption given to them by Lady Hesketh's arrival ; Newton's Sermons 26J-1 To the Bev. Wm. Unwin, July 3, 1766. Lady Hes- keth's arrival and character ; state of his old abode and descriptionof the new one at Weston; books recommended for Mr. Unwin's son 264 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, July 4, 1786. Particulars relative to the trar.slati in of Homer ••• rv,f CONTENTS xis Page To the Rev. John Newton, Aug. 5, 1786. His intend- ed removal from Olney ; its unhealthy situation ; his unhappy state of mind ; comfort of Lady Hes- keth's presence 265 Cowper's spirits not affected apparently by his men- tal maladv : .*» 266 To the Rev. William Unwin, Aug. 24, 1786. Pro- gress of his Translation ; the Throckmortons 266 To the same, without date. His lyric productions ; recollections of boyhood 267 Extract of a letter to the Rev. Mr. Unwin 267 Lines addressed to a young lady on her birth-day. . . 267 Proposed plan of Mr. Unwin for checking sabbath- breaking and drunkenness 267 To the Rev. Wm. Unwin, no date. Cowper's opin- ion of the inutility of Mr. Unwin's efforts 267 Exhortation to perseverance in a good cause 268 Hopes of present improvement 268 To the Rev. William Unwin, no date. State of the national affairs 269 To the same, no date. Character of Churchill's po- etry '• • 269 To the same, no date. Cowper's discovery in the Register of poems long composed and forgotten bvhim 270 To the Rev. Walter Bajrot, Aug. 31, 1786. Defence of elisions ; intended removal to Weston 270 To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 30, 1786. Defence of his and Mrs. Unwin's conduct 271 Explanatory remarks on the preceding letter 272 Amiable spirit and temper of Newton 272 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Oct. 6, 1786. Loss of the MS. of part of his translation 273 'Jowper's removal to Weston 273 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Nov. 17, 1786'. On his re- moval from Olney ; invitation to Weston 273 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 17, 1786. Excuse for delay in writing ; his new residence ; affection for his old abode 273 To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 26, 1786. Comforts of his new residence ; the cliffs ; his rambles 274 Unexpected death of the Rev. Mr. Unwin 2?5 To Lady Hesketh, Dec. 4, 1786. On the death of Mr. Unwin 275 To the same, Dec. 9, 1786. On a singidar circum- stance-relating to an intended pupil of Mr. Unwin's 275 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 9, 1786. Death of Mr. Unwin ; Cowper's new situation at Weston 276 To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 16, 1786. Death of Mr. Unwin ; forlorn state of his old dwelling 276 To Lady Hesketh, Dec. 21, 1786. Cowper's opinion of praise ; Mr. Throckmorton's chaplain 277 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 3, 1787. Reasons why a translator of Homer should not be calm ; praises of his works ; death of Mr. Unwin 277 Cowper has a severe attack of nervous fever 278 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 8, 1787. State of his health ; proposal of General Cowper respecting his Ho- mer; letter from Mr. Smith M. P. for Nottingham; Cowper's song of u The Rose" reclaimed by him 278 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 13, 1787. inscription for Mr. Unwin's tomb ; government of Providence in his poetical labors 279 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 18, 1787. Suspension of his translation by fever; his sentiments respecting dreams ; visit of Mr. Rose 279 To Samuel Rose, Esq., July 24, 1787. On Burns' poems 280 Remarks on Bums and his poetry 280 Passages from his poems 281 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Aug. 27, 1787. Invitation to Weston ; state of Cowper's health ; remarks on Barclay's " Argenis," and on Burns 281 To Lady Hesketh, August 30, 1787. Improvement in his health ; kindness of the Throckmortons 282 To the same, Sept. 4, 1787. Delay of her coming ; Mrs. TLi ockmorton's uncle ; books read by Cow- per 282 To the same, Sept. 15, 1787. His meeting with her friend, Miss J ; new gravel-walk 283 To the same, Sept. 29, 1787. Remarks on the rela- tive situation of Russia and Turkey 283 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 2, 1787. Cowper confesses that for thirteen years he doubted Mr. N.'s identity ; acknowledgments for the kind offers of the Newtons ; preparations for Lady Hesketh's coming 284 to Samuel Rose, Esq., Oct. 19, 1787. State of his health ; strength of local attachments 284 to the Fev John Newton, Oct. 20, 1787. His miser- Pag able state during his recent indisposition ; petition to Lord Dartmouth in behalf of the Rev. Mr. Pos- tlethwaite 285 To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 10, 1787. On the delay of her coming ; Cowper's kitten ; changes of weather foretold by a leech 283 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 16, 1787. On his own present occupation 281 To Lady Hesketh, Nov. 27, 1787. Walks and scenes about Weston ; application from a parish clerk for a copy of verses ; papers in " The Lounger ;" anec- dote of a beggar and vermicelli soup 28C To the same, Dec. 4, 1787. Character of the Throck- mortons 287 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Dec. 6, 1787. Visit to Mr. B.'s sister at Chichely ; Bishop Bagot; a case of ridiculous distress 28 ? To Lady Hesketh, Dec. 10, 1787. Progress of his Homer ; changes in life 288 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Dec. 13, 1787. Requisites in a translator of Homer 288 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 1, 1788. Extraordinary co'in- cfdence between a piece of his own and one of Mr. Merry's ; " The Poet's New Year's Gift ;" compul- sory inoculation for small-pox 289 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 5, 1788. Translation of the commencing lines of the Iliad by Lord Ba- got ; revisal of Cowper's translation ; the clerk's verses 290 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 19, 1788. His engagement with Homer prevents the production of occasional poems ; remarks on a new print of Bunbury's 290 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 21, 1788. Reasons for not writing to him; expected arrival of the Rev. Mr. Bean ; changes of neighboring ministers ; narrow escape of Mrs. Unwin from being burned. • 291 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 30, 1788. His anxiety on ac- count of her silence 292 To the same, Feb. 1, 1788. Excuse for his melan- choly ; his Homer ; visit from Mr. Greatheed 292 Causes of Cowper's correspondence with Mrs. King 293 To Mrs. King, Feb. 12, 1788. Reference to his de- ceased brother ; he ascribes the effect produced by his poems to God 293 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 14, 1788. A sense of the value of time the best security for its improve- ment ; Mr. C ; brevity of human life illustrated by Homer 294 Commencement of the efforts for the abolition of the slave trade 294 To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 16, 1788. On negro slavery ; Hannah More's poem on the Slave Trade ; extract from it ; advocates of the abolition of slavery ; trial of Warren Hastings 294 To the same, Feb. 22, 1788. Remarks on Burke's speech impeaching Warren Hastings, and on the duty of public accusers % . . . 296 To the Rev. John Newton, March 1, 1788. Excuse for a lapse of memory in regard to a letter of Mr. Bean's 296 To the same, March 3, 1788. Arrival of Mr. Bean at Olney ; Cowper's correspondence with Mrs. King 296 To Mrs. King, March 3, 1788. Brief history of his own life 297 To Lady Hesketh, March 3, 1788. Catastrophe of a fox-chase ; Cowper in at the death 298 To the same, March 12, 1788. Remarks on Hannah More's works, and on Wilberforce's book; the Throckmortons.... 298 Cowper is solicited to write in behalf of the negroes 299 To General Cowper, 1787. Songs written by him on the condition of negro slaves 299 " The Mornkig Dream," a ballad *. . . . 299 Efforts for the abolition of the slave trade 300 Wilberforce, the liberator of Africa 300 Cowper's ballads on negro slavery 300 The negro's Complaint 300 The question why Great Britain should be the first to sacrifice interest to humanity answered by Cow- per 300 Lines from Goldsmith's "Traveller," on the Eng- lish character 301 Exposition of the cruelty and injustice of the slave trade, by Granville Sharp 301 Proof of the slow progress of truth 301 Extracts from Cowper's poems on negro slavery 302 Case of Somerset, a slave, and Lord Mansfield's judg- ment 309 Final abolition of slavery by Great Britain, and efforts making for the religious instruction of the negroes 309 CONTENTS. Page Probability that Africa may be enlightened by their means 303 Cowper's lines on the blessings of spiritual liberty. . 303 Letter to Mrs. Hill, March 17, 1788. Thanks for a present of a turkey and ham ; Mr. Hill's indisposi- tion ; inquiry concerning Cowper's library 303 To the Rev. John Newton, March 17, 1788. With a Song, written, at Mr. N.'s request, for Lady Bal- gonie 304 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, March 29, 1788. Coldness of the spring ; remarks on " The Manners of the Great ;" progress of his Homer 304 To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 29, 1788. He express- es his wonder that his company should be desira- ble to Mr. R. ; Mrs. Unwin's character ; acknowl- edges the receipt of some books ; Clarke's notes on Homer ; allusion to his own ballads on negro slavery ». • ■ ■ 305 To Lady Hesketh, March 31, 1788. He makes men- tion of his song, "The Morning Dream; 1 ' allusion to Hannah More on the u Manners of the Great". . 305 Character of and extracts from Mrs. More's work. . . 306 To Mrs. King, April 11, 1788. Allusion to his melan- choly, and necessity for constant employment ; im- probability of their meeting 306 To the Rev. John Newton, April 19, 1788. Remarks on the conduct of government in regard to the Slavery Abolition question 307 To Lady Hesketh, May 6, 1788. Smollett's Don Quixotte ; he thanks her for the intended present of a box for letters and papers ; renewal of his cor- respondence with Mr. Rowley ; remarks on the ex- pression, " As great as two inkle-weavers" 307 To Joseph Hill, Esq.. May 8, 1788. Lament for the loss of his library; progress of his Homer 308 To Lady Hesketh, May 12, 1788. Mrs. Montagu and the Blue-Stocking Club ; his late feats in walking 308 To Joseph Hill, Esq., May 24, 1788. Thanks for the ■ present of prints of the Lacemaker and Crazy Kate ; family of Mr. Chester ; progress of Homer ; antique bust of Paris 309 To the Rev. William B ull, May 25, 1788. He declines the composition of hymns, which Mr. B. had urged him to undertake 309 To Lady Hesketh, May 27, 1788. His lines on Mr. Henry Cowper ; remarks on Mrs. Montagu's Essay on the Genius of Shakespeare ; antique head of Paris ; remarks on the two prints sent him by Mr. Hill 310 To the same, June 3, 1788. Sudden change of the weather ; remarks on the advertisement of a dan- cing-master of Newport-Pagnell 310 To the Rev. John Newton, June 5, 1788. His writ- ing engagements ; effect of the sudden change of the weather on his health ; character of Mr. Bean ; visit from the Powleys; he declines writing fur- ther on the slave-trade ; invitation to Weston ; verses on Mrs. Montagu 311 To Joseph Hill, Esq., June 8, 1788. On the death of his uncle, Ashley Cowper 312 To Lady Hesketh, June 10, 1788. On the death of her father, Ashley Cowper ... 312 To the same, June 15, 1788. Recollections of her father 312 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, June 17, 1788. Coldness of the season ; reasons for declining to write on slavery ; contrast between the awful scenes of na- ture and the horrors produced by human passions 313 To Mrs. King, June 19, 1788. He excuses his silence on account of inflammation of the eyes ; sudden change of weather ; reasons why we are not so hardy as our forefathers ; his opinion of Thomson, the poet 313 To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 23, 1788. Apology for an unanswered letter; providence of God in re- gard to the weather ; visitors at Weston ; brevity of human life 314 J'o the Rev. John Newton, June 24, 1788. Difficul- ties experienced by Mr. Bean in enforcing a stricter observance of the Sabbath at Olney ; remarks on the slave-trade 315 To Lady Hesketh, June 27, 1788. Anticipations of her next visit; allusion to Lord Thurlow's prom- ise to provide for him ; anecdote of his dog Beau ; remarks on his ballads on slavery 316 rhe Dog and the Water Lily 317 o Joseph Hill, Esq., July 6, 1788. He gives Mr. H. notice that he has drawn on him ; allusion to an engagement of Mr. H.'s 317 o Lady Hesketh, July 28, 1788. Her Went at de- Page scription; the liine-walk at Weston; remarks on the "Account of Five Hundred Living Authors".. 317 To the same, August 9, 1788. Visitors at Weston ; motto composed by Cowper for the king's clock . . 314 To Samuel Rose, Esq., August 18, 1788. Circum- stances of their parting ; he recommends Mr. R. to take due care of himself in his pedestrian jour- neys ; strictures on Lavater's Aphorisms 318 Remarks on physiognomy and on the merits of La- vater as the founder of the Orphan House at Zu- rich Note 319 To Mrs. King, August 28, 1788. He playfully guesses at Mrs. King's figure and features — 3*fl To the Rev. John Newton, Sept. 2, 1788. Reference to Mr. N.'s late visit ; his own melancholy state of mind ; Mr. Bean's exertions for suppressing public houses 3xJ To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 11, 1788. Remarkable oak; lines suggested by it; exhortation against bashfulness 320 To Mrs. King, Sept. 25, 1788. Thanks for presents ; invitation to Weston-... 321 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 25, 1788. A riddle ; su- perior talents no security for propriety of conduct; progress of Homer ; Mrs. Throckmorton's bullfinch 321 To Mrs. King, Oct. 11, 1788. Account of his occu- pations at different periods of his life 322 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 29, 1788. Declin- ing state of Jenny Raban ; Mr. Greatheed 223 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Nov. 30, 1788. Vincent Bourne ; invitation to Weston 323 To Mrs. King, Dec. 6, 1788. Excuse for not being punctual in writing; succession of generations; Cumberland's " Observer" 324 To the Rev. John Newton. Dec. 9, 1788. Mr. Van Lier's Latin MS. ; Lady Hesketh and the Throck- mortons ; popularity of Mr. C. as a preacher 324 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Jan. 19, 1789. Local helps to memory ; Sir John Hawkins' book 325 To the same, Jan. 24, 1789. Accidents generally oc- cur when and where we least expect them 325 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 29, 1789. Excuse for * irregularity in correspondence ; progress of Ho- mer ; allusion to political affairs 325 To Mrs. King, Jan. 29, 1789. Thanks for presents ; Mrs. Unwin's fall in the late frost ; distress of the Royal Family on the state of the King, and anec- dote of the Lord Chancellor 323 To the same, March 12, 1789. Excuse for long si- lence, and for not having sent, according to prom- ise, all the small pieces he had written ; his poem on the King's recovery 32f To the same, April 22, 1789. He informs Mrs. K. that he has a packet of poems ready for her ; his verses on the Queen's visit to London on the night of the illuminations for the King's recovery ; disappoint- ment on account of her not coming to Weston; Twining's translation of Aristotle 327 To the same, April 30, 1789. Thanks for presents ; his brother's poems 328 To Samuel Rose, Esq., May 20, 1789. Reference to his lines on the Queen's visit; character of Haw- kins Brown 328 To Mrs. King, May 30, 1789. He acknowledges the receipt of a packet of papers ; reference to his poem on the Queen's visit 329 To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 5, 1789. He commis- sions Mr. R. to buy him a cuckoo-clock ; Boswell's Tour to the Hebrides; Hawkins' and Boswell's Life of Johnson 329 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, June 16, 1789. On his marriase; allusion to his poem on the Queen's visit 329 To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 20, 1789. He expresses regret at not receiving a visit from Mr. R. ; ac- knowledges the arrival of the cuckoo-clock ; re- mark on Hawkins' and Boswell's Life of Johnson. 330 To Mrs. Throckmorton, July 18, 1789. Poetic turn of Mr. George Throckmorton ; news concerning the Hall 330 To Samuel Rose, Esq., July 23, 1789. Importance of improving the early years of life ; anticipr, ions of Mr. R.'s visit 330 To Mrs. King. August 1, 1789. Grumbling uf his correspondents on his silence ; his time engrossed by Homer ; he professes himself an admirer of pictures, but no connoisseur 33J To Samuel Rose, Esq., August 8, 1789. Mrs. Piozzi's Travels; remark on the author of the "Dunciad" 331 To Joseph Hill, Esq., August 12, 178">. Unfavorable * CONTENTS Page woather and spoiled hay ; multiplicity of his en- gagements ; Sunday school hymn 332 To the Rev. John Newton, August 16, 1789. Excuse for long silence ; progress of Homer 332 Remarks on Cowper's observation that authors are responsible for their writings 333 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 24, 1789. Coldness of the season 333 To the same, Oct. 4, 1789.. Description of the re- ceipt of a hamper, in the manner of Homer 333 To the Rev. Walter Bagot (without date). Excuse for long silence ; why winter is like a backbiter ; Villoison's Homer ; death of Lord Cowper 334 To the Rev. Walter Bagot (without date). Remarks on Villoison's Prolegomena to Homer 334 Note on the reveries of learned men 335 To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 1, 1789. Apology for not writing; Mrs. Unwin's state of health; reference to political events 335 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 18, 1789. Political reflec- tions 335 Character of the French Revolution 336 Burke on the features which distinguish the French Revolution from that of England in 1688 336 Political and moral causes of the French Revolution 336 Origin of the Revolution in America 337 The Established Church endangered by resistance to the spirit of the age 337 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Jan. 3, 1790. Excuses for si- lence ; inquiry concerning Mr. R.'s health ; labori- ous task of revisal 338 To Mrs. King, Jan 4, 1790. His anxiety on account of her long silence ; his occupations ; Mrs. Unwin's state 338 To the same, Jan. 18, 1790. He contradicts a report that he intends to quit Weston ; reference to his Homer 339 Commencement of Cowper's acquaintance with his cousin the Rev. John Johnson 339 To Lady Hesketh, Jan. 22, 1790. Particulars concern- ing a poem of his cousin Johnson's ; anticipations of the Cambridge critics respecting his Homer 339 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 2, 1790. He impugns the opinion of Bentley that the last Odyssey is spurious 340 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 5, 1790. Account of his painful apprehensions in the month of January 340 To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 9, 1790. Service rendered by her to his cousin Johnson : Cowper's lines on a transcript of an Ode of Horace by Mrs. Throck- morton 341 To the same, Feb. 26, 1790. He promises to send her a specimen of his Homer for the perusal of a lady ; his delight at being presented by a relative with his mother's picture 342 To Mrs. Bodham, Feb. 27, 1790. He expresses his delight at receiving his mother's picture from her ; lines written by him -on the occasion ; recollec- tions of his mother ; invitation to Weston ; re- membrances of other maternal relatives 342 To John Johnson, Esq., Feb. 28, 1790. He refers to the present of his mother's picture ; he mentions his invitation of the family of the Donnes to Wes- ton ; inquiries concerning Mr. J.'s poem 343 To Lady Hesketh, March 8, 1790. On Mis. 's opinion of his Homer; his sentiments on the Test Act; passage from his poems on that subject; ill health of Mrs. Unwin 344 To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 11, 1790. On the state of his health ; he condemns the practice of dissem- bling indispositions 345 To Mrs. King, March 12, 1790. On her favorable opinion of his poems ; his mother's picture and his poem on the receipt of it 345 To Mre. Throckmorton, March 21, 1790. He regrets her absence from Weston ; Mrs. Carter's opinion of his Homer ; his new wig 345 To Lady Hesketh, March 22, 1790. flis opinion of the style best adapted to a translation of Homer. . 346 To John Johnson, Esq., March 23, 1790. Character of tne Odyssey ; Cowper professes his affection for Mr J 347 lo the same, April 17, 1790. Remark on an innocent deception practised by Mr. J. ; Cowper boasts of his skill in physiognomy, and recommends the study of Greek 347 To Lady Hesketh, April 19 1790. '" His revisal of Homer ; anecdote of a prisoner in the Bastile, and lines on the subject 348 To the same April 30, 1790. Message to Bishop Page Madan ; remarks on General Cowper's approbation of his picture verses 348 To Joseph Hill, Esq., May 2, 1790. On the approach- ing termination of his employment with Homer.. . 348 To Mrs. Throckmorton, May 10, 1790. Humorous account of a boy sent with letters to her in Berk- shire ; Cowper's adventure with a dog 348 To Lady Hesketh, May 28, 1790. He declines the offer of her services to procure him the place of poet laureat 340 To the same, June 3, 1790. He is applied to by a Welshman to get him made poet laureat 349 To John Johnson, Esq., June 7, 1790. Advice to Mr. J. on his future plans and studies ; with re- marks on Cowper's strictures on the University of Cambridge 349 Remarks on Cowper's exhortation respecting the di- vinity of the glorious Reformation 35L To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 8, 1790. Congratulations on his intended marriage ; proposed riddle 350 To Mrs. King, June 14, 1790. His literary occupa- tions ; state of Professor Martyn's health ; ill health of Mrs. Unwin 351 To Lady Hesketh, June 17, 1790. Grievance of going a-visiting ; his envy of a poor old woman ; inscriptions for two oak plantations 351 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, June 22, 1790. Snakes and ants of Africa ; Bishop Bagot and his mutinous clergy 352 To Mrs. Bodham, June 29, 1790. Anticipations of a visit from her 352 To Lady Hesketh, July 7, 1790. State of Mrs. Unwin ; remarks on the abolition of ranks by the French.. 353 To John Johnson, Esq., July 8, 1790. Recommen- dation of music as an amusement ; expected visit from Mr. J. and his sister 354 To Mrs. King, July 16, 1790. On their recent visit to Weston; reference to his own singularities; re- grets for the distance between them 354 To John Johnson, Esq., July 31, 1790. Warning against carelessness and shyness; proposed em- ployments and amusements 354 To the Rev. John Newton, Aug. 11, 1790. On the state of Mrs. Newton's health ; he refers to his own state, and declines the offer of trying the effect of animal magnetism 355 To Mrs. Bodham, Sept. 9, 1790. He informs her of the termination of his labors with Homer, and the conveyance of his translation to London by Mr. Johnson 356 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 13, 1790. On his mar- riage ; Cowper's preface to his Homer ; solution of the riddle in a former letter to Mr. R 356 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Sept. 17, 1790. On the list of subscribers to his Homer 357 To Mrs. King, Oct. 5, 1790. On her illness ; allusion to a counterpane which she had presented to him ; reference to the list of subscribers to his Homer, and the time of publication 357 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 15, 1790. On the death of Mrs. Scott ; translation of Van Lier's let- ters ; concern for Mrs. Newton's sufferings 357 To the same, Oct. 26, 1790. His instructions to Johnson, the bookseller, to affix to the first volume of his poems the preface written for it by Mr. N. ; fall of the leaves a token of the shortness of human life 358 On Christian submission to the divine will in regard to life and death 359 To Mrs. Bodham, Nov. 21, 1790. Character of her nephew, Mr. Johnson ; Mrs. Hewitt 359 To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 26, 1790. On the study of jurisprudence ; visit from the Dowager Lady Spencer 359 To Mrs. King, Nov. 29, 1790. On the praises of friends ; his obligations to Professor Martyn ; prog- ress in printing his Homer 360 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Nov. 30, 1790. On his pro- fessional exertions in behalf of a friend ; revisal of proofs of his Homer 360 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Dec. 1, 1790. He retorts the charge of long silence, and boasts of his inten- tion to write ; progress in printing his Homer; his reasons for not soliciting the laureatship 36f. To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 5, 1790. Dying state of Mrs. Newton 36 Remarks on the doubts and fears of Christians 36i To John Johnson, Esq., Dec. 18, 1790. Cambridge subscription for Homer ; progress in printing the work 361 CONTENTS Page To Mrs. King, Dec. 31, 1790. Thanks for the present of a counterpane ; his own indisposition ; his poet- ical operations • . 362 Cow per s verses on the visit of Miss Stapleton to Weston 362 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Jan. 4, 1791. On his own state of health ; on the quantity of syllables in verse 363 To the Rev. John Newton, Jan. 20, 1791. On the death of Mrs. N 363 To John Johnson, Esq., Jan. 21, 1791. He urges Mr. J. to come to Weston ; caution respecting certain sin- gularities 363 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 5, 1791. Thanks for sub- scriptions from Scotland, and for the present of Pope's Homer 364 To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 13, 1791. Influence of a poet's reputation on an innkeeper 364 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Feb. 26, 1791. He play- fully gives Mr. B. leave to find fault with his verses ; his sentiments respecting blank verse 364 To John Johnson, Esq., Feb. 27, 1791. Progress in printing Homer; neglect of his work by Oxford.. 365 To Mrs. King, March 2, 1791. Apology for forget- ting a promise, owing to his being engrossed by Homer ; success of his subscription at Cambridge ; the Northampton dirge 365 To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 6, 1791. Progress in printing his Homer 366 Commencement of Cowper's acquaintance with the Rev. James Hurdis 366 To the Rev. James Hurdis, March 6, 1791. He com- . pliments Mr. H. on his poetical productions ; thanks him for offers of service ; excuses himself from vis- itinghim, and invites him to Weston 366 To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 10, 1791. Simile drawn from French and English prints of subjects in Homer 367 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, March 18, 1791. On Dr. Johnson's taste for poetry ; aptness of Mr. B.'s quo- tations ; Mr. Chester's indisposition 367 To John Johnson, Esq., March 19, 1791. On the poems of Elizabeth Bentley, an untaught female of Norwich 367 To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 24, 1791. On his ap- plication to Dr. Dunbar relative to subscriptions to Cowper's Homer 368 To Lady Hesketh, March 25, 1791. Slight of Horace Walpole ; a night alarm and its effects ; remarks on a book sent by Lady H 368 To the Rev. John Newton, March 29, 1791. Recol- lections of past times ; difference between dreams and realities ; reasons why the occasional pieces which he writes do not reach Mr. N. ; expected visit of his maternal relations ; his mortuary verses 369 To Mrs. Throckmorton, April 1, 1791. On the fail- ure of an attempt in favor of his subscription at Oxford ; remarks on a pamphlet by Mr. T 396 To John Johnson, Esq., April 6, 1791. Thanks for Cambridge subscriptions 370 To Samuel Rose, Esq., April 29, 1791. Subscriptions to his Homer 370 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, May 2, 1791. Progress in printing Homer ; visit from Mr. B.'s nephew ; Mil- ton's Latin poems 370 Dr. Johnson's remark on Milton's Latin poems — 371 To the Rev. Mr. Buchanan, May 11, 1791. On a poem of Mr. B.'s 371 To Lady Hesketh, May 18, 1791. Complaint of her not writing; letter from Dr. Cogswell, of New York, respecting his poems 371 To John Johnson, Esq., May 23, 1791. On his trans- lation of the Battle of the Frogs and the Mice — 371 The Judgment of the Poets, a poem, by Cowper, on the relative charms of May and June 372 To Lady Hesketh, May 27, 1791. Tardiness of the printer of his Homer 372 To John Johnson, Esq., June 1, 1791. He congratu- lates Mr. J. on the period of his labors as a tran- scriber . 372 PART THE THIRD. Observations on Cowper's version of Homer 373 Reasons of his failure in that work to satisfy public expectation 373 Comparative specimens of Pope's and Cowper's ver- sions 374 Pagl To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, June 13, 1791. Completion of his Homer ; their mutual fondness for animals ; a woman's character best learned in domestic life 374 To Samuel Rose, Esq., June 15, 1791. Man an un- grateful animal ; visit from No; folk relations 373 To Dr. James Cogswell, June 15. 1791. Acknowledg- ment of a present of books ; his translation of Ho- mer : books sent by him to Dr. C. 376 To the' Rev John Ne*ton,.June 2-1, 1791. Exhorta- tion to more frequent correspondence ; affectionate remembrance of Mr. N. ; on the recent loss of his wife; value of Homer." 376 To Mrs. Bodham, July 7, 1791. Apology for having omitted to send a letter which he had written ; he declines visiting Norfolk; state of health of her relatives then at Weston 377 To the Rev. John Newton, July 22, 1791. His en- gagement in making corrections for a new edition of Homer ; decline of the Rev. Mr. Venn ; refer- ence to the riots at Birmingham 378 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Aug. 2, 1791. Visit of Lady Baacot ; riots at Birmingham 379 To Mrs. King, Aug. 4, 1791. State of her health ; his own and Mrs. Unwin's ; invitation to Weston ; publication of his Homer 379 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Aug. 9, 1791. His study being liable to all sorts of intrusions, he cannot keep his operations secret ; reason for his dissatis- faction with Pope's Homer ; recommendation of Hebrew studies 38C To John Johnson, Esq., Aug. 9, 1791. Causes for his being then an idle man 380 Cowper undertakes the office of editor of Milton's works 38(1 Regret expressed that he did not devote to original composition the time given to translation 381 Origin of Cowper's acquaintance with Hayley 381 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Sept. 14, 1791. He informs him of his new engagement as editor of Milton. . . 381 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Sept. 21, 1791. Pleasure afforded by Lord Bagot's testimony in favor of his Homer; inquiry concerning persons alluded to in an elegy of Milton's 381 To the Rev. Mr. King, Sept. 23, 1791. On Mrs. K.'s indisposition 382 To Mrs. King, Oct. 21, 1791. Congratulation on her recovery ; he contends that women possess much more fortitude than men ; he acquaints her with his new engagement on Milton 382 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Oct. 25, 1791. Visit of Mr. Chester ; poem of Lord Bagot's ; condemnation of a remark of Wharton's respecting Milton 383 To John Johnson, Esq., Oct. 31, 1791. His delight to hear of the improved health of Mr. J. and his sis- ter ; his own state of health ; his new engagement 388 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Nov. 14, 1791. On compound epithets; progress in his translation of Milton's Latin poems 384 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 16, 1791. Apology for not sending a poem which Mr. N. had asked for ; Mr. N.'s visit to Mrs. Hannah More ; her sis- ter's application for Cowper's autograph ; Cowper regrets that he had never seen a mountain; his engagement on TVnlton 384 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Dec. 5, 1791. Expectation of a new edition of his Homer; he defends a pas- sage in it ; his engagement upon Milton 385 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Dec. 10, 1791. His engage- ment upon Milton 385 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Dec. 21, 1791. Sudden seiz- ure of Mrs. Unwin 388 Cowper's affliction on occasion of Mrs. Unwin's at- tack 381 To Mrs. King, Jan. 26, 1792. He describes the cir- cumstances of Mrs. Unwin's alarming seizure ; he asserts that women surpass men in true fortitude ; his engagements 388 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, Feb. 14, 1792. On the in- disposition of Mr. B. and his children ; he professes his intention to avail himself oi all remarks in a new edition of his Homer ; course which he pur- poses to pursue in regard to Milton ; his corre- spondence with the Chancellor 387 To Thomas Park, Esq., Feb. 19, 1792. Acknowledg- ment of the receipt of books sent by him ; he sig- nifies his acceptance of the offer of noti«es relative to Milton 381 To the Rev. John Newton, Feb. 20, 1792. Lines written by him for Mrs. Martha More's Collection of Autographs ; his reply to the demand of more CONTENTS Page original composition ; remarks on the settlement at Botany Bay, and African colonization 388 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Feb. 21, 1792. Reasons for deferring the examination of Homer; progress made in Milton's poems 389 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, March 2, 1792. He expresses his obligations for Mr. H.'s remarks on Homer ; he permits the tragedy of Sir Thomas More to be in- scribed to him 389 To the Rev. John Newton, March 4, 1792. Departure of the Throckraortons from Weston ; his dislike of change - , 389 To Mrs. King, March 8, 1792. On her late indisposi- tion ; testimonies concerning his Homer 390 To Thomas Park, Esq., March 10, 1792. On Mr. P's professional pursuits ; he disclaims a place among the literati ; and asks for a copy of Thomson's mon- umental inscription 390 To John Johnson, Esq., March 11, 1792. He men- tions having heard a nightingale sing on new year's day ; departure of Lady Hesketh ; expected visit of Mr. Rose 391 Verses addressed to " The Nightingale which the au- thor heard on new year's day, 1792" 391 To the Rev. John Newton, March 18, 1792. Ae as- sures Mr. N. that, though reduced to the com- pany of Mrs. Unwin alone, they are both com- fortable 391 To tne Rev. Mr. Hurdis, March 23, 1792. Remarks on Mr. H.'s tragedy of Sir Thomas More 392 To Lady Hesketh, March 25, 1792. Cause of the delay of a preceding letter to her ; detention of Mr. Hayley's letter to Cowper, at Johnson the bookseller's 392 To Thomas Park, Esq., March 30, 1792. Remarks on a poem of Mr. P.'s 393 To Samuel Rose, March 30, 1792. Spends his morn- ings in letter-writing 393 To the same, April 5, 1792. Vexatious delays of printers ; supposed secret enemv 393 To William Hayley, Esq., April fi", 1792. Expected visit of Mr. H. ; Cowper introduces Mrs. Unwin, and advises him to bring books with him, if he should want any 394 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, April 8, 1792. Apology for delay in writing ; reference to Mr. H.'s sisters ; and to an unanswered letter 394 To Joseph Hill, Esq., April 15, 1792. Thanks for a remittance ; satirical stanzas on a blunder in his Homer; progress in Milton 395 To Lady Throckmorton, April 16, 1792. Lady thieves ; report of his being a friend to the slave trade ; means taken by him to refute it 395 Sonnet addressed to William Wilberforce, Esq., and published by Cowper in contradiciton of the report above mentioned 396 Remarks on a report respecting Cowper's sentiments relative to the slave trade 396 Reflections on Popularity 396 Letter to the Rev. J. Jekyll Rye, April 16, 1792. Cowper asserts the falsehood of a report that he was friendly to the slave trade 396 To the Printers of the Northampton Mercury ; on the same subject, with a Sonnet addressed to Mr. Wil- berforce 397 Remarks on the relative merits of rhyme and blank verse, with reference to a translation of Homer. . 397 Cowper's sentiments on the subject, and on transla- tion in general 398 To the Lord Thurlow, on the inconvenience of rhyme in translation 398 Lord Thurlow to William Cowper, Esq. On the value of rhyme in certain kinds of poems ; on metrical translations ; close translation of a pas- sage in Homer 399 To the Lord Thurlow. Vindication of Cowper's choice of blank verse for his translation of Homer ; his version of the passage given by Lord T 400 Lord Thurlow to William Cowper, Esq. On his translation of Homer 401 To the Lord Thurlow. On the same subject 401 Passages from Cowper's translation 401 Facts respecting it 402 To Mr. Johnson, the bookseller, Feb. 11, 1790. Cow- per acknowledges his obligations to Mr. Fuseli, for his remarks on his translation of Homer 402 To the same, Sept. 7, 1790. On the same subject. . . 402 Indignant remonstrance of Cowper's, addressed to Johnson on the alteration of a line in one of his poems 402 Page To Thomas Park, Esq., April 27, 1792. Remarks on some poems of Mr. P.'s, and on his own literary engagement* 403 Marriage of Mr. Courtenay to Miss Stapleton 403 To Lady Hesketh, May 20, 17* Remarks on a supposed change in the climate, with passages from Cowper's translation of a Poem of Milton's on that subject 409 To William Hayley, Esq., June 27, 1792. Intended journey to Eartham ; Catharina, on her marriage to George Courtenay, Esq 410 To the same, July 4, 1792. Suspension of his literary labors ; his solicitude for Mrs. Unwin ; his visit to Weston Hall 410 To the same, July 15, 1792. On the proposed journey to Eartham ; translations from Milton ; portrait of Cowper by Abbot 41? To Thomas Park, Esq., July 20, 1792. On the obsta- cles to his literary engagements ; reference to (Jow- per's drawings, and to the Olney Hymns 411 To William Hayley, Esq., July 22, 1792* Preparations for the journey to Eartham 412 To the Rev. William Bull, July 25, 1792. On his sit- ting to Abbot for his portrait ; his intended journey to Eartham 412 To William Hayley, Esq., July 29, 1792. His terror at the proposed journey ; resemblance of Abbot's portrait 413 To the Rev. John Newton, July 30, 1792. State of Mrs. TTnwin ; intended journey to Eartham ; recol- iectiouc. 4wakened by Mr. N.'s visit to Weston 413 To the Rev. Mr. Greatbeed, Aug. 6, 1792. Account of his journey to Eartham, and situation there 414 To Mrs. Courtenay, Aug. 12, 1792. Particulars of the journey to Eartham, and description of the place. . 414 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Aug. 14, 1792. Invitation to Eartham 415 To the same, Aug. 18, 1792. Cowper wishes him to join the party at Eartham 415 To Mrs. Courtenay, Aug. 25, 1792. Epitaph on Fop ; arrangements for the return to Weston ; state of himself and Mrs. Unwin 41 ¥ To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, A ug. 26, 1792. On the death of his sister ; invitation to Eartham 41i To Lady Hesketh, Aug. 26, 1792. Company at Ear- tham ; his own state and Mrs. Unwin's ; portrait of Cowper by Romnej 416 To Mrs. Charlotte Smith, Sept., 1792. Sympathy of himself and Hayley in her misfortunes ;" remark on an expression in her letter ; state of Mrs. Unwin. . 117 To Lady L.sketh, Sept. 9, 1792. Reasons for prefer- ring Weston to Eartham ; state of Mrs. Unwin ; ar- rangements for their return ; character of Mr. Hurdis 417 Cowper's occupations at Eartham 418 Account of Adreini's Adama, which suggested to Milton the design of his Paradise Lost 418 To Mrs. Courtenay, Sept, 10, 1792. Reference to the French Revolution ; state of Mrs Unwin ; remem- brances to friends at Weston...- 418 2 CONTENTS. Page Departure from Eartham 419 To William Hayley, Esq., Sept. 18, 1792. Cowper's feelings on his departure 419 To the same, Sept. 21, 1792. Particulars of his jour- ney and arrival at Weston 419 To the same, Oct. 2, 1792. Unsuccessful attempt at writing 420 To the same, Oct. 13, 1792. Cowper's impatience for the arrival of Hayley's portrait ; his intention of paying a poetical tribute to Romney 420 To Mrs. King, Oct. 14, 1792. Reference to the visit to Eartham 421 To the Rev. John Newton, Oct. 18, 1792. His em- ployments at Eartham, and indisposition at Wes- ton, urged as an excuse for not writing ; reference to his visit to Hayley 421 To John Johnson, Esq., Oct. 19, 1792. On his ex- pected visit ; Cowper's unfitness for writing 422 To John Johnson, Esq., Oct. 22, 1792. Reflections on J.'s sitting for his picture ." 422 To William Hayley, Esq., Oct. 28, 1792. Cowper com- plains of his unfitness for literary labor, and the grievance that Milton is to him ; sonnet addressed to Romney 422 To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 5, 1792. Cowper's opin- ion of his Homer 422 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Nov. 9, 1792. Hindrances to his literary labors ; Mrs. Unwin's situation and his own depression of spirits ; he consents to the pre- fixing his portrait to a new edition of his poems. . 423 To the Rev. John Newton, Nov. 11, 1792. Apology for not writing to him ; his gloomy state of mind. . 423 To John Johnson, Esq., Nov. 20, 1792. Thanks him for his verses ; his engagement to supply the new clerk of Northampton with an annual copy of verses ; reference to his indisposition 424 To William Hayley, Esq., Nov. 25, 1792. Acknowl- edgment of his friendship ; his acceptance of the office of Dirge-writer to the new clerk of North- ampton 424 To the Rev. John Newton, Dec. 9, 1792. Reasons for not being in haste with Milton ; injurious effect of the season on his spirits 424 To Joseph Hill, Esq., Dec. 16, 1792. Political reflec- tions with reference to the question of Parliament- ary Reform, reformation of the Church, and the rights of Catholics and Dissenters 425 First agitation of the question of Parliamentary Re- form 425 To Thomas Park, Esq., Dec. 17, 1792. Obstacles to his writing while at Mr. Hayley's, and since his re- turn home ; on Johnson's intention of prefixing his portrait to his poems 425 Anecdote of Mrs. Boscawen 426 To William Hayley, Esq., Dec. 26, 1792. The year '92 a most melancholy one to him 426 To Thomas Park, Esq., Jan. 3, 1793. Introduction of Mr. Rose to him ; Cowper refers to a remedy recommended by Mr. P. for inflammation of the eyes ; his share in the Oiney Hymns 426 To William Hayley, Esq., Jan. 20, 1793. Cowper's solicitude respecting his welfare ; arrival of Hay- ley's picture 427 To the same, Jan. 29, 1793. On the death of Dr. Austen 427 To John Johnson, Esq., Jan. 31, 1793. Thanks for pheasants, and promises of welcome to a bustard. 428 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 5, 1793. Revisal of Ho- mer 428 To Lady Hesketh, Feb. 10, 1793. Necessity for his taking laudanum; he rallies her on her political opinions 428 To Samuel Rose, Esq., Feb. 17, 1793. Remarks on a criticism on his Homer in the Analytical Review 428 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, Feb. 22, 1793. He con- gratulates Mr. H. on the prospect of his being elected Poetry Professor at Oxford ; observations in natural history 429 To William Hayley, Esq., Feb. 24, 1793. Complains of inflamed eyes as a hindrance to writing ; revi- sal of Homer ; dream about Milton 429 Milton's Vision of the Bishop of Winchester 430 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, March 4, 1793. His ail- ments and employments ; reference to the French Revolution 430 setter from Thomas Hayley (son of William Hayley, Esq.,) to William Cowper, Esq., containing criti- cisms on his Homer 430 To Mr. Thomas Hayley, March 14, 1793. In answer to the preeaO'ng 431 Pag« To William Hayley, Esq., March 19, 1793. Complains of being harassed by a multiplicity of business ; his progress in Homer ; reference to Mazarin's epitaph 431 Last moments of Cardinal Mazarin 431 To Samuel Rose, Esq., March 27, 1793. On the con- clusion of- an engagement with Johnson for a new edition of his Homer 433 To Joseph Hill, Esq., March 29, 1793. Reference to his pecuniary circumstances ; preparations for a new edition of his Homer ; remarks on an intended canal 432 To John Johnson, Esq., April 11, 1793. On sending his pedigree to the HerakTs College ; liberality of Johnson the bookseller ; on Mr. J.'s determination . to enter the church 433 Illustrious ancestry of Cowper 433 To William Hayley, Esq., April 23, 1793. His en- gagement in writing notes to Homer 433 To the Rev. John Newton, April 25, 1793. He urges business as an excuse for the unfrequency of his letters ; his own and Mrs. Unwin's state ; his ex- change of books with Dr. Cogshall of New York ; reference to the epitaph on the Rev. Mr. Unwin. . 433 To the Rev. Walter Bagot, May 4, 1793. On the death of Bishop Bagot 434 To Samuel Rose, Esq., May 5, 1793. Apology for si- lence ; his engagement in writing notes to his Ho- mer ; intended revisal of the Odyssey 434 To Lady Hesketh, May 7, 1793. His correspondence prevented by his Homer; Whigs and Tories 435 To Thomas Park, Esq., May 17, 1793. Chapman's translation of Homer ; Cowper's horror of London and dislike of leaving home ; epitaph on the Rev. Mr. Unwin ; his poems on Negro Slavery 435 To William Hayley, Esq., May 21, 1793. Employ- ment of his time ; insensible advance of old age ; " Man as he is" attributed erroneously to the pen of Hayley ; notes on Homer 436 To Lady Hesketh, June 1, 1793. Desiring her to fix a day for coming to Weston ; lines on Mr. Johnson's arrival at Cambridge 436 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis, June 6, 1793. Uses of afflic- tion ; suspension of his literary labors ; proposed revisal of his Homer 437 To the Rev. John Newton, June 12, 1793. State of Mrs. Unwin's and his own health ; reference to a new work of Mr. N.'s 437 To William Hayley, Esq., June 29, 1793. Sonnet ad- dressed to Mr. H. ; Cowper declines engaging in a work proposed by Mr. H. ; " The Four Ages". .. . 437 To the same, July 7, 1793. He promises to join Mr. H. in the production of " The Four Ages," ref- . erence to his oddities ; embellishments of his premises 438 Antique bust of Homer, presented to Cowper by Mr. Johnson 438 Cowper's poetical tribute for the gift 439 To Thomas Park, Esq., July 15, 1793. Chapman's translation of the Iliad ; Hobbe's translation ; Lady Hesketh ; his literary engagements 439 To Mrs. Charlotte Smith, July 25, 1793. On her poem of "The Emigrants," which was dedicated to Cow- per 439 To the Rev. Mr. Greatheed, July 27, 1793. He thanks Mr. G. for the offer of part of his house ; reasons for declining it ; promised visits 340 To William Hayley, Esq., July 27, 1793. Anticipa- tions of a visit from Mr. H. ; head of Homer and proposed motto for it ; question concerning the cause of Homer's blindness ; garden shed. .. - — 440 To the Rev. John Johnson, Aug. 2, 1793. On his or- dination ; Flaxman's designs to the Odyssey 441 To Lady Hesketh, Aug. 11, 1793. Miss Fanshaw ; present from Lady Spencer of Flaxman's designs. . 441 Explanation respecting Miss Fanshaw ; verses by her ; Cowper's reply ; his lines addressed to Count Gravina 442 To William Hayley, Esq., Aug. 15, 1793. Epigram on building; inscription for an hermitage; Flax- man's designs ; plan of an Odyssey illustrated by them ; inscription for the bust of Homer 442 To Mrs. Courtenay, Aug. 20, 1793. Story of Bob Archer and the fiddler; Flaxman's designs to Homer 443 To Samuel Bose, Esq., Aug. 22, 1793. Allusion to scenery on the south coast of England ; his literary occupations 443 To William Hayley, Esq., Aug. 27, 1793. Question respecting Homer's blindness ; Flaxman's illuetra- CONTENTS xt| Page tions of Homer ; recollections of Lord Mansfield ; erection of Homer's bust 443 To Lady Hesketh, Aug. 29, 1793. On her intended visit to Weston ; Miss Fanshaw 444 To the Rev. Mr. Johnson, Sept. 4, 1793. His agree- able surprise on the appearance of a sun-• . ' bed- ness, but a support under it . 482 Sketch of the character, and account of the lasi i ness of the late Rev. John Cowper, by his brothi . -!• -} Narrative of Mr. Van Lier 4: . Notices of Cowper's friends 49J The Rev. W. Cawthorne Unwin 492 Joseph Hill, Esq 493 Samuel Rose, Esq 493 Lady Austen 494 Rev'. Walter Bagot 494 Sir George Throckmorton 494 Rev. Dr. Johnson 495 Rev.W. Bull 495 Particulars concerning the person and character of Cowper 495 Cowper's personal character illustrated by extracts from his Works 496 Poetical portraits d rawn by him 497 His poem on the Yardlev Oak 499 Description of the Tree" 49S* Original poem on the subject, by the late Samuel Wliitbread, Esq 499 Cowper's moderation amidst literary fame 499 Anecdote of Dr. Parr 50Q Cowper's sensibility to unjust censure 50(1 Letter to John Thornton, Esq., on a severe criticism of his first volume of poems in the "Analytical Review" . . SOO XX CONTENTS. Page His excellence as an epistolary writer 500 Character of his Latin poems 501 The Wish, an English version by Mr. Ostler 501 Sublime piety and morality of Cowper's works 501 Beneficial influence of his writings on the Church of England 503 Concluding remarks 504 Essay on the genius and poetry of Cowper, by the Rev. J. W. Cunningham, A. M 507 THE POEMS. Preface to the Poems • 517 Table Talk -... 519 The Progress of Error 525 Truth 530 Expostulation 534 Hope 540 Charity 546 Conversation 551 Retirement 558 The Task, in Six Books :— Book I. The Sofa 564 II. The Time-Piece 570 III. The Garden .. 576 IV. The Winter Evening •■ 582 V. The Winter Morning Walk 588 VI. The Winter Walk at Noon 594 Epistle to Joseph Hill, Esq 602 Tirocinium ; or, a Review of Schools 603 The Yearly Distress, or Tithing Time at Stock, in Essex 610 Sonnet addressed to Henry Cowper, Esq 610 Lines addressed to Dr. Darwin 610 On Mrs. Montagu's Feather Hangings 611 Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary Abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez 611 On observing some Names of little note in the Bio- graphia Britannica 611 Report of an adjudged Case 612 On the Promotion of Edward Thurlow Esq., to the Lord High Chancellorship of England 612 Ode to Peace 612 Human Frailty '612 The Modern Patriot t 613 On the Burning of Lord Mansfield's Library, &c — 613 On the same 613 The Love of the World Reproved 613 On the death of Mrs. (now Lady) Throckmorton's Bullfinch 613 The Rose 614 The Doves 614 A Fable 615 Ode to Apollo 615 A Comparison 615 Another, addressed to a Young Lady 615 The Poet's New Year's gift 615 Pairing-time anticipated 616 The Dog and the Water Lily 616 The Winter Nosegay 617 The Poet, the Oyster, and the Sensitive Plant 617 The Shrubbery 617 Mutual Forbearance .necessary to the Married State. 618 The Negro's Complaint 618 Pity for Poor Africans 618 The Morning Dream 619 —-—The Diverting History of John Gilpin 619 The Nightingale and Glow-worm 621 An Epistle to an afflicted Protestant Lady in France 622 To the Rev. W. Cawthorne Unwin 622 To the Rev. Mr. Newton 622 Catharina 623 The Moralizer corrected 623 The Faithful Bird 624 The Needless Alarm 624 Boadicea 625 Heroism 625 On the receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk 626 Friendship 627 Dn a mischievous Bull which the Owner of him sold at the Author's instance 629 Annus memorabilis, 1789. Written in commemo- ration of his Majesty's happy recovery 629 Vymn for tint use of the Sunday School at Olney . ... 629 Tag* Stanzas subjoined to a Bill r>f Mortality for the year 1787 6»: The same for 1788 630 The same for 1789 630 ThesaAefor 1790 631 The same for 1792 631 The same for 1793... •■ •■••• 632 On a Goldfinch starved to Death in his Cage 632 The Pineapple and the Bee 632 Verses written at Bath, on finding the heel of a Shoe 632 An Ode, on reading Richardson's History of Sir Charles Grandison 633 An Epistle to Robert Lloyd, Esq 633 A tale founded on a Fact, which happened in Jan., 1779 634 To the Rev. Mr. Newton, on his return from Rams- gate Love Abused A poetical Epistle to Lady Austen The Colubriad , Song. On Peace Song—" When all within is Peace" Verses selected from an occasional Poem entitled "Valediction" Epitaph on Dr. Johnson To Miss C , on her Birthday Gratitude Lines composed for a Memorial of Ashley Cowper, Esq. On the Queen's Visit to London The Cockflghter's Garland To Warren Hastings, Esq To Mrs. Throckmorton To the Immortal Memory of the Halibut on which I dined Inscription for a Stone erected at the sowing of a Grove of Oaks Another To Mrs. King In Memory of the late John Thornton, Esq The Four Ages The Retired Cat The Judgment of the Poets Yardley Oak — . , To the Nightingale which the author heard sing on New Year's Day Lines written in an album of Miss Patty More's — Sonnet to William Wilberforce, Esq . Epigram on refining Sugar To Dr. Austen, of Cecil Street, London Catharina; on her Marriage to George Courtenay, 634 634 635 635 636 636 636 636 637 637 637 639 639 639 639 639 640 640 641 641 642 643 643 643 644 644 644 Esq. Epitaph on Fop, a dog belonging to Lady Throck- morton 644 Sonnet to George Romney, Esq 644 Mary and John 644 Epitaph of Mr. Chester, of Chichely 644 To my Cousin, Anne Bodhiun 645 Inscription for a Hermitage in the Author's Garden. 645 To Mrs. Unwin 645 To John Johnson, on his presenting me with an an- tique Bust of Homer 645 To a young Friend 645 To a Spaniel called Beau, killing a young bird 645 Beau's Replv 645 To William Hayley, Esq 646 Answer to Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine Fanshawe 646 On Flaxman's Penelope 646 To the Spanish Admiral, Count Gravina 646 Inscription for the tomb of Mr. Hamilton 646 Epitaph on a Hare 646 Epitaphium Alterum 647 Account of the Author's Treatment of his Hares — 647 ATale 648 To Mary 649 The Castaway 649 To Sir Joshua Reynolds 650 The Distressed Travellers ; or, Labor in Vain.' 650 On the Author of " Letters on Literature" 651 Stanzas on Liberties taken with the Remains of Milton 651 To the Rev. William Bull 651 Epitaph on Mrs. Higgins 652 Sonnet to a Young Lady on her Birth-day 652 On a Mistake in his Translation of Homer 652 On the Benefit received by his Majesty from Sea- bathing 652 Addressed to Miss on reading the Prayer for In- difference 652 CONTENTS XT Page From a letter jo the Rev. Mr. Newton 653 The Flatting Mill 653 Epitaph on a free but tame Redbreast 654 Bonnet addressed to W. Haylev, Esq 654 An Epitaph 654 On receiving Hayley's Picture 654 On a Plant of Virgin's Bower 654 On receiving Heyne's Virgil 654 Stanzas by a Lady 654 Cowper's Reply 655 Lines addressed to Miss T. J. Cowper 655 To the same 655 On a sleeping Infant 655 Lines 655 Inscription for a Moss-house in the Shrubbery at Weston 655 Lines on the Death of Sir William Russel 655 On the high price of Fish 656 To Mrs. Newton 656 Verses printed by himself on a flood at Olney 056 Extract from a Sunday-school Hymn 656 On the receipt of a Hamper (in the manner of Homer) 656 On the neglect of Homer 656 Sketch of the Life of the Rev. John Newton 657 OLNEY HYMNS. Preliminary Remarks on the Olney Hymns 666 Hymn i. Walking with God 670 a. Jehovah-Jireh. The Lord will provide .. . 670 m. Jehovah-Rophi. I am the Lord that heal- eth thee 670 iv. Jehovah-Nissi. The Lord my Banner 671 v. Jehovah-Shalom. The Lord send peace . . 671 vi. Wisdom '. 671 vii. Vanity of the World 671 vm. O Lord, I will praise thee 672 ix. The contrite Heart 672 x. The future Peace and Glory of the Church 672 XI. Jehovah our Righteousness 672 xn. Ephraim renenting 673 xm. The Covenant 673 xiv. Jehovah-Shammah : 673 xv. Praise for the Fountain opened 673 xvi. The Sower 673 xvii. TLe House of Prayer 674 xviii. Lo vest thou me ? 674 xix. Contentment 674 xx. Old Testament Gospel 674 xxi. Sardis 674 xxn. Praying for a Blessing on the Young 674 xxiii. Pleading for and with Youth 675 xxiv. Prayer for Children 675 xxv. Jehovah-Jesus 676 xxvi. On opening a Place for social Prayer 676 xxvii. Welcome to the Table 676 xxvin. Jesus hastening to suffer 676 xxix. Exhortation to Prayer 676 xxx. The Light and Glory of the Word 677 xxxi. On the Death of a Minister 677 xxXti. The shining Light 677 xxxm. Seeking the Beloved 677 xxxiv. The Waiting Soul 677 xxxv. Welcome Cross 678 xxxvi. Afflictions sanctified by the Word 678 xxxvii. Temptation 678 Scxviii. Looking upwards in a Storm 678 xxxix. The Valley of the Shadow of Death 678 xl. Peace after a Storm 679 xli. Mourning and Longing 679 xlii. Self-Acquaintance • 679 xliii. Prayer for Patience 679 xliv. Submission 680 xlv. The happy Change 680 xlvi. Retirement 680 xlvii. The hidden Life G^0 xlviii. Joy and Peace in Believing 68 1 xlix. True Pleasures 681 l. TheChristian 681 li. Lively Hope and Gracious Fear 681 lii. For the Poor 681 liii. My Soul thirsteth for God 682 liv. Love constraineth to Obedience 682 Lv. The Heart healed and changed by Mercy. . 682 lvi. Hatred ofSin 682 lvii. The new Convert 682 Lvm. True and false Comforts 683 lix. A living and a dead Faith 683 lx. Abuse of the Gospel 683 lxi. The narrow Way 683 Page lxh. Dependence 68i lxiii. NotofWorks 68k lxiv. Praise for Faith 684 lxv. Grace and Providence 684 lxvi. I will praise the Lord at all times 685 lxvii. Longing to be with Christ 685 lxviii. Light shining out of darkness 685 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME DE LA MOTHE GUION. Brief Account of Madame Guion, and of the Mystic Writers 685 The Nativity 691 God neither known nor loved by the World 695 The Swallow 693 The Triumph of Heavenly Love desired 693 A figurative Description of the Procedure of Divine Love 693 . A Child of God longing to see him beloved 694 Aspirations of the Soul after God 694 Gratitude and Love to God 694 Happv Solitude— Unhappy Men 694 Living Water 695 Truth and Divine Love rejected by the World 695 Divine Justice amiable 695 The Soul that Loves God finds him everywhere 695 The Testimony of Divine Adoption 696 Divine Love endures no rival 696 Self-Diffidence 696 The Acquiescence of Pure Love 697 Repose in God 697 Glory to God alone 697 Self-Love and Truth incompatible 697 The Love of God, the End of Life 697 Love faithful in the Absence of the Beloved 69S Love pure and fervent 698 The entire Surrender 698 The perfect Sacrifice 698 God hides his People 698 The Secrets of Divine Love are to be kept 699 The Vicissitudes experienced in the Christian Life. . 700 Watching unto God in the Night Season 701 On the same 701 Onthesame 702 The Joy of the Cross 702 Joy in Martyrdom 702 Simple Trust 703 The necessity of Self-Abasement 703 Love increased by Suffering 703 Scenes favorable to Meditation 704 TRANSLATIONS OF THE LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS 07 MILTON. Elegy I. To Charles Deodati 705 II. On the Death of the University Beadle at Cambridge 706 III. On the Death of the Bishop of Winchester . 706 IV. To his Tutor, Thomas Young 706 V. On the Approach of Spring 707 VI. To Charles Deodati 708 VII 709 Epigrams. On the Inventor of Guns 710 To Leonora singing at Rome 710 To the same 710 The Cottager- and his Landlord. A Fable. 710 To Christina, Queen of Sweden, with Cromwell's Picture 710 On the death of the Vice-Chancellor, a Physician... 711 On the Death of the Bishop of Ely 711 Nature unimpaired by Time 711 On the Platonic Idea as it was understood by Aris totie 712 To his Father 712 To Salsillus. a Roman poet, much indisposed 714 To Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa 714 On the Death of Damon 715 An Ode, addressed to Mr. John Rouse, Librarian of the University of Oxford 717 Sonnet—" Fair Lady, whose harmonious name" 718 Sonnet — M As on a hill-top rude, when closing day" 718 Canzone—" Thev mock my toil" 718 Sonnet— To Charles Deodati 719 Sonnet — " Lady ! it cannot be but that thine eyes". . 719 Sonnet — "Enamor'd, artless, young, on foreign ground" 719 Simile in Paradise Lost 719 Translation of Dryden's Epigram on Milton 7M CONTENTS. Page TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE. The Glowworm 719 The Jackdaw '. • 720 TheCricket 720 The Parrot 720 The Thracian 720 Reciprocal Kindness the Primary Law of Nature. . . 721 A Manual more ancient than the Art of Printing 721 An Enigma—" A needle, small as small can be" — 721 Sparrows self-domesticated in Trinity Coll., Cam- bridge 722 Familiarity dangerous 722 Invitation to the Redbreast 722 Strada's Nightingale- 722 Ode on the Death of a Lady who lived one hundred years 722 The Cause won 723 The Silkworm 723 The Innocent Thief 723 Denner's Old Woman 723 The Tears of a Painter 724 The Maze 724 No Sorrow Peculiar to the Sufferer 724 The Snail 724 The Cantab 724 TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. From the Greek of Julianus 725 On the same by Palladas 725 An Epitaph 725 Another 725 Another 725 Another t 725 By Callimachus 725 On Miltiades 725 On an Infant 725 By Heraclides 725 On the Reed 725 To Health 725 On Invalids 726 On the Astrologers 726 On an Old Woman 726 On Flatterers 726 On a true Friend 726 On the Swallow 726 On late acquired Wealth 726 On a Bath, by Plato 796 On a Fowler, by Isidorus 726 On Niobe 726 On a good Man 726 On a Miser 726 Another 726 Another 726 On Female Inconstancy '.. 121 On the Grasshopper 727 On Hermocratia 727 From Menander 727 On Pallas bathing, from a Hymn of Callimachus 727 To Demosthenes 727 On a similar Character .727 On an ugly Fellow 727 On a battered Beauty 727 On a Thief 727 On Pedigree — 728 On Envy 728 By Moschus 728 By Philemon 728 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FABLES OF OAT. Lepus multis Amicus. 728 Avarus et Plutus 729 Papilio et Limax 729 EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN. On one ignorant and arrogant 729 Prudent Simplicity 729 Sunset and Sunrise 729 To a Frjend in Distress 729 Retaliation 729 '• When little more than Boy in Age" 729 TRANSLATIONS FROM VIRGIL, OVID, HORACE, AND HOMER. The Salad, by Virgil ' 730 Translation from Virgil, ^Eneid, Book VIII. Line 18 731 Ovid. Trist. Book V. Eleg. XII 734 Hor. Book I. Ode IX 735 Hor. Book I. Ode XXXVIII 735 Hor. Book I. Ode XXXVIII 735 Hor. BookU. Ode X 735 A Reflection on the foregoing Ode 735 Hor. Book H. XVI 735 The Fifth Satire of the First Book of Horace 736 The Ninth Satire of the First Book of II jrace 737 Translation of an Epigram from Homer 738 cowper's latin poems. Montes G'aciales, in Oceano Germanico natantes . . . 739 On the Ice Islands .*een fl^atin? in the German Ocean 73S Monumental Inscription to William Northcot 740 Translation 740 In Seditionem Horrendam 740 Translation 740 Motto on a Clock, with Translation bv Hayley 740 A Simile Latinised 740 On the Loss of the Royal George ... 740 In Submersionem Navigii, cui Georgius Regale Nomen inditum 741 In Brevitatem Vitae Spatii Hominibus concessi... . 741 On the Shortness of Human Life 741 The Lily and the Rose 741 Idem Latine redditum 742 The Poplar Field 742 Idem Latine redditum 742 Votum 742 Translation of Prior's Chloe and Euphelia 742 Verses to the Memory of Dr. Lloyd 742 The same in Latin t • 743 Papers, by Cowper, inserted in " The Connoisseur''. 1AA THE LIFE OF COWPER PAKT THE FIRST, The family of Cowper appears to have neld, for several centuries, a respectable rank among the merchants and gentry of England. We learn from the life of the first Earl Cow- per, in the Biographia Britannica, that his an- cestors were inhabitants of Sussex, in the reign of Edward the Fourth. The name is found repeatedly among the sheriffs of Lon- don ; and William Cowper, who resided as a country gentleman in Kent, was created a baronet by King Charles the First, in 1641* But the family rose to higher distinction in the beginning of the last century, by the remarkable circumstance of producing two brothers, who both obtained a seat in the House of Peers by their eminence in the pro- fession of the law. William, the elder, be- came Lord High Chancellor in 1707. Spen- cer Cowper, the younger, was appointed Chief Justice of Chester in 1717, and after- wards a Judge in the Court of Common Pleas, being permitted by the particular fa- vor of the king, to hold those two offices to the end of his life. He died in Lincoln's Inn, on the 10th of December, 1728, and has the higher claim to our notice as the immediate ancestor of the poet. By his first wife, Ju- dith Pennington (whose exemplary character is still revered by her descendants), Judge Cowper left several children ; among them a daughter, Judith, who at the age of eighteen discovered a striking talent for poetry, in the praise of her contemporary poets Pope and Hughes. This lady, the wife of Colonel Ma- dan, transmitted her own poetical and devout spirit to. her daughter Frances Maria, who was married to her cousin, Major Cowper; the amia ble character of Maria will unfold itself in the course of this work, as the friend and correspondent of her more eminent relation, the second grandchild of the Judge, destined to honor the name of Cowper, by displaying, * This gentleman was a writer of English verse, and, with rare munificence, bestowed both an epitaph and a monument on that illustrious divine, the venerable Hooker. In the edition of Walton's Lives, by Zouch, the curious reader may find the epitaph written by Sir William Cowper. with peculiar purity and fervor, the double enthusiasm of poetry and devotion. The father of the subject of the following pages was John Cowper, the Judge's second son, who took his degrees in divinity, was chap lain to King George the Second, and resided at his Rectory of Great Be'rkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, the scene of the poet's in- fancy, which he has Mms commemorated in a singularly beautiful and pathetic composition on the portrait of his mother. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more • Children not thine have trod my nursery floor : And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fait That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, [laid j That thou might'st know me safe and warmlj Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd All this, and, more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall ; Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks That humor interpos'd too often makes : All this, still legible in memory's page, And still to be so t© my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may. The parent, whose merits are so feelingly recorded by the filial tenderness of the poet, was Ann, daughter of Roger Donne, Esq., of Ludham Hall, in Norfolk. This lady, whoso family is said to have been originally from Wales, was married in the bloom of youth to Dr. Cowper : after giving birth to several children, who died in their infancy, and leav- ing two sons, William, the immediate subject of this memorial, born at Berkhamstead on the 26th of November, 1731, and John (whose 24 COWPER'S WORKS. accomplishments and pious death will be de- scribed in the course of this compilation), she died in childbed, at the early age of thirty- four, in 1737. Those who delight in con- templating the best affections of our nature will ever admire the tender sensibility with which the poet has acknowledged his obli- gations to this amiable mother, in a poem composed more than fifty years after her de- cease. Readers of this description may find a pleasure in observing how the praise so liberally bestowed on this tender parent, at so late a period, is confirmed (if praise so unquestionable may be said to receive con- firmation) by another poetical record of her merit, which the hand of affinity and affection bestowed upon her tomb — a record written at a time when the poet, who was destined to prove, in his advanced life, her most pow- erful eulogist, had hardly begun to show the dawn of that genius which, after many years of silent affliction, rose like a star emerging from tempestuous darkness. The monument of Mrs. Cowper, erected by her husband in the cnancel of St. Peter's church at Berkhamstead, contains the follow- ing verses, composed by a young lady, her niece, the late Lady Walsingham. Here lies, in early years bereft of life, The best of mothers, and the kindest wife : Who neither knew nor practis'd any art. Secure in all she wish'd, her husband's heart. Her love to him, still prevalent in death, Pray'd Heav'n to bless him with her latest breath. Still was she studious never to offend, And glad of an occasion to commend : With ease would pardon injuries receiv'd, Nor e'er was cheerful when another griev'd ; Despising state, with her own lot content, Enjoy'd the comforts of a life well spent; Resign'd, when Heaven demanded back her breath, Her mind heroic 'midst the pangs of death. Whoe'er thou art that dost this tomb draw near, O stay awhile and shed a friendly tear ; These lines, tho' weak, are as herself sincere. The truth and tenderness of this epitaph will more than compensate with every can- did reader the imperfection ascribed to it by its young and modest author. To have lost a parent of a character so virtuous and en- dearing, at an early period of his childhood, was the 'prime misfortune of Cowper, and what contributed perhaps in the highest de- gree to the dark coloring of his subsequent life. The influence of a good mother on the first years of her children, whether nature has given them peculiar strength or peculiar delicacy of frame, is equally inestimable. It Is the prerogative and the felicity of such a mother to temper the arrogance of the strong, and to dissipate the timidity of the tender. The infancy of Cowper was delicate in no common degree, and his constitution discov- ered at a very early season that morbid ten- dency to diffidence, to melancholy and de- spair, which darkened as he advanced in years into periodical fits of the most deplor- able depression. The period having arrived for commencing his education, he was sent to a reputable school at Market-street, in Badfordshire, un- der the care of Dr. Pitman, and it is probable that he was removed from it in consequence of an ocular complaint. From a circumstance which he relates of himself at that period, 'in a letter written in 1792, he seems to havp been in danger of resembling Milton in th« misfortune of blindness, as he resembled him, more happily, in the fervency of a de- vout and poetical spirit. "I have been all my life," says Cowper, " subject to inflammations of the eyes, and in my boyish days had specks on both, that threatened to cover them. My father, alarmed for the consequences, sent me to a female oculist of great renown at that time, in whose house I abode two years, but to no good purpose. From her I went to Westminster school, where, at the age of fourteen, the small-pox seized me, and proved the better oculist of the two, for it delivered me from them all : not however from great liableness to inflammation, to which I am in a degree Still subject, though much less than formerly, since I have been constant in the use of a hot foot-bath every night, the last thing be- fore going to rest." It appears a strange process in education, to send a tender child, from a long residence in the house of a female oculist, immediately into all the hardships attendant on a public school. But the mother of Cowper was dead, and fathers, however excellent, are, in general, utterly incompetent to the manage- ment of their young and tender offspring. The little Cowper was sent to his first school in the year of his mother's death, and how ill- suited the scene was to his peculiar character is evident from the description of his sensa- tions in that season of life, which is often, very erroneously, extolled as the happiest period of human existence. He has been frequently heard to lament the persecution he suffered in his childish years, from the cruelty of his school-fellows, in the two scenes of his education. His own forcible expressions represented him at Westminster as not daring to raise his eye above the shoe- buckle of the elder boys, who were too apt to tyrannize over his gentle spirit. The acuteness of his feelings in his childhood, rendered those important years (which might have produced, under tender cultivation, a series of lively enjoyments) mournful peri- ods of increasing timidity and depression. In the most cheerful hours of his advanced life, he could never advert to this season LIFE OF COWPER 24 without shuddering at the recollection of its wretchedness. Yet to this perhaps the world is indebted for the pathetic and moral elo- quence of those forcible admonitions to pa- rents, which give interest and beauty to his admirable poem on public schools. Poets may be said to realize, in some measure, the poetical idea of the nightingale's singing with a thorn at her breast, as their most exquisite songs have often originated in the acuteness of their personal sufferings. Of this obvious truth, the poem just mentioned is a very memorable example ; and, if any readers have thought the poet too severe in his stric- tures on that system of education, to which we owe some of the most accomplished char- acters that ever gave celebrity to a civilized nation, such readers will be candidly recon- ciled to that moral severity of reproof, in re- collecting that it flowed from severe personal experience, united to the purest spirit of phi- lanthropy and patriotism. The relative merits of public and private education is a question that has long agitated :he world. Each has its partizans, its advan- tages, and defects ; and, like all general prin- ciples, its application must greatly depend on the circumstances of rank, future destination, and the peculiarities of character and temper. For the full development of the powers and faculties of the mind — for the acquisition of the various qualifications that fit men to sus- tain with brilliancy and distinction the duties of active life, whether in the cabinet, the sen- ate, or the forum — for scenes of busy enter- prize, where knowledge of the world and the growth of manly spirit seem indispensable ; in all such cases, we are disposed to believe, that the palm must be assigned to public edu- cation. But, on the other hand, if we reflect that brilliancy is oftentimes a flame which con- sumes its object, that knowledge of the world is, for the most part, but a knowledge of the evil that is in the world ; and that early habits of extravagance and vice, which are ruinous in their results, are not unfrequently con- tracted at public schools; if to these facts we add that man is a candidate for immortal- ity, and that' "life" (as Sir William Temple observes) "is but the parenthesis of eter- nity," it then becomes a question of solemn import, whether integrity and principle do not find a soil more congenial for their growth in the shade and retirement of private education ? The one is an advancement for time, the other for eternity. The former affords facilities for making men great, but often at the expense of happiness and conscience. The latter di- minishes the temptations to vice, and, while it affords a field for useful and honorable ex- ertion, augments the means of being wise and holy. We leave the reader to decide the great problem for himself. That he may be ena- bled to form a right estimate, we would urge him to suffer time and eternity to pass in solemn and deliberate review before him. That the public school was a scene by no means adapted to the sensitive mind of Cow- per is evident. Nor can we avoid cherishing the apprehension that his spirit, naturally morbid, experienced a fatal inroad from that period. He nevertheless acquired the repu- tation of scholarship, with the advantage of being known and esteemed by some of the aspiring characters of his own age, who sub- sequently became distinguished in the great arena of public life. With these acquisitions, he left Westmin- ster at the age of eighteen, in 1749 ; and, as if destiny had determined that all his early situations in life should be peculiarly irksome to his delicate feelings, and tend rather tc promote than to counteract his constitutional tendency to melancholy, he was removed from a public school to the office of an attorney. He resided three years in the house of«a Mr. Chapman, to whom he was engaged by/arti- cles for that time. Here he was placed for the study of a profession which nature seemed resolved that he never should practise. The law is a kind of soldiership'and, lik: the profession of arms, it may be said to re quire for the constitution of its heroes, " A frame of adamant, a soul of fire." The soul of Cowper had indeed its fire, but fire so refined and ethereal, that it could not be expected to shine in the gross atmosphere of worldly contention. Perhaps there never existed a mortal, who, possessing, with a good person, intellectual powers naturally strong and highly cultivated, was so utterly unfit to encounter the bustle and perplexities of public life. But the extreme modesty and shyness of his nature, which disqualified him for scenes of business and ambition, endeared him inexpressibly to those who had oppor- tunities to enjoy his society, and discernment to appreciate the ripening excellencies of his character. Reserved as he was, to an extraordinary and painful degree, his heart and mind were yet admirably fashioned by nature for all the refined intercourse and confidential enjoyment both of friendship and love ; but, though ap- parently formed to possess and to communi- cate an extraordinary portion of moral felic- ity, the incidents of his life were such, that, conspiring with the peculiarities of his nature, they rendered him, at different times, the vic- tim of sorrow. The variety and depth of his sufferings in early life, from extreme tender- ness of feeling, are very forcibly displayed in the following verses, which formed part of a letter to one of his female relatives, at the time they were composed. The letter has 26 COWPER'S WORKS. perished, and the verses owe their preserva- tion to the affectionate memory of the lady to whom they were addressed. Doom : d as I am. in solitude to waste The present moments, and regret the past; Derriv'd* of every joy I valued most, My friend torn from me. and my mistress lost ; Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien. The dull effect of humor or of spleen ! Still, still. I mourn : with each returning day, Him* snatch'd by fate in early youth away ; And herf — thro' tedious years of doubt and pain, Fix'd in her choice, and faithful — but in vain ! prone to pity, generous, and sincere, Whose eye ne'er yet refus'd the wretch a tear; Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes ; See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown ! See me neglected on the world's rude coast, Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow, And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free, All that delights the happy — palls with me ! Having concluded the term of his engage- ment with the solicitor, he settled himself in chambers in the Inner Temple, as a regular student o£law ; but although he resided there till the age of thirty-three, he rambled (ac- cording to his own colloquial account of his early years) from the thorny road of his aus- tere patroness, Jurisprudence, into the prim- rose paths of literature and poetry. During this period, he contributed two of the Satires in Duncombe's Horace, which are worthy of his pen, and indications of his rising genius. He also cultivated the friendship of some lit- erary characters, who had been his school- fellows at Westminster, particularly Colman, Bonnell Thornton, and Lloyd. Of these early associates of Cowper, it may be interesting to learn a brief history. Few men could have entered upon life with brighter prospects than Colman. His father was Envoy at the Court of Florence, and his mother was sister to the Countess of Bath. Possessed of talents that qualified him for exertion, with a classical taste perceptible in his translation of Hor- ace's Art of Poetry, and of the works of Terence, he relinquished the bar, to which he had been 'called, and became principally known for his devotedness to theatrical pur- suits. His private life was not consistent with the rules of morality ; and he closed his days, after a protracted malady, by dying in a Lunatic Asylum in Paddington, in the year 1794. To Bonnell Thornton, jointly with Colman, we owe the Connoisseur, to which Cowper contributed a few numbers. Thornton also united with Colman and Warner in a transla- * Sir William Russel, the favorite friend of the young poet. t Miss Theodora Cowper. tion of Plautus. But his talents, instead of be- ing profitably employed, were chiefly marked by a predilection for humor, in the exercise of which he was not very discreet ; for the venerated muse of Gray did not escape his ridicule, and the celebrated Ode to St. Cecilia was made the occasion of a public burlesque performance, the relation of which would not accord with the design of this undertakings He who aims at nothing better than to amuse and divert, and to excite a laugh at the ex- pense of both taste and judgment, proposes to himself rio very exalted object. Thornton died in the year 1770, aged forty-seven. Lloyd was formerly usher at Westminster School, but feeling the irksomeness of the situation, resigned it, and commenced author. His Poems have been repeatedly republished. His life presented a scene of thoughtless ex- travagance and dissipation. Overwhelmed with debt, and pursued by his creditors, he was at length confined in the Fleet Prison, where he expired, the victim of his excesses, at the early age of thirty-one years. We record these facts, — 1st, That we may adore that mercy which, by a timely interpo- sition, rescued the future author of the Task from such impending ruin : — 2ndly, To show that scenes of gaiety and dissipation, however enlivened by flashes of wit, and distinguished by literary superiority, are perilous to charac- ter, health, and fortune ; and that the talents, which, if beneficially employed, might have led to happiness and honor, when perverted to unworthy ends, often lead prematurely to the grave, or render the past painful in the retrospect, and the future the subject of fear- ful anticipation and alarm. Happily, Cowper escaped from this vortex of misery and ruin. His juvenile poems dis- cover a contemplative spirit, and a mind early impressed with sentiments of piety. In proof of this assertion, we select a few stanzas from an ode written, when he was very young, on reading Sir Charles Grandison. To rescue from the tyrant's sword The oppress'd ; — unseen, and unimplor'd, To cheer the face of woe ; From lawless insult to defend An orphan's right — a fallen friend, And a forgiven foe : These, these, distinguish from the crowd, And these alone, the great and good, The guardians of mankind. Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, Oh ! with what matchless speed, they leave The multitude behind ! Then ask ye from what cause on earth Virtues like these derive their birth 1 Derived from Heaven alone, Full on that favor'd breast they shine, Where faith and resignation join To call the blessing down. LIFE OF COWPER, 21 Such is that heart : — but while the Muse Thy theme. O Richardson, pursues. Her feebler spirits taint . She cannot reach, and would not wrong, That subject for an angel's song. The hero, and the saint. His early turn to moralize on the slightest • occasion will appear from the following' verses, which he wrote at the age of eighteen : and i in which those who love to trace the rise and progress of genius will, I think, be pleased to remark the very promising seeds of those pe- culiar powers, which unfolded themselves in the richest maturity at a remoter period, and rendered that beautiful and sublime poem, The Task, the most instructive and interest- ing of modern compositions. Young as the poet was when he produced the following lines, we may observe that he had probably been four years in the habit of writing Eng- lish verse, as he has said in one of his letters, that he began his poetical career at the age of fourteen, by translating an elegy of Tibul- lus. I have reason to believe that he wrote many poems in his early life ; and the singu- lar merit of this juvenile composition is suffi- cient to make the friends of genius regret that an excess of diffidence prevented him from preserving the poetry of his youth. VERSES, WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE, 1748. Fortune ! I thank thee : gentle goddess ! thanks ! Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny She would have thank'd thee rather hadst thou cast A treasure in her way ; for neither meed Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes And bowel-racking pains of emptiness. Nor noon-tide feast, nor evening's cool repast, Hopes she from this — presumptuous, tho'. perhaps. The cobbler, leather-caning artist might. Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon Whatever, not as erst the fabled cock Vain-glorious fool ! unknowing what he found. Spurn'd the rich gem thou gav'st him. Where- fore ah! Why not on me that favor (worthier sure) Conferr'dst thou, goddess 1 Thou art blind, thou say st ; Enough — thy blindness shall excuse the deed. Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here, Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found ; Illustrious hints, to moralize my song ! This pondrous heel of perforated hide • Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, Haply. — for such its massy form bespeaks,-^ The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown Upbore : on this supported, oft he stretch'd, With uncouth strides along the furrow'd glebe, Flatt'ning the stubborn clod, 'till cruel time (What will not cruel time 7) oj a wry step, Sever'd the strict cohesion ; vmen, alas ! He who could erst with even, equal pace, Pursue his destin'd way with symmetry And some proportion form'd now on one side, Curtail'd and maim'd. the sport of vagrant boya Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop ! With toilsome steps, and difficult moves on. Thus fares it oft with other than the feet Of humble villager. The statesman thus Up the steep road where proud ambition leads, Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds His prosperous way ; nor fears miscarriage foul, While policy prevails, and friends prove true : But that support soon failing, by him left On whom he most depended, basely left. Betray'd deserted: from his airy height Headlong he falls, and. through the rest of life, Drags the dull load of disappointment on. Of a youth, whg, in a scene like Bath, could . produce such a meditation, it might fairly be expected that he would • In riper fife, exempt from public haunt, Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." Though extreme diffidence, and a tendency to despond, seemed early to preclude Cowper from the expectation of climbing to the splen- did summit of the profession he had chosen ; yet, by the interest of his family, he had pros- pects of emolument in a line of life that ap- peared better suited to the modesty of his nature and to his moderate ambition. In his thirty-first year he was nominated to the offices of Reading Clerk and Clerk of the private Committees in the House of Lords — a situation the more desirable, as such an es- tablishment might enable him to marry early in life ; a measure to which he was "doubly disposed by judgment and inclination. But the peculiarities of his wonderful mind ren- dered him unable to support the ordinary du- ties of his new office ; for the idea of reading in public proved a source of torture to his tender and apprehensive spirit. An expediem was devised to promote his interest without wounding his feelings. Resigning his situa- tion of Reading Clerk, he was appointed Clerk of the Journals in the same House of Parliament. Of his occupation, in conse- quence of this new T appointment, he speaks in the following letter to a lady, who will become known and endeared to the reader in proportion to the interest he takes in the writings of Cowper. TO LADY HESKETH. The Temple, August 9. 1763. My dear Cousin, — Having promised to write to you, I make haste to be as good as my word. I have a pleasure in writing to you at any time, but especially at the present when my days are spent in reading the Jour- nals, and my nights in dreaming of them ; an employment not very agreeable to a head that has long been habituated to the luxury 28 COWPER'S WORKS. of choosing its subject, and lias been as little employed upon business as if it had grown upon the shoulders of a much wealthier gen- tleman. But the numscull pays for it now, and will not presently forget the discipline it has undergone lately. If I succeed in this doubtful piece of promotion, I shall have at least this satisfaction to reflect upon, that the volumes I write will be treasured up with the utmost care for ages, and will last as long as the English constitution — a duration which ought to satisfy the vanity of any author who has a spark of love for his country. Oh, my good Cousin ! if I was to open my heart to you, I could show you strange sights; no- thing I flatter myself that would shock you, but a great deal that wouldi make you won- der. I am of a very singular temper, and very unlike all the men that I have ever con- versed with. Certainly I am not an absolute fool : but I have more weaknesses than the greatest of all the fools I can recollect at pres- ent. In short, if I was as fit for the next world as I am unfit for this, and God forbid I should speak it in vanity, I would not change conditions with any saint in Christendom. My destination is settled at last, and I have obtained a furlough. Margate is the word, and what do you think will ensue, Cousin ? I know what you expect, but ever since I was born I have been good at disappointing the most natural expectations. Many years ago, Cousin, there was a possibility that I might prove a very different thing from what I am at present. My character is now fixed, and riveted fast upon me, and, between friends, is not a very splendid one, or likely to be guilty of much fascination. Adieu, my dear Cousin ! so much as I love you, I wonder how it has happened I was never in love with you. Thank Heaven that I never was, for at this time I have had a pleasure in writing to you, which in that case I should have forfeited. Let me hear from you, or I shall reap but half the reward that is due to my noble indifference. Yours ever, and evermore, W. C. It was hoped from the change of his sta- tion that his personal appearance in parlia- ment might not be required, but a parlia- mentary dispute made it necessary for him to appear at the bar of the House of Lords, to entitle himself publicly to the office. Speaking of this important incident in a sketch, which he once formed himself, of passages in his early lif J, he expressed what he endured at the time in these remarkable words : " They whose spirits are formed like mine, to whom a public exhibition of them- selves is mortal poison, may have some idea of the horrors of my situation — others can iave none." His terrors on this occasion arose to sucl an astonishing height, that they utterly over- whelmed his reason; for, although he had endeavored to prepare himself for his public duty, by attending closely at the office for several months, to examine the parliamentary journals, his application was rendered useless by that excess of diffidence, which made him conceive that, whatever knowledge he might previously acquire, it would all forsake him at the bar of the House. This distressing apprehension increased to such a degree, as the time for his appearance approached, that, when the day so anxiously dreaded arrived, he was unable to make the experiment. The very friends who called on him for the pur- pose of attending him to the House of Lords, acquiesced in the cruel necessity of his re- linquishing the prospect of a station so se- verely formidable to a frame of such singular sensibility. The conflict between the wishes of honor .able ambition and the terrors of diffidence so entirely overwhelmed his health and faculties, that, after two learned and benevolent divines (Mr. John Cowper, his brother, and the cele- brated Mr. Martin Madan, his first cousin) had vainly endeavored to establish a lasting tranquillity in his mind by friendly and relig- ious conversation, it was found necessary to remove him to St. Alban's, where he resided a considerable time, under the care of that eminent physician, Dr. Cotton, a scholar and a poet, who added to many accomplishments a peculiar sweetness of manners, in very ad- vanced life, when I had the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with him. The misfortune of mental derangement is a topic of such awful delicacy, that I consider it to be the duty of a biographer rather to sink, in tender silence, than to proclaim, with circumstantial and offensive temerity, the minute particulars of a calamity to which all human beings are exposed, and perhaps in proportion as they have received from nature those delightful but dangerous gifts, a heart of exquisite tenderness -and a mind of crea« tive energy. This is a sight for pity to pursue, Till she resembles, faintly, what she views ; Till sympathy contracts a kindred pain, Pierc'd with the woes that she laments in vain. This, of all maladies, that man infest,' Claims most compassion, and receives the least But-with a soul that ever felt the sting Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing. 'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes. Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, Each yielding harmony, disposed aright ; The screws revers'd ^a task, which, if He please God, in a moment, executes with ease), LIFE OF COWPER. 29 Ten thousand, thousand strings at once go loose ; Lost, till He tune them, all their power and use. No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels ; No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals. And thou, sad sufferer, under nameless ill, That yields not to the touch of human skill, Improve the kind occasion, understand A Father's frown, and kiss the chast'ning hand ! It is in this solemn and instructive light, that Cowper himself teaches us to consider the calamity of which I am now speaking ; and of which, like his illustrious brother of Parnassus, the younger Tasso, he was occa- sionally a most affecting example. Provi- dence appears to have given a striking lesson to mankind, to guard both virtue and genius against pride of heart and pride of intellect, by thus suspending the affections and the talents of two most tender and sublime poets, who resembled each other, not more in the attribute of poetic genius than in the similar- ity of the dispensation that quenched its light and ardor. From December, 1763, to the following July, the sensitive mind of Cowper appears to have labored under the severest suffering of morbid depression ; but the medical skill of Dr. Cotton, and the cheerful, benignant manners of that accomplished physician, grad- ually succeeded, with the blessing of Heaven, in removing the indescribable load of relig- ious despondency, which had clouded the fa- culties of this interesting man. His ideas of religion were changed from the gloom of ter- ror, and despair to the brightness of inward joy and peace. This juster and happier view of evangeli- cal truth is said to have arisen in his mind, while he was reading the third chapter of Saint Paul's Epistle to the Romans. The words that rivetted his attention were the following : " Whom God hath set forth to be a propitiation through faith in his blood, to de- clare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God." Rom. iii. 25. It was to this passage, which contains so lucid an exposition of the Gospel method of salvation, that, under the divine blessing, the poet owed the recovery of a previously disor- dered intellect and the removal of a load from a deeply oppressed conscience — he saw, by a new and powerful perception, how sin could be "pardoned, and the sinner be saved — that the way appointed of God was through the great propitiation and sacrifice upon the cross — that faith lays hold of the promise, and thus becomes the instrument of conveying pardon and peace to the soul. It is remarkable how God, in every age, from the first promulgation of the Gospel to the present time, and under all the various Dodifications of society, barbarian, Scythian, bond or free, has put his seal to this funda- mental doctrine of the Gospel. Whether we contemplate man amid the polished scenes of civilized and enlightened Europe, or the rude ferocity of savage tribes — whether it be the refined Hindoo, or the unlettered Hottentot, whose mind becomes accessible to the power and influences of re- ligion, the cause and the effect are the same. It is the doctrine of the cross that works the mighty change. The worldly wise may re- ject this doctrine, — the spiritually wise com- prehend and receive it. But, whether it be rejected, with all its tremendous responsibili- ties, or received with its inestimable blessings, the truth itself still remains unchanged and unchangeable, attested by the records of every church and the experience of eveiy believing heart — " the cross is to them that perish fool- ishness, but unto us which are saved it is the power of God." 1 Cor. i. 18. It is impossible not to admire the powei, and adore the mercy, that thus wrought a double deliverance in the mind of Cowper by a process so remarkable. Devout contempla- tion became more and more dear to his re- viving spirit. Resolving to relinquish all thoughts of a laborious profession, and all intercourse with the busy world, he acqui- esced in a plan of settling at Huntingdon, by the advice of his brother, who, as a minister of the Gospel, and a fellow of Bene't Col lege, Cambridge, resided in that University . a situation so near to the place chosen for Cowpers retirement, that it afforded to these affectionate brothers opportunities of easy and frequent intercourse. I regret that all the letters which passed between them have perished, and the more so, as they sometimes cone-ponded in verse. . John Cowper was also a poet. He had engaged to execute a translation of Voltaire's Henriade, and in the course of the work requested, and obtained, the assistance of William, who translated, as he informed me himself, two entire cantos of the poem. This fraternal production is said to have appeared in a magazine of the year 1759. I have discovered a rival, and proba- bly an inferior translation, so published, but the joint work of the poetical brothers has hitherto eluded all my researches. In June, 1765, the reviving invalid removed to a private lodging in the town of Hunting- don, but Providence soon introduced him into a family, which afforded him one of the most singular and valuable friends that ever watched an afflicted mortal in seasons ci overwhelm, ing adversity ; that friend, to whom the poet exclaims in the commencement of the Task, And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm, this twentieth winter, I perceive Fast locked in mine, with pleasure, such as love Confirmed by long experience of thy worth, And well tried virtues, could alone inspire ; 30 COWPER'S WORKS. Witness a joy, that thou hast doubled long ! Thou knowest my praise of Nature most sincere ; And that my raptures are not conjured up To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all. These verses would be alone sufficient to make every poetical reader take a lively in- j terest in the lady they describe ; but these ( are far from being the only tribute which the ! gratitude of Cowper has paid to the endear- j ing virtues of his female companion. More ' poetical memorials of her merit will be found in these volumes, and in verse so exquisite, that it may be questioned if the most pas- sionate lover ever gave rise to poetry more tender or more sublime. Yet, in this place, it appears proper to ap- prize the reader, that it was not love, in the common acceptation of the word, which in- spired these admirable eulogies. The attach- ment of Cowper to Mrs. Unwin, the Mary of the poet, was an attachment perhaps unpar- alleled. Their domestic union, though not sanctioned by the common forms of life, was supported with perfect innocence, and en- deared to them both by their having strug- gled together through a series of sorrow. A spectator of sensibility, who had contemplated the uncommon tenderness of their attention to the wants and infirmities of each other in the decline of life, might have said of their singular attachment, L'Amour n'a rien de si tendre, Ni l'Amitie de si doux. As a .connection so extraordinary forms a striking feature in the history of the poet, the reader will probably be anxious to investigate its origin and progress. — It arose from the following little incident. The countenance and deportment of Cow- er, though they indicated his native shyness, ad yet very singular powers of attraction. On his first appearance in one of the churches of Huntingdon, he engaged the notice and respect of an amiable young man, William Cawthorne Unwin, then a student at Cam- bridge, who, having observed, after divine service, that the interesting stranger was tak- ing a solitary turn under a row of trees, was irresistibly led to share his walk, and to so- licit his acquaintance. They were soon pleased with each other, and the intelligent youth, charmed with the acquisition of such a friend, was eager to communicate the treasure to his parents, who had long resided in Huntingdon. Mr. Unwin, the father, had for some years been master of a free school in the town; but, as he advanced in life he quitted the la- borious situation, and, settling in a large con- venient house in the High-street, contented nimself with a few domestic pupils, whom he instructed in classical literature. This worthy divine, who was now far ad vanced in years, had been lecturer to the two churches at Hunting#>n, before he obtained from his college at Cambridge the living of Grimston. While he lived in expectation of this preferment, he had attached himself to a young lady of lively talents, and remarkably fond of reading. This lady, who, in the pro- cess of time, and by a series of singula, events, became the friend and guardian o. Cowper, was the daughter of Mr. Ca'wthorn»: a draper in Ely. She was married to Mr Unwin, on his succeeding to the prefermer: that he expected from his college, and settle: with him on his living of Grimston; but, no . liking the situation and society of that seques- tered scene, she prevailed on her husband to establish himself in Huntingdon, where he was known and respected. They had resided there many years, and, with their two only children, a son and a daughter, they formed a cheerful and social- family, when the younger Unwin, described by Cowper as " A friend, Whose worth deserves the warmest lay That ever friendship penn'd," presented to his parents the solitary stranger, on whose retirement he had benevolently in- truded, and whose welfare he became more and more anxious to promote. An event highly pleasing and comfortable to Cowper soon followed this introduction ; he was af- fectionately solicited by all the Unwins to re- linquish his lonely lodging, and to become a part of their family. We are now arrived at that period in the personal history of Cowper. when we are for- tunately enabled to employ his own descrip- tive powers in recording the events and char- acters that particularly interested him, and in displaying the state of his mind at a remark- able season of his chequered life. The fol- lowing are a'mong the earliest letters of this affectionate writer, which the kindness of his friends and relatives has supplied towards the execution and embellishment of this work. Among his juvenile intimates and corre- spondents, he particularly regarded two gen- tlemen, who devoted themselves to different branches of the law, the first Lord Thurlow, and Joseph Hill, Esq., whose name appears in Cowper's Poems, prefixed to a few verses of exquisite beauty, a brief epistle, that seems to have more of the genuine ease, spirit, and moral gaiety of Horace, than any original epistle in the English language. From these two confidential associates of the poet, in his unclouded years, we might have expected materials for the display of his early genius; but, in the torrent of busy and splendid life, which bore the first of them to a mighty dis- tance from his less ambitious fellow-fttudenl LIFE OF COWPER. of the Temple, the private letters and verses that arose from their youthful intimacy have perished. The lexers to Mr. Hill are copious, and extend through a long period of time, and although many of them were of a nature not suited to publication, yet many others will illustrate and embellish this volume. The steadiness and integrity of Mr. Hill's regard for a person so much sequestered from his sight gives him a particular title to be distin- guished among those whom Cowper has honored, by addres-ing to them his highly interesting and affectionate letters. Many of these, which we shall occasionally intro- duce in the parts of the ' narrative to which they belong, may tend to confirm a truth, not unpleasing to the majority of readers, that the temperate zone of moderate fortune, equally removed from high and low life, is most favorable to the permanence of friend- ship. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Huntingdon, June -24, 1765. Dear Joe, — The only recompense I can make you for your kind attention to my af- fairs, during my illness, is to tell you "that, by the mercy of God, I am restored to per- fect health, both of mind and body. This, I believe, will give you pleasure, and I would gladly do anything from which you could re- ceive it. I left St. Alban's, on the 17th, and arrived that day at Cambridge, spent some time there with my brother, and came hither on the 22nd. . I have a lodging that puts me con- tinually in mind of our summer excursions ; we have had many worse, and except the size of it (which however is sufficient for a single man) but few better. I am not quite alone, having brought a servant with me from St. Alban's, who is the very mirror of fidelity and affection for his master. And, whereas the Turkish Spy says, he kept no servant because he would, not have an enemy in his house, I hired mine because I would have a friend* Men do not usually bestow these encomiums on their lackeys, nor do they usually deserve them, but I have had experi- ence of mine, both in sickness and in health, and never saw his fellow. The river Ouse, I forget how they spell it, is the most agreeable circumstance in this part of the world ; at this town it is, I be- lieve, as wide as the Thames at Windsor; nor does the silver Thames better deserve that epithet, nor has it more flowers upon its banks, these being attributes which, in strict truth, belong to neither. Fluellen would say, they are as like as my fingers to my fingers, and there is salmon in both. It is a noble stream to bathe in, and I shall make that use of it three times a week, having in- troduced myself to it tor the first time thii morning. I beg you will remember me to all my friends, which is a task will cost you no great pains to execute — particularly remem- ber me to those of your own house, and be lieve me Your very affectionate W. C. TO LADV HESKETH. Huntingdon, July 1, 1765. . My dear Lady Hesketh, — Since the visit you were so kind to pay me in the Temple (the only time I ever saw you without pleas- ure), wh it have I not suffered ? And, since it has pleased God to restore me to the use of my reason, what have I not enjoyed ? You know, by experience, how pleasant it is to feel the first approaches of health after a fever ; but, oh ! the fever of the brain ! To feel the quenching of that fire is indeed a blessing which I think it impossible to receive with, out the most consummate gratitude. Terri- ble as this chastisement is, I acknowledge in it the hand of an infinite justice ; nor is it at all more difficult for me to perceive in it the hand of an infinite mercy likewise : when I consider the effect it has had upon me, I am exceedingly thankful for it, and, without hy- pocrisy, esteem it the greatest blessing, next 19o life itself, I ever received from the divine bounty. I pray God that I may ever retain this sense of it, and then I am sure I shall continue to be, as I am at present, really happy. I write thus to you, that you may not think me a forlorn and wretched creature; which you might be apt to do, considering my very distant removal from every friend I have in the world — a circumstance which, before this event befell me, would undoubtedly have made me so; but my affliction has taught me a road to happiness, which, without it, I should never have found ; and I know, and have experience of it every day, that the mercy of God, to him who believes himself the object of it, is more than sufficient to compensate for the loss of every other bless- ing. You may now inform all those whom you think really interested in my welfare, that they have no need to be apprehensive on the score of my happiness at present. And you yourself will believe that my happiness is no dream, because I have told you the founda- tion on which it is built. What I have writ- ten would appear like enthusiasm to many for we are apt to give that name to every warm affection of the mind in others which we have not experienced in ourselves ; but to you, who have so much to be thankful for and a temper inclined to gratitude, it will not appear so. 7 beg you will give my love to Sir Thomas, and believe that I am* obliged to you both for inquiring after me at St. Ai ban's. Yours ever, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Huntingdon, July 3, 1765. Dear Joe,- — Whatever you may think of the matter, it is no such easy thing to keep house for two people. A man cannot always live like the lions in the Tower; and a joint of meat, in so small a family, is an endless in- cumbrance. In short, I never knew how to pity poor housekeepers before; but now I cease to wonder at that politic cast which their occupation usually gives to their coun- tenance, for it is really a matter full of per- plexity. I have received but one visit since here I came. I don't mean that I have refused any, but that only one has been offered. This was from my woollen-draper; a very heal- thy, wealthy, sensible, sponsible man, and extremely civil. He has a cold bath, and has promised me a key of it, which I shall probably make use of in the winter. He has undertaken, too, to get me the St. James's Chronicle three times a-week, and to show me Hinchinbrook House, and to do eve#y service for me in his power; so that I did not exceed the truth, you see, when I spoke of his civility. Here is a card-assembly, and a dancing-assembly, and a horse-race, and a club, and a bowling-green ; so that I am well off, you perceive, in point of diversions ; espe- cially as I shall go to 'em, just as much as I should if I lived a thousand miles off. But no matter for that ; the spectator at a play is more entertained than the actor ; and in real life it is much the same. You will say, per- haps, that if I never frequent these places, I shall not come within the description of a spectator; and you will say right. I have made a blunder, which shall be corrected in the next edition. You are old dog at a bad tenant ; witness all my uncle's and your mother's geese and gridirons. There is something so extremely impertinent in entering upon a man's premi- ses, and using them without paying for 'em, that I could easily resent it if I would. But I rather choose to entertain myself with thinking how you will scour the man about, and worry him to death, if once you begin with him. Poor wretch ! I leave him entirely to your mercy. My dear Joe, you desire me to write long etters. I have neither matter enough nor perseverance enough for the purpose. How- * Private correspondence. ever, if you can but contrive to be tired of reading as soon as I am tired of writing, we shall find that short ones answer just as well and, in my opinion, this is a very practicable measure. My friend Colman has had good fortune , I wish him better fortune still ; which is, that he may make a right use of it. The trage- dies of Lloyd and Bensley are both very deep If they are not of use to the surviving part of the society, it is their own fault. I was debtor to Bensley seven pounds, 01 nine, I forget which. If you can find out Ms brother, you will do me a great favor if you will pay him for me ; but do it at your leisure. Yours and theirs,* W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Huntingdon, July 4, 1765. Being just emerged from the Ouse, I sit down to thank you, my dear cousin, for your friendly and comfortable letter. What could you think of my unaccountable behavior to you in that visit I mentioned in my last? I remember I neither spoke to you nor looked at you. The solution of the mystery indeed followed soon after, but at the same time it must have been inexplicable. The uproar within was even then begun, and my silence was only the sulkiness of a thunder-storm before it opens. I am glad, however, that the only instance in which I knew not how to value your company was when I was not in my senses. It was the first of the kind, and I trust in God it will be the last. How naturally does affliction make us Christians ! and how impossible it is, when all human help is vain, and the whole earth too poor and trifling to furnish us with one moment's peace — how impossible is it then to avoid looking at the Gospel ! It gives me some concern, though at the same time it in- creases my gratitude, to reflect, that a convert made in Bedlam is more likely to be a stum- bling-block to others than to advance their faith. But, if it has that effect upon any, it is owing to their reasoning amiss, and draw ing their conclusions from false premises. He who can ascribe an amendment of life and manners and a reformation of the hearl itself to madness, is guilty of an absurdity that in any other case would fasten the im- putation of madness upon himself; for, by so doing, he ascribes a reasonable effect to an unreasonable cause, and a positive effect to a negative. But, when Christianity only is to be sacrificed, he that stabs deepest is always * The author is supposed to mean Mrs. Hill and her two daughters. The word theirs cannot so well refer to the last antecedent, the persons who stand in that rela- tion with it being both dead at the time he wrote, as ii evident from the context. LIFE OF COWPER. 33 the wisest man. You, my dear cousin, your- self, will be apt to think I carry the matter too far, and that, in the present warmth of my heart, I make too ample a concession in saying, that I am onhj now a convert. You think I always believed, and I thought so too, but you were deceived, and so was I. I called myself indeed a Christian, but He who knows my heart, knows that I never did a right thing, nor abstained from a wrong one, because I was so. But, if I did either, it was under the influence of some other motive. And it is such seeming Christians, such pretending believers, that do most mischief to the cause, and furnish the strongest arguments to sup- port the infidelity of its enemies : unless pro- fession and conduct go together, the man's life is a lie, and the validity of what he pro- fesses itself is called in question. The differ- ence between a Christian and an unbeliever would be so striking, if the treacherous allies of the church would go over at once to the other side, that I am satisfied religion would be no loser by the bargain. I reckon it one instance of the providence that has attended me throughout this whole event, that, instead of being delivered into the hands of one of the London physicians — who were so much nearer, that I wonder I was notr— I was carried to Dr. Cotton. I was not only treated by him with the greatest tender- ness while I was ill, and attended with the utmost diligence, but when my reason was restored to me, and I had so much need of a religious friend to converse with, to whom I could open my mind upon the subject with- out reserve, I could hardly have found a fitter person for the purpose. My eagerness and anxiety to settle my opinions upon that long- neglected point made it necessary, that while my mind was yet weak, and my spirits uncer- tain, I should have some assistance. The doctor was as ready to administer relief to me in this article likewise, and as well quali- fied to do it as in that which was more im- mediately his province. How many physi- cians would have thought this an irregular appetite and a symptom of remaining mad- ness ! , But if it were so, my friend was as mad as myself, and it is well for me that he was so. My dear cousin, you know not half the deliverances I have received ; my brother is the only one in the family who does. My recovery is indeed a signal one, but a greater, if possible, went before it. My future life must express my thankfulness, for by words i cannot do it. I pray God to bless you, and my friend Sit Thomas. Yours ever, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Huntingdon, July 5, 1 765. My dear Lady Hesketh, — My pen runs so fast you will begin to wish you had not put it in motion, but you must consider we have not met, even by letter, almost these two years, which will account, in some measure, for my pestering you in this manner ; besides my last was no answer to yours, and there- fore I consider myself as still in your debt. To say truth, I have this long time promised myself a correspondence with you as one of my principal pleasures. I should have written to you from St. Al ban's long since, but was willing to perform quarantine first, both for my own sake, and because I thought my letters would be more satisfactory to you from any other quarter. You will perceive I allowed myself a very sufficient time for the purpose, for I date my recovery from the 25th of last July, having been ill seven months, and well twelve months. It was on that day my brother came to see me ; I was far from well when he came in ; yet, though he only stayed one day with me, his company served to put to flight a thousand deliriums and delusions which I still labored under, and the next morning found myself a new creature. But to the present purpose. As far as I am acquainted with this place, I like it extremely. Mr. Hodgson, the min- ister of the parish, made me a visit the day before yesterday. He is very sensible; a good preacher, and conscientious in the dis- charge of his duty. He is very well known to Dr. Newton, Bishop of Bristol, the author of the Treatise oh the Prophecies, one of our best bishops, and who nas written the mosl demonstrative proof of the truth of Christian- ity, in my mind, that ever was published. There is a village, called Hertford, about a mile and a half from hence. The church there is very prettily situated upon a rising ground, so close to the river that it washes the wall of the churchyard. I found an epi- taph there the other morning, the two first lines of which being better than anything else I saw there, I made shift to remember. It is by a widow, on her husband. " Thou wast too good to live on earth with me, And I not good enough to die with thee." The distance of this place from Cambridge is the worst circumstance belonging to it. My brother and I are fifteen miles asunder, which, considering that I came hither for the sake of being near him, is rather too much. I wish that young man was better known in the family. He has as many good qualities as his nearest kindred could wish io find in him. As Mr. Quin very roundly expressed him- self upon some such occasion, " here is very plentiful accommodation, and great happiness 3 31 UUWPER'S WORKS, of provision." So that' if I starve, it must be through forgetfulness rather than scarcity. Fare thee well, my good and dear cousin. Ever yours, .W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. July 12, 1765. My dear Cousin, — You are very good to me, and if you will only continue to write at such intervals as you find convenient, I shall receive all that pleasure which I proposed to myself from our correspondence. I desire no more than that you would never drop me for any length of time together, for I shall then think you only write because something hap- pened to put you in mind of me, or for some other reason equally mortifying. I am not, however, so unreasonable as to expect you should perform this act of friendship so fre- quently as myself, for you live in a world swarming with engagements, and my hours are almost all my own. You must every day be employed in doing what is expected from you by a thousand others, and I have nothing to do but what is most agreeable to myself. Our mentioning Newton's Treatise on the Prophecies brings to my mind an anecdote of Dr. Young, who you know died lately at Welwyn. Dr. Cotton, who was intimate with him, paid him a visit about a fortnight before he was seized with his last illness. The old man was then in perfect health ;' the antiquity of his person, the gravity of his ut- terance, and the earnestness with which he discoursed about religion, gave him, in the doctor's eye, the appearance of a prophet. They had been delivering their sentiments upon this book of Newton, when Young closed the conference thus: — "My friend, there are two considerations upon which my faith in Christ is built as upon a rock : the fall of man, the redemption of man, and the resurrection of man, the three cardinal arti- cles of our religion, are such as human inge- nuity could never have invented, therefore they must be divine ; the other argument is this. If the prophecies have been fulfilled (of which there is abundant demonstration), the Scripture must be the word of God, and if the Scripture is the word of God, Chris- tianity must be true." This treatise on the prophecies serves a double purpose ; it not only proves the truth of religion, in a manner that never has been, nor ever can be controverted ; but it proves likewise, that the Roman Catholic is the apos- tate, and the anti-Christian church, so fre- quently foretold both in the Old and New Testaments. Indeed so fatally connected is the refutation of Popery with the truth of Christianity, when the latter is evinced by the completion of the prophecies, that, in proportion as light is thrown upon the one, the deformities and errors of the other are more plainly exhibited. But I leave you to the book itself; there are parts of it which may possibly afford you less entertainment than the rest, because yot have never been a school-boy, but in the ma.,a it is so interest- ing, and you are so fond of that which is so, that I am sure you will like it. My dear cousin, how happy am I in having a friend, to whom I can open my heart upon these subjects ! I have many intimates in the world, and have had many more than I shall have hereafter, to whom a long letter upon these most important articles would appear tiresome at least, if not impertinent. But ] am not afraid of meeting with that reception from you, who have never yet made it your interest that there should be no truth in the word of God. May this everlasting truth be your comfort while you live, and attend you with peace and joy in your last moments ! I love you too weir not to make this a part of my prayers ; and when I remember my friends on these occasions, there is no likelihood that you can be forgotten. Yours ever, W. C. P. S. — Cambridge. I add this postscript at my brother's rooms. He desires to be af- fectionately remembered to you, and if you are in town about a fortnight hence, when he proposes to be there himself, will take a breakfast with you. TO LADY HESKETH. Huntingdon, August 1st, 1765. My dear Cousin, — If I was to measure your obligation to write by my own desire to hear from you, I should call you an idle corre- spondent if a post went by without bringing a letter, but I am not so unreasonable ; on the contrary, I think myself very happy in hearing from yon upon your own terms, as you find most convenient. Your short his- tory of my family is a very acceptable part of your letter ; if they really interest them- selves in my welfare* it is a mark of their great charity for one who has been a disap- pointment and a vexation to them ever since he has been of consequence enough to be either. My friend the major's behavior* to me, after all he suffered by my abandoning his interest and my own, in so miserable a manner, is a noble instance of generosity and true greatness of mind : and, indeed, I know no man in whom those qualities are more conspicuous ; one need only furnish him with * Cowper's pecuniary resources had been seriously impaired by his loss of the Clerkship of the Journals in the House of Lords, and by his subsequent resignation of the office of Commissioner of Bankrupts. At the kind instigation of Major Cowper, his friends had been induced to unite in rendering his income more adequate to his necessary annual expenditure. an opportunity to display them, and they are always ready to show themselves in his words and actions, and even in his countenance, at a moment's warning. I have great reason to be thankful — I have lost none of my acquaint- ance, but those whom I determined not to keep. I am sorry this class is so numerous. What would I not give that every friend I have in the world were not almost but alto- gether Christians! My dear cousin, I am half afraid to talk in this style, lest I should ?<*>m .o indulge a censorious humor, instead of hoping, as I ought, the best for all men. But what can be said against ocular proof, and what is hope when it is built upon pre- sumption? To use the most holy name in the universe for no purpose, or a bad one, contrary to his own express commandment; to pass the day, and the succeeding days, weeks, and months, and years, without one act of private devotion, one confession of our sins, or one thanksgiving for the numberless blessings we enjoy ; to hear the word of God in public, with a distracted attention, or with none at all; to absent -ourselves voluntarily from the blessed Communion, and to live in the total neglect of it, though our Saviour has charged it upon us with an express in- junction — are the common and ordinary liber- ties which the generality of professors allow themselves ; and what is this but to live with- out God in the world ? Many causes may be assigned for this anti-Christian spirit, so prev- alent among Christians, but one of the prin- cipal I take to be their utter forgetful n ess that they have the word of God in their pos- session. My friend, Sir William Russel, was dis- tantly related to a very accomplished man, who, though he never believed the Gospel, iftmired the Scriptures as the sublimest com- positions in the world, and read them often. I have been intimate myself with a man of fine taste, who has confessed to me that, though he could not subscribe to the truth of Christianity itself, yet he never could read St. Luke's account of our Saviour's appear- ance to the two disciples going to Emmaus without being wonderfully affected by it, and he thought that, if the stamp of divinity was anywhere to be found in Seripture, it was strongly marked and visibly impressed upon that passage. If these men, whose hearts were chilled with the darkness of infidelity, 30uld find such charms in the mere style of the Scripture, what must they find there whose eye penetrates deeper than the letter, and who firmly believe themselves interested in all the valuable privileges of the Gospel ? * He that believeth on me is passed from death unto life," though it be as plain a sen- tence as words can form, has more beauties ki it for such a person than all the labors antiquity can boast of. If my poor man of taste, whom I have just mentioned, had searched a little further, he might have found other parts of the sacred history as strongly marked with the characters of divinity, as that he mentioned. The parable of the prod- igal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented; our Saviour's speech to his disciples, with which he closes his earthly ministration, full of the sublimest dignity, and tenderest affection; surpass everything that I ever read, and, like the Spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart. If the Scripture did not disdain all affectation of ornament, one should, call these, and such as these, the ornamental parts of it, but the matter of it is that upon which it principally stakes its credit with us, and the style, how- ever excellent and peculiar to itself, is the only one of those many external evidences by which it recommends itself to our belief. I shall be very much obliged to you for the book you mention ; you could not have sent me anything that would have been more wel- come, unless you had sent me your own med- itations instead of them. Yours, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* August 14th, 1765. Dear Joe, — Both Lady Hesketh and my brother had apprized me of your intention to give me a call; and herein I find they were both mistaken. But they both informed me, likewise, that you were already set out for Warwickshire ; in consequence of which lat- ter intelligence, I have lived in continual ex- pectation of seeing you, any time this fort- night, Now, how these two ingenious per sonages (for such they are both) should mis- take an expedition to French Flanders for a journey to Warwickshire, is more than I, with all my ingenuity, can imagine. I am glad, however, that I have still a ch^ee of seeing you, and shall treasure it up ; ... rngst my agreeable expectations. Tn the meant;, . you are welcome to the British shore, as the song has it, and I thank y u for your epitome of your travels. You don't tell me how you escaped the vigilance of the custom-house officers, though I dare say you were knuckle- deep in contrabands, and had your boots stuffed with all and all manner of unlawful wares and merchandizes. You know, Joe, I am very deep in debt to my little physician at St. Albans, and that the handsomest thing I can do will be to pay him le pliUdt qu'il sera possible (that is vile French, I believe, but you can, now, correct it). My brother informs me that you have such a quantity of cash in your hands on my ac- count, that I may venture to send him forty pounds immediately. This, therefore, I shall * Private corn-spundence. t»e obliged if you will manage for me ; and when you receive the hundred pounds, which my brother likewise brags you are shortly to receive, I shall be glad if you will discharge the remainder of that debt, without waiting for any further advice from your humble servant. I am become a professed horseman, and do hereby assume to myself the style and title of the Knight of the Bloody Spur. It has cost me much to bring this point to bear; but I think I have at last accomplished it. My love to all your family. Yours ever, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Huntingdon, August 17, 1765. You told me, my dear cousin, that I need not fear writing too often, and you perceive I take you at your word. At present, how- ever, I shall do little more than thank you for your Meditations, which I admire exceed- ingly ; the author of them manifestly loved the truth with an undissembled affection, had made great progress in the knowledge of it, and experienced all the happiness that natu- rally results from that noblest of all attain- ments. There is one circumstance which he gives us frequent occasion to observe in him, *vhich I believe will ever be found in the philosophy of every true Christian. I mean the eminent rank which he assigns to faith among the virtues, as the source and parent of them all. There is nothing more infalli- bly true than this ; and doubtless it is with a view to the purifying and sanctifying na- ture of a true faith, that our Saviour says "He that believeth in me hath everlasting life," with many other expressions to the same purpose. Considered in this light, no wonder it has the power of salvation ascribed to it. Considered in any other, we must suppose it to operate like an oriental talis- man, if it obtains for us the least advantage ; which is an affront to Him, who insists upon our having it, and will on no other terms ad- mit us to his favor. I mention this distin- guishing article in his Reflections, the rather because it serves for a solid foundation to the distinction I made in my last, between the specious professor and the true believer, between him whose faith is his Sunday suit and him who never puts it off at all — a dis- tinction I am a little fearful sometimes of making, because it is a heavy stroke upon the practice of niore than half the Christians in the world. My dear cousin, I tol ' you I read the book with great pleasure, which may be accounted for from its ovvn merit, but perhaps it pleased me the more because you had travelled the same road before me. You know there is no such pleasure as this, which would want great explanation to some folks, being per haps a mystery to those whose hearts are a mere muscle, and serve only for the purpose? of an even circulation. W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Sept. 4th, 1765. Though I have some very agreeable ac- quaintance at Huntingdon, my dear cousin, none are so agreeable as the arrival of your letters. I thank you for that which I have just received from Droxford, and particularly for that part of it, where you give me an un- limited liberty upon the subject I have al- ready so often written upon. Whatever in. terests us deeply, as naturally flows into the pen as it does from the lips, when every re- straint is taken away, and we meet with a friend indulgent enough to attend to us. How many, in all that variety of characters with whom I am acquainted, could I find, after the strictest search, to whom I could write as I do to you ? I hope the number will increase : I am sure it cannot easily be diminished. Poor ! I have heard the whole of his history, and can only lament what I am sure I can make no apology for. Two of my friends have been cut off, during my illness, in the midst of such a life as it is frightful to reflect upon, and here am I, in better health and spirits than I can almost remember to have enjoyed before, after hav- ing spent months in the apprehension of in- stant death. How mysterious are the ways of Providence ! Why did I receive grace and mercy? Why was I preserved, afflicted for my good, received, as I trust, into favor, and blessed with the greatest happiness I c«i ever know, or hope for, in this life, while these were overtaken by the great arrest, un- awakened, unrepenting, and every way un- prepared for it? His infinite wisdom, to whose infinite mercy I owe it all, can solve these questions, and none besides him. If a freethinker, as many a man miscalls himself, could be brought to give a serious answer to them, he would certainly say, "Without doubt, Sir, you were in great danger; you had a narrow escape ; a most fortunate one, indeed." How excessively foolish, as well as shocking ! As if life depended upon luck, and all that we are or can be, all that we have or hope for, could possibly be referred to ac- cident. Yet to this freedom of thought it is owing that He, who, as our Saviour tells us, is thoroughly apprized of the death of the meanest of his creatures, is supposed to leave those, whom he has made in his own image, to the mercy of chance : and to this therefore it is likewise owing, that the correction which our Heavf nly Father bestows upon us, that we may bt fitted to receive his blessing, is so LIFE OF COWPER. M often disappointed of its benevolent intention, and that men despise the chastening of the Almighty. Fevers and all diseases are acci- dents, and long life, recovery at least from sickness, is the gift of the physician. No man can be a greater friend to the use of means upon these occasions than myself, for it were presumption and enthusiasm to neg- lect them. God has endued them with salu- tary properties on purpose that we might avail ourselves of them, otherwise that part of his creation were in vain. But to impute our recovery to the medicine, and to carry our views no further, is to rob God of his honor, and is saying in effect that he has parted with the keys of life and death, and, by giving to a drug the power to heal us, has placed our lives out of his own reach. He that thinks thus, may as well fall upon his knees at once, and return thanks to the me- dicine that cured him, for it was certainly more instrumental in his recovery than either the apothecary or the doctor. My dear cous- in, a firm persuasion of the superintendence of Providence over all our concerns is abso- lutely necessary to our happiness. Without it, we cannot be said to believe in the Scrip- ture, or practise anything like resignation to his will. If I am convinced that no affliction can befall me without the permission of God, I am convinced likewise that he sees and knows that I am afflicted; believing this, I must, in the same degree, believe that if I pray to him for deliverance he hears me ; I must needs know likewise, with equal assur- ance, that if he hears he will also deliver me, if that will upon the whole be most condu- cive to my happiness ; and, if he does not de- liver me, I may be well assured that he has none but the most benevolent intention in declining it. He made us, not because we could add to his happiness, which was always perfect, but that we might be happy otfrselves; and will he not, in all his dispensations to- wards us, even in the minutest, consult that end for which he made us ? To suppose the contrary, is (which we are not always aware of) affronting every one of his attributes; and, at the same time, the certain conse- quence of disbelieving his care for us is that we renounce utterly our dependence upon him. In this view it will appear plainly that the line of duty is not stretched too tight, when we are told that we ought to accept everything at his hands as a blessing, and to be thankful even while we smart under the rod of iron, with which he sometimes rules us. Without this persuasion, every bless- ng, however we may think ourselves happy in it, loses its greatest recommendation, and every affliction is intolerable. Death itself must be welcome to him who has this faith, and he who has it not must aim at it, if he is not a madman. You cannot think how glad I am to hear you are going to commenca lady, and mistress of Freemantle.* I know it well, and could go to it from Southampton blindfold. You are kind to invite me to it, and I shall be so kind to myself as to accept the invitation, though I should not, for a slight consideration, be prevailed upon to quit my beloved retirement at Huntingdon. Yours ever, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Huntingdon, Sept. 14, 1765. My dear Cousin, — The longer I live here, the better I like the place, and the people who belong to it. I am upon very good terms with no less than five families, besides two or three odd scrambling fellows like myself. The last acquaintance I made here is with the race of the Unwins, consisting of father and mother, son and daughter, the most com- fortable, social folks you ever knew. The son is about twenty-one years of age, one of the most unreserved and amiable young men I ever conversed with. He is not yet arrived at that time of life when suspicion recom- mends itself to us in the form of wisdom and sets everything but our own d< xy selves at an immeasurable distance from our esteem and confidence. Consequently, be is known almost as soon as seen, and, having nothing in his heart that makes it necessary for him to keep it barred and bolted, opens it to the perusal even of a stranger. The father is a clergyman, and the son is designed for orders. The design however is quite his own, proceed- ing merely from his being, and having always been, sincere in his belief and love of the Gos- pel. Another acquaintance I have lately made is with a Mr. Nicholson, a north-country di- vine, very poor, but very good, and. very happy. He reads prayers here twice a-day, all the year round, and travels on foot to serve two churches every Sunday through the year, his journey out and home again being sixteen miles. I supped with him last night. He gave me bread and cheese, and a black jug of ale of his own brewing, and doubtless brewed by his own hands. An- other of my acquaintance is Mr. , a thin, till, old man, and as good as he is thin. He drinks nothing but water, and eats no flesh, partly (I believe) from a religious scruple (for he is very religious), and partly in the spirit of a valetudinarian. He is to be met with every morning of his life, at about six o'clock, at a fountain of very fine water, about a mile from the town, which is reck- oned extremely like the Bristol spring. Being both early risers, and the only early walkers in the place, we soon became acquainted. His great piety can be equalled by nothing * Freemantle, a villa near Southampton. 38 COWPER'S WORKS. out his great regularity ; for he is the most perfect timepiece in the world. I have re- ceived a visit likewise from Mr. . He is very much a gentleman, well-read, and sensi- ble. I am persuaded, in short, that if I had had the choice of all England where to fix. my abode, I could not have chosen better for myself, and most likely I should not have chosen s,o well. You say, you hope it .is not necessary for salvation to undergo the same afflictions that 1 have undergone. No ! my dear cousin, God deals with his children as a merciful father ; he does not, as he himself tells us, afflict wil- lingly the sons of men. Doubtless there are many, who, having been placed by his good providence out of the reach of any great evil and the influence of bad example, have, from their very infancy, been partakers of the grace of his Holy Spirit, in such a manner as never to have allowed themselves in any grievous offence against him. May you love him more and more, day by day, as every day, while vou think upcn him, you will find him more *vorthy of your love ; and may you be finally accepted by him for hi? sake whose interces- sion for all his faithful servants cannot but prevail ! Yours ever, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Huntingdon, Oct. 10, 1765. My dear Cousin, — I should grumble at your long silence, if I did not know that one may love one's friends very well, though one is not always in a humor to write to them. Besides, I have the satisfaction of being per- fectly sure that you have at least twenty times recollected the debt you owe me, and as often resolved to pay it: and perhaps; while you remain indebted to me, you think of me twice as often as you would do if the account was clear. These are the reflections with which I comfort myself under the affliction of not hearing from you ; my temper does not in- cline me to jealousy, and, if it did, I should set all right by having recourse to what I have already received from you. I thank God for your friendship, and for every friend I have ; for all the pleasing cir- cumstances here ; for my health of body, and perfect serenity of mind. To recollect the past, and compare it with the present, is all I have need of to fill me with gratitude ; and to be grateful is to be happy. Not that I think myself sufficiently thankful, or that I ever shall be so in this life. The warmest heart perhaps only feels by fits, and is often as insensible as the coldest. This at least is frequently the case with mine, and oftener whan it should be. But the mercy that can forgive iniquity will never be severe to mark >ur frailties; to that mercy, my dear cousin, I commend you, with earnest wishes for youl welfare, and remain your ever affectionate W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 1765. I wish you joy, my dear cousin, of being safely arrived in port from the storms of Southampton. For my own part, who am but as a Thames wherry, in a world full of tempest and commotion, I know so well the value of the creek I have put into, and the snugness it affords me, that I have a sensible spmpathy with you in the pleasure you find in being once more blown to Droxford. I know enough of Miss Morley to send her my compliments, to which, if I had never seen her, her affection for you would sufficiently entitle her. If I neglected to do it sooner, it is only because I am naturally apt to neg- lect what I ought to do ; and if I was as genteel as I am negligent, I should be the most delightful creature in the universe. I am glad you think so favorably of my Hunt- ingdon acquaintance ; they are indeed a nice set of folks, and suit me exactly. I should have been more particular in my account of Miss Unwin, if I had had materials for a mi- nute description. She is about eighteen years v.f age, rather handsome and genteel. In her mother's company she says little, not because her mother requires it of her, but because she seems glad of that excuse for not talking, be- ing somewhat inclined to bashfulness. There is the most remarkable cordiality between all the parts of the family, and the mother and daughter seem to doat upon each other. The first time I went to the house, I was intro- duced to the daughter alone; and sat with her near half an hour before her brother came in, who tad appointed me to call upon him. Talking is necessary in a tete-a-tete, to distin- guish the persons of the drama from the chairs they sit on: accordingly, she talked a great deal, and extremely well ; and, like the rest of the family, behaved with as much ease and address as if we had been old acquaint- ance. She resembles her mother in her great piety, who is one of the most remarkable in- stances of it I have ever seen. They are alto- gether the cheerfullest and most engaging family-piece it is possible to conceive. Since I wrote the above, I met Mrs. Unwin in the street, and went home with her. She and I walked together near two hours in the gar- den, and had a conversation which did me more good than I should have received from an audience of the first prince in Europe. That woman is a blessing to me, and I never see her without being the better for her com- pany. I am treated in the family as if I was a near relation, and have been repeatedly in- vited to call upon them at all times. You LJFE OF COWPER. know what a shy fellow I am ) I cannot pre- vail with myself to make so much use of this privilege as I am sure tbey intend I should, but perhaps this awkwardness will wear off hereafter. It was my earnest request before I left St. Alban's, that wherever it might please Providfuicp io dispose of me, I might meet with such an acquaintance as I find in Mrs. Unwin. How happy it is to believe, with a ^teadfcAst assurance, that our petitions are heard, even while we are making them ! — and how delightful to meet with a proof of it in the effectual and actual grant of them ! Surely it is a gracious finishing given to those means which the Almighty has been pleased to make use of for my conversion. After having been deservedly rendered unfit for any society, to be again qualified for it, and admitted at once into the fellowship of those whom God regards as the excellent of the earth, and whom, in the emphatical lan- guage of Scripture, he preserves as the apple of his eye, is a blessing, which carries with it the stamp and visible superscription of di- vine bounty — a grace unlimited as unde- served ; and, like its glorious Author, free in its course, and blessed in its operation ! My dear cousin! health and happiness, and, above all, the favor of our great and gracious Lord attend you ! while we seek it in spirit and in truth we are infinitely more secure of it than of the next breath we ex- pect to draw. Heaven and earth have their destined periods ; ten thousand worlds will vanish at the consummation of all things; but the word of God standeth fast, and they W'ho trust in him shall never be confounded. My love to all who inquire after me. Yours affectionately, W. C. TO MAJOR COWPER. Huntingdon, Oct. 18, 1765. My dear Major, — I have neither lost the use of my fingers nor my memory, though cay unaccountable silence might incline you to suspect that I had lost both. The history of those things which have, from time to time, prevented my scribbling would not only be insipid, but extremely voluminous, for which reasons they will not make their ap- pearance at present, nor probably at any time hereafter. If my neglecting to write to you were a proof that I had never thought of you, and that had been really the case, five shillings apiece would have been much too little to give for the sight of such a monster ! but I am no such monster, nor do I perceive in myself the least tendency to such a trans- format/on. You may recollect that I had but very uncomfortable expectations of the accommodations I should meet with at Hun- tingdon. How much better is it to take our lot where it shall please Providence tc cast it without anxiety! had I chosen. for myself, it is impossible I could have fixed upon a place so agreeable to me in all respects. J so much dreaded the thought of having a new acquaintance to make, with no other recom- mendation than that of being a perfect stranger, that I heartily wished no creaturs here might take the least notice of me. In- stead of which, in about two months after my arrival, I became known to all the visita- ble people here, and do verily think it the most agreeable neighborhood I ever saw. Here are three families who have received me with the utmost civility, and two in par- ticular. have treated me with as much cor- diality as if their pedigree and mine had grown upon the same s^ieep-skin. Besides these, there are three or four single men, who suit my temper to a hair. The town is one of the neatest in England ; the country is fine for several miles about it; and the roads, which are all turnpike, and strike out four or five different ways, are perfectly good all the year round. I mention this latter circumstance chiefly because my dis- tance from Cambridge has made a horseman of me at last, or at least is likely to do so. My brother and I meet every week, by an alternate reciprocation of intercourse, as Sam Johnson would express it ; sometimes I get a lift in a neighbor's chaise, but generally ride. As to my own personal condition, I am much happier than the day is long, and sunshine and candle-light alike see me per- fectly contented. I get books in abundance, as much company as I choose, a deal of com- fortable leisure, and enjoy better health, I think, than for many years past. What is there wanting to make me happy? No- thing, if I can but be as thankful as I ought, and I trust that He, who has bestowed so many blessings upon me, will give me grati- tude to crown them all. I beg you will give my love to my dear cousin Maria, and to everybody at the Park. If Mrs. Maitland is with you, as I suspect by a passage in Lady Hesketh's letter to me, pray remember me to her very affectionately. And believe me, my dear friend, ever yours, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. October 25, 1765. Dear Joe, — I am afraid the month of Oc- tober has proved rather unfavorable to the belle assemblee at Southampton, high winds and continual rains being bitter enemies to that agreeable lounge which you and I arr equally fond of. I have very cordially be taken myself to my books and my fireside , and seldom leave them unless for exercise, I have added another family to the numbel of those I was acquainted with when you were here. Their name is Unwin — the most agr a eable people imaginable ; quite sociable, and as free from the ceremonious civility of country gentle-folks as any I ever met with. They treat me more like a near relation than a, stranger, and their house is always open to me. The old gentleman carries me to Cambridge in his chaise. He is a man of learning and good sense, and as simple as Parson Adams. His wife has a very uncom- mon understanding, has read much, to excel- lent purpose, and is more polite than a duch- ess. The son, who belongs to Cambridge, is a most amiable young man, and the daugh- ter quite of a piece with the rest of the fam- ily. They see but little company, which suits me exactly ; go when I will, I find a house full of peao* and cordiality in all its parts, and am sure to hear no scandal, but such discourse instead of it as we are all better for. You remember Rousseau's de- scription of an English morning ;* such are the mornings I spend with these good peo- ple, and the evenings differ from them in no- thing, except that they are still more snug and quieter. Now I know them, I wonder that I liked Huntingdon so well before I knew them, and am apt to think I should find every place disagreeable that had not an Unwin belonging to it. This incident convinces me of the truth of an observation I have often made, that when we circumscribe our estimate of all that is clever within the limits of our own acquaint- ance (which I at least have been always apt to do) we are guilty of a very uncharitable censure upon the rest of the world, and of a narrowness of thinking disgraceful to our- selves. Wapping and Redriff may contain some of the most amiable persons living, and such as one would go to Wapping and Red- riff to make acquaintance with. You re- member Gray's stanza, Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The deep unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a rose is born to blush unseen, And waste its fragrance on the desert air. Yours, dear Joe, W. C. X i *J JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f Nov. 5, 1765. >)ear Joe, — I wrote to you about ten days Soliciting a quick return of gold, To purchase certain horse that likes me well. Either my letter or your answer to it, I fear, nas miscarried. The former, I hope ; be- cause a miscarriage of the latter might be attended with bad consequences. * See hifc Emilius. t Private correspondence. I find it impossible to proceed any longef in my present course without danger of bankruptcy. I have therefore entered into an agreement with the Rev. Mr. Unwin to lodge and board with him. The family are the most agreeable in the world. They live in a special good house, and in a very gen- teel way. They are all exactiy what I would wish them to be, and I know I shall be as happy with them as I can be on this side of the sun. I did not dream of this matter till about five days ago : but now the whole is settled. I shall transfer myself thither as soon as I have satisfied all de- mands upon me here. Yours ever, W. C TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Nov. 8, 1765, Dear 'Sephus, — Notwithstanding it is so agreeable a thing to read law lectures to the students of Lyons' Inn,f especially to the reader himself, I must beg leave to waive it. Danby Pickering must be the happy man ; and I heartily wish him joy of his deputy ship. A« to the treat, I think if it goes be- fore ' the lecture, it will be apt to blunt the apprehension of the student.' , and, if it comes after, it may erase from iVir memo- ries impressions so newly made. X °.ould wish therefore, that, for their bene^: b^\a be- hoof, this circumstance were omitted. Sut, if it be absolutely necessary, I hope Mr Salt, or whoever takes the conduct of it Wi" see that it be managed with the frugality and temperance becoming so learned a body. I shall be obliged to you if you will present my respects to Mr. Treasurer Salt, and ex- press my concern at the same time that he had the trouble of sending me two letters upon this occasion. The first of them never came to hand. I shall be obliged to you if you will tell me whether my exchequer is full or empty, and whether the revenue of last year is yet come in, that I may proportion my payments to the exigencies of my affairs. My dear 'Sephus, give my love to your family, and believe me much obliged to you for your invitation. At present I am in such an unsettled condition, that I can think of nothing but laying the foundation of my fu- ture abode at Unwin's. My being admitted there is the effect of the great good nature and friendly turn of that family, who, I have great reason to believe, are as desirous to do me service as they could be after a much longer acquaintance. Let your next, if it comes a week hence, be directed to me there. The greatest part of the law-books are * Private correspondence. t The office of readevship to this society had been of fered to Cowper, but was declined By him. LIFE OF COWPER 41 those which Lord Cowper gave me. Those, and the very few which I bought myself, are all at the majors service. Stroke Puss's back the wrong way, and it will put her in mind of her master. Yours ever, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Huntingdon, March 6, 1766. My dear Cousin, — I have for some time past imputed your silence to the cause which you yourself assign for it, viz., to my change of situation ; and was even sagacious enough to account for the frequency of your letters to me while I lived alone, from your attention to me in a state of such solitude as seemed to make it an act of particular charity to write to me. I bless God for it, I was happy even then; solitude has nothing gloomy in it if the soul points upwards. St. Paul tells his Hebrew converts, "Ye are come (already come) to Mount Sion — to an innumerable company of angels,, to the general assembly of the first-born, which are written in heaven, and to Jesus, the mediator of the new cove- nant." When this is the case, as surely it was with them, or the Spirit of Truth had never spoken it, there is an end of the melan- choly and dulness of life at once. You will not suspect me, my dear cousin, of a design to understand this passage literally. But this however it certainly means, that a lively faith is able to anticipate, in some measure, the joys of that heavenly society which the soul shall actually possess hereafter. Since I have changed my situation, I have found still greater cause of thanksgiving to the Father of all Mercies. The family with whom I live are Christians, and it has pleased the Almighty to bring me to the knowledge of them, that I may want no means of im- provement in that temper and conduct which he is pleased to require in all his servants. My dear cousin, one half of the Christian world would call this madness, fanaticism, and folly : but are not these things warranted by the word of God, not only in the passages I have cited, but in many others ? If we have no communion with God here, surely we can expect none hereafter. A faith that does not place our conversation in heaven ; that does not warm the heart and purify it too ; that does not, in short, govern our thought, word, and deed, is no faith, nor will it obtain for us any spiritual blessing here or hereafter. Let us see therefore, my dear cousin, that we do not deceive ourselves in a matter of such in- finite moment. The world will be ever tell- ing us that we are good enough, and the world will vilify us behind our backs. But it is not the world which tries the heart, that is the prerogative of God alone. My dear cousin, I have often prayed for you behind your back, and now I pray for you to youi face. There are many who would not for give me this wrong, but I have known you so long and so well that I am not afraid of telling you how sincerely I wish for youi growth in every Christian grace, in every- thing that may promote and secure you? everlasting welfare. I am obliged to Mrs. Cowper for the book, which, you perceive, arrived safe. I am will- ing to consider it as an intimation on her part, that she would wish me to write to her, and shall do it accordingly. My circum- stances are rather particular, such as call upon my friends, those, I mean, who are truly such, to take some little notice of me, and will natu- rally make those who are not such in sincer- ity, rather shy of doing it. To this I impute the silence of many with regard to me, who before the affliction that befel me, were readj enough to converse with me. Yours ever, W. C. TO MRS. COWPER* Huntingdon, March 11, 1766. My dear Cousin, — I am much obliged to you for Pearsall's Meditations, especially as it furnishes me with an occasion of writing to you, which is all I have waited for. My friends must excuse me if I write to none but those who lay it fairly in my way to do so. The inference I am apt to draw from their silence is, that they wish me to be si- lent too. I have great reason, my dear cousin, to be thankful to the gracious Providence that con- ducted me to this place. The lady, in whose house I live, is so excellent a person, and re- gards me with a friendship so truly Christian, that I could almost fancy my own mother re- stored to life again, to compensate to me for all the friends I have lest, and all my con- nections broken. She has a son at Cam- bridge, in all respects worthy of such a mother, the most amiable young man I ever knew. His natural and acquired endowments are very considerable, and as to his virtues, 1 need only say that he is a Christian. It ought to be a matter of daily thanksgiving to me that I am admitted into the society of such persons, and I pray God to make me and keep me worthy of them. Your brother Martin has been very kind to me, having written to me twice in a style which, though it was once irksome to me, to say the least, I now know how to value. 1 pray God to forgive me the many light things I have both said and thought of him and his labors. Hereafter I shall consider him as a * The wife of Major Cowper, and sister of the ReT. Martin Madan, minister of Lock Chapel. 42 COWPER'S WORKS burning and a shining 1 light, and as one of those who, having turned many to righteous- ness, shall shine hereafter as the stars forever and ever. So much for the state of my heart : as to my spirits, I am cheerful and happy, and, having peace with God, have peace with my- self For the continuance of this blessing I trust to Him who gives it, and they who trust in Him shall never be confounded. Yours affectionately, W. C. TO MRS. COWPER. Huntingdon, April 4, 1766. My dear Cousin, — I agree with you that Utters are not essential to friendship, but they seem to be a natural fruit of it, when they are the only intercourse that can be had. And a friendship producing no sensible effects is so like indifference, that the appearance may easily deceive even an acute discerner. I retract however all that I said in my last upon this subject, having reason to suspect that it proceeded from a principle which 1 would discourage in myself upon all occa- sions, even a pride that felt itself hurt upon a mere suspicion of neglect. I have so much cause for humility, and so much need of it too, and every little sneaking resentment is such an enemy to it, that I hope I shall never give quarter to anything that appears in the shape of sullenness or self-consequence here- after. Alas! if my best Friend, who laid down his life for me, were to remember all the instances in which I have neglected him, and to plead them against me in judgment, where should I hide my guilty head in the day of recompense? I will pray therefore for blessings upon my friends, though they cease to be so, and upon my enemies, though they continue such. The deceitfulness of the natural heart is inconceivable; I know well that I passed upon my friends for a per- son at least religiously inclined, if not actu- ally religious, and, what is more wonderful, I thought myself a Christian, when I had no faith in Christ, when I saw no beauty in Mm that I should desire him; in short, when I had neither faith, nor love, nor any Christian grace whatever, but a th usand seeds of re- bellion instead, evermore springing up in en- mity against him. But blessed be God, even the God who is become my salvation, the hail of affliction and rebuke for sin has swept away the refuge of lies. It pleased the Al- mighty, in great mercy, to set all my mis- deeds before me. At length, the storm being past, a quiet and peaceful serenity of soul succeeded, such as ever attends the gift of living faith in the all-sufficient atonement, and Jie sweet sense of mercy and pardon pur- chased by the blood of Christ. Thus did he break me and bind me up, thus did he wound me and his hands made me whole. My dear Cousin, I make no apology for entertaining you with the history of my conversion, be- cause I know you to be a Christian in the sterling import of the appellation. This is however but a very summary account of the matter, neither would a letter contain the astonishing particulars of it. If we evei meet again in this world, I will relate them to you by w^ord of mouth ; if not, they will serve for the subject of a conference in the next, where I doubt not I shall remember and record them with a gratitude better suited to the subject. Yours, my dear Cousin, affectionately, W. C. TO MRS. COWPER. Huntingdon, April 17, 1766. My dear Cousin, — As in matters unattain- able by reason and unrevealed in the Scrip- ture, it is impossible to argue at all ; so, in matters concerning which reason can only give a probable guess, and the Scripture has made no explicit discovery, it is, though not impossible to argue at all, yet impossible to argue to any certain conclusion. This seems to me to be the very case with the point in question reason is able to form many plausible conjectures concerning the possi- bility of our knowing each other in a future state, and the Scripture has, here and there, favored us with an expression that looks at least like a slight intimation of it ; but be- cause a conjecture can never amount to a proof, and a slight intimation cannot be con- strued into a positive assertion, therefore, I think, we can never come to any absolute conclusion upon the subject. We 'may, in- deed, reason about the plausibility of our conjectures, and we may discuss, with great industry and shrewdness of argument, those passages in the Scripture which seem to fa- vor the opinion ; but still, no certain means having been afforded us, no certain end can be attained ; and, after all that can be said, it will still be doubtful whether we shall know each other or not. As to arguments founded upon human reason only, it would be easy to muster up a much greater number on the affirmative side of the question than it would be worth my while to write or yours to read. Let us see, therefore, what the Scripture says, or seems to say, towards the proof of it; and of this kind of argument also I shall insert but a few of those, which seem to me to be the fairest and clearest for the purpose. For, after all, a disputant on either side of this question, is in danger of that censure of our blessed Lord's, " Ye do err, not knowing the Scripture, nor the power of God." LIFE OF COWPER. \* As to parables, I know it has been said in tiie dispute concerning the intermediate state that they are not argumentative; but, this having been controverted by very wise and good men, and the parable of Dives and La- zarus having been used by such to prove an intermediate state, I see not why it may not be as fairly used for the proof of any other matter which it seems fairly to imply. In this parable we see that Dives is represented as knowing Lazarus, and Abraham as know ing them both, and the discourse between them is entirely concerning their respective characters and circumstances upon earth. Here, therefore, our Saviour seems to coun- tenance the notion of a mutual knowledge and recollection ; and, if a soul that has per- ished shall know the soul that is saved, surely the heirs of salvation shall know and recol- lect each other. In the first epistle to the Thessalonians, the second chapter, and nineteenth verse, Saint Paul says, " What is our hope, or joy, or crown of rejoicing? Are not even ye in the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ at his coming? For ye are our glory and our joy." As to the hope which the apostle had formed concerning them, he himself refers the accom- plishment of it to the coming of Christ, mean- ing that then he should receive the recorn- pence of his labors in their behalf; his joy and glory he refers likewise to the same pe- riod, both which would result from the sight of such numbers redeemed by the blessing of God upon his ministration, when he should present them before the great Judge, and say, in the words of a greater than himself, " Lo ! I and the children whom thou hast given me." This seems to imply that the apostle should know the converts, and the converts the apostle, at least at the day of judgment, and, if then, why not afterwards ? See also the fourth chapter of that epistle, verses 13, 14, 16, whi/h I have not room to transcribe. Here the apostle comforts them under their affliction for their deceased breth- ren, exhorting them " not to sorrow as with- out hope ;" and what is the hope, by which he teaches them to support their spirits? Even this, " That them which sleep in Jesus shall God bring with him." In other words, and by a fair paraphrase surely, telling them they are only taken from them for a season, and that they should receive them at their resurrection. If you can take off the force of these texts, my dear cousin, you will go a great way to- wards shaking my opinion : if not, I think they must go a great way towards shaking yours. The reason why I did not send you my opinion of Pearsall was, because I had not then read him ; I have read him since, and \ike him much, especially the latter part of him; but' you have whetted my curiosity to see the last letter by tearing it out; unlesa you can give me a good reason why I should not see it, I shall inquire for the book the first time I go to Cambridge. Perhaps 1 may be partial to Hervey for the sake of hia other writings, but I cannot give Pearsall the preference to him, for I think him one of the most scriptural writers in the world. Yours, W. O TO MRS. COWPER. Huntingdon, April 18, 1766. My dear Cousin, — Having gone as far as 1 thought needful to justify the opinion of our meeting and knowing each other hereafter, 1 find upon reflection that I have done but half my business, and that one of the questions you proposed remains entirely unconsidered, viz., " Whether the things of our present state will not be of too low and mean a nature to engage our thoughts or make a part of our communications in heaven." The common and ordinary occurrences of life, no doubt, and even the ties of kindred and of all temporal interests, will be entirely discarded from amongst that happy society, and, possibly, even the remembrance of them done away. But it does not therefore follow that our spiritual concerns, even in this life, will be forgotten, neither do I think, that they can ever appear trifling to us, in any the most distant period of eternity. God, as you ssy, in reference to the Scripture, will be all in all. But does not that expression mean that, being admitted to so near an approach to our heavenly Father and Redeemer, our whole nature, the soul, and all its faculties, will be employed in praising and adoring him? Doubtless, however, this will be the case, and if so, will it not furnish out a glorious theme of thanksgiving to recollect " the rocfe whence we were hewn, and the hole of the pit whence we were digged?"- — to recollect the time, when our faith, which, under the tuition and nurture of the Holy Spirit, has produced such a plentiful harvest of immor- tal bliss, was as a grain of mustard seed, small in itself, promising but little fruit, and producing less ? — to recollect the various at- tempts that were made upon it, by the world, the flesh, and the devil, and its various tri- umphs over all, by the assistance of God, through our Lord Jesus Christ ! At present, whatever our convictions may be of the sin- fulness and corruption of our nature, we can make but a very imperfect estimate either of our weakness or our guilt. Then, no doubt, we shall understand the full value of the won- derful salvation wrought out for us : and it seems reasonable to suppose that, in order to form a just idea of our redemption, we shall be able to form a just one of the danger we have escaped ; when we know how weak and frail we are, surely we shall be more able to render due praise and honor to his strength who fought for us; when we know com- pletely the hatefulness of sin in the sight of God, and how deeply we were tainted by it, we shall know how to value the blood by which we were cleansed as we ought. The twenty- four elders, in the fifth of the Revelations, give glory to God for their redemption out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation. This sureiy implies a retrospect to their respective conditions upon earth, and that each remembered out of what particular kindred and nation he had been redeemed, and, if so, then surely the minutest circum- stance of their redemption did not escape their memory. They who triumph over the Beast, in the fifteenth chapter, sing the song of Moses, the servant of God ; and what was that song ? A sublime record of Israel's de- liverance and the destruction of her enemies in the Red Sea, typical, no doubt, of the song which the redeemed in Sion shall sing to celebrate their own salvation and the defeat of their spiritual enemies. This again im- plies a recollection of the dangers they had be- fore encountered, and the supplies of strength and ardor they had, in every emergency, re- ceived from the great Deliverer out of all. These quotations do not, indeed, prove that their warfare upon earth includes a part of their converse with each other; but they prove that it is a theme not unworthy to be heard, even before the throne of God, and therefore it cannot be unfit for reciprocal communica- tion. But you doubt whether there is any com- munication between the blessed at all, nei- ther do I recollect any Scripture that proves it, or that bears any relation to the subject. But reason seems to require it so peremp- torily, that a society without social inter- course seems to be a solecism and a contra- diction in terms ; and the inhabitants of those regions are called, you know, in Scripture, an innumerable company, and an assembly, which seems to convey the idea of society as clearly as the word itself. Human testi- mony weighs but little in matters of this sort, but let it have all the weight it can. I know no greater names in divinity than Watts and Doddridge: they were both of this opinion, and I send you the words of the latter. " Our companions in glory may probably assist us by their wise and good observations, *vhen we come to make the providence of God here upon earth, under the guidance and di- rection of our Lord Jesus Christ, the subject of our mutual converse" Thus, my dear cousin, I have spread out my reasons before you for an opinion, which, whether admitted or denied, affects not the state or interest of our soul. May our Crea. tor, Redeemer, and Sanctifier, conduct us into his own Jerusalem, where there shall be no night, neither any darkness at all, where we shall be free, even from innocent error and perfect in the light of the knowledge of God in the face of Jesus Christ. Yours faithfully, W. C. TO MRS. COWPER. Huntingdon, Sept. 3, 1766. My dear Cousin, — It is reckoned, you know a great achievement to silence an opponent in disputation, and your silence was of so long a continuance, that I might well begin to please myself with the apprehension of hav- ing accomplished so arduous a matter. To be serious, however, I am not sorry that what I have said concerning our knowledge of each other in a future state has a little in- clined you to the affirmative. For though the redeemed of the Lord shall be sure of being as happy in that state as infinite power employed by infinite goodness can make them, and therefore it may seem immaterial whether we shall, or shall not, recollect each other hereafter ; yet our present happiness at least is a little interested in the question. A parent, a friend, a wife, must needs, I think, feel a little heart-ache at the thought of an eternal separation from the objects of her regard: and not to know them when she meets them in another life, or never to meet them at all, amounts, though not altogether, yet nearly to the same thing. Remember them, I think she needs must. To hear that they are happy, will indeed be no small addi- tion to her own felicity ; but to see them so will surely be a greater. Thus, at least, it appears to our present human apprehension ; consequently, therefore, to think that, when we leave them, we lose them forever; that we must remain eternally ignorant whether they that were flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone, partake with us of celestial glory, or are disinherited of their heavenly portion, must shed a dismal gloom over all our pres- ent connections. For my own part, this life is such a momentary thing, and all its in- terests have so shrunk in my estimation, since, by the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, I be- came attentive to the things of another ; that, like a worm in the bud of all my friendships and affections, this very thought would eat out the heart of them all had I a thousand ; and were their date to terminate with this life, I think I should have no inclination to cultivate and improve suf;h a fugitive busi- ness. Yet friendship is necessary to our happiness here, and, built upon Christian principles, upon which only it can stand, is a LIFE OF COWPER. 4S thing even of religious sanction — for what is that love which the Holy Spirit, speaking by St. Joh.i, so much inculcates, but friendship 1 — the only love which deserves the name — a love which can toil, and watch, and deny it- self, and go to death for its brother. Worldly friendships are a poor weed compared with this, and even this union of spirit in the bond of peace would suffer, in my mind at least, could I think it were only coeval with our earthly mansions. It may possibly argue great weakness in me, in this instance, to .stand so much in need of future hopes to support me in the discharge of present duty. But so it is : I am far, I know, very far, from being perfect in Christian love or any other Divine attainment, and am therefore unwill- ing to forego whatever may help me in my progress. You are so kind as to inquire after my health, for which reason I must tell you, what otherwise would not be worth mention- ing, that I have lately been just enough in- disposed to convince me that not only hu- man life in general, but mine in particular, hangs by a slender thread. I am stout enough in appearance, yet a little illness de- molishes me. I have had a severe shake, and the building is not so firm as it was. But I bless God for it, with all my heart. If the inner man be but strengthened, day by day, as I hope, under the renewing influ- ences of the Holy Ghost, it will be, no mat- ter how soon the outward is dissolved. He who has, in a manner, raised me from the dead, in a literal sense, has given me the grace, I trust, to be ready at the shortest notice to surrender up to him that life which I have twice received from him. Whether I live or die, I desire it may be to his glory, and it must be to my happiness. I thank God that I have those amongst my kindred to whom I can write, without reserve, my se timents upon this subject, as I do to you. A tetter upon any other subject is more in- sipid to me than ever my task was when a school-boy, and I say not this in vain glory, God forbid ! but to show you what the Al- mighty, whose name I am unworthy to men- tion, has done for me, the chief of sinners. Once he was a terror to me, and his service, what a weariness it was ! Now I can say, 1 love him and his holy name, and am never so happy as when I speak of his mercies to me Yours, dear Cousin, W. C. TO MRS. COWPER. Huntingdon, Oct. 20, 1766. My dear Cousin, — I am very sorry for poor Charles's illness, and hope you will soon have cause to thank God for his com- plete recovery. We have an epidemical fever in this country likewise, which leaves behind it a continual sighing, almost to suffo- cation : not that I have seen any instance of it, for, blessed be God! our family have hitherto escaped it, but such was the account I heard of it this morning. I am obliged to you for the interest you take in my welfare, and for your inquiring so particularly after the manner in which my time passes here. As to amusements, I mean what the world calls such, we have none : the place indeed swarms with them ; and cards and dancing are the professed business of almost all the gentle inhabitants of Huntingdon. We refuse to take part in them, or to be accessories to this way ot murdering our time, and by so doing have acquired the name of Methodists. Having told you how we do not spend our time, I will next say how we do. We breakfast commonly between eight and nine ; till eleven, we read either the Scripture, or the sermons of some faithful preacher of those holy mysteries ; at eleven, we attend divine service, which is performed here twice every day ; and from twelve to three we separate, and amuse ourselves as we please. During that interval I either read in my own apart- ment, or walk, or ride, or work in the gar- den. We seldom sit an hour after dinner, but if the weather permits adjourn to the garden, where, with Mrs. Unwin and her son, I have generally the pleasure of relig- ious conversation till tea time. If it rains, or is too windy for walking, we either converse within doors, or sing some hymns of Mar- tin's collection, and, by the help of Mrs. Un- win's harpsichord, make up a tolerable con- cert, in which our hearts, I hope, are the best and most musical performers. After tea we sally forth to walk in good earnest. Mrs. Unwin is a good walker, and we have gener- ally travelled about four miles before we see home again. When the days are short, we make this excursion in the former part of the day, between church-time and dinner. At night we read and converse, as before, till supper, and commonly finish the evening either with hymns or a sermon ; and, last of all, the family are called to prayers. I need not tell you that such a life as this is con- sistent with the utmost cheerfulness : ac- cordingly, we are all happy, and dwell to- gether in unity as brethren. Mrs. Unwin has almost a maternal affection for me, and I have something very like a filial one fo; ier, and her son and I are brothers. Blessed be the God of our salvation for such compan- ions, and for such a life, above all for a heart to like it ! I have had many anxious thoughts about taking orders, and" I believe every rew con- vert is apt to think himself called upon for that purpose ; but it has pleased Go^, by 46 COWPER'S WORKS. means which there is no need to particular- ize, to give me full satisfaction as to the propriety of declining it ; indeed, they who have the least idea of what I have suffered from the dread of public exhibitions will readily, excuse my never attempting them hereafter. In the meantime, if it please the Almighty, I may be an instrument of turning many to the truth, in a private way, and hope that my endeavors in this way have not been entirely unsuccessful. Had I the zeal of Moses, I should want an Aaron to be my iv okesman. Yours ever, my dear Cousin, W. C. TO MRS. COWPER. Huntingdon, March 11, 1767. My dear Cousin, — To find those whom I love, clearly and strongly persuaded of evan- gelical truth, gives me a pleasure superior to any this world can afford me. Judge, then, whether your letter, in which the body and substance of a saving faith is so evidently set forth, could meet with a lukewarm recep- tion at ray hands, or be entertained with in- difference ! Would you know the true rea- son of ray long silence 1 Conscious that my religious principles are generally excepted against, and that the conduct they produce, wherever they are heartily maintained, is still more the object of disapprobation than those principles themselves, and remembering that I had made both the one sftid the other known to you, without having any clear assurance that our faith in Jesus was of the same stamp and character, I could not help think- ing it possible that you might disapprove both my sentiments and practice ; that you might think the one unsupported by Scripture, and the other whimsical, and unnecessarily strict and rigorous, and consequently would be rather pleased with the suspension of a cor- respondence, which a different way of think- ing upon so momentous a subject as that we wrote upon was likely to render tedious and irksome to you. I have told you the truth from my heart ; forgive me these injurious suspicions, and never imagine that I shall hear from you upon this delightful theme without a real joy, or without prayer to God to prosper you in the way of his truth, his sanctifying and saving truth. The book you mention lies now upon my table. Marshall* is an old acquaintance of mine ; I have both read him and heard him read, with pleasure and edification. The doctrines he maintains are, * " Marshall on Sanctification." This book is distin- guished by pn found and enlarged views of the subject on which it treats. It was strongly recommended by the Sious Hervey. whose testimony to its merits is prefixed to ie work. under the influence of the Spirit of Christ, tin very life of my soul and the soul of all my happiness ; that Jesus is a present Savioui from the guilt of sin, by his most precious blood, and from the power of it by his Spirit that, coi rupt and wretched in ourselves, in Him, and in Him only, we are complete ; that being united to Jesus by a lively faith, we have a solid and eternal interest in his obe- dience and sufferings to justify us before the face of our heavenly Father, and that all this inestimable treasure, the earnest of which is in grace, and its consummation in glory, is given, freely given, to us of God ; in short, that he hath opened the kingdom of heaven to all believers : these are the truths which, by the grace of God, shall ever be dearer to me than life itself : shall ever be placed next my heart, as the throne whereon the Saviour himself shall sit, to sway all its motions, and reduce that world of iniquity and rebellion to a state of filial and affectionate obedience to the will of the most Holy. These, my dear cousin, are the truths to which by nature we are enemies : they de- base the sinner, and exalt the Saviour, to a degree which the pride of our hearts (till almighty grace subdues them) is determined never to allow. May the Almighty reveal his Son in our hearts, continually, more and more, and teach us to increase in love k wards him continually, for having given us the unspeakable riches of Christ. Yours faithfully, W TO MRS. COWPER. March 14, 1767. My dear Cousin, — I just add a line, by way of postscript to my last, to apprize you of the arrival of a very dear friend of mine at the Park, on Friday next, the son of Mr. Unwin, whom I have desired to call on you in his way from London to Huntingdon. If you knew him as well as I do, you would love him as much. But I leave the young man to speak for himself,' which he is very able to do. He is ready possessed of an answer to every question you can possibly ask concerning me, and knows my whole story from first to last. I give you this previous notice, because I know you are not fond of strange faces, and because I thought it would, in some degree, save him the pain of announcing himself. I am become a great florist and shrub-doc- tor. If the major can make up a small pack- et of seeds, that will make a figure in a gar- den, where we have little else besides jessa- mine and honeysuckle ; such a packet I mean as may be put into one's fob, I will promise to take great care of them, as I ought to value natives of the Park. They must not be such, however, as require great skill in th« LIFE OF COWPER. 41 management, for at present I have no skill to B£»are. I think Marshall one of the best writers, and the most spiritual expositor of Scripture I ever read. I admire the strength of his ar- gument, and the clearness of his reasonings, upon those parts of our most holy religion which are generally least understood (even by real Christians), as masterpieces of the kind. His section upon the union of the soul with Christ is an instance of what I mean, in which he has spoken of a most mysterious truth, with admirable perspicuity and with great good sense, making it all the while subservient to his main purport, of proving holiness to be the fruit and effect of faith. I subjoin thus much upon that author, be- cause, though you desired my opinion of him, I remember that in my last I rather left you to find it out by inference than expressed it, as I ought to have done. I never met with a man who understood the plan of salvation better, or was more happy in explaining it. W. C. TO MRS. COWPER. Huntingdon, April 3, 1767. My dear Cousin, — You sent my friend Un- win home to us charmed with your kind re- ception of him, and with everything he saw at the Park. Shall I once more give you a peep into my vile and deceitful heart ? What motive do you think lay at the bottom of my conduct, when I desired him to call upon you ? I did not suspect, at first, that pride and vain-glory had any share in it, but quick- y after I had recommended the visit to him, I discovered in that fruitful soil the very root of the matter. You know I am a stranger here ; all such are suspected characters, un- less they bring their credentials with them. To this moment, I believe, it is matter of. speculation in the place whence I came and to whom I belong. Though my friend, you may suppose, be- fore I was admitted an inmate here, was sat- isfied that I was not a mere vagabond, and has, since that time, received more convinc- ing proofs of my sponsibility, yet I could not resist the opportunity of furnishing him with ocular demonstration of it, by introducing him to one of my most splendid connections ; that when he hears me called, " That fellow Cowper" which has happened heretofore, he may be able, upon unquestionable evidence, to assert my gentlemanhood, and relieve me from the weight of that opprobrious appella- tion. O Pride ! Pride ! it deceives with the subtlety of a serpent, and seems to walk erect, though it crawls upon the earth. How will i"- twist and twine itself about, to get from under the cross, which it is the glorv of our Christian calling to be able to bear with patience and good will ! They who can guess at the heart of a stranger, and you espe- cially, who are of a compassionate temper will be more ready, perhaps, to excuse me, in this instance, than I can be to excuse my- self. But, in good truth, it was abominable pride of heart, indignation, and vanity, and deserves no better name. How should such a creature be admitted into those pure and sinless mansions, where nothing shall enter that defileth, did not the blood of Christ, ap- plied by the hand of faith, take away the guilt of sin, and leave no spot or stain be- hind it? Oh what continual need have I of an Almighty, All-sufficient Saviour? I am glad you are acquainted so particularly with all the circumstances of my story, for I know that your secrecy and discretion may be trust- ed with anything. A thread of mercy ran through all the intricate maze of those afflic- tive providences, so mysterious to myself at the time, and which must ever remain so to all who will not see what was the great de- sign of them ; at the judgment-seat of Christ the whole shall be laid open. How is the rod of iron changed into a sceptre of love ! I thank you for the seeds ; I have commit- ted some of each sort to the ground, whence they will spring up like so many mementoes to remind me of my friends at the Park. W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* * June 16, 1767. Dear Joe, — This part of the world is not productive of much news, unless the coldness of the weather be so, which is excessive for the season. We expect, or rather experience a warm contest between the candidates fo.. the county; the preliminary movements of bribery, threatening, and drunkenness, being already taken. The Sandwich interest seems to shake, though both parties are very san- guine. Lord Carysfort is supposed to be in great jeopardy, though as yet, I imagine, a clear judgment cannot be formed ; for a man may have all the noise on his side and yet lose his election. You know me to be an uninterested person, and I am sure I am a very ignorant one in things of this kind. I only wish it was over, for. it occasions the most detestable scene of profligacy and riot that can be imagined. Yours ever, W. C. TO MRS. COWPER. Huntingdon, July 13, 1767. My dear Cousin, — The newspaper has told you the truth. Poor Mr. Unwin, being flung from his horse as he was going to his church °rivate cor^eapondpnw 48 COWPER'S WORKS. Dn Sunday morning, received a dreadful frac- ture on the back part of the skull, under which he languished till Thursday evening, and then died. This awful dispensation has left an impression upon our spirits which will not be presently worn otf. He died in a poor cottage, to which he was carried immediately ^.fter his fall, about a mile from home, and his Dody could not be brought to his house till the spirit was gone to him who gave it. May it be a lesson to us to watch, since we know not the day, nor the hour, when our Lord cometh ! The effect of it upon my circumstances will only be a change of the place of my abode. For I shall still, by God's leave, continue with Mrs. Unwin, whose behavior to me has always been that of a mother to a son. We know not where we shall settle, but we trust that the Lord, whom we seek, will go before us and prepare a rest for us. We have em- ployed our friend Haweis* Dr. Conyers,f of Helmsley, in Yorkshire, and Mr. Newton, of Olney, to look out a place for us, but at pres- ent are entirely ignorant under which of the three we shall settle, or whether under either. I have written to my aunt Madan, to desire Martin to assist us with his inquiries. It is probable we shall stay here till Michaelmas. W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. July 16, 176# Dear Joe, — Your wishes that the news- paper may have misinformed you are vain. Mr. Unwin is dead, and died in the manner there mentioned. At nine o'clock on Sun- day morning he was in perfect health, and as * Dr. Haweis was a leading character in the religious world at this time, and subsequently the superintendent of Lady Huntingdon's chapels, and of the Seminary for Students founded by that lady. His principal works are a "Commentary on the Bible," and "History of the Church." + Dr. (-onyers. The circumstances attending the death of this truly pious and eminent servant of God are too affecting not to be deemed worthy of being recorded. He h;td ascended the pulpit of St. Paul's, Deptford, of which he was rector, and had just delivered his text, " Ye shall see my face no more," when he was seized with a sudden fainting, and fell back in his pulpit : he re- covered, however, sufficiently to proceed with his ser- mon, and to give the concluding blessing, when he again fainted away, was carried home, and expired without a groan, in the sixty-second year of his age, 1786. The affecting manner of his death is thus happily adverted to in the following beautiful lines : — Sent by their Lord on purposes of grace, Thus angels do his will, and see his face ; With outspread wings they stand, prepar'd to soar, Declare their message, and are seen no more. Underneath is a Latin inscription, of which the follow- jig is the translation. I have sinned. I repented. I believed. I have loved. I rest. I shall rise again. And, by the grace of Christ, However unworthy, I shall reign. likely to live twenty years as either of us ; and before ten was stretched speechless and senseless upon a flock bed, in a poor cottage,, where (it being impossible to remove him) he died on Thursday evening. I heard his dying groans, the effect of great agony, for he was a strong man, and much convulsed in his last moments. The few short intervals of sense that were indulged him he spent in earnest prayer, and in expressions of a fb*m trust and confidence in the only Saviour. To that stronghold we must all resort at last, if we would have hope in our death; when every other refuge fails, we are glad to fly to the only shelter to which we can repair to any purpose ; and happy is it for us, when, the false ground we have chosen for our- selves being broken under us, we find our- selves obliged to have recourse to the rock which can never be shaken ; when this is our lot, we receive great and undeserved mercy. Our society will not break up, but we shall settle in some other place, where, is at present uncertain. Yours, W. C. These tender and confidential letters de- scribe, in the clearest light, the singularly peaceful and devout life of this amiable writ- er, during his residence at Huntingdon, and the melancholy accident which occasioned his removal to a distant county. Time and providential circumstances now introduced to the notice of Cowper, the zealous and venerable friend who became his intimate associate for many years, after having ad- vised and assisted him in the important con- cern of fixing his future residence. The Rev. John Newton, then curate of Olney, in Buckinghamshire, had been requested by the late Dr. Conyers (who, in taking his degree in divinity at Cambridge, had formed a friend- ship with young Mr. Unwin, and learned from him the religious character of his mother) to ■ seize an opportunity, as he was passing through Huntingdon, of making a visit to that exemplary lady. This visit (so impor- tant in its consequences to the future history of Cowper) happened to take place within a few days after the calamitous death of Mr. Unwin. As a change of scene appeared de- sirable both to Mrs. Unwin and to the in- teresting recluse whom she had generously requested to continue under her care, Mr Newton offered to assist them in removing to the pleasant and picturesque county in which he resided. They were willing to. en-' ter into the flock of a pious and devoted pastor, whose ideas were so much in har mony with their own. He engaged for them a house at Olney, where they arrived on the 14th of October, 1767. He thus alludes to LIFE OF COWPER. 49 his new r< ^dence in the following extract of a letter to Mr. Hill. TO JOSEPH HTLL, ESQ.* Olney, October 20, 1767. 1 have no map to consult at present, but, by what remembrance I have of the situation of this place in the last I saw, it lies at the northernmost point of the coi.nty. We are just five miles beyond Newport Pagnell. I am willing to suspect that you make this in- quiry with a view to an interview, when time shall Pcrve. We may possibly be settled in our own house in about a month, where so good a friend of mine will be extremely wel- come to Mrs. Unwin. We shall have a bed and a warm fire-side at yor.» service, if you can come before next summer ; and if not, a parlor that looks the north wind full in the face, where you may be as cool as in the groves of Valambrosa. Yours, my dear 'Sephus, Affectionately eve" W. C. It would have been difficult to select a sit- uation apparently more suited to the existing circumstances and character of Cowper than the scene to which he was now transferred. Tn Mr. Newton were happily united the quali- fications of piety, fervent, rational, and cheer- ful — the kind and affectionate feelings that inspire friendship and regard — a solid judg- ment, and a refined taste — the power to edify and please, and the grace that knows how to improve it to the highest ends. He lived in the midst of a flock who loved and esteemed him, and who saw in his ministrations the creden- tials of heaven, and in his life the exemplifi- cation of the doctrines that he taught. The time of Cowper, in his new situation, seems to have been chiefly devoted to relig- ious contemplation, to social prayer, and to active charity. To this first of Christian vir- tues, his heart was eminently inclined, and Providence very graciously enabled him to exercise and enjoy it to an extent far supe- rior to what his own scanty fortune allowed means. The death of his father, 1756, failed to place him in a state of independence, and the singular cast of his own mind was such, that nature seemed to have rendered it im- possible for him either to covet or to acquire riches. His happy exemption from worldly passions is forcibly displayed in the following letter. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, June 16, 1768. Dear Joe, — I thank you for so full an an- swer to so empty an epistle. If Olney fur- nished anything for your amusement, you should have it in return, but occurrences * Private correspondence. here are as scarce as cucumbers at Christ- mas. I visited St. Alban's about a fortnight since in person, and I visit it every day in thought The recollection of what passed there, and the consequences that followed it, fill my mind continually, and make the circumstances of a poor, transient, half-spent life, so insipid and unaffecting, that I have no heart to think or write much about them. Whether the nation is worshipping Mr. Wilkes, or any other idol, is of little moment to one who hopes and believes that he shall shortly stand in the presence of the great and blessed God. I thank him that he has given me such a deep, impressed, persuasion of this awful truth as a thousand worlds would not purchase from me. It gives me a relish to every blessing, and makes every trouble light. Affectionately yours, W. C. In entering on the correspondence of the ensuing yea*, we find the following impres- sive letter addressed to Mr. Hill. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Jan. 21, 1769. Dear Joe, — I rejoice with you in your re- covery, and that you have escaped from the hands of one from whose hands you will not always escape. Death is either the most for- midable, or the most comfortable thing we have in prospect, on this side of eternity. To be brought near to him, and to discern neither of these features in his face, would argue a degree of insensibility, of which I will not suspect my friend, whom I know to be a thinking man. You have been brought down tp the side of the grave, and you have been raised again by Him who has the keys of the invisible world ; who opens and none can shut, who shuts and none can open. I do not forget to return thanks to Him on your behalf,. and to pray that your life, which he has spared, may be devoted to his service. "'Behold! I stand at the door and knock," is the word of Him, on whom both our mortal and immortal life depend, and, blessed be his name, it is the word of one who wounds only that he may heal, and who waits to be gra- cious. The language of every such dispensa- tion is, " Prepare to meet thy God." It speaks with the voice of mercy and goodness, for, without such notices, whatever preparation we might make for other events, we should make none for this. My dear friend, I desire and pray that, when this last enemy shall come to execute an unlimited commission upon us, we may be found ready, being established and rooted in a well-grounded faith in His name, who conquered and tri- umphed over him upon his cross. Yours ever, W. C * Private correspondence. 4 50 COWPER'S WORKS. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Jan. 29, 1769. My dear Joe, — I have a moment to spare, to tell you that your letter is just come to hand, and to thank you for it. I do assure you, the gentleness and candor of your man- ner engages my affection to you very much. You answer with mildness to an admonition, which would have provoked many to anger. I have not time to add more, except just to hint that, if I am ever enabled to look for- ward to death with comfort, which, I thank God, is sometimes the case with me, I do not take my view of it from the top of my own works and deservings, though God is witness that the labor of my life is to keep a con- science void of offence towards Him. He is always formidable to me, but when I see him disarmed of his st'ing, by having sheathed it in the body of Christ Jesus. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, July 31, 1769. Dear Joe, — Sir Thomas crosses the Alp?, and Sir Cowper, for that is his title at Olney, prefers his home to any other spot of earth in the world. Horace, observing this differ- ence of temper in different persons, cried out a good many years ago, in the true spirit of poetry, " How much one man differs from an- other !" This does not seem a very sublime exclamation in English, but I remember we were taught to admire it in the original. My dear friend, I am obliged to you for your invitation : but being long accustomed to retirement, which I was always fond of, I am now more than ever unwilling to revisit those noisy and crowded scenes, which I never loved, and which I now abhor. I re- member you with all the friendship I ever professed, which is as much as ever I enter- tained for any man. But the strange and un- common incidents of my life have given an entire new turn to my whole character and conduct, and rendered me incapable of re- ceiving pleasure from the same employments and amusements of which I could readily partake in former days. I love you and yours, I thank you for your continued remembrance of me, and shall not cease to be their and your Affectionate friend and servant, W. C. Cowper's present retirement was distin- guished by many private acts of beneficence, and his exemplary virtue was such that the opulent sometimes delighted to make him toeir almoner. In his sequestered life at * Private correspondence. Olney, he ministered abundantly to the want* of the poor, from a fund with which he was supplied by that model of extensive and unostentatious philanthropy, the late John Thornton, Esq., whose name he has immor- talized in his Poem on Charity, still honoring his memory by an additional tribute to his virtues in the following descriptive eulogy written immediately on hie decease, in the year 1790. Poets attempt the noblest task they can, Praising the Author of all good in man ; And next commemorating worthies lost. The dead in whom that good abounded most. Thee therefore of commercial fame, but more Fam'd for thy probity, from shore to shore — ■ Thee. Thornton, worthy in some page to shine As honest and more eloquent than mine, I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, The world, no longer thy abode, not thee ; Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed ; It were to weep that goodness has its meed, That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, And glory for the virtuous when they die. What pleasure can the miser's fondled board Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford, Sweet as the privilege of healing woe Suffer'd by virtue combating below ! [means That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, Till thy appearance chased the gloom, fcrlorn As midnight, and despairing of a morn. Thou hadst an industry in doing good, Restless as his who toils and sweats for foi, . Av'rice in thee was the desire of wealth By rust unperishable, or by stealth. And, if the genuine worth of gold depend On application to its noblest end, Thine had a value in the scales of heaven, Surpassing all that mine or mint have given And though God made thee of a nature prone To distribution, boundless, of thy own ; And still, by motives of religious force, Impell'd thee more to that heroic course ; Yet was thy liberality discreet, Nice in its choice, and of a temp'rate heat ; And, though in act unwearied, secret still, As, in some solitude, the summer rill Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green, And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, un seen. Such was thy charity; no sudden start^ After long sleep of passion in the heart, But stedfast principle, and in its kind Of close alliance with th' eternal mind ; Traced easily to its true source above, To Him whose works bespeak his nature, love. Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make This record of thee for the Gospel's sake ; That the incredulous themselves may see Its use and power exemplified in thee. This simple and sublime eulogy was a just tribute of respect to the memory of this dis- tinguished philanthropist ; and, among the happiest actions of this truly liberal man, we may reckon his furnivshing to a character sj LIFE OF COWPER. 51 reserved and so retired as Cowper the means of enjoying the gratification of active and mostly beneficence ; a- gratification in which the sequestered poet had delighted to in- dulge, before his acquaintance with Mr. Newton afforded him an opportunity of be- ing concerned in distributing ' the private, yet extensive, bounty of an opulent and .ex- emplary merchant. Cowper, before he quitted St. Alban's, as- sumed the charge of a necessitous child, to extricate him from the perils of being edu- cated by very profligate parents ; he sent him to a school at Huntingdon, transferred him* on his removal, to Olney, and finally settled him as an apprentice at Oundle, in Northamptonshire. The warm, benevolent, and cheerful piety of Mr. Newton, induced his friend Cowper to participate so abundantly in his parochial plans and engagements, that the poet's time and thoughts were more and more engrossed by devotional objects. He became a valua- ble auxiliary to a faithful parish priest, su- perintended the religious exercises of the poor, and engaged iii an important undertak- ing, to which we shall shortly have occasion to advert. But in the midst of these pious duties he forgot not his distant friends, and particular- ly his amiable relation and correspondent, of the Park-house, near Hertford. The follow- ing letter to that lady has, no date, but it was probably written soon after his establish- ment at Olney. The remarkable memento in the postscript was undoubtedly introduced to counteract an idle rumor, arising from the circumstance of his having settled himself under the roof of a female friend, whose age and whose virtues he considered to be suffi- cient securities to ensure her reputation as well as his own. TO MRS. COWPER. My dear Cousin, — I have not been behind- hand in reproaching myself with neglect, but desire to take shame to myself for my un- profitableness in this, as well as in all other r spects. I take the next immediate oppor- tunity, however, of thanking you for yours, and of assuring you that, instead of being surprised at your, silence, I "rather wonder that you or any of my friends have any room left for so careless and negligent a corre- spondent in your memories. I am obliged to vou for the intelligence you send me of my kindred, and rejoice to hear of their welfare. He who settles the bounds of our habitations has at length cast our lot at a great distance from each other, but I do not therefore for- get their former kindness to me, or cease to be interested in their well being. You live ji the centre o* a world I know you do not delight in. Happy are you, my dear friend, in being able to discern the insufficiency of all it can afford to fill and satisfy the desires of an immortal soul. That God who created us for the enjoyment of himself, has deter- mined in mercy that it shall fail us here, in order that the blessed result of our inquiries after happiness in the creature may be a warm pursuit and a close attachment to our true interests, in fellowship and communion with Him, through the name and mediation of a dear Redeemer. I bless his goodness and grace that I have any reason to hope I am a partaker with you in the desire after better things than are to be found in a world polluted with sin, and therefore devoted to destruction. May He enable us both to consider our present life in its only true light, as an opportunity put into our hands to glorify him amongst men by a conduct sui ted to his word and will. I am miserably defective in this holy and blessed art, but I hope there is at the bottom of all my sinful infirmities a sincere desire to live just so long as I may be enabled, in some poor measure, to answer the end of my existence in this respect, and then to obey the' sum- mons and attend him in a world where they who are his servants here shall pay him an unsinful obedience forever. Your dear mo- ther is too good to me, and puts a more charitable construction upon my silence than the fact will warrant. I am not better em- ployed than I should be in corresponding with her. I have that within which hinders me wretchedly in everything that I ought to do, and is prone to trifle, and let time and every good thing run to waste. I hope however to write to her soon. My love and best wishes attend Mr. Cow- per, and all that inquire after me. May God be with you, to bless you and to do you good by all his dispensations ; do not forget me when you are speaking to o iv best Friend before his mercy seat. Yours ever, W. C. N. B. J urn not married. In the year 1769, the lady to whom the preceding letters, are addressed was involved in domestic affliction ; and the following, which the poet wrote to her on the occasion, is so full of genuine piety and true pathos, that it would be an injury to his memory to suppress it. TO MRS. COWPER. Olney, Aug. 31, 1769. My dear Cousin, — A letter from your brother Frederick brought me yesterday the most afflicting intelligence that has reached me these many years. I pray to God to comfort you, and to enable vou to sustain 52 COWPER'S WORKS. this heavy stroke with that resignation to his will which none but Himself can give, and which he gives to none but his own children. How blessed and happy is your lot, my dear friend, beyond the common lot of the greater part of mankind ; that you know what it is to draw near to God in prayer, and are ac- quainted with a throne of grace ! You have resources in the infinite love of a dear Re- deemer which are withheld from millions : and the promises of God, which are yea and amen in Jesus, are sufficient to answer all your necessities, and to sweeten the bitterest cup which your heavenly Father will ever put into your hand. May He now give you liberty to drink at these wells of salvation, till you are filled with consolation and peace in the, midst of trouble. He has said, " When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee, and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee."* You have need of such a word as this, and he knows your need of it, and the time of necessity is" the time when he will be sure to appear in behalf of those who trust in him. I bear you and yours upon my heart before him night and day, for I never expect to hear of distress which shall call upon me with a louder voice to pray for the sufferer. I know the Lord hears me for myself, vile and sinful as I am, and believe, and am sure, that he will hear me for you also. He is the friend of the widow, and the father of the fatherless, even God in his holy habitation ; in all our afflictions he is afflicted, and chas- tens us in mercy. Surely he will sanctify this dispensation to you, do you great and everlasting good by it, make the world ap- pear like dust and vanity in your sight, as it truly is, and open to your view the glories of a better country, where there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor pain : but God shall wipe aw r ay all tears from your eyes forever. Oh that comfortable word ! " I have chosen thee in the furnace of afflic- tion ;"f so that our very sorrows are evi- dences of our calling, and he cha^u os us be- cause we are his children. My dear cousin, I commit you to the word of his grace, and to the comforts of his Holy Spirit. Your life is needful for your family : may God, in mercy to them, prolong it, and may he preserve you from the dangerous effects which a stroke like this might have upon a frame so tender as yours. I grieve with you, I pray for you ; could I do more I would, but God must comfort you. Yours, in our dear Lord Jesus, W. C. In the following year the tender feelings »f Cowper were called forth by family afflic- tion that pressed more immediately on him- * Isaiah xliii. 2. t Isaiah xlviii. 10. self; he was hurried to Cambridge by the dangerous illness of his brother, then resid- ing as a fellow at Bene't College. An affection truly fraternal had ever subsisted between the brothers, and the reader will recollect what the poet has said, in one of his letters, concerning their social intercourse while he resided at Huntingdon. In the first two years of his residence at Olney, he had been repeatedly visited by Mr. John Cowper, and how cordially he returned that kindness and attention the following letter will testify, which was probably writ- ten in the chamber of the invalid. TO MRS. COWPER. March 5, 1770. My brother continues much as he was. His case is a very dangerous one — an im- posthume of the liver, attended by an asthma and dropsy. The physician has little hope of his recovery, I believe I might say none at all, only, being a friend, he does not for- mally give him over by ceasing to visit him, lest it should sink his spirits. For my own part, I have no expectation of his recovery, except by a signal interposition of Provi- dence in answer to prayer. His ca&e is clearly beyond the reach of medicine ; but I have seen many a sickness healed, where the danger has been equally threatening, by the only Physician of value. I doubt not he will have an interest in your prayers, as he has in the prayers of many. May the Lord incline his ear and give an answer of peace. I know it is good to be afflicted. I trust that you have found it so, and that under the teaching of God's own Spirit we shall both be purified. It is the desire of my soul to seek a better country, where God shall wipe away all tears from the eyes of his people ; and where, looking back upon the ways by which he has led us, we shall be filled with everlasting wonder, love, and praise. I must add no more. Yours ever, W. C. The sickness and death of his learned, pious, and affectionate brother, made a very strong impression on the tender heart and mind of Cowper — an impression so strong, that it induced him to write a narrative of the remarkable circumstances which oc- curred at the time. He sent a copy of this narrative to Mr. Newton. The paper is cu- rious in every point of view, and so likely to awaken sentiments of piety in minds where it may be most desirable to have them awak- ened, that Mr. Newton subsequently commu. nicated it to the public.* Here it is necessary to introduce a brief * For this interesting document, see p. 483. LIFE OF COWPER. 5J wjcount of the interesting person whom the poet regarded so tenderly. John Cowper *ras born in 1737. Being designed for the church, hw was privately educated by a cler- gyman, and became eminent for the extent and variety of his erudition in the university of Cambridge. The remarkable change in nis views and principles is copiously displayed by his brother, in recording the pious clo.se his life. Bene't College, of which he was a fellow, was his usual residence, and it be- came the scene of his death, on the 20 ch of March, 1770. Fraternal affection has exe- cuted a perfectly just and graceful descrip- tion of his character, both in prose and verse. We transcribe both as highly honorable to these exemplary brethren, who may indeed '>e said to have dwelt together in unity. " He was a man" (says the poet in speaking of his deceased brother) " of a most candid and ingenuous spirit ; his temper remarkably sweet, and in his behavior to me he had al- ways manifested an uncommon affection. His outward conduct, so far as it fell under my notice, or I could learn it by the report of others, was perfectly decent and unblama- ble. There was nothing vicious in any part of his practice, but, being of a studious, thoughtful turn, he placed his chief delight in the acquisition of learning, and made such proficiency in it, that he had but few rivals in that of a classical kind. He was critically skilled in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew lan- guages ; was beginning to make himself mas- ter of the Syriac, ai d perfectly understood the French and Italian, the latter cf which he could speak fluently. Learned however as he was, he was easy and cheerful in his conversation, and entirely free from the stiff- ness which is generally contracted by men devoted to such pursuits." " I had a brother once : Peace to the memory of a man of worth ! A man of letters, and of manners* too ! Of manners sweet, as virtue always wears, When gay good humor dresses her in smiles ! He grac'd a college, in which order yet Was sacred, and was honored, lov'd, and wept By m >re than one, themselves conspicuous there !" Another interesting tribute to his memory Till be found in the following letter. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, May 8, 1770. Dear Joe, — Your letter did not reach me till the last post, when I had not time to an- swer it. I left Cambridge immediately after my brother's death. I am obliged to you for the particular ac- count you have sent me * * * * lie, to whom I have surrendered myself and ill my concerns has otherwise appointed, and et his will be done. He gives me much which he withholds from others, and if h« was pleased to withhold all that makes an outward difference between me and the poor mendicant in the street, it would still become me to say, his will be done. It pleased God to cut short my brother's connexions and expectations here, yet not without giving him lively and glorious views of a better happiness than any he could pro- pose to himself in such a world as this. Notwithstanding his great learning, (for he was one of the chief men in the university in thai respect,) he was candid and sincere in his inquiries after truth. Though he could not come into my sentiments when I first ac- quainted him with them, nor, in the many conversations which I afterward had with him upon the subject, could he be brought to ac- quiesce in them as scriptural and true, yet I had no sooner left St. Alban's than he began to study, with the deepest attention, those points in which we differed, and to furnish himself with the best writers upon them. His mind was kept open to conviction for five years, during all which time he labored in this pursuit with unwearied diligence, as leisure and opportunity were atforded. Amongst his dying words were these : " Bro- ther, I thought you wrong, yet wanted to be- lieve as you did. I found myself not able to believe, yet always thought I should be one day brought to do so." From the study of books he was brought, upon his death- tec 1 , to the study of himself, and there learned tc renounce his righteousness and his own most amiable character, and to submit himself to the righteousness which is of God by fait_\. With these views he was desirous of death. Satisfied of bis interest in the blessing pur- chased by the blood of Christ, he prayed for death with earnestness, felt the approach of it with joy, and died in peace. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. It is this simple yet firm reliance on the merits of the Saviour, and on his atoning blood and righteousness, that can alone im- part true peace to the soul. Such was the faith of patriarchs, prophets and apostles ; and such will be the faith of all who are taught of God. Works do not go before, but follow after; they are not the cause, but the effect : the fruits of faith, and indispen- sable to glorify God, to attest the power and reality of divine grace, and to determine the measure of our everlasting reward. Cowper's feelings on this impressive occa- sion are still further disclosed in the follow- ing letter. TO MKS. COWrEJi. Olney, June 1770. My dear Cousin,— I am obliged to you foi sometimes thinking of an unseen friend, and be- stowing a letter upon me. It gives me pleas- ure to hear from you, especially to find that our gracious Lord enables you to weather out the storms you meet with, and to cast anchor within the veil. You judge rightly of the manner in which I have been affected by the Lord's late dis- pensation towards my brother. I found in it cause of sorrow that I had lost so near a relation, and one so deserveely dear to me, and that he left me just when our sentiments upon the most interesting subject became the j same, but much more cause of joy, that it pleased God to give me clear and evident | proof that he had changed his heart, and ' adopted him into the number of his children. For this, I hold myself peculiarly bound to thank him, because he might have done all that he was pleased to do for him, and yet have afforded him neither strength nor op- portunity to declare it. 1 doubt not that he enlightens the understandings, and works a gracious change in the hearts of many, in their last moments, whose surrounding friends are not made acquainted with it. He told me that, from the time he was first ordained, he began to be dissatisfied with his religious opinions, and to suspect that there were greater things concealed in the Bible than were generally believed or allowed to be there. From the time when I first viaited him after my release from St. Alban's, he be- gan to read upon the subject. It was at that time I informed him of the views of divine truth which I had received in that school of affliction. He laid what I said to heart, and began to furnish himself with the best writ- ers upon the controverted points, whose works he read with great diligence and at- tention, comparing them all the while with the Scripture. None ever truly and ingenu- ously sought the truth, but they found it. A spirit of earnest inquiry is the gift of God, who never says to any, Seek ye my face in vain. Accordingly, about ten days before his death, it pleased the Lord to dispel all his doubts, to reveal in his heart the knowledge of the Saviour, and to give him firm and un- shaken peace, in the belief of his ability and willingness to save. As to the affair of the fortune-teller, he never mentioned it to me, nor was there any such paper found as you mention. I looked over all his papers before I left the place, and had there been such a one, must have discovered it. I have heard the report from other quarters, but no other particulars than that the woman foretold him when he should die. I suppose there may be some truth in the matter, but, whatever he might think of it before his knowledge of the truth, and however extraordinary her predictions might really be, I am satisfied Sat he had then received far other views of the wisdom and majesty of God, than t i liiations. Hu they had lost tl now n, .re than those noisy an which I u >w a re, ou the contrary, that it purifies at it changes their current, and fixes d uubl.-r objects, (,'o.vper's mind, it ad, had i-xperk'iiced a great moral ml imparted a new and powerful im- ws ami principles. In this state of in ii in/ p ..-siUy the. change) solicits ii, and to- his former habits and asso- lso for Ai su enj ynu-nts was gone; lower to charm and captivate. "1 am ,' J says Cowper, "unwilling to revisi vded stictu's, which I never loved, anl i the incidents of my life have given an entire new turn to my while character and conduct, and rendered me incapable of receiving pleasure from the same empl lymehts and amusements of which I could readily partake in former days." (See page 50.) Hill re- iterates the invitation, and Cowper his refusal. Thus one party was advancing in spirituality, while the other re- mained stationary. The bond was therefore necessarily weakened, because identity of feeling must ever consti- tute the basis of all human friendships and intercourse ; and the mind that has received a heavenly impulse can- not return with its former ardor to the pursuit of earthly objects. It cannot ascend and descend at the same mo- ment. Such, however, was the real worth and honestj of Mr. Hill, that their friendship still survived, and a memorial of it is recorded in lines familiar to every reada of Cowper. " An honest man, close button'd to the chin. Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within." LIFE OF COWPER. 55 »vith terrestrial objects, though I should be lappy were 1 able to hold more continual converse with a friend above the skies. He 'as my heart, but he allows a corner in it for all who show me kindness, and therefore on for you. The storm of sixty-three made a wreck of the friendships I had contracted in the course of many years, yours excepted, which has survived the tempest. I thank you for your repeated invitation. Singular thanks are due to you for so sin- gular an instance of regard. I could not leave Olney, unless in a case of absolute ne- cessity, without much inconvenience to my- self and others. W. C. The next year was distinguished by the marriage o£ his friend Mr. Hill, to a lady of most estimable character, on winch occasion Cowper thus addressed him. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, August 27, 1771. Dear Joe, — I take a friend's share in* all your concerns, so far as they come to my knowledge, and consequently did not receive the news of your marriage with indifference. I wish you and your bride all the happiness that belongs to the state ; and the still greater felicity of that state which marriage is only a type of. All those connexions shall be dis- solved ; but there is an indissoluble bond be- tween Christ and his church, the subject of derision to an unthinking world, but the glory and happiness of all his people. I join with your mother and sisters in their joy upon the present occasion, and beg my affectionate respects to them and to Mrs. Hill unknown. Yours ever, W. C. We do not discover any further traces of his correspondence in the succeeding year than- the three following letters. The first proves his great sense of honor and delicate feeling in transactions of a pecuniary nature. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, June 27, 1772. My dear Friend, — I only write to return you thanks for your kind olfer — Agnoscu ve- leris vestigia Jiammce. But 1 will endeavor to go on without troubling you. Excuse an expression that dishonors your friendship ; I should rather say, it would be a trouble to myself, and I know you will be generous enough to give me credit for the assertion. I had rather want many things, anything, in- deed, that this world could afford me, than buse the affection of a friend. I suppose rou are sometimes troubled upon my account. But you need not. 1 have no doubt it will * Private correspondence. be seen, when my days are closed, that served a master who would not suffer me ta want anything that was good for me. He said to Jacob I will surely do thee good : and this he said, not for his sake only, but for ours also, if we trust in him. This thought relieves me from the greatest part of the dis« cress I should else suffer in my present cir cumstances, and onabies me to sit down peacefully upon the wreck of my fortune Yours ever, my dear friend, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* . Olney, July 2, 1772. My dear friend, — My obligations to you sit easy upon me, because I am sure you con- fer them in the spirit of a friend. 'Tis pleas- ant to some minds to confer obligations, and it is not unpleasant to others to be properly sensible of them. I hope I have this pleas- ure — and can, with a true sense of your kindness, subscribe myself, Yours, W. C TO JOSEPH HELL, ESQ.* Olney, Nov. 5, 1772. Believe me, my dear friend, truly sensible of your invitation, though I do not accept it My peace of mind is of so delicate a consti- tution, that the air of London will not agree with it. You have my prayers, the only re- turn I can make you for your many acts of still continued friendship. If you should smile, or even laugh, at my conclusion, and I were near enough to see it, I should not be angry, though I should be grieved. Ix is not long since I should have laughed at such a recompense myself. But, glory be to the name of Jesus, those days are past, and, I trust, never to return ! I am yours and Mrs. Hill's, With much sincerity, W. C. The kind and affectionate intercourse which subsisted on the part of Cowper and his bo- loved pastor has aleady been adverted to in the preceding history. It was the commerce of two kindred minds, united by a participa- tion in the same blessed hope, and seeking to improve their union by seizing every op- portunity of usefulness. Friendship, to be durable, must be pure, virtuous, and holy All other associations are liable to the ca- price of passion, and to the changing tide of human events. It is not enough that there be a natural coincidence of character and temperament, a similarity of earthly pursuit and object ; there must be materials of a higher fabric, streams flowing from a pure* source. There must be the impress of divin* * Private corre jpondence. 56 COWPER'S WORKS grace stamping the same common image and superscription on both hearts. A friendship founded on such a basis, strengthened by time and opportunity, and nourished by the frequent interchange of good offices, is per- haps the nearest approximation to happiness attainable in this chequered life. Such a friendship is beautifully portrayed by Cowper, in the following passage in his Poem on Conversation ; and it is highly prob- able that he alludes to his own feelings on this occasion, and to the connexion subsisting between himself and Newton. True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd Of hearts in union mutually disclos'd ; And, farewell else all hope of pure delight ! Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, up- right : Bad men, profaning friendship's hallow'd name, Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame: But souls, that carry on a blest exchange Qf joys they meet with in their heavenly range, And, with a fearless confidence, make known The sorrows sympathy esteems its own ; Daily derive increasing light and force From such communion in their pleasant course ; Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, Meet their opposers with united strength,- And. one in heart, in interest, and design, Gird up each other to the race divine. It is to the friendship and intercourse formed between these two excellent men, that we are indebted for the origin of the Olney Hymns. These hymns are too cele- brated in the annals of sacred poetry not to demand special notice in a life of Cowper, who contributed to that collection some of the most beautiful and devotional effusions that ever enriched this species of composi- tion. They were the joint production of the divine and the poet, and intended, (as the former expressly says in his preface) "as a monument to perpetuate the remembrance of an intimate and endeared friendship " They were subsequently introduced into the parish church of Olney, with the view of raising the tone and character of church psalmody. The old version of Sternhold and Hopkins, previously used, and still re- tained in many of our churches, was con- sidered to be too antiquated in its language, and not sufficiently imbued with the char- acteristic features of the Gospel dispensa- tion, to be adapted to the advancing spirit of religion. It was to supply this defect that the above work was thus introduced, and the acceptance with which it was received fully justified the expectation. Viewed in this light, it is a kind of epoch in the history of the Established Church. Other commu- nities of Christians had long employed the instrumentality of hymns to embody the feel- Jigs of devotion ; but our own church had not felt this necessity, or adopted the custom ; 1 prejudice had even interposed, in some in j stances, to resist their introduction, till th« I right was fully established by the decision of ! law.* The prejudices of past times aro ; however, at length, rapidly giving way to ' the wishes and demands of modern piety , j and we can now appeal to the versions of a Stewart, a Noel, a Pratt, a Bickersteth, and many others as a most suitable vehicle for this devotional exercise. The Olney Hymns ■ are entitled to the praise of being the precur- 1 sors of this improved mode of psalmody, ; jointly with the collection of the Rev. M. Ma- dan, at the Lock, and that of Mr. Berridge, at Everton. But, independently of this circumstance, they present far higher claims. They portray the varied emotions of the human heart in its conflicts with sin, and aspirations after holiness. We there contemplate the depres- sion of sorrow and the triumph of hope ; the terrors inspired by the law and the confidence awakened by the Gospel ; and, what may be considered as the genuine transcript of the poet's own mind, especially in the celebrated hymn, (" God move a in a mysterious way," &c.,) we see depicted, in impressive language, the struggles of a faith trying to penetrate into the dark and mysterious dispensations of God, and at length reposing on his un- changeable faithfulness and love. These sentiments and feelings so descriptive of the exercises of the soul, find a response in every awakened heart ; and the church of Christ will never cease to claim its property in effusions like these till the Christian war fare is ended, and the perceptions of erring reason and sense are exchanged for the bright visions of eternity. The undertaking commenced about the year 1771, though the collection was not finally completed and published till 1779. The total number contributed by Cowper was sixty-eight hymns. They are distin- guished by the initial letter of his name. It was originally stipulated that each should bear their proportion' in this jcint labor, till the whole work was accomplished. With this understanding, the pious design was gradually proceeding in its auspicious course when, by one of those solemn and mysteri- ous dispensations from which neither rank nor genius, nor moral excellence can claim exemption, it pleased Him whose " way is in the deep," and whose "footsteps are not known," and of whom it is emphatically said " that clouds and darkness ar* 1 round about him," though " righteousness and judgment are the habitation of his throne," to suspend the powers of this interesting sufferer, and once more to shroud them in darkness. * The Rev. T. Cotterill, formerly of Sheffield, and ia much esteem for his piety and usefulness, was the flrai who established this right by a judicial proceedinc LIFE OF COWPER. In contemplating this event, in the pecu- jarity of its time, character, and consequen- ces, well may we exclaim, "Lord, what is man!" and, while the consciousness of the infinite wisdom and mercy of God precludes as from saying, "What doest Thou?" we feel that it must be reserved for eternity to develop the mysterious design of these dis- pensations. It was in the year 1773 that this afflicting malady returned. Cowper sank into such severe paroxysms of religious despondency, that he required an attendant of the most gentle, vigilant, and inflexible spirit. Such m attendant he found in that faithful guar- dian, whom he had professed to love as a mother, and who watched over him during this long fit of a most depressing malady, ex- tended through several years, with that per- fect mixture of tenderness and fortitude which Constitutes the characteristic feature of female services. I wish to pass rapidly over this calamitous period, and shall only observe that nothing could surpass the suf- ferings of the patient or excel the care of the nurse. Her unremitting attentions received the most delightful of rewards in seeing the pure and powerful mind, to whose restoration she had so greatly contributed, not only grad- ually restored to the common enjoyments of life, but successively endowed with new and marvellous funds of diversified talents, and a vigorous application of them. The spirit of Cowper emerged by slow de- grees from its deep dejection ; and, before his mind was sufficiently recovered to em- ploy itself on literary composition, it sought and found much relief and amusement in do- mesticating a little group of hares. On his expressing a wish to divert himself by rear- ing a single leveret, the good-nature of his neighbors supplied him with three. The va- riety of their dispositions became a source of great entertainment to his compassionate and contemplative spirit. One of the trio he has celebrated in the Task, and a very ani- mated and minute account of this singular family, humanized, and described most admi- rably by himself in prose, appeared first in the Gentleman's Magazine, and was subse- quently inserted in the second volume of Jiis poems. These interesting animals had not only the honor of being cherished and cele- brated by a poet, tut the pencil has also con- tributed to their renown. His three tame hares, Mrs. Unwin, and Mr. Newton, were, for a considerable time, the only companions of Cowper; but, as Mr. Newton was removed to a distance from his afflicted friend by preferment in London,* (to which he was presented by that liberal tncourager of active piety, Mr. Thornton,) * He was presetted to the living of St. Mary Woolnoth, a the «ity. — Ed. before he left Olney, in 1780, he humanely triumphed over the strong reluctance of Cowper to see a stranger, and kindly intro- duced him to the regard and good offices of the Rev. Mr. Bull of Newport-Pagnell. This excellent man, so distinguished by his piety and wit, and honored by the friendship of John Thornton, from that time considered it to be his duty to visit the invalid once a fort- night, and acquired, by degrees, his cordia. and confidential esteem. The affectionate temper of Cowper incline him particularly to exert his talents at th request of his friends, even in seasons whei such exertion could hardly have been mad' without a painful degree of self-command. At the suggestion of Mr. Newton, we hava seen him writing a series of hymns : at the request of Mr. Bull, he translated several spiritual songs, from the poetry of Madame de la Mothe Guyon, the tender and mystical French writer, whose talents and misfortunes drew upon her a long series of persecution from many acrimonious bigots, and secured to her the friendship of the mild and pious Fenelon ! We shall perceive, as we advance, that the more distinguished works of Cowper were also written at the express desire of persons whom he particularly regarded ; and it may be remarked, to the honor of friendship, that he considered its influence as the happiest in- spiration; or, to use his own expressive words, The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, Should be the poet's heart : Affection lights a brighter flame • Than ever blazed by art. The poetry of Cowper is itself an admira- ble illustration of this maxim ; and perhaps the maxim may point to the principal source of that uncommon force and felicity with which this most feeling poet commands the affection of his reader. In delineating the life of an author, it seems the duty of biography to indicate the degree of influence which the warmth of his heart produced on the fertility of his mind. But those mingled flames of friendship and poe- try, which were to burst forth with the most powerful effect in the compositions of Cow- per, were not yet kindled. His depressing malady had suspended the exercise of his genius for several years, and precluded him from renewing his correspondence with the relation whom he so cordially regarded in Hertfordshire, except by brief letters on pe- cuniary concerns. We insert the following as discovering symptoms of approaching convalescence. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Nov. 12, 177& Dear Friend, — One to whom fish is so wel» * Private correspou/Ionce. 58 COWPER'S WORKS. come as it is to me, can have no great occa- sion to distinguish the sorts. In general, therefore, whatever fish are likely to think E jaunt into the country agreeable will be sure to find me ready to receive them. Having suffered so much by nervous fevers myself, I know how to' congratulate Ashley upon his recovery. Other distempers only batter the walls ; but they creep silently into the citadel and put the garrison to the sword. You perceive I have not made a squeamish use of your obliging offer. The remem- brance of past years, and of the sentiments formerly exchanged in our evening walks, convinces me still that an unreserved accept- ance of what is graciously offered is the handsomest way of dealing with one of your character. Believe me yours, W. C. As to the frequency, which you leave to my choice too, you have no need to exceed the number of your former remittances. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, April— I fancy the '20th, 1777. My dear Friend, — Thanks for a turbot, a lobster, and Captain Brydone ;f a gentleman, who relates his travels so agreeably, that he deserves always to travel with an agreeable companion. I have been reading Gray's Works, and think him the only poet since Shakspeare entitled to the character of sub- lime. Perhaps you will remember that f once had a different opinion of him. I was prejudiced. He did not belong to our Thurs- day society, and was an Eton man, which lowered him prodigiously in our esteem. I once thought Swift's Letters the best that could be written; but I like Gray's better. His humor, or his wit, or whatever it is to be called, is never ill-natured or offensive, and yet, I think, equally poignant with the Dean's I am yours affectionately, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, May 25, 1777. My dear Friend, — We differ not much in our opinion of Gray. When I wrote last, I was in the middle of the book. His later Epistles, I think, are worth little, as such, but might be turned to excellent account by a young student of taste and judgment. As to West's Letters, I think I could easily bring your opinion of them to square with mine. * Private correspondence. t " Brydone," author of Travels in Sicily and Malta. I"hey are written with much interest, but he indidges in remarks on the subject of Mount Etna which rather mili- tate against the Mosaic account of the creation. They are elegant and sensible, but have no» thing in them that is characteristic, or thai discriminates them from the letters of any other young man of taste and learning. As to the book you mention, I am in doubt whether to read it or not. I should like the philosophical part of it, but the political, which, I suppose, is a detail of intrigues car- ried on by the Company and their servants,* a history of rising and falling nabobs, I should have no appetite to at all. I will not, there- fore, give you the trouble of sending it at present. Yours affectionately, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f Olney, July 13, 1777. My dear Friend, — You need not give your- self any further trouble to procure me the South Sea Voyages. Lord Dartmouth, who was here about a month since, and was so kind as to pay me two visits, has furnished me with both Cook's and Forster's. 'Tis well for the poor natives of those distant countries that our national expenses cannot be supplied by cargQes of yams and bananas. Curiosity, therefore, being once satisfied, they may possibly be permitted for the future to enjoy their riches of that kind in peace. If, when you are most at leisure, you can find out Baker upon the Microscope, or Vin- cent Bourne's Latin Poems, the last edition, and send them, I shall be obliged to you, — either, or both, if they can be easily found. I am yours affectionately, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f Olney, Jan. 1, 1778. My dear Friend, — Your last packet waa doubly welcome, and Mrs. Hill's kindness gives me peculiar pleasure, not as coming from a stranger to me, for I do not account her so, though I never saw her, but as com- ing from one so nearly connected with your- self. I shall take care to acknowledge the receipt of her obliging' letter, when I return the books. Assure yourself, in the mean time, that I read as if the librarian was at my elbow, continually jogging it, and growl- ing out, Make haste. But, as I read aloud, I shall not have finished before the end ol the week, and will return them by the dili- gence next Monday. * Cowper here alludes to the celebrated work of the Abbe Raynal, entitled "Philosophical and Political His- tory of the Establishments and Commerce of Europeans in the two Indies." This book created a very powerful sensation, being written with great freedom of sentiment and boldness of remark, conveyed in an eloquent though rather declamatory style. Sach was the alarm excited in France by this publication, that a decree passed the Par- liament of Paris, by which the work was rwdered to tx burnt. t Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. c* I shall be glad if you will let me know whe- ther 1 am to understand by the sorrow you express that any part of my former supplies is actually cut off, or whether they are only more tardy in coming- in than usual. It is useful, even to the rich, to know, as nearly as may be, the exact amount of their income ; but how much more so to a man of my small dimensions ! If the former should be the case, I shall have less reason to be surprised than I have to wonder at the continuance of them so long". Favors are favors indeed, when laid out upon so barren a soil, where the expense of sowing is never accompanied by the smallest hope of return. What pain there is in gratitude, I have often felt ; hut the pleasure of requiting an obligation has always been out of my reach. Affectionately yours, W. C. . TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, April 11, 1778. My dear Friend, — Poor Sir Thomas !f I knew that I had a place in his affections, and, from his own information many years ago, a place in his will ; but little thought that after a lapse of so many years I should still retain it. His remembrance of me after so long a season of separation, has done me much honor, and leaves me the more reason to re- gret his decease. I am reading the Abbe with great satisfac- tion,;}; and think him the most intelligent writer upon so extensive a subject I ever met with ; in every respect superior to the Abbe in Scotland. Yours affectionately, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, May 7, 1778. My dear Friend, — I have been in continual fear lest every post should bring a summons for the Abbe Ray mil, and am glad that I have finished him before my fears were realized. I have kept him long, but not through neg- lect or idleness. I read the five volumes to Mrs. Unwin ; and my voice will seldom serve me with more than an hour's reading at a time. I am indebted to hkn for much infor- mation upon subjects which, however inter- esting, are so remote from those with which country folks in general are .conversant, that, had not his works reached me at Olney, I should have been forever ignorant of them. I admire him as a philosopher, as a writer, as a man of extraordinary intelligence, and no less extraordinary abilities to digest it. * Private correspondence. t Sir Thomas Hesketh, Baronet, of Rufford Hall, in ,iancashire. t Raynal. He is a true patriot. But then the world ia his country. The frauds and tricks of th« cabinet and the counter seem to be equally objects .of his aversion. And, if he had not found that religion too had undergone a mix- ture of artifice, in its turn, perhaps he would have been a Christian. Yours affectionately, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, June 18, 1778. My dear Friend, — I truly rejoice that the Chancellor has made you such a present, that he has given such an additional lustre to it by his manner of conferring it, and that all this happened before you went to Wargrave, because it made your retirement there the more agreeable This is just according to the character of the man. He will give grudg- ingly in answer to solicitaton, but delights in surprising those he esteems with his boun- ty. May you live to receive still further proofs that I am not mistaken in my opinion of him ! Yours affectionately, W. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, June 18, 1778. Dear Unwin, — I feel myself much obliged to you for your intimation, and have given the subject of it all my best attention, both before I received your letter and since. The result is, that I am persuaded it will be bet- ter not to write. I know the man and his disposition well ; he is very liberal in his way of thinking, generous, and discerning. He is well aware of the tricks that are played upon such occasions, and, after fifteen years' interruption of all intercourse between us, would translate my letter into this language — pray remember the poor.f This would disgust him, because he would think our for- mer intimacy disgraced by such an oblique application. He has not forgotten me, and, if he had, there are those about him who cannot come into his presence without re- minding him of me, and he is also perfectly acquainted with my circumstances. It would perhaps give him pleasure to surprise me with a benefit, and if he means me such a favor, I should disappoint him by asking it. I repeat my thanks for your suggestion ; you see a part of my reasons for thus con- ducting myself; if we were together I couli give you more. Yours affectionately, W. C * Private correspondence. t Mr. Unwin had suggested to Cowper the propriety of an application to Lord Thurlow for some mark of favor ; which the latter never conferred, and which Cowper wai resolved never to solicit. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, May 26, 1779. I am obliged to you for the Poets, and, though I little thought that I was translating so much money out of your pocket into the bookseller's, when I turned Prior's poem into Latin, yet I must needs say that, if you think it worth while to purchase the English Clas- sics at all, you cannot possess yourself of them upon better terms. I have looked into some of the volumes, but, not having yet finished the Register, have merely looked into them. A few things I have met with, which, if they had been burned the moment they were written, it would have been better for the author, and at least as well for his readers. There is not much of this, but a little is too much. I think it a pity the editor admitted any ; the English muse would have lost no credit by the omission of such trash. Some of them, again, seem to me to have but a very disputable right to a place among the Classics, and I am quite at a loss, when I see them in such company, to conjecture what is Dr. Johnson's idea or definition of classical merit. But, if he inserts the Poems 'of some who can hardly be said to deserve such an honor, the purchaser may comfort himself with the hope that he will exclude none that do. W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* Olney, July, —79. My dear Friend, — When I was at Margate, it was an excursion of pleasure to go to see Ramsgate. The pier, I remember, was ac- counted a most excellent piece of stone- work, and such I found it. By this time, I suppose, it is finished, and surely it is no small advantage that you have an opportu- nity of observing how nicely those great stones are put together, as often as you please, without either trouble or expense. There was not at that time, much to be seen in the Isle of Thanet, besides the beauty of the country and the fine prospects of the sea, which are nowhere surpassed, except in the Isle of Wight, or-upon some parts of the coast of Hampshire. One sight, however, I remember, engaged my curiosity, and I went to see it — a fine piece of ruins, built by the late Lord Holland at a great expense, which, the day after I saw it, tumbled down for no- thing. Perhaps, therefore, it is still a ruin ; and, if it is, I would advise you by all means to visit it, as it must have been much im- proved by this fortunate incident. It is hardly possible to put stones together with that air •f wild aid magnificent disorder which they * Private correspondence. are sure to acquire by falling of their owr, accord. I remember (the last thing i mean to re- member upon this occasion) that Sam Cox, the counsel, walking by the sea-side, as if absorbed in deep contemplation, was ques- tioned about what he was musing on. He replied, " I was wondering that such an al- most infinite and unwieldly element should produce a sprat." Our love attends your whole party. Yours affectionately, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN* Olney, July 17, 1779 My dear Friend, — we envy you your sea- breezes. In the garden we feel nothing but the reflection of the heat from the walls, and in the parlor, from the opposite houses. 1 fancy Virgil was so situated when he wrote those two beautiful lines : .... Oh quis me gelidis in vallibus Haemi Sistat, et ingenti ramorum pfotegat umbra ! The worst of it is that, though the sun- beams strike as forcibly upon my harp-strings as they did upon his, they elicit no such sounds, but rather produce such groans as they are said to have drawn from those of the statue of Memnon. As" you have ventured to make the experi- ment, your own experience will be your best guide in the article of bathing. An infe- rence will hardly follow, though one should pull at it with all one's might, from Smol- lett's case to yours. He was . corpulent, muscular, and strong ; whereas, if you were either stolen or strayed, such a description of you in an advertisement would hardly direct an inquirer with sufficient accuracy and exactness. But, if bathing does not make your head ache, or prevent you sleep- ing at night, I should imagine it could not hurt you. Yours affectionately, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. Olney, Sept. 21, 1779. Amico mio, be pleased to buy me a gla- zier's diamond pencil. I have glazed the two frames, designed to receive my pine plants. But I cannot mend the kitchen win- dows, till, by the help of that imple-aent, I can reduce the glass to its proper dimen- sions. If I were a plumber, I should be a complete -glazier, and possibly the happy time may come, when I shall be seen trudg ing away to the neighboring towns with a shelf of glass hanging at my back. Jf gov- ernment should impose another tax vpon * Private correspondence. that commodity, I hardly know a business in which a gentleman might more success- fully employ himself. A Chinese, of ten times my fortune, would avail himself of such an opportunity without scruple ; and why should not I, who want money as much as any mandarin in China ? Rousseau would have been charmed to have seen me so occu- pied, and would have exclaimed with rapture " that he had found the Umilius who, he sup- posed, had subsisted only in his own idea." I would recommend it to you to follow my example. You will presently qualify your- self for the task, and may not only amuse yourself at home, but may even exercise* your skill in mending the church windows ; which, as it would save money to the parish, would conduce, together with your other ministerial accomplishments, to make you extremely popular in the place. I have eight pair of tame pigeons. When I first enter the garden in the morning, I find them perched upon the wall, waiting for their breakfast, for I feed them always upon the gravel walk. If your wish should be accomplished, and you should find yourself furnished with the wings of a dove, I shall undoubtedly find you amongst them. Only be so good, if that should be the case, to an- nounce yourself by some means or other. For I imagine your crop will require some- thing better than tares to fill it. Your mother and I, last week, made a trip in a post-chaise to Gayhurst, the seat of Mr. Wright, about four miles off. He under- stood that I did not much affect strange faces, and sent over his servant, on purpose to inform me that he was going into Leices- tershire, and that if I chose to see the gar- dens I might gratify myself without danger of seeing the proprietor. I accepted the in- vitation, and was delighted with all I found there. The situation is happy, the gardens elegantly disposed, the hot-house in the most flourishing state, and the orange-trees the most captivating creatures of the kind I ever saw. A man, in short, had need have the talents of Cox or Langford, the auctioneers, to do the whcle scene justice. Our love attends you all. Yours, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Oct. 2, 1779. My dear Friend, — You begin to count the remaining days of the vacation, not with im- patience, but through unwillingness to see the end of it. For the mind of man, at least of most men, is equally busy in anticipating the evil and the good. That word anticipa- ion puts me in remembrance of the pamphlet * Private correspondence. of that name, which, if you purchased, J should be glad to borrow. I have seen only an extract from it in the Review, which made me laugh heartily and wish to peruse the whole. The newspaper informs me of the arrival of the Jamaica fleet. I hope it imports some pine-apple plants for me. I have a good frame, and a good bed prepared to receive them. I send you annexed a fable, in which the pine-apple makes a figure, and shall be glad if you like the taste of it. Two pair of soles, with shrimps, which arrived last night, demand my acknowledgments. You have heard that when Arion performed upon the harp the fish followed him. I really have no design to fiddle you out of more fish ; but, if you should esteem my verses worthy of such a price, though I shall never be so re- nowned as he was, I shall think myself equally indebted to the Muse that helps mo THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE. "The pine-apples," &c.* My affectionate respects attend Mrs. Hill. She has put Mr. Wright to the expense of building a new hot-house : the plants pro- duced by the seeds she gave me having grown so large as to require an apartment by themselves. , Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. Olney, Oct. 31, J779. My dear Friend, — I wrote my last letter merely to inform you that I had nothing to say, in answer to which you have said no- thing. I admire the propriety of your con- duct, though I am a loser by it. I will en- deavor to say something now, and shall hope for something in return. I have been well entertained with John- son's biography, for which I thank you : with one exception, and that a swingeing one, I think he has not acquitted himself with his usual good sense and sufficiency. His treat- ment of Milton is unmerciful to the last de- gree. He has belabored that great poet's character with the most industrious cruelty. As a man, he has hardly left him the shadow of one good quality. Churlishness in his private life, and a rancorous hatred of every- thing royal in his public, are the two colors with which he has smeared all the canvas If he had any virtues, they are not to be found in the Doctor's picture of him ; and it is well for Milton that some sourness in his temper is the only vice with which his mem- ory has been charged ; it is evident enough that, if his biographer could have discovered more, he would not have spared him. As & * Vide Cowper's Poems. 62 COWPER'S WORKS. poet, he has treated him with severity enough, and has plucked one or two of the most beautiful feathers out of his Muse's wing, and trampled them under his great foot. He has passed sentence of condem- nation upon Lycidas, and has taken occasion, from that charming poem, to expose to ridi- cule (what is indeed ridiculous enough) the childish prattlement of pastoral compositions, as if Lycidas was the prototype and pattern of them all. The liveliness of the descrip- tion, the sweetness of the numbers, the clas- sical spirit of antiquity that prevails in it, go for nothing. I am convinced, by the way, that he has no ear for poetical numbers, or that it was stopped, by prejudice, against the harmony of Milton's. Was there ever any- thing so delightful as the music of the Para- dise Lost ? It is like that of a fine organ ; has the fullest and deepest tones of majesty, with all the softness and elegance of the Dorian flute, variety without end, and never equalled, unless, perhaps, by Virgil. Yet the Doctor has little or nothing to say upon this copious theme, but talks something about the unfitness of the English language for blank verse, and how apt it is, in the mouth of some readers, to degenerate into declamation. I could talk a good while longer, but I have no room. Our loves attends you. Yours affectionately, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Nov. 14, J779. My dear Friend, — Your approbation of my last Heliconian present encourages me to send you another. I wrote it, indeed, on purpose for you ; for my subjects are not always such as I could hope would prove agreeable to you. My mind has always a melancholy cast, and is like some pools I have seen, which, though filled with a black and putrid water, will nevertheless, in a bright day, reflect the sunbeams from their surface. ON THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, &C.f Yours affectionately, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Dec. 2, 1779. My dear Friend, — How quick is the suc- cession of human events ! The cares of to- day are seldom the cares of to-morrow : and when we lie down at. night, we may safely Bay to most of our troubles — " Ye have done your worst, and we shall meet no more." This observation was suggested to me by 'eading your last letter, which, though I r riv;ife ci respondcuice. f Vide Cowper's Poems. have written since I received it, I have nevej answered. When that epistle passed under your pen, you were miserable about youi tithes, and your imagination was hung round with pictures, that terrified you to such a degree as made even the receipt of money burthensome. But it is all over now. You sent away your farmers in good humor, (for you can make people merry whenever you please,) and now you have nothing to do but to chink your purse and laugh at what is past. Your delicacy makes you groan under that which other men never feel, or feel but lightly. A fly that settles upon the tip of the nose is troublesome ; and this is a com- parison adequate to the most that mankind in general are sensible of upon such tiny occasions. But the flies that pester you al- ways get between your eye-lids, where the annoyance is almost insupportable. I would follow your advice, and endeavor to furnish Lord North with a scheme of sup- plies for the ensuing year, if the difficulty J find in answering the call of my own emer- gencies did not make me despair of satisfy- ing those of the nation. I can say but this : if I had ten acres of land in the world, whereas I have not one, and in those teD acres should discover a gold mine, richf> than all Mexico and Peru, when I had re- served a few ounces for my own annual supply I would willingly give the rest to government. My ambition would be more gratified by annihilating the national incum- brances than by going daily down to the bottom of a mine, to wallow in my own emolument. This is patriotism — you will allow; but, alas! this virtue is for the most part in the hands of those who can do no good with it ! He that has but a single handful of it catches so greedily at the first opportunity of growing rich, that his patriot- ism drops to the ground, and he grasps the gold instead of it. He that never meets with such an opportunity holds it fast in his clenched fists, and says — "Oh, how much good I would do if I could !" Your mother says — "Pray send my dear love." There is hardly room to add mine, but you will suppose it. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Feb. 27, 1780. My dear Friend,— -As you are pleased to desire my letters, I am the more pleased with writing them; though at the same time, I must needs testify my surprise that you should think them worth receiving, as I sel- dom send one that I think favorably of my- self. This is not to be understood as an imputation upon your/taste or judgment/but as an encomium upon my. own modesty and numility, which I desire you to remark well. It is a just observation of Sir Joshua Rey- nolds, that, though men of ordinary talents may be highly satisfied with their own pro- ductions, men of true genius never are. Whatever be their subject, they always seem to themselves to fall short of it. even when they seem to others most to excel ; and for this reason — because they have a certain sublime sense of perfection, which other men are strangers to, and which they them- selves in their performances are not able to exemplify. Your servant, Sir Joshua ! I lit- tle thought of seeing you when I began, but as you have popped in you are welcome. When I wrote last, I was a little inclined to send you a copy of verses, entitled the Modern Patriot, but was not quite pleased with a line or two, which I found it difficult to mend, therefore did not. At night I read Mr. Burke's speech in the newspaper, and was so well pleased with his proposals for a reformation, and the temper in which he made them, that I began to think better of his cause, and burnt my verses. Such is the lot of the man who writes upon the subject of the day; the aspect of affairs changes in an hour or two, and his opinion with it ; what was just and well-deserved satire in the morn- ing, in the evening becomes a libel : the au- thor commences his own judge, and, while he condemns with unrelenting severity what he so lately approved, is sorry to find that he nas laid his leaf gold upon touchwood, which crumbled away under .his fingers. Alas! what can I do with my wit? I have not enough to do great things with, and these little things are so fugitive, that, while a man catches at the subject, he is only filling his hand with smoke. I must do with it as I do with my linnet: I keep him for the most part in a cage, but now and then set open the door, that he may whisk about the room a little, and then shut him up again. My whisking wit has produced the following, the subject of which is more important than the manner in which I have treated it seems to imply, but a fabl may speak truth, and all truth is sterling ; I only premise that, in the philosophical tract in the Register, I found it assei ted that the glow-worm is the nightin- gale's food.* An officer of a regiment, part of which is quartered here, gave one of the soldiers leave to be drunk six weeks in hopes of curing him by satiety ; he was drunk six weeks, and is so still, as often as he can find an opportunity. One vice may swallow up another, but no coroner, in the state of Ethics, ever brought in his verdict, when a "ice died, that it was — felo de se. This letter contained the oeautiful fable of the Night- 6k*ale and the "Jlow worm. Thanks for all you have done, and all you intend; the biography will be particularly welcome. Yours, W. C. TO MRS. NEWTON.* Olney, March 4, 1780. Dear Madam, — To communicate surprise is almost, perhaps quite, as agreeable as to receive it. This is my present motive for writing to you rather than to Mr. Newton. He would be pleased with hearing from me, but he would not be surprised at it; you see, therefore, I am selfish upon the present occa- sion, and principally consult my own gratifi- cation. Indeed, if I consulted yours, I should be silent, for I have no such budget as the minister's, furnished and stuffed with ways and means for every emergency, and shall find it difficult; perhaps, to raise supplies even for a short epistle. You have observed, in common conversa- tion, that the man who coughs the oftenesl (I mean if he has not a cold), does it be- cause he has nothing to say. Even so it is in letter-writing: a long preface, such as mine, is an ugly symptom, and always fore bodes great sterility in the following pages. The vicarage-house became a melancholy object as soon as Mr. Newton had left it; when you left it, it became more melancholy now it is actually occupied by another fam- ily, even I cannot look at it without being shocked. As I walked in the garden this evening, I saw the smoke issue from the study chimney, and said to myself, That used to be a sign that Mr. Newton was there ; but it is so no longer. The walls of the house know nothing of the change that has taken place : the bolt of the chamber-door sounds just as it used to do ; and when Mr. P goes up stairs, for aught I know* or ever shall know, the fall of his foot could hardly, perhaps, be distinguished from that of* Mr. Newton. But Mr. Newton's foot will never be heard upon that staircase again. These reflections, and such as these, occurred to me upon the occasion. ... If I were in a con- dition to leave Olney too, I certainly would not stay in it. It is no attachment to the place that binds me here, but an unfitness for every other. I lived in it once, but now I am buried in it, and have no business with the world on the outside of my sepulchre ; my appearance would startle them, and theirs would be shocking to me. Such are my thoughts about the matter. Others are more deeply affected, and by more weighty considerations, having been many years the objects of a ministry which they had reason to account themselves happy iv the possession of. . . . * Private correspondence. V4 COWPER'S WORKS. We were concerned at your account of Robert, and have little doubt but he will shuffle himself out of his place. Where he will find another is a question not to be re- solved by those who recommended him to this. I wrote him a long letter a day or two after the receipt of yours, but I am afraid it was only clapping a blister upon the crown of a wig-block. My respects attend Mr. Newton and your- self, accompanied with much affection for you both. Yours, dear Madam, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, March 16, 1780. My dear Friend, — If I had had the horns of a snail, I should have drawn them in the moment I saw the reason of your epistolary brevity, because I felt it too. May your seven reams be multiplied into fourteen, till your letters become truly Lacedaemonian, and are reduced to a single syllable. . Though I shall be a sufferer by the effect, I shall rejoice in the cause. You are naturally formed for business, and such a head as yours can never have too much of it. Though my predictions have been fulfilled in two instances, I do not plume myself much upon my sagacity; be- cause it required but little to foresee that Thurlow would be Chancellor, and that you would have a crowded office. As to the rest ef my connexions, there too I have given proof of equal foresight, with not a jot more reacon for vanity. To use the phrase of all who ever wrote upon the state of Europe, the political hori- zon is dark indeed. The cloud has been thickening, and the thunder advancing many years. The storm now seems to be vertical, and threatens to burst upon the land, as if with the next clap it would, shake all to pieces. — As for me, I am no Quaker, except where military matters are in question, and there I am much of the same mind with an honest man, who, when ne was forced into the service, declared he would not fight, and gave this reason — because he saw nothing worth fighting for. You will say, perhaps, is not liberty worth a struggle ? True : but will success ensure it to me ? Might I not, .ike the Americans, emancipate myself from one master only to serve a score, and with laurels upon my brow sigh for my former chains again? Many thanks for your kind invitation. Ditto to Mrs. Hill, for the seeds — unexpected, and therefore the more welcome. * Private correspondence. You gave me great pleasure by what yo* said of my uncle.* His motto shall be Hie ver perpetuum atque alienis mensibus aestas I remember the time when I have beer kept waking by the fear that he would dk before me; but now I think I shall grow old first. Yours, my dear friend, affectionately, W. C, TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, March 18, 1780. I am obliged to you for the communica- tion of your correspondence with . It was impossible for any man, of any tempei whatever, and however wedded to his own purpose, to resent so gentle and friendly an exhortation as you sent him. Men of lively imaginations are not often remarkable for solidity of judgment. They have generally strong passions to bias it, and aiv led far away from their proper road, in pursuit of petty phantoms of their own creating. No law ever did or can effect what he has as- cribed to that of Moses : it is reserved for mercy to subdue the corrupt inclinations of mankind, which threatenings and penalties, through the depravity of the heart, have al- ways had a tendency rather to inflame. The love of power seems as natural to kings as the desire of liberty is to their sub- jects; the excess of either is vicious and tends to the ruin of .both. There are many, I believe, who wish the present corrupt state of things disolved, in hope that the pure primitive constitution will spring up from the ruins. But it is not for man, by himself man, to bring order out of confusion : the prog- ress from one to the other is not natural, much less necessary, and, without the inter- vention of divine aid, impossible ; and they who are for making the hazardous experi- ment would certainly find themselves disap- pointed. Affectionately you*s, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN. Olney, March 28, 1780. My dear Friend, — I have heard nothing more from Mr. Newton, upon the subject you mention : but I dare say, that, having been given to expect the benefit of your nomina- tion in behalf of his nephew, he still depends upon it. His obligations to Mr. have been so numerous and so weighty, that, though he has in a few instances prevailed upon himself to recommend an object now and then to his patronage, he has veiy spar- • * Ashley Cowper, Es: scriptural and modern, the breach of it has been punished with a providential and judicial severity, that may make v y-standers trem- ble :) secondly, as a privilege, which you well know how to dilate upon, better than I can tell you ; thirdly, as a sign of that cove- nant, by which believers are entitled to a rest that yet remaineth ; fourthly, as a sine qua non of the Christian character ; and, upon this head, I should guard against being misunder- stood to mean no more than two attendances upon public worship, which is a form complied with by thousands who never kept a sabbath in their lives. Consistence is necessary to give substance and solidity to the whole. To sanctify the day at church, and to trifle it away out of church, is profanation, and vitiates all. After all could I ask my cate- chumen one short question — " Do you love the day, or do you not 1 If you love it, you will never inquire how far you may safely deprive yourself of the enjoyment of it. If you do not love it, and you find yourself obliged in conscience to acknowledge it, that is an alarming symptom, and ought to make you tremble. If you do not love it, then it is a weariness to you, and you wish it was over. The ideas of labor and rest are not more opposite to each other than the idea of a sabbath and that dislike and disgust with which it fills the souls of. thousands to be obliged to keep it. It is worse than bodily labor." W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, April 6, 1780. My dear Friend, — I never was, any more than yourself, a friend to pluralities ; they are generally found in the hands of the ava- ricious, whose insatiable hunger after prefer- ment proves them unworthy of any at all. They attend much to the regular payment of their dues, but not at all to the spirits, .h, terests of their parishioners. Having forgot their duty, or never known it, they differ in nothing from the laity, except their out- ward garb and their exclusive right to the desk and pulpit. But when pluralities seek the man instead of being sought by him, and when the man is honest, conscientious, and pious, careful to employ a substitute, in those respects, like himself; and, not con- tented with this, will see with his own eyes that the concerns of his parishes are decently and diligently administered ; in that case, con- sidering the present dearth of such characters in the ministry, I think it an event advanta- geous to the people, and much to be desired by all who regret the great and apparent want of sobriety and earnestness among the clergy.* A man who does net seek a living merely as a pecuniary emolument has no need, in my judgment, to refuse one because it is 30. He means to do his duty, and by doixig it he earns his wages. The two recto- ries being contiguous to each other, and fol- lowing easily under the care of one pastor, and both so near to Stock that you can visit them without difficulty as often as you please, I see no reasonable objection, nor does your mother. As to the wry-mouthed sneers and illiberal misconstructions of the censorious, I know no better shield to guard you against them than what you are already furnished with — a clear and unoffended conscience. I am obliged to you for what you said upon the subject of book-buying, and am very fond of availing myself of another man's pocket, when I can do it creditably to myself and without injury to him. Amusements are necessary in a retirement like mine, espe- cially in such a sable state of mind as I labor under. The necessity of amusement makes me sometimes write verses — it made me a carpenter, a bird-cage maker, a gardener — and has lately taught me to draw, and to draw too with such surprising *proficiency in the art, considering my total ignorance of it two months ago, that, when I show your mother my productions, she is all admiration and applause. You need never fear the communication of what you entrust to us in confidence. You know your mother's delicacy on this point sufficiently, and as for me, I once wrote a Connoisseurf upon the subject of secret- keeping, and from that day to this I believe I have never divulged one. * A happy change has occurred since this period, and the revival of piety in the Church of England must be perceptible lo every observer. — Ed. t His meaning is, he contributed to the " Connoisseur" an essay or letter on this subject. 5 66 COWPER'S WORKS. We were much pleased with Mr. Newton's application to you for a charity sermon, and what he said upon that subject in his last letter, " that he was glad of an opportunity to give you that proof of his regard." Believe me yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, April 16, 1780. Since I wrote last, we have had a visit from . I did not feel myself vehemently dis- posed to receive him with that complaisance from which a stranger generally infers that he is welcome. By his manner, which was rather bold than easy, I judged that there was no occasion for it, and that it was a trifle which, if he did not meet with, neither would he feel the want of. He has the air of a travelled man, but not of a travelled gentle- man : is quite delivered from that reserve which is so-common an ingredient in the Eng- lish character, yet does not open himself gently and gradually, as men of polite behav- ior do, but bursts upon you all at once. He talks very loud, and when our poor little robins hear a great noise, they are immedi- ately seized with an ambition to surpass it — the increase of their vociferation occasioned an increase of his, and his in return acted as a stimulus upon theirs — neither side enter- tained a thought of giving up the contest, which became continually more interesting to our ears during the whole visit. The birds however survived it, and so did we. They perhaps flatter themselves they gained a complete victory, but I believe Mr. could have killed them both in another hour. W. C. TO THE KEV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, May 3, 1780. Dear Sir, — You indulge me in such a vari- ety of subjects, and allow me such a latitude of excursion in this scribbling employment, that I have no excuse for silence. I am much obliged to you for swallowing such boluses as I send you, for the sake of my gilding, and verily believe I am the only man alive, from whom they would be welcome to a palate like yours. I wish I could make them more splendid than 'they are, more alluring to the eye, at least, if not more pleasing to the taste ; but my leaf-gold is tarnished, and has received such a tinge from the vapors that are ever brooding over my mind, that I think it no small proof of your partiality to me that you will read my letters. I am not fond of long-winded metaphors ; I have always observed that they halt at the 'after eir.d of their progress, and so does nine. deal much in ink, indeed, but not such ink as is employed by poets and writers of essays. Mine is a harmless fluid, and guilty of no deceptions but such as may pre- vail, without the least injury, to the person imposed on. I draw mountains, valleys, woods, and streams, and ducks, and dab- chicks. I admire them myself, and Mrs. Un- win admires them, and her praise and my praise put together are fame enough for me. Oh ! I could spend whole days and moon- light nights in feeding upon a lovely pros- pect ! My eyes drink the rivers as they flow. If every human being upon earth could think for one quarter of an hour as I have done for many years, there might, perhaps, be many miserable men among them, but not an un- awakened one would be 'found from the arc- tic to the antarctic circle. At present, the difference between them and me is greatly to their advantage. I delight in baubles, and know them to be so ; for, viewed without a reference to their author, what is the earth, what are the planets, what is the sun itself, but a bauble'? Better for a man never to have seen them, or to see them with the eyes of a brute, stupid and unconscious of what he beholds, than not to be able to say, " The Maker of all these wonders is my friend !" Their eyes have never been opened to see that they are trifles ; mine have been, and will be till they are closed forever. They think a fine estate, a large conservatory, a hothouse, rich as a West Indian garden, things of consequence, visit them with pleas- ure, and muse upon them with ten times more. I am pleased with a frame of four lights,- doubtful whether the few pines it contains will ever be worth a farthing; amuse myself with a green-house, which Lord Bute's gardener could take upon his back, and walk away with ; and when I have . paid it the accustomed visit, and watered it, and given it air, I say to myself— 2" This is not mine, 'tis a plaything lent me for the present, I must leave it soon." W. C. TO JOSEPH *ILL, ESQ. Olney, May 6, 1780. My dear Friend, — I am much obliged to you for your speedy answer to my queries. I know less of the law than a country attor- ney, yet sometimes I think I have almost aa much business. My former connexion with the profession has got wind, and though I earnestly profess, and protest, and proclaim it abroad, that I know nothing of the matter, they cannot be persuaded to believe, that a head once endowed with a legal periwig can ever be deficient in those natural endowments it is supposed to cover. I have had the good fortune to be once- or twice in the right, which, added to the cheapness of a gratui- LIFE OR COWPER. 67 ious counsel, has advanced my credit to a de- gree I never expected to attain in the capacity of a lawyer. Indeed, if two of the wisest in the scien ;.e of jurisprudence may give op- posite opinions on the same point, which !oes not unfrequently happen, it seems to be a matter of indifference, whether a man answers by rule or at a venture. He that stumbles upon the right side of the question, is just as useful to his client as he that ar- rives at the same end by regular approaches, and is conducted to the mark he aims at by the greatest authorities. These violent attacks of a distemper so of- ten fatal are very alarming to all who esteem and respect, the Chancellor as he deserves. A life f confinement and of anxious atten- tion to important objects, where the habit is bilious to such a terrible degree, threatens to be but a short one ; and I wish he may not be made a text for men of reflection to mor- alize upon ; affording a conspicuous instance of the transient and fading nature of all human accomplishments and attainments. • Yours affectionately, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, May 8, 1780. My dear Friend, — My scribbling humor has of late been entirely absorbed in the passion for landscape-drawing. It is a most amusing art, and, like every other ' art, requires much practice and attention. Nil sine multo Vita labore dedit mortalibus. Excellence is providentially placed beyond the reach of indolence, that success may be the reward of industry, and that idleness may be punished with obscurity and disgrace. So long as I am pleased with an employment I am capable of unwearied application, because my feelings are all of the intense kind: I never received a little pleasure from anything in my life ; if I am delighted, it is in the ex- treme. The unhappy consequence of this temperament is, that my attachment to any occupation seldom outlives the novelty of it. That nerve of my imagination, that feels the touch of any particular amusement, twangs under the energy of the pressure with so much vehemence, that it soon becomes sen- sible of weariness and fatigue. Hence I draw an unfavorable prognostic, and expect that I shall shortly be constrained to look out for something else. Thru perhaps I may string the harp again, and be able to comply with four demand. N )\v for the visit you propose to pay us, *nd propos* not to pay us, the hope of which plays upon your paper, like a jack-o-lanterc upon the ceiling. This is no mean simile, for Virgil (you remember) uses it. 'Tis here, 'tis there, it vanishes, it returns, it dazzles you, a cloud interposes, and it is gone. However just the comparison, I hope you will contrive to spoil it, and that your final determination will be to come. As to the masons you ex- pect, bring them with you — bring brick, bring mortar, bring everything, that would oppose itself to your journey — all shall be welcome. I have a green-house that is too small, come and enlarge it ; build me a pinery ; repair the garden-wall, that has great need of your as- sistance; do anything, you cannot do too much ; so far from thinking you and your train troublesome, we shall rejoice to see you, upon these or upon any other terms you can propose. But, to be serious — you will do well to consider that a long summer is before you— that the party will not have such another opportunity to meet this great while — that you may finish your masonry long enough before winter, though you should not begin this month, but that you cannot always find your brother and sister Powley at Olney. These and some other considerations, such as the desire we have to see you, and the pleasure we expect from seeing you all together, may, and I think ought, to overcome your scruples. • From a general recollection of Lord Claren- don's History of the Rebellion, I thought, (and I remember I told you so,) that there was a striking resemblance between that period and the present. But I am now reading, and have read three volumes of, Hume's History, one of which is engrossed entirely by that sub- ject. There I see reason to alter my opinion, and the seeming resemblance has disappeared upon a more particular information. Charles succeeded to a long train of arbitrary princes, whose subjects had tamely acquiesced in the despotism of their masters till their privileges were all forgot. He did but tread in their steps, and exemplify the principles in which he had been brought up, when he oppressed his people. But, just at that time, unhappily for the monarch, the subject began to see, and to see that he had a right to property and freedom. This marks a sufficient differ- ence between the disputes of that day and the present. But there was another main cause of that rebellion, which at this time does not operate at all. The king was de- voted to the hierarchy; his subjects were puritans and would not bear it. Every cir- cumstance of ecclesiastical order and disci- pline was an abomination to them, and, in his esteem, an indispensable duty ; and, though at last he was obliged to give up many things, he would not abolish episcopacy, and till that were done his concessions could have no con- ciliating effect. These two concurring cauaoa 68 COWPER'S WORKS. were, indeed, sufficient to set three kingdoms in a flame. But they subsist not now, nor any other, I hope, notwithstanding the bustle nade by the patriots, equal to the production of such terrible events.* Yours, my dear friend, W. C. The correspondence of the poet with his cousin Mrs. Cowper was at this time resumed, after an interval of ten years. She was deeply afflicted by the loss of her brother, Frederick Madan, an officer who died in America, after havirig distinguished himself by poetical talents as well as by military virtues. TO MRS. COWFER. OIney, May 10, 1780. My dear Cousin, — I do not write to com- fort you ; that office is not likely to be well performed by one who has no comfort for himself; nor to comply with an impertinent ceremony, which in general might well be spared upon such occasions ; but because I would not seem indifferent to the concerns of those I have so much reason to esteem and love. If I did not sorrow for your brother's death, I should expect that nobody would ftfr mine ; when I knew him, he was much beloved, and I doubt not continued to be so. To live and die together is the lot of a few happy families, who hardly know what a separation means, and one sepulchre serves them all; but the ashes of our kin- dred are dispersed indeed. Whether the American Gulf has swallowed up any other of my relations, I know not; it has made many mourners. Believe me, my dear cousin, though after a long silence, which, perhaps, nothing less than the present concern could have prevailed with me to interrupt, as much as ever, Your affectionate kinsman, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, May 10, 1780. My dear Friend, — If authors could have lived to adjust and authenticate their own text, a commentator would have been a use- less creature. For instance — if Dr. Bentley had found, or opined that he had found, the word tube, where it seemecHo present itself to you, and had judged the subject worthy of his critical acumen, he would either have justified the corrupt reading, or have substi- * To those who contemplate *he course of modern events, and the signs of the times, there may be a doubt whether the sentiment here expressed is equally applica- ble in the present age. May the union of good and wise men be the means, under the Providence of God, of averting e/ery threatening danger. tuted some invention of his own, in defence of which he f would have exerted all his po- lemical abilities, and have quarrelled with half the literati in Europe. Then suppose the writer himself, as in the present case, to "interpose, with a gentle whisper, thus — " If you look again, doctor, you will perceive, that what appears to you to be tube is neither more nor less than the monosyllable ink,hui I wrote it in great hast% and the want of suf- ficient precision in the character has occa- sioned your mistake; you will be satisfied, especially when you see the sense elucidate* 1 , by the explanation." — But I question whether the doctor would quit his ground, or allow any author to be a competent judge in his own case. The world, however, would ac- quiesce immediately, and vote the critic use- less. James Andrews, who is my Michael **n- gelo, pays me many compliments on my suc- cess in the art of drawing, but I have not yet the vanity to think myself qualified to fur- nish your apartment. If I should ever attain to the degree of self-opinion requisite to such an undertaking, I shall labor at it with pleas- ure. I can only say, though I hope not with the affected modesty of the above-mentioned Dr. Bentley, who said the same thing, Me quoque dicunt Vatem pastores ; sed non ego credulus illis. A crow, rook, or raven, has built a nest in one of the young elm-trees at the side of Mrs. Aspray's orchard. In the violent storm that blew yesterday morning, I saw it agi- tated to a degree that seemed to threaten its immediate destruction, and versified the fol- lowing thoughts upon the occasion.* W. C. TO MRS. NEWTiN.f Olney, June 2, 1780. Dear Madam, — When I write to Mr. .New- ton, he answers me by letter ; when I write to you, you answer me in fish. I return you many thanks for the mackerel and lobster. They assured me, in terms as intelligible as pen and ink could have spoken, that you still remember OrcharcUside ; and, though they never spoke in their lives, and it was still less to be expected from them that they should speak being dead, they gave us an assurance of your affection that corresponds exactly with that which Mr. Newton expresses tow- ards us in all his letters. — For my own part, I never in my life began a letter more at a venture than the present. It is possible that I may finish it, but perhaps more than proba- ble that I shall not. I have had several in different nights, and the wind is easterly * Cowper's fable of the Raven concluded this letter. t Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. 6? two circumstances so unfavorable to me in all my occupations, but especially that of writing', that it was with the greatest diffi- culty I could even bring myself to attempt it. You have never yet perhaps been made ac- quainted with the unfortunate Tom F — 's misadventure. He and his wife, returning from Hanslope fair, were coming down Wes- ton-iane ; to wit, themselves, their horse, and their great wooden panniers, at ten o'clock at night. The horse having a lively imagi- nation and very weak nerves, fancied he either saw or heard something, but has never been able to say what. A sudden fright will im- part activity and a momentary vigor even to lameness itself. Accordingly he started and sprang from the middle of the road to the side of it, with such surprising alacrity, that he dismounted the gingerbread baker and his gingerbread wife in a moment. Not con- tented with this effort, nor thinking himself yet out of danger, he proceeded as fast as he could to a full gallop, rushed against the gate at the bottom of the lane, and opened it for himself, without perceiving that there was any gate there. Still he galloped, and with a velocity and momentum continually increas- ing, till he arrived in Olney. I had been in bed about ten minutes, when I heard the most uncommon and unaccountable noise that can be imagined. It was, in fact, occasioned by the clattering of tin pattypans and a Dutch oven against the sides of the panniers. Much gingerbread was picked up in the street, and Mr. Lucy's windows were broken all to pieces. Had this been all, it would have been a comedy, but we learned the next morning that the poor woman's collar-bone was broken, and she has hardly been able to resume her occupation since. What is added on the other side, if I could have persuaded myself to write sooner, would have reached you sooner; 'tis about ten days old. . . . THE DOVES.* The male dove was smoking a pipe, and the female dove was sewing, while she de- livered herself as above. This little circum- stance may lead you perhaps to guess what pair I had in my eye. Yours, dear madam, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, June 8, 1780. My dear Friend, — It is possible I might nave indulged myself in the pleasure of writ- ing to you, without waiting for a letter from you, but for a reason which you will not easily guess. Your* mother communicated to me the satisfaction you expressed in my wirespondence, that you thought me enter- * Vide Cowper's Poems. taining, and clever, and so forth. Now yon must know, I love praise dearly, especially from the judicious, and those who have so much delicacy themselves as not to offend mine in giving it. But then, I found this consequence attending, or likely to attend, the eulogium you bestowed — if my friend thought me witty before, he shall think me ten times more witty hereafter — where I joked once, I will joke five times, and, for one sen- sible remark, I will send him a dozen. Now this foolish vanity would hav spoiled me quite, and would have made me as disgusting a letter- writer as Pope, who seems to have thought that unless a sentence was well turned, and every period pointed with some conceit, it was not worth the carriage. Accord- ingly he is to me, except in a very few in- stances, the most disagreeable maker of epis- tles that ever I met with. 1 was willing therefore to wait till the impassion your commendation had made upon the foolish part of me was worn off that i might scrib- ble away as usual, and write my uppermost thoughts, and those only. You are better skilled in ecclesiastical law than I am. — Mrs. P. desires me to inform her, whether a parson can be obliged to take an apprentice. For some of her husband's opposers, at D , threaten to clap one upon him. Now I think it would be rather hard if clergymen, who are not allowed to exer- cise any handicraft whatever, should be sub- ject to such an imposition. If Mr. P. was a cordwainer or a breeches-maker all the week and a preacher only on Sundays, it would seem reasonable enough in that case that he should take an apprentice if e chose it. But even then, in my poor judgment, he ought to be left to his option. If they mean by an apprentice a pupil whom they will oblige him to hew into a parson, and, after chipping away the block that hides the minister within, to qualify him to stand erect in a pulpit — that, indeed, is another consideration. But still we live in a free country, and I cannot bring myself even to suspect that an English divine can possibly be liable to such compul- sion. x\sk your uncle, however; for he is wiser in these things than either cf us. 1 thank you for your two inscriptions, and like the last the best ; the thought is just and fine — but the two last lines are sadly dam aged by the monkish jingle of peperit ana reperit. I have not yet translated them, nor do I promise to do it, though at some idle Tiour perhaps I may. In return, I send you a translation of a simile in the Paradise Lost. Not having that poem at hand, I cannot refer you to the book and page, but you may hunt for it, if you think it worth your while. It begins — " So when from mountain tops the dusky cloud* Asoending," &c. 70 COWPER'S WORKS. lu'.les aerii montis de vertice nubes, Cum surgunt. et jam Boreae tuinida ora quierunt, CaeJtm hilares abdit. spissa caligine, vultus: Tur i si jucundo tandem sol prodeat ore. Et croceo montes et pascua lumine tingat, Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agros, 'Balatuque ovium colles, valesque resultant. Tf you spy any fault in my Latin, tell me, for I am sometimes in doubt ; but, as I told you when you was here, I have not a Latin book in the world to consult, or correct a mistake by, and some years have passed since I was a school-boy. AN ENGLISH VERSIFICATION OP A THOUGHT THAT POPPED INTO MY HEAD ABOUT TWO MONTHS SINCE. Sweet stream ! that winds through yonder glade — Apt emblem of a virtuous maid ! — Silent, and chaste, she steals along, Far from the world's gay, busy throng, With gentle yet prevailing force, Intern upon her destin'd course : Graceful am', useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure bosom "d, as that watery glass, And heav'n reflected in her face. Now this i.s not so exclusively applicable to a maiden as to be the sole property of your sister Shuttleworth. If you look at Mrs. Unwin, you will see that she has not lost her right to this just praise by marrying you. Your mother sends her love to all, and mine comes jogging along by the side of it. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, June 12, 1780. Dear Sir. — We accept it as an effort of your friendship, that you could prevail with yourself, in a time of such terror and dis- tress, to send us repeated accounts of yours and Mrs. Newton's welfare. You supposed, with reason enough, that we should be ap- prehensive for your safety, situated as you were, apparently within the reach of so much danger. We rejoice that you have escaped it all, and that, except the anxiety which you must have felt both for yourselves and others, you have suffered nothing upon this dreadful occasion. A metropolis in flames, and a nation in ruins, are subjects of con- templation for such a mind as yours, that will leave a lasting impression behind them.* It is well that the design died in the execu- * The event here alluded to was a crisis of great' na- tional danger. It originated in the concessions granted by Parliament to the Roman Catholics, in consequence of which a licentious mob assembled in great multitudes In St. George's Fields, and excited the greatest alarm by their unbridled fury. They proceeded to destroy all the Romish chapels in London and its vicinity. The prisons of Newgate, the Fleet, and King's Bench, were attacked, tion, and will be buried, I hope, never to ris« again, in. the ashes of its own combustion. There is a melancholy pleasure in looking back upon such a scene, arising from a com- parison of possibilities with facts ; the enor- mous bulk of the intended mischief, with the abortive and partial accomplishment of it* much was done, more indeed than could have been supposed practicable in a well-regulated city, not unfurnished with a military force for its protection. But surprise and astonish- ment seem, at first, to have struck every nerve of the police with a palsy, and to have dis- armed government of all its powers.* I congratulate you upon the wisdom that withheld you from entering yourself a member of the Protestant Association. Your friends who did so have reason enough to regret their doing it, even though they should never be called upon. Innocent as they are, and they who know them cannot doubt of their being perfectly so, it is likely to bring an odium on the profession they make that will not soon be forgotten. Neither is it possible for a quiet, inoffensive man to discover on a sud- den that his zeal has carried him into such company, without being to the last degree shocked at his imprudence. Their religion was an honorable mantle, like that of Elijah, but the majority wore cloaks of Guy Fawkes's time, and meant nothing so little as what they pretended. W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. Olney, June 18, 1780. Reverend and dear William, — The affairs of kingdoms and the concerns of individuals are variegated alike with the chequer-work of joy and sorrow. The news of a great ac- quisition in Americaf has succeeded to terri- and exposed to the devouring flame. The Bank itself was threatened with an assault, when a well-disciplined baud, called the London Association, aided by the regu- lar troops, dispersed the multitude, but not without the slaughter of about two hundred and twenty of the most active ringleaders. The whole city presented a melan- choly scene of riot and devastation ; and the houses of many private individuals were involved in the ruin. The house of Lord Chief Justice Mansfield was the particular object of popular fury. Lord George Gordon, who acted a prominent part on this occasion, was afterwards brought to trial. a»d his defence undertaken by Mr. Kenyon, af- terwards well known by the title of Lord Kenyon. Vari- ous facts and circumstances having been adduced in fa- vor of Lord George Gordon, his lordship was acquitted. It is instructive to contemplate the tide of human pas- sions and events, and to contrast this spirit of religious persecution with the final removal of Catholic disabilities at a later period. * Cowper alludes to this afflicting page in our domes tic history, in his Table Talk : — When tumult lately burst his prison door, And set plebeian thousands in a roar ; When he usurp'd authority's just place, And dared to look his rhtster in the face. When the rude rabble's watchword was— Destroy And blazing London seem'd a second Troy. * The surrender of Charles-Town, in South Carolina, to Admiral Arbuthnot and General Sir Henry Clinton. LIFE OF COWPER. We tumults in London, and the beams of prosperity are now playing upon the smoke of that conflagration which so lately terrified the whole land. Th^se sudden changes, which are matter of every man's observation, and may therefore always be reasonably ex- pected, serve to hold up the chin of despond- ency above water, and preserve mankind in general from the sin and misery of account- ing existence a burden not to be endured — an evil we should be sure to encounter, if we were not warranted to look for a bright reverse of our most afflictive experiences. The Spaniards were sick of the war at the very commencement of it ; and I hope that by this time the French themselves begin to find themselves a little indisposed, if not de- sirous of peace, which that restless and med- dling temper of theirs is incapable of desiring for its own sake. But is it true that this detestable plot was an egg laid in France, and hatched in London, under the influence of French corruption 1 — Nam te scire, deos quoniam propius contingis, oportet. The off- spring has the features of such a parent, and yet, without the clearest proof of the fact, I would not willingly charge upon a civilized nation what perhaps the most barbarous would abhor the thought of. I no sooner Baw the surmise, however, in the paper, than I immediately began to write Latin verses upon the occasion. "An odd effect," you will say, " of such a circumstance ;" — but an effect, nevertheless, that whatever has at any time moved my passions, whether pleasantly or otherwise, has always had upon me. Were I to express what I feel on such oc- casions in prose, it would be verbose, inflated, and disgusting. I therefore have recourse to veKse, as a suitable vehicle for the most vehement expressions my thoughts suggest to me. What I have written, I did not write so much for the comfort of the English as for the mortification of the French. You will immediately perceive therefore that I have been laboring in vain, and that this bouncing explosion is likely to spend itself in the air. For I have no means of circu- lating what follows through all the French territories; and unless that, or something like it, can be done, my indignation will be entirely fruitless. Tell me how I can convey it into Sartine's pocket, or who will lay it upon his desk for me. But read it first, and, unless you think it pointed enough to sting Jhe Gaul to the quick, burn it. IN SEDITIONEM HORRENDAM, CORRUPTELIS GALLI- CIS, UT FERTUR, LONDINI NUPER EXORTAM. t'erfida, crudelis, victa et lymphata furore, Non armis, laurum Gallia fraude petit. Tenalem pretio plebem conducit, et urit Undique privatas patriciasque domos. Nequicquam conata sua, foedissima sperat Posse tamen nostra nos superare manu. Gallia, vanastruis! Precibusnuncutere! Vincea Nam mites timidis, supplicibusque sumus. I have lately exercised my ingenuity in contriving an exercise for yours, and have composed a riddle which, if it does not make you laugh before you have solved it, will probably do it afterwards. I would tran- scribe it now, but am really so fatigued with writing, that, unless I knew you had a quinsy and that a fit of laughter might possibly save your life, I could not prevail with my self to do it. * What could you possibly mean, slender aa you are, by sallying out upon your two walking sticks at two in the morning, in the midst of such a tumult ? We admire your prowess, but cannot commend your priu dence. Our love attends you all, collectively and individually. % * Yours, W. C TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNW1N. Olney, June 22, 1780. My dear Friend, — A word or two in an- swer to two or three questions of yours, which I have hitherto taken no notice of. I am not in a scribbling mood, and shall therefore make no excursions to amuse either myself or you. The needful will be as much as I can manage at present — the playful must wait another opportunity. I thank you for your offer of Robertson, but I have more reading upon my hands at this present writing than I shall get rid of in a twelvemonth, and this moment recollect that I have seen it already. He is an author that I admire much, with one exception, that I think his style is too labored Hume, as an historian, pleases me more. I have just read enough of the Biograpnia Britannica to say that I have tasted it, and have no doubt but I shall like it. I am pretty much in the garden at this season of the year, so read but little. In summer-time I am as giddy-headed as a boy, and can set- tle to nothing. Winter condenses me, ami makes me lumpish and sober: and then can read all day long. For the same reasons, I have no need oi the landscapes at present; when I warn them I will renew my application, and repeal the description, but it will hardly be before October. Before I rose this morning, I composed the three following stanzas ; I send them because I like them pretty well myself; and, 'f you should not, you must accept this handsome comoliment as an amends for their deficien- 72 COWPER'S WORKS. cies. You may print the lines, if you judge them worth it * I have only time to add love, &c, and my. two initials. W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, June 23, 1780. My dear Friend, — Your reflections upon the state of London, the sins and enormities of that great city, while you had a distant view of it from Greenwich, seem to have been prophetic of the heavy stroke that fell upon it just after. Man often prophesies * without knowing it — a spirit speaks by him, which is not his own, though he does not at that time suspect that he is under the influ- ence of any other. Did he foresee what is always foreseen by Him who dictates, what he supposes to be his own, he would suffer by anticipation as well as by consequence, and wish perhaps as ardently for the happy ignorance to which he is at present so much indebted, as some have foolishly and incon- siderately done for a knowledge that would be but another name for misery. And why have I said all this, especially to you who have hitherto said it to me ? not be- cause I had the least desire of informing a wiser man than myself, but because the ob- servation was naturally suggested by the recollection of your letter, and that letter, though not the last, happened to be upper- most in my mind. I can compare this mind of mine to nothing that resembles it more than to a board that is under the carpenter's plane, (I mean while I am writing to you,) the shavings are my uppermost thoughts ; after a few strokes of the tool it acquires a new surface ; this again upon a repetition of his task he takes off, and a new surface still succeeds : whether the shavings of the pre- sent day will be worth your acceptance, I know not ; I am unfortunately made neither of cedar nor mahogany, but Truncus ficul- rtus. inutile lignum — consequently, though I should be planed till I am as thin as a wafer, it will be but rubbish to the last. It is not strange that you should be the subject of a false report, for the sword of slander, like that of war, devours one as well as another ; and a blameless character is par- ticularly delicious to its unsparing appetite. But that you should be the object of such a report, you who meddle less with the designs of government than almost any man that lives under it, this is strange indeed. It is Tell, however, when they who account it good sport to traduce the reputation of an- other invent a story that refutes itself. I wonder they do not always endeavor to ac- commodate their fiction to the real character v Verges on the burning of Lord Chief Justice Mans- field's house, during the riots in London. of the person ; their tale would then, at least have an air of probability, and it might cost a peaceable good man much more trouble to disprove it. But perhaps it would not be easy to discern what part of your conduct lies more open to such an attempt than an- other, or what it is that you either say or do, at any time, that presents a fair opportunity to the most ingenious slanderer to slip in a falsehood between your words or actions, that shall seem to be of a piece with either. You hate compliment. I know, but, by your leave, this is not one — it is a truth — worse and worse — now I have praised you indeed — well you must thank yourself for it, it was absolutely done without the least intention on my part, and proceeded from a pen, that, as far as I. can remember, was never guilty of flattery, since I knew how. to hold it. He that slanders me, paints me blacker than I am, and he that flatters me, whiter--they both daub me, and when I look in the glass of conscience, I see myself disguised by both — I had as lief my tailor should sew ginger- bread-nuts on my coat instead of buttons as that any man should call my Bristol stone a diamond. The tailor's trick would not at all embellish my suit, nor the flatterer's make me at all the richer. I never make a present to my friend of what I dislike myself. Ergo, (I have reached the conclusion at last,) I did not mean to flatter you. We have sent a petition to Lord Dart- mouth, by this post, praying him to interfere in parliament in behalf of the poor lace- makers. I say we, because I have signed it. — Mr. G. drew it up. Mr. did not think it grammatical, therefore would not sign it. Yet I think, Priscian himself would have pardoned the manner for the sake of the matter. I dare say if his lordship does not comply with the prayer of it, it will not be because he thinks it of more consequence to write grammatically than that the poor should eat, but for some better reason. My love to all under your roof. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, July 2, 1780. Carissime, I am glad of your confidence, and have reason to hope I shall never abuse it. If you trust me with a secret, I am her- metically sealed ; and if you call for the ex- ercise of my judgment, such as it is, I am never freakish or wanton in the use of it, much less mischievous and malignant. Crit- ics, I believe, do not often stand so clear of those vices as I do. I like your epitaph, ex- cept that I doubt the propriety of the word immaturus ; which, I think, is rather ap] tlica- ble to fruits than flowers ; and except the last LIFE OP COWPER. 73 pentameter, the assertion it contains being rather too obvious a thought to finish with ; not that 1 think an epitaph should be pointed like an epigram. But still* there is a close- ness of thought and expression necessary in the conclusion of all these little things, that they may leave an agreeable flavor upon the palate. Whatever is short should be nerv- ous, masculine, and compact. Little men are so ; and little poems should be so ; because, where . the work is short, the author has no right to the plea of weariness, and laziness is never admitted as an available excuse in anything. Now you know my opinion, you will very likely improve upon my improve- ment, and alter my alterations for the better. To touch and retouch is, though some writ- ers boast of negligence, and others would be ashamed to show their foul copies, the secret of almost all good writing, especially in verse. I am never weary of it myself, and, if you would take as much pains as I do, you would have no need to ask for my corrections. HIC SEPULTUS EST INTER SUORUM LACRYMAS GULIELMUS NORTHCOT, GULIELMI ET MaRI^J FILIUS UNICUS, UNICE DILECTUS, &UI FLORIS RITU succisus est semihiantis, aprilis die septimo, 1780, jet. 10. Care, vale ! Sed non aeternum, care, valeto ! Nam que iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero. Turn nihil amplexus poterit divellere nostros, Nee tu marcesces, nee lacrymabor ego.* Having an English translation of it by me, I send it though it may be of no use. Farewell ! " But not forever," Hope replies. Trace but his steps, and meet him in the skies ! There nothing shall renew our parting pain, Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep again. The stanzas that I sent you are maiden ones, having never been seen by any eye but your mother's and your own. If you send me franks, I shall write longer letters. — Valete, sicut et nos valemus ! A.mate, sicut et nos amamus / W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f Olney, June 3, 1780. Mon Ami, — By this time, I suppose, you have ventured to take your fingers out of * These lines of Mr. Unwin, and here retouched by Cowper's pen, bear a strong resemblance to the beautiful Epitaph, composed by Bishop Lowth, on the death of his beloved daughter, which seem to have suggested lome hints, in the composition of the above epitaph to Nbrthcote. Cara, vale, ingenio praestans, pietate, pudore, Et plus quam natae nomine cara, vale. Cara Maria, vale: at veniet felicius aevum, Quando iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero. Cara redi, laeta turn dicam voce, paternos Eja age in amplexus, cara Maria, redi. > Private correspondence. your ears, being delivered from the deafening shouts of the most zealous mob that ever strained their lungs in the cause of religion. I congratulate you upon a gentle relapse into the customary sounds of a great city, which, though we rustics abhor them, as noisy and dissonant, are a musical and sweet murmur, compared with what you have lately heard. The tinkling of a kennel may be distinguished now, where the roaring of a cascade would have been sunk and lost. I never suspected, till the newspapers informed me of it, a few days since, that the barbarous uproar had reached Great Queen Street. I hope Mrs. Hill was in the country, and shall rejoice to hear that, as I am sure you did not take up the protestant cudgels* upon this hair-brained occasion, so you have not been pulled in pieces as a pxpist. W. C. The next letter to Mr. Hill affords a strik- ing proof of Cowper's compassionate feelings towards the poor around him. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, July 8, 1780. Mon Ami, — If you ever take the tip of the chancellor's ear between your finger and thumb, you can hardly improve the oppor- tunity to better purpose, than if you should whisper into it the voice of compassion and lenity to the lace-makers. I am an eye-wit- ness to their poverty, and do know that hun- dreds in this little town are upon the point of starving; and that the most unremitting industry is but barely sufficient to keep them from it. I know that the bill by which they would have been so fatally affected is thrown out, but Lord Stormont threatens them with another ; and if another like it should pass, they are undone. We lately sent a petition to Lord Dartmouth ; I signed it, and am sure the contents are true. The purport of it was to inform him, that there are very near one thousand two hundred lace-makers in this beggarly town, the most of whom had reason enough, while the bill was in agfo-.tion, to look upon every loaf they bought as the last they should ever be able to earn. I can never think it good policy to incur the certain in- convenience of ruining thirty thousand, in order to prevent a remote and possible dam- age, though to a much greater number. The measure is like a scythe, and the poor lace- makers are the sickly crop, that trembles before the edge of it. The prospect of a . peace with America is like the streak of dawn in their horizon ; but this bill is like a black cloud behind it, that threatens their hope of a comfortable day with utter extinction. * The alarm taken at the concessions made in favor ol the Catholics was such, that many persons formed them- selves into an association, for the defence of Protestant principles. — Ed. I did not perceive, till this moment, that I bad tacked two si tiles together, a practice which, though warranted by the example of Homer, and allowed in an Epic Poem, is rather luxuriant and licentious in a letter; lest I should add another, I conclude. W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, July 11, 1780. I account myself sufficiently commended for my Latin exercise, by the number of translations it has undergone. That which you distinguished in the margin by the title of " better" was the production of a friend, and, except that, for a modest reason, he omitted the third couplet, I think it a good one. To finish the group, I have translated it myself; and, though I would not wish you to give it to the world, for more reasons than one, especially lest some French hero should §all me to account for it, I add it on the other ide. An author ought to be the best judge of his own meaning; and, whether I have succeeded or not, I cannot but wish, that where a translator is wanted, the writer was always to be his own. False, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart, France quits the warrior's for the assassin's part ; To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys, Bids the low street, and lofty palace blaze. Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone. She hires the worst and basest of our own. Kneel, France ! a suppliant conquers us with ease, We always spare a coward on his knees.* I have often wondered that Dryden's illus- trious epigram on Milton,f (in my mind the second best that ever was made) has never been translated into Latin, for the admiration of the learned in other countries. I have at last presumed to venture upon the task my- self. The great closeness of the original, which is equal, in that respect, to the most compact Latin I ever saw, made it extremely difficult. Tres tria, sed longe distantia, ssecula vates Ostentant tribus e gentibus eximios. Greciae sublimem, cum majestate disertum Roma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem. Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est, Tertius ut fieret, consociare duos. I have not one bright thought upon the chancellor's recovery ; nor can I strike off so much as one sparkling atom from that bril- * These lines are founded on the suspicion, prevalent at that time, that the fires in London were owing to French gold, circulated for the purposes of corruption, t Three poets in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thoxight surpass'd ; The next in majesty, in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go, To make a third she joined the other two. liant subject. It is not when I will, no! upon what I will, but as a thought happens to occur to me ;, and then I versify, whether I will or not. I never write but for my amusement ; and what I write is sure to an- swer that end, if it answers no other. If, besides this purpose, the more desirable one of entertaining you be effected, I then receive double fruit of my labor, and consider this produce of it as a second crop, the more val- uable because less expected. But when I have once remitted a composition to you, 1 have done with it. It is pretty certain that I shall never read it or think of it again. From thatmomentl have constituted you sole judge of its accomplishments, if it has any, and of its defects, which it is sure to have. For this reason I decline answering the question with which you concluded your last, and cannot persuade myself to enter into a critical examen of the two pieces upon Lord Mansfield's loss,* either with respect to their intrinsic or comparative merit, and, indeed, after having rather discouraged that use of them which you had designed, there is no occasion for it. W. C TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f Olney, July 12, 1780. My dear Friend, — Such nights as I fre- quently spend are but a miserable prelude to the succeeding day, and indispose me above all things to the business of writing. Yet, with a pen in my hand, if I am a'ole to write at all, I find myself gradually relieved ; and as I am glad of any employment that may serve to engage my attention, so especially I am pleased with an opportunity of convers- ing with you, though it be but upon paper. This occupation above all others assists me in that self-deception to which I am indebted for all the little comfort I enjoy ; things seem to be as they were, and I almost forget that they never can be so again. We are both obliged to you for a sight of Mr. 's letter. - The friendly and obliging manner of it will much enhance the difficulty of answering it. I think I can see plainly that, though he does not hope for your ap- plause, he would gladly escape your censure. He seems to approach you smoothly and softly, and to take you gently by the hand, as if* he bespoke your lenity, and entreated you at least to spare him. You have such skill in the management of your pen that I doubt not you will be able to send him a balmy reproof, that shall give him no reason to complain of a broken head. How delu- * Lord Chief Justice Mansfield incurred the loss, on this occasion, of one of the most complete and valuable collections of law books ever known, together with man uscripts and legal remarks, the result of his own indus- try and professional knowledge. f Private correspondence. give is the wildest speculation, when pursued with eagerness, and nourished with such ar- guments as the perverted ingenuity of such a mind as his can easily furnish ! Judgment falls asleep upon the bench, while Imagina- tion, like a smug, pert counsellor, stands chattering at the bar, and, with a deal of fine- spun, enchanting sophistry, carries all before him. If I had strength of mind, I have not strength of body for the task which, you say, some would impose upon me. I cannot bear much thinking. The meshes of that fine net- work, the brain, are composed of such mere spinners' threads in me, that when a long thought finds its way into them, it buzzes, and twangs, and bustles about at such a rate as seems to threaten the whole contexture. No — I must needs refer it again to you. My enigma will probably find you out, and you will find out my enigma, at some future time. I am not in a humor to tran- scribe it now. Indeed I wonder that a sport- ive thought should ever knock at the door of my intellects, and still more that it should gain admittance. It is as if harlequin should intrude himself into the gloomy chamber where a corpse is deposited in state. His antic gesticulations would be unseasonable at any rate, but more especially so if they should distort the features of the mournful attendants into laughter. But 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 contem- plations, though it were but a kitten playing with her tail. You would believe, though I did not say it at the end of every letter, that we remember you and Mrs. Newton with the same affec- tion as ever: but I would not therefore ex- cuse myself from writing what it gives you pleasure to read. I have often wished in- deed, when writing to an ordinary corre- spondent, for the revival of the Roman cus- tom — salutis at top, and vale at bottom. But as the French have taught all Europe to enter a room and to leave it with a most ceremonious bow, so they have taught us to begin and conclude our letters in the same manner. However, I can say to you, Sans ceremonie, Adieu, mon ami ! W. C. The poet's affectionate effort in renewing his correspondence with Mrs. Cowper, to whom he had been accustomed to pour forth his heart without reserve, appears to have had a beneficial effect on his reviving spirits. His pathetic letter to that lady was followed, «x the course of two months, by a letter of a more lively cast, in which the reader will find some touches of his native humor, and vein of pleasantry peculiar to himself. TO MRS. COWTEK. July 20, 1780. My dear Cousin, — Mr. Newton having de. sired me to be of the party, I am come to meet him. You see me sixteen years older, at the least, than when I saw you last ; but the effects of time seem to have taken place rather on the outside of my head than with- in it. What was brown is become grey, but what was foolish remains foolish still. Green fruit must rot before it ripens, if the season is such as to afford it nothing but cold winds and dark clouds, that interrupt every ray of sunshine. My days steal away silently, and march on (as poor mad Lear would have made his soldiers march) as if they were shod with felt ; not so silently but that I hear them : yet were it not that I am always listening to their flight, having no infirmity that I had not when I was much younger, I should deceive myself with an imagination that I am still young. I am fond of writing as an amusement, but do not always find it one. Being rather scantily furnished with subjects that are good for anything, and corresponding only with those who have no relish for such as are good for nothing, I often find myseif re- duced to the necessity, the disagreeable ne- cessity, of writing about myself. This does not mend the matter much, for, though in a description of my own condition, I discover abundant materials to employ my pen upon, yet as the task is not very agreeable to me, so I am sufficiently aware, that it is likely to prove irksome to others. A painter who should confine himself, in the exercise of his art, to the drawing of his own picture, must be a wonderful coxcomb if he did not soon grow sick of his occupation, and be peculiar- ly fortunate if he did not make others as sick as himself. Remote as your dwelling is from the late scene of riot and confusion, I hope that, though you could not but hear the report, you heard no more, and that the roarings of the mad multitude did not reach you. That was a day of terror to the innocent, and the present is a day of still greater terror to the guilty. The law was, for a few moments, like an arrow in the quiver, seemed to be> of no use, and did no execution ; now it is an arrow upon the string, and many who de- spised it lately are trembling as they stand before the point of it. I have talked more already than I have formerly done in three visits — you remem- ber my taciturnity, never to be forgotten by those who knew me ; not to depart entirely from what might be, for aught I know, the most shining part of my character, I here shut my mouth, make my bow, and return to Olney. W. C. 76 COWPER'S WORKS. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. Olney, July 27, 1780. My dear Friend, — As two men sit silent, after having exhausted all their topics of con- versation ; one says, " It is very fine weather," and the other says, "Yes;" — one blows his nose, and the other rubs his eye-brows ; (by the way, this is very much in Homer's man- ner;) such seems to be the case between you and me. After a silence of some days, I wrote you a long something, that (I sup- pose) was nothing to the purpose, because it has not afforded you materials for an answer. Nevertheless, as it often happens in the case above stated, one of the distressed parties, being deeply sensible of the awkwardness of a dumb duet, breaks silence again, and re- solves to speak, though he has nothing to say, so it feres with me. I am with you again in the form of an epistle, though, con- sidering my present emptiness, I have reason to fear that your only joy upon the occasion will be, that it is conveyed to you in a frank. When I began, I expected no interruption. But, if I had expected interruptions without end, I should have been less disappointed. First came the barber ; who, after having embellished the outside of my head, has left the inside just as unfurnished as he found it. Then came Olney bridge, not into the house, but into the conversation. The cause relat- ing to it was tried on Tuesday at Bucking- ham. The Judge directed the jury to find a verdict favorable to Olney. The jury con- sisted of one knave and eleven fools. The last-mentioned followed the afore-mentioned as sheep follow a bell-wether, and decided in direct opposition to the said judge : then a flaw was discovered in the indictment : — the indictment was quashed, and an order made for a new trial. The new trial will be in the King's Bench, where said knave and said fools will have nothing to do with it. So the men of Olney fling up their caps, and assure themselves of a complete victory. A victory will save me and your mother many shillings, perhaps some pounds, which, except that it has afforded me a subject to write upon, was the only reason why I said so much about it. I know you take an interest in all that con- cerns us, and will consequently rejoice with us in the prospect of an event in which we are concerned so nearly. Yours affectionately, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, July 30, 1780. My dear Sir, — You may think perhaps that £ deal more liberally with Mr. Unwin, in the way of poetical export, than I do with you, and I bolieve you have reason. The truth is this: if I walked the streets with a fiddle under my arm, I should never think of per forming before the window of a privy coun. cillor or a chief justice, but should rathe! make free with ears more likely to be open to such amusement. The trifles I produce in this way are indeed such trifles that I can- not think them seasonable presents for you. Mr. Unwin himself would not be offended if I was to tell him that there is this difference between him and Mr. Newton ; that the latter is already an apostle, while he himself is only undergoing the business of incubation, with a hope that he may be hatched in time. When my muse comes forth arrayed in sa- bles, at least in a robe of graver cast, I make no scruple to direct her to my friend at Hox- ton. This has been one reason why I have so long delayed the riddle. But lest I should seem to set a value upon it that I do not, by making it an object of still further inquiry here it comes. I am just two and two, I am warm. I am cold, And the parent of numbers that cannot be told, I am lawful, unlawful — a duty, a fault. I am often sold dear — good for nothing when bought, An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course, And yielded with pleasure — when taken by force W. c. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Aug. 6, 1780. My dear Friend, — You like to hear from me — this is a very good reason why I should write — but I have nothing to say — this seems equally a good reason why I should not ; yet if you had alighted from your horse at our door this morning, and, at this present writ- ing, being five o'clock in the afternoon, had found occasion to say to me — "Mr. Cowper, you have not spoke since I came in ; have you resolved never to speak again ?" — it would be but a poor reply, if, in answer to the summons, I should plead inability as my best and only excuse. And this, by the way, suggests to me a seasonable piece of instruc- tion, and reminds me of what I am very apt to forget when I have any epistolary busi- ness in hand ; that a letter may be written upon anything or nothing, just as that any- thing or nothing happens to occur. A man that has a journey before him twenty miles in length, which he is to perform on foot, will not hesitate and doubt whether he shall set out or not, because he does not readily conceive how he shall ever reach the end of it ; for he knows that, by the simple opera- tion of moving one foot forward first and then the other, he shall be sure to accom- plish it. So it is in the present case, and so it is in every similar case. A letter is writ- ten, as a conversation is maintained or a journey performed, not by preconcerted or premeditated means, a new contrivance, or an invention never heard of before ; but merely by maintaining* a progress, and re- solving, as a postilion does, having once set out, never to stop till we reach the appointed end. If a man may talk without thinking, why may he not write upon the same terms ? A grave gentleman of the last century, a tie- wig, square-toe, Steinkirk figure, would say, "My good sir, a man has no right to do either." But it is to be hoped that the pres- ent century has nothing to do with the mouldy opinions of the last ; and so, good Sir Launcelot, or St. Paul, or whatever be your name, step into your picture-frame again, and look as if you thought for another century, and leave us moderns in the mean time to think when we can, and to write whether we can or not, else we might as well be dead as you are. When we look back upon our forefathers, we seem to look back upon the people of another nation, almost upon creatures of an- other species. Their vast rambling mansions, spacious halls, and painted casements, the gothic porch, smothered with honeysuckles, their little gardens, and high walls, their box- edgings, balls of holly, and yew-tree statues, are become so entirely unfashionable now, that we can hardly believe it possible that a people who resembled us so little in their taste should resemble us in anything else. But in everything else I suppose they were our counterparts exactly, and time, that has sewed up the slashed sleeve, and reduced the large trunk hose to a neat pair of silk stock- ings, has left human nature just where it found it. The inside of the man at least has undergone no change. His passions, appetites, and aims, are just what they ever were. They wear perhaps a handsomer dis- guise than they did in the days of yore, for philosophy and literature will have their ef- fect upon the exterior; but in every other respect a modern is only an ancient in a dif- ferent dress. Yours, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Aug. 10, 1780. My dear Sir, — I greet you at your castle oi Buen Retiro, and wish you could enjoy the unmixed pleasures of the country there. But it seems you are obliged to dash the cup with ' a portion of those bitters you are al- ways swallowing in town. Weil — you are lonorably and usefully employed, and ten times more beneficially to society than if you were piping to a few sheep under a spread- ing beech, or listening to a tinkling rill. Be- tides, by the effect of long custom and ha- * Private correspondence. bitual practice, you are not only enabled to endure your occupation, but even find it agreeable. I remember the time when it would not have suited you so well to have devoted so large a part of your vacation to the objects of your profession ; and you, I dare say, have not forgot what a seasonable relaxation you found, when lying at full stretch upon the ruins of an old wall, by the sea side, you amused yourself with Tasso's Jerusalem and the Pastor Fido. I recollect that we both pitied Mr. De Grey, when we called at his cottage at Taplow, and found, not the master indeed, but his desk, with his white-leaved folio upon it. which bespoke him as much a man of business in his retire- ment as in Westminster Hall. But by these steps he ascended the bench.* Now he may read what he pleases, and ride where he will, if the gout will give him leave. And you, who have no gout, and probably never will, when your hour of dismission comes, # wUl, for that reason, if for no other, be a happier man than he. I am, my dear friend, Affectionately yours, W. C. P. S. — Mr. has not thought proper to favor me with his book, and having no inter- est in the subject, I have not thought proper to purchase it. Indeed I have no curiosity to read what I am sure must be erroneous before I read it. Truth is worth everything that can be given for it ; but a mere display of ingenuity, calculated only to mislead, is worth nothing. The following letter shows the sportive- ness of his imagination on the minutest sub jects. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Aug. 21, 1780. The following occurrence ought not to be passed over in silence, in a place where so few notable ones are to be met with. Last Wednesday night, while we were at supper, between the hours of eight and nine, I heard an unusual noise in the back parlor, as if one of the hares was entangled and endeavoring to disengage herself. I was just going to rise from table when it ceased. In about five minutes a voice on the outside of the parlor door inquired if one of my hares had got away. I immediately rushed into the next room, and found that my poor favorite puss had made her escape. She had gnawed in sunder the strings of a lattice work, with which I thought I had sufficiently secured * This distinguished lawyer was o, connexion of Cow- per's, having married Mary, daughter of William Cowper of the Park, near Hertford, Esq. After having succes- sively passed through the office of Solicitor and Attorney General, he was advanced to the dignity of Chief Justice of the Court of Common Pleas, and subseqi.ently elevated to the Peerage by the title of Uaron Walsinghain. 78 COWPER'S WORKS. the window, and which I preferred to any other sort of blind, because it admitted plenty of air. From thence I hastened to the kitchen, where I saw the redoubtable Thomas Freeman, who told me that, having seen her just after she dropped into the street, he attempted to cover her with his hat," but she screamed out, and leaped directly over his head. I then desired him to pursue as fast as possible, and added Richard Coleman fco the chase, as, being nimbler, and carrying less weight than Thomas ; not expecting to see her again, but desirous to learn, if possi- ble, what became of her. In something less than an hour, Richard returned, almost breath- less, with the following account: that, soon after he began to run, he left Tom behind him, and came in sight of a most numerous hunt of men, women, children, and dogs ; that he did his best to keep back the dogs, and pres- ently outstripped the crowd, so that the race was at last disputed between himself and puss : she ran right through the town, and down the lane that leads to Dropshot. A little before she came to the house, he got the start and turned her ; she pushed for the town again, and soon after she entered it sought shelter in Mr. Wagstaff's tan-yard, adjoining to old Mr. Drake's. Sturges's har- vest men were at supper, and saw her from the opposite side of the way. There she en- countered the tan-pits full of water, and, while she was struggling out of one pit, and plunging into another, and almost drowned, one of the men drew her out by the ears, and secured her. She was then well washed in a bucket to get the lime out of her coat, and brought home in a sack at ten o'clock. This frolic cost us four shillings, but you may believe that we did not grudge a far- thing of it. The poor creature received only a little hurt in one of her claws and one of aer ears, and is now almost as well as ever. I do not call this an answer to your letter, but such as it is I send it, presuming upon that interest which I know you take in my minutest concerns, which I cannot express better than in the words of Terence, a little varied — Nihil mei a te alienum putas. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO MRS. COWPER. Olney, Aug. 31, 1780. My dear Cousin, — I am obliged to you for your long letter, which did not seem so, and for your short one, which was more than I had any reason to expect. Short as it was, it conveyed to me two interesting articles of intelligence, — an account of your recovering from a fever, and of Lady Cowper's death. The latter was, I suppose, to be expected, for, Sy what remembrrnce I have of her Ladyship, who was never much acquainted with hei she had reached those years that are always found upon the borders of another world. As for you, your time of life is comparatively of a youthful date. You may think of death as much as you please, (you cannot think of it too much,) but I hope you will live to think of it many years. It costs me not much difficulty to suppose that my friends, who were already grown old when I saw them last, are old still, but it costs me a good deal sometimes to think of those who were at that time young as being older than they were. Not having been an eye-witness of the change that time has made in them, and my former idea of them not being corrected by observation, it remains the same ; my memory presents me with this image unimpaired, and, while it retains the resemblance of what they were, forgets that by this time the picture may have lost much of its likeness, through the alteration that succeeding years have made in the original. I know not what impressions Time may have made upon your person, for while his claws (as our grannams called them) strike deep furrows in some faces, he seems to sheath them with much tenderness, as if fearful of doing injury, to others. But, though an ene- my to the person, he is a friend to the mind, and you have found him so ; though even in this respect his treatment of us depends upon what he meets with at our hands : if we use him well, and listen to his admonitions, he is a friend indeed, but otherwise the worst of enemies, who takes from us daily something that we valued, and gives us nothing better in its stead. It is well with them, who, like you, can stand a-tiptoe on the mountain-top of human life, look down with pleasure upon the valley they have passed, and sometimes stretch their wings in joyful hope of a happy flight into eternity. Yet a little while, and your hope will be accomplished. When you can favor me with a little ac- count of your own family, without incon- venience, I shall -be glad to receive it, for, though separated from my kindred by little more than half a century of miles, I knew as little of their concerns as if oceans and con- tinents were interposed between us. Yours, my dear cousin, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Sept. 3, 1780. My dear Friend, — I am glad you are so provident, and that, while you are young, ycu have furnished yourself with the means of comfort in old age. Your crutch and your pipe may be of use to you, (and may they be so !) should your years be extended to an antediluvian date ; and, for your perfect ac- LIFE OF COWPER. 71 commodation, you seem to want nothing but a clerk called Snuffle, and a sexton of the name of Skeleton, to make your ministerial equipage complete. I think I have read as much of the first 'olume of the Biographia as I shall ever read. f find it very amusing ; more so, perhaps^ than it would have been, had they sifted their sharacters with more exactness, and admitted none but those who had in some way or other entitled themselves to immortality by deserv- ing well of the public. Such a compilation would perhaps have been more judicious, fchough I confess it would have afforded less variety. The priests and monks of earlier and the doctors of later days, who have sig- nalized themselves by nothing but a contro- versial pamphlet, long since thrown by and never to be perused again, might have been forgotten, without injury or loss to the na- tional character for learning or genius. This observation suggested to me the following lines, which may serve to illustrate my mean- ing, and at the same time to give my criticism a sprightlier air. O fond attempt to give a deathless lot To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! In vain recorded in historic page. They court the notice of a future age ; Those twinkling, tiny lustres of the land, Drop one by one, from Fame's neglecting hand ; Lethean gulphs receive them as they fall, And dark Oblivion soon absorbs them all. So when a child (as playful children use) Has burnt to cinder a stale last year's news, The flame extinct, he views the roving fire, There goes my lady, and there goes the 'squire, There goes the parson — O illustrious spark ! And there — scarce less illustrious — goes the clerk ! Virgil admits none but worthies into the Elysian fields ; I cannot recollect the lines in which he describes them all, but these in par- ticular I well remember : Quique sui memores alios fecere merendo, Inventas aut qui vitam excoluere per artes. A chaste and scrupulous conduct like this would well become the writer of national biography. But enough of this. Our respects attend Miss Shuttleworth, with many thanks for her intended present. Some purses derive all their value from their contents, but these will have an intrinsic value of their own; and, though mine should be often empty, which is not an improbable supposition, I shall still esteem it highly on its own account. If you could meet with a second-hand Virgil, ditto Homer, both Iliad and Odyssey, together with a Claris, for I have no Lexicon, and all tolerably cheap> I shall be obliged to you if vr>u will make the purchase. Yours, W. C. The three following letters are interesting as containing Cowper's sentiments on the subject of education. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Sept. 7, 1780. My dear Friend, — As many gentlemen as there are in the world, who have children, and heads capable of reflecting upon \ he im- portant subject of their education, so many opinions there are about it, and many of them just and sensible, though almost all differing from each other. With respect to the educa- tion of boys, I think they are generally made to draw in Latin and Greek trammels too soon. It is pleasing no doubt to a parent to see his child already in some sort a proficient in those languages, at an age when most others are entirely ignorant of them ; but hence it often happens that a boy, who could construe a fable of ^Esop at six or seven years of age, having exhausted his little stock of attention and diligence in making that not- able acquisition, grows weary of his task, con- ceives a dislike for study, and perhaps make? but a very indifferent progress afterwards. The mind and body have, in this respect, a striking resemblance to each other. In child- hood they are both nimble, but not strong ; they can skip and frisk about with wonder- ful agility, but hard labor spoils them both. In maturer years they become less active, but more vigorous, more capable of a fixed ap- plication, and can make themselves sport with that which a little earlier would have affected them with intolerable fatigue. I should recommend it to you, therefore, (but after all you must judge for yourself,) to allot the two next years of little John's scholar- ship to writing and arithmetic, together with which, for variety's sake, and because it is capable of being formed into an amusement, I would mingle geography, (a science which, if not. attended to betimes, is seldom made an object of much consideration,) essentially necessary to the accomplishment of a gentle- man, yet, as I know (by sad experience) im- perfectly, if at all, inculcated in the schools. Lord Spencer's son, when he was four years of age, knew the situation of every kingdom, country, city, river, and remarkable mountain in the world. For this Attainment, which I suppose his father had never made, he was indebted to a play-thing ; having been accus- tomed to amuse himself with those maps which are cut into several compartments, so as to be thrown into a heap of confusion, that they may be put together again with an exact coincidence of all their angles and bearings, so as to form a perfect whole. If he begins Latin and Greek at eight, or even at nine years of age, it is surely soon enough. Seven vears, the usual allowance so COWFER'S WORKS for these acquisitions, are more than suffi- cient for the purpose, especially with his readiness in learning ; for you would hardly wish to have him qualified for the university before fifteen, a period in my mind much too early for it, and when he could hardly be trusted there without the utmost danger to nis morals. Upon the whole you will per- ceive that, in my judgment, the difficulty, as well as the wisdom, consists more in bridling in and keeping back a boy of his parts than in pushing him forward. If therefore at the end of the two years, instead of putting a grammar into his hand, you should allow him to amuse himself with some agreeable writers upon the subject of natural philosophy for another year, I think it would answer well. There is a book called Cosmotheoria Pueri- lis, there are Derham's Physico and Astro- theology, together with several others in the same manner, very intelligible even to a child, and full of useful instruction. W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. Olney, Sept. 17, 1780. My dear Friend, — You desire my further thoughts on the subject of education. I send you such as had for the most part occurred to me when I wrote last, but could not be comprised in a single letter. They are in- deed on a different branch of this interesting theme, but not less important than the for- mer. I think it your happiness, and wish you to think it so yourself, that you are in every respect qualified for the task of instructing your son, and preparing him for the univer- sity, without committing him to the care of a stranger. In my judgment, a domestic edu- cation deserves the preference to a public one, on a hundred accounts, which I have neither time nor room to mention. I shall only touch upon two or three, that I cannot but consider as having a right to your most earnest attention. In a public school, or indeed in any school, his morals are sure to be but little attended to, and his religion not at all. If he can catch the love of virtue from the fine things that are spoken of it in the classics, and the love of holiness from the customary attend- ance upon sucli preaching as he is likely to hear, it will be well ; but I am sure you have had too many opportunities to observe the inefficacy of such means to expect any such advantage from them. In the meantime, the more powerful influence of bad example and perhaps bad company, will continually coun- terwork these only preservatives he can meet with, and may possibly send him home to you, at the end of five or six years, such as i70u will be sorry to see him. You escaped indeed the contagion yourself, but a few in. stances of happy exemption from a general malady are not sufficient warrant to conclude that it is therefore not infectious, or may be encountered without danger. You have seen too much of the world, and are a man of too much reflection, not to have observed, that in proportion as the sons of a family approach to years of maturity they lose a sense of obligation to their parents, and seem art, last almost divested of that ten- der affection which the nearest of all relations seems to demand from them. I have often observed it myself, and have always thought I could sufficiently account for it, without laying all the blame upon the children. While they continue in their parents' house, they are every day obliged, and every day remind- ed how much it is to their interest as well as duty, to be obliging and affectionate in re- turn. But at eight or nine years of age, the boy goes to school. From that moment he becomes a stranger in his father's house. The course of parental kindness is inter- rupted. The smiles of his mother, those len- der admonitions, and the solicitous care of both his parents, are no longer before his eyes — year after year he feels himself more and more detached from them, till at last he is so effectually weaned from the connexion, as to find himself happier anywhere than in their company. I should have been glad of a frank for this letter, for I have said but little of what I could say upon the subject, and perhaps I may not be able to catch it by the end again. If I can, I shall add to it hereafter. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. Olney, Oct. 5, 1780. My dear Friend, — Now for the sequel— you have anticipated one of my arguments in favor of a private education, therefore 1 need say but little about it. The folly of supposing that the mother-tongue, in some respects the most difficult of all tongues, may be acquired without a teacher, is pre- dominant in all the public schools that I have ever heard of. To pronounce it well, to speak and to write it with fluency and ele- gance, are no easy attainments ; not one in fifty of those who pass through Westmin- ster and Eton arrives at any remarkable pro- ficiency in these accomplishments ; and they that do, are more indebted to their own study and application for it'than to any instruction received there. In general, there is nothing so pedantic as the style of a schoolboy, if he aims at any style at all ; and if he does not, he is of course inelegant and perhaps un- grammatical — a defect, no doubt, in great LIFE OF COWPER. 81 measure owing to want of cultivation, for the same lad that is often commended for his Latin frequently would deserve to be whipped tor his English, if the fault were not more nis master's than his own. I know not where this evil is so likely to be prevented as at home — supposing* always, nevertheless, (which is the case in your instance,) that the boy's pa- rents and their acquaintance are persons of elegance and taste themselves. For, to con- ,' verse with those who converse with propriety, | and to be directed to such authors as have re- ! fined and improved the language by their j productions, are advantages which he cannot elsewhere enjoy in an equal degree. And though it requires some time to regulate the taste and fix the judgment, and these effects must be gradually wrought even upon the best understanding, yet I suppose much less time will be necessary for the purpose than could at first be imagined, because the oppor- tunities of improvement are continual. A public education is often recommended as the most effectual remedy for that bashful j and awkward restraint, so epidemical among j the youth of our country. But I verily be- j lieve that, instead of being a cure, it is ofcen I the cause of it. For seven or eight years of his" life, the boy has hardly seen or conversed j with a man, or a woman, except the maids at i his boarding-house. A gentleman, or a lady, j are consequently such novelties to him that j he is perfectly at a loss to know what sort j of behavior he should preserve before them, j He plays with his buttons or the strings of nis hat ; he blows his nose, and hangs down his head, is conscious of his own deficiency to a degree that makes him quite unhappy, and trembles lest any one should speak to him, because that would quite overwhelm him. Is not all this miserable shyness the effect of bis education ? To me it appears to be so. If he saw good company every day, he would never be terrified at the sight of it, and a room full of ladies and gentlemen would alarm him no more than the chairs they sit on. Such is the effect of custom. I need add nothing further on this subject, j because I believe little; John is as likely to be j exempted from this weakness as most young gentlemen we shall meet with. He seems to | have his father's spirit in this respect, in whom j I could never discern the least traee of bash- fulness, though I have often heard him com- plain of it. Under your management and the influence of your example, I think he can hardly fail to escape it. If he does, ne es- capes that which has made many a man un- comfortable for life, and ruined not a few, by forcing them into mean and dishonorable company, where only they could be free and cheerful. Connexions formed at school are said to be lasting and often beneficial. There are two or three stories of this kind upon record, which would not be s*o constantly cited a? they are, whenever this subject happens to be mentioned, if the chronicle that preserves their remembrance had many besides to boast of. For my own part, I found such friend- ships, though warm enough in»their commence- ment, surprisingly liable to extinction; and of seven or eight, whom I had selected for intimates, out of about three hundred, in ten years' time not one was left me. The truth is, that there may be, and often^s, an attach- ment of one boy to another that looks very like a friendship, and, while they are in cir- cumstances that enable them mutually to oblige and to assist each other, promises well and bids fair to be lasting. But they are iKs sooner separated from each other, by enter- ing into the world at large, than other con- nexions and new employments, in which they no longer share together, efface the re- membrance of what passed in earlier days, and they become strangers to each other for- ever. Add to this, the man frequently dif- fers so much from the boy; his principles, manners, temper, and conduct, undergo so great an alteration, that we no longer recog- nize in him our old playfellow, but find him utterly unworthy, and unfit for the place he once held in our affections. To close this article, as I did the last, by applying myself immediately to the present concern — little John is happily placed above all occasion for dependence on all such pre- carious hopes, and need not be sent to school in quest of some great men in embryo, whr may possibly make his fortune. Yours, my dear friend, W. C TO MRS. NEWTON. Olney, Oct. 5, 1780. Dear Madam, — When a lady speaks, it is not civil to make her wait a week for an an- swer. I received your letter within this hour, and, foreseeing that the garden will engross much of my time for some days to come, have seized the present opportunity to ac- knowledge it. I congratulate you on Mr. Newton's safe arrival at Ramsgate, making no doubt but that he reached that place with- out difficulty or danger, the road thither from Canterbury being so good as to afford room for neither. He has now a view of the ele- ment with which he was once familiar, but which, I think, he has not seen for many years. The sight of his old acquaintance will revive in his mind a pleasing recollection of past deliverances, and when he looks at him from the beach, he may say — " You have formerly given me trouble enough, but I have cast anchor now where your billows can never reach me." — It is happy for him tha* he can say so 6 82 COWPER'S WORKo. Mrs. Unwin returns you many thanks for your anxiety on her account. Her health is considerably mended upon the whole, so a- to afford us a hope that it. will be established. Our love attends you. Y ours, dear madf ir. . W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Nov. 9, 1780. I wrote the following last summer. The tragical occasion of it really happened at the next house to ours. I am glad when I can find a subject to work upon; a lapidary, I suppose, accounts it a laborious part of his business to rub away the roughness of the stone : but it is my amusement, and if, after all the polishing I can give it, it discovers some little lustre, I think myself well re- warded for my pains.* I shall charge you a halfpenny a-piece for every copy I send you, the short as well. as the long. This is a sort of afterclap you little expected, but I cannot possibly afford them at a cheaper rate. If this method of raising money had occurred to me sooner, I should have made the bargain sooner; but am glad I have hit upon it at last. It will be a considerable encouragement to my Muse, and act as a powerful stimulus to my indus- try. If the American war should last much longer, I may be obliged to raise my price ; but this I shall not do without a real occasion for it — it depends much upon Lord North's conduct in the article of supplies — if he im- poses an additional tax on anything that I deal in, the necessity of this measure on my part will be so apparent that I dare say you will not dispute it. W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f Olney, Dec 10, 1780. My dear Friend, — I am sorry that the book- seller shuffles off the trouble of package upon anybody that belongs to you. I think I could cast him upon this point in an action upon the case, grounded upon the terms of his own undertaking. He engages to serve country customers. Ergo, as it would be unreasonable to expect that, when a country gentleman wants a book, he should order his chaise, and bid the man drive to Exeter Change ; and as it is not probable that the book would find the way to him of itself, though it were the wisest that ever was writ- ten, 1 should suppose the law would compel him. For I recollect it is a maxim of good authority in the courts, that there is no right without a remedy. And if another, or third person, should not be suffered to interpose ♦ Verses on a Goldfinch, starved to death in a cage. 1 Frivau correspondence. between my right and the remedy the law gives me, where the right is invaded, much less, I apprehend, shall the man himself, who of his own mere motion gives me that right, be suffered to do it. I never made so long an argument upon a j law case before. I ask your pardon for do- ! ing it now. You have but little need of such entertainment. Yours affectionately, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. 1 * Olney, Dec. 21, 1780. I thank you for your anecdote of Judge Carpenter. If it really happened, it is one of the best stories I ever heard ; and if not, it has at least the merit of being ben trovato. We both very sincerely laughed at it, and think the whole Livery of London must have done the same ; though I have known some persons, whose faces, as if they had been cast in a mould, could never be provoked to the least alteration of a single feature ; so that you might as well relate a good story to a barber's block. Non equidem invideo, miror magis. Your sentiments w T ith respect to me are exactly Mrs. Unwin's. She, like you, is per- fectly sure of my deliverance, and often tells me so. I make but one answer, and some- times none at all. That answer gives her no pleasure, and would give you as little ; there- fore at this time I suppress it. It is better, on every account, that they who interest themselves so deeply in that event should believe the certainty of it, than that they should not. It is a comfort to them at least, if it is none to me ; and as I could not if I would, so neither would I if I could, deprive them of it. I annex a long thought in verse for youl perusal. It was produced about last mid- summer, but I never could prevail with my* self, till now, to transcribe it.f You have bestowed some commendations on a certain poem now in the press, and they, I suppose, have at least animated me to the task. It human nature may be compared to a piece of tapestry, (and why not ?) then human nature, as it subsists in me, though it is sadly faded on the right side, retains all its color on the wrong. 1 am pleased with commendation, and though not passionately desirous of in- discriminate praise, or what is generally i called popularity, yet when a judicious friend I claps me on the back, I own I find it an en- j couragement, At this season of the year, ! and in this gloomy uncomfortable climate, it I is no easy matter for the owner of a mind * Private correspondence. t Hit- Vei-sea alluded to appear to have been separated I fron rhe letter. LIFE OF COWPER. 83 like mine to divert it from sad subjects, and fix it upon such as may administer to its amusement. Poetry, above all things, is useful to me in this respect. While I am held in pursuit of pretty images, or a pretty way of expressing them, I forget everything that is irksome, and, like a boy that plays truant, determine to avail myself of the pres- ent opportunity to be amused, and to put by the disagreeable recollection that I must, after all, go home and be whipped again. It will not be long, perhaps, before you will receive a poem called " The Progress of Error." That will be succeeded by another, in due time, called " Truth." Don't be alarmed, I ride Pegasus with a curb. He will never run away with me again. I have even convinced Mrs. Unwin that I can man- age him, and make him stop when I please. Yours, W. C. The following letter, to Mr. Hill, contains a poem already printed in the works of Cow- per ; but the reader will be probably gratified in finding the sporthieness of Cowper's wit presented to him, as it was originally de- spatched by the author for the amusement of a friend. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, Dec. 25, 1780. My dear Friend, — Weary with rather a long walk in the snow, I am not likely to write a very sprightly letter, or to produce anything that may cheer this gloomy season, unless I have recourse to my pocket-book, where, perhaps, I may find something to transcribe; something that was written be- fore the sun had taken leave of our hemi- sphere, and when I was less fatigued than I am at present. Happy is the man who knows just so much of the law as to make himself a little merry now and then with the solemnity of juridical proceedings. I have heard of common law Judgments before now; indeed have been present at the delivery of some, that, accord- ing to my poor apprehension, while they paid the utmost respect to the letter of the stat- ute, have departed widely from the spirit of it, and, being governed entirely by the point of law, have left equity, reason, and common sense behind them, at an infinite distance. You will judge whether the following report of a case, drawn up by myself, be not a proof and illustration of this satirical as- sertion. Nose, Plaintif. — Eyes, Defendants. Between Nose and Eyes a sad contest arose ; The Spectacles, set them unhappily wrong : The point in dispute vfras, as all the vorld knows, To which the said Spectacles ougl to belong. So the Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause, With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning, While Chief Baron Ear sat to balance the laws. So fam'd for his talents at nicely discerning. " In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear, And your lordship," he said, " will undoubtedly find. That the Nose has had Spectacles always in wear. Which amounts to possession time out of mind." Then holding the Spectacles up to the court, " Your lordship observes, they are made with a straddle, As wide as the ridge of the nose is, in short, Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. " Again, would your lordship a moment suppose, ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again,) That the visage, or countenance, had not a nose Pray who would, or who could, wear Spectacles then 1 " On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the Spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.'' Then shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how, He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes : But v\ tiat were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were e A ually wise. So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn ton , Decisive and clear, without one if or but, i; That whenever the Nose put his Spectacles on — By day-light, or candle-light — Eyes should be shut I" Yours affectionately, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. Dec, 1780. My dear Friend, — Poetical report, of law- cases are not very common, yet it seei;: ; A o mo desirable that they should be so. Many ad- vantages would accrue from such a rneasu, \ They would, in the first place, be more com- monly deposited in the memory, just as linen, grocery, or other such matters, when neatly packed, are known to occupy less room, and to lie more conveniently in any trunk, chest, or box, to which they may be committed. In the next place, being divested of that in finite circumlocution, -and the endless embar- rassment in which they are involved by it, they would become surprisingly intelligible, in comparison with their present obscurity. And, lastly, they would by this means be rendered susceptible of musical embellish- ment ; and, instead of being quoted in the country, with that dull monotony which is sc wearisome to by-standers, and freqiienth lulls even the judges themselves to sleep might be rehearsed in lecitation; whit.. would have an admirable effect, in keeping I he attention fixed and lively, and could not fail to disperse that heavy atmosphere of sad- ness and gravity, which hangs over the juris- prudence of oar country. I remember, many years ago, being informed by a relation of mine, who, in his youth, had applied himself to the study of the law, that one of his fel- low-students, a gentleman of sprightly parts, and very respectable talents of the poetical kind, did actually engage in the prosecution of such a design; for reasons, I suppose, somewhat similar to, if not the same, with those I have now suggested. He began with Coke's Institutes ; a book so rugged in its style, that an attempt to polish it seemed an Herculean labor, and not less arduous and difficult than it would be to give the smooth- ness of a rabbit's fur to the prickly back of a hedgehog. But he succeeded to admiration, as you will perceive by the following speci- men, which is all that my said relation could recollect of the performance. Tenant in fee Simple is he, And need neither quake nor quiver, Who hath his lands Free from demands, To him and his heirs forever. You have an ear for music, and a taste for verse, which saves me the trouble of pointing out, with a critical nicety, the advantages of such a version. I proceed, therefore, to what I at first intended, and to transcribe, the re- cord of an adjudged case thus managed, to which, indeed, what I premised was intended merely as an introduction.* W. 0. The following year commences by a letter to his friend Mr. Newton, and alludes to his two poems entitled " The Progress <5f Error," and " Truth." TO THE REV. JOHN JXF.WTON.f Jan. 21, 1781. My dear Sir, — I am glad that the " Pro- gress of Error" did not err in its progress, as I feared it had, and that it has reached you safe [ and still more pleased that it has met with your approbation ; for, if it had not, I should have wished it had miscarried, and have been sorry that the bearer's memory md served him so well upon the occasion. J knew him to be that sort of genius, which, being much busied in making excursions of the imaginary kind, is not always present to its own immediate concerns, much less to those of others; and, having reposed the trust in him, began to regret that I had done bo when it was too late. But I did it to * This letter concluded with the poetical law-case of Nose, plaintiff— Eyes, defendants, already inserted, t Private correspondence. save a frank, and as the affair has turned out that end was very we'll answered. This ij committed to the hands of a less volatile person, and therefore more to be depended on. As to the poem called " Truth," which is already longer than its elder brother, and ia yet to be lengthened by the addition of per- haps twenty lines, perhaps more, I shrink from the thought of transcribing it at pres- ent. But as there is no need to be in any hurry about it, I hope that, in some rainy season, which the next month will probably bring with it, when perhaps I may be glad of employment, the undertaking will appear less formidable. You need not withhold from us any intel- ligence relating to yourselves, upon an ap- prehension that Mr. R has been before- hand with you upon those subjects, for we could get nothing out of him. I have known such travellers in my time, and Mrs. Newton is no stranger to one of them, who. keep all their observations and discoveries to them- selves, till they are extorted from them by mere dint of examination and cross-examina- tion. He told us, indeed, that some invisible agent supplied you every Sunday with a coach, which we were pleased with hearing; and this, I think, was the sum total of his i information. We are much concerned for Mr. Bar- ham's loss ;* but it is well for that gentle- man, that those amiable features in his char- acter, which most incline one to sympathize with him, are the very graces and virtues that will strengthen him to bear it with equa- nimity and patience. People that have neither his light nor experience will wonder that a disaster, which would perhaps have broken their hearts, is not heavy : enough to make any abatement in the cheerfulness of his. Your books came yesterday. I shall not repeat to you what I said to Mrs. Unwin, after having read two or three of the letters. I admire the preface, in which you have given an air of novelty to a worn-out topic, and have actually engaged the favor of the reader by saying those things in a delicate and un- common way, which in general are disgusting. I suppose you know that Mr. Scottf will be in town on Tuesday. He is likely to * The loss of his excellent, wife. Mr. Barham was the intimate friend of Newton, and Cowper, and of the pious Lord Dartmouth, whose naniy is occasionally introduced in these letters in connexion with Oluey, where his lord- ship's charity was liberally dispensed. Mr. Barham sug- gested the subject of many of the hymns that are in- serted in the Olney collection, and particularly the one entitled " What think ye of Christ?* He was father of the late Jos. Foster Barham, Esq., many years M.P. for the borough of Stockbridge. The editor is happy in here bearing testimony to the profound piety and en dearing virtues of a man, with whose family he became subsequently connected. He afterwards married the widow of Sir Rowland Hill, Bart., and lived at Hawke* stone in Shropshire. I | The late Rev. Thomas Scott, so well known and dia tinguished by his writings. LIFE OF COWPER. SI lake possession of the vicarage at last, with the best grace possible ; at least, if he and Mr. Browne can agree upon the terms. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* Olney, Feb. 6, 1781. My dear Friend, — Much good may your humanity do you, as it does so much good to others.f You can nowhere find objects more entitled to your pity than where your pity seeks them. A man whose vices and irregularities have brought his liberty and life into danger will always be viewed with an eye of compassion by those who under- stand what human nature is made of. And, while we acknowledge the severity of the law to be founded upon principles of neces- sity and justice, and are glad that there is such a barrier provided for the peace of so- ciety, if we consider that the difference be- tween ourselves and the culprit is not of our own making, we shall be, as you are, tender- ly affected with the view of his misery, and not the less so because he has brought it upon himself. I look upon the worst man in Chelmsford gaol with a more favorable eye than upon , who claims a servant's wages from one who never was his master. I give you joy of your own hair. No doubt you are a considerable gainer in your appearance by being disperiwigged. The best wig is that which most resembles the natural hair; why then should he -that has hair enough of his own have recourse to imi- tation ? I have little doubt but that, if an arm or a leg could have been taken off with as little pain as attends the amputation of a curl or a lock of hair, the natural limb would have been thought less becoming or less con- venient by some men than a wooden one, and been disposed of accordingly. Yours ever, W C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Feb. 8, 1781. My dear Friend, — It is possible that Mrs. Hill may not be herself a sufferer by the late terrible catastrophe in the Islands ; but I should suppose, by her correspondence with those parts, she may be connected with some that are. In either case, I condole with her ; for it is reasonable to imagine that, since the first tour that Columbus made into the West- ern world, it never before experienced such a convulsion, perhaps never since the founda- tion of the globe.J You say the state grows * Private correspondence. | This alludes to his attendance on a condemned male- fector in the jail at (Chelmsford. t This season was remarkable for the most destructive lumcanes ever- remem bered in the West Indies. old, and discovers many symptoms of decline. A writer possessed of a genius for hypothe* sis, like that of Burnet, might construct a plausible argument to prove^hat the world itself is in a state of superannuation,' if there be such a word. If not, there must be such a one as superannuity. When that just equilibrium that has hitherto supported all things seems to fail, when the elements burst the chain that had bound them, the wind sweeping away the works of man, and man himself together with his works, and the ocean seeming to overleap the command, " Hithejtfo shalt thou come, and no further, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed," these irregular and prodigious vagaries seemed to bespeak a decay, and forebode, perhaps, not a very distant dissolution. This thought has so run away with my attention, that I have left myself no room for the little poli- tics that have only Great Britain for their ob- ject. Who knows but that while a thousand and ten thousand tongues are employed in adjusting the scale of our national concerns, in complaining of new taxes, and funds load- ed with a debt of accumulating millions, the consummation of all things may discharge it in a moment, and the scene of all this bustle disappear, as if it had never been ? Charles Fox would say, perhaps, he thought it very unlikely. I question if he could prove even that. I am sure, however, he could not prove it to be impossible. Yours, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, Feb. 15, 1781. My dear Friend, — I am glad you were pleased with my report of so extraordinary a case.* If the thought of versifying the de- cisions of our courts of justice had struck me while I had the honor to attend them, it would perhaps have been no difficult matter to have compiled a volume of such amusing and interesting precedents ; which, if they wanted the eloquence of the Greek or Ro- man oratory, would have amply compensated that deficiency by the harmony of rhyme and metre. Your account of my uncle and your mo- ther gave me great pleasure. I have long been afraid to inquire after some in whose welfare I always feel myself interested, lest the question should produce a gainful an- swer. Longevity is the lot of so few, and is so seldom rendered comfortable by the asso- ciations of good health and good spirits, that I could not very reasonably suppose either your relations or mine so happy in those re- spects as it seems they are. May they con- tinue to enjoy those blessings so long as the * He alludes to the humorous verses vn the Nose as the Eyes, inserted in a preceding letter. 86 COWPER'S WORKS. date of life shall last. I do not think that in these costermonger days, as I have a notion Falstaff calls them, an antediluvian age is at all a desirable filing, but to live comfortably while we do livl is a great matter, and com- prehends in it every tiling that can be wished for on this side the curtain that hangs be- tween Time and Eternity ! Farewell, my better friend than any I have to boast of, either among the Lords or gen- tlemen of the House of Commons. W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. w Olney, Feb. 18, 1781. My dear Friend, — I send you " Table Talk." It is a medley of many things, some that may be useful, and some that, for aught I know, may be very diverting. I am merry that I may decoy people into my company, an \ grave that they may be the better for it. Now and then I put on the garb of a philoso- pher, and take the opportunity that disguise procures me to drop a word in favor of re- ligion. In short, there is some froth, and here and there a bit of sweatmeat, which seems to entitle it justly to the name of a certain dish the ladies call a trifle. I do not choose to be more facetious, lest I should consult the taste of my readers at the ex- pense of my own approbation ; nor more serious than I have been, lest I should forfeit theirs. A poet in my circumstances has a difficult part to act : one minute obliged to bridle his humor, if he has. any; and the next, to clap a spur to the sides of it : now ready to weep from a sense of the import- ance of his subject, and on a sudden con- strained to laugh, lest his gravity should be mistaken for dulness. If this be not violent exercise for the mind, I know not what is ; and if any man doubt it, let him try. Whe- ther all this management and contrivance be necessary I do not know, but am inclined to suspect that if my Muse was to go forth clad in Quaker color, without one bit of riband to enliven her appearance, she might walk from one end of London to the other as little no- ticed as if she were one of the sisterhood indeed. You had been married thirty-one years last Monday. When you married I was eighteen years of age, and had just left Westminster school. At that time, I valued a man accord- ing to his "proficiency and taste in classical literature, and had the meanest opinion of all other accomplishments unaccompanied by that. I lived to see the vanity of what I had made my pride, and in a few years found that there were other attainments which would carry a man more handsomely through life than a mere knowledge of what Homer and * Private correspondence. Virgil had left behind them. In measure a* my attachment to these gentry wore off, ] found a more welcome reception among those whose acquaintance it was more my interest to cultivate. But all this time was spent in painting a piece of wood that had no life in it. At last I began to think indeed; I found myself in possession of many baubles, but not one grain of solidity in all my treasures. Then I learned the truth, and then I lost it, and there ends my history. I would no more than you wish to live such a life over again, but for one reason. He that is carried to execution, though through the roughest road, when he arrives at the destined spot would be glad, notwithstanding the many jolts he met with, to repeat his journey. Yours, my dear Sir, with our joint love, W. C. TO MRS. HILL.* Olney, Feb. 19, 1781. Dear Madam, — When a man, especially a man that lives altogether in the country, un- dertakes to write to a lady he never saw, he is the awkwardest creature in the world. He begins his letter under the same sensations he would have if he was to accost her in per- son, only with this difference, — that he may take as much time as he pleases for consider- ation, and need not write a single word that he has not well weighed and pondered be- forehand, much less a sentence that he does not think supereminently clever. In every other respect, whether he be engaged in an interview or in a letter, his behavior is, for the most part, equally constrained and un- natural. He resolves, afe they say, to set th< best leg foremost, which often proves to be what Hudibras calls— Not that of bone, But much its better — th' wooden one. His extraordinary effort oniy serves, as in the case of that hero, to. throw him on the other side of his horse ; and he owes his want of success, if not to absolute stupidity, to his most earnest endeavor to secure it. Now I do assure you, madam, that all these sprightly effusions of mine stand entirely clear of the charge of premeditation, and that I never entered upon a business of this kind with more simplicity in my life. I deter- mined, before I began, to lay aside all attempts of the kind I have just mentioned ; and, being perfectly free from the fetters that self-con ceit, commonly called bashfulness, fastens upon the mind, am, as you see, surprisingly brilliant. My principal design is to thank you in the plainest terms, which always afford the best * Private correspondence. LIFt OF COWPER, 31 proof of a man's sincerity, for your obliging- present. The seeds will make a figure here- after in the stove of a much greater man than myself, who am a little man, with no stove at all. Some of them however, I shall raise for my own amusement, and keep them as long as they can be kept in a bark heat, which I give them all the year ; and, in ex- change for those I part with, I shall receive such exotics as are not too delicate for a greenhouse. I will not omit to tell you, what no doubt you have heard already, though perhaps you have never made the experiment, that leaves gathered at the fall are found to hold their leat much longer than bark, and are prefer- able in every respect. Next year, I intend to use them myself. I mention it, because Mr. Hill told me some time since, that he was building a stove, in which I suppose they will succeed much better than in a frame. I beg to thank you again, madam, for the very fine salmon you were so kind as to favor me. with, which has all the sweetness of a Hertfordshire trout, and resembles it so much in flavor, that blindfold I should not have known the difference. I beg, madam, you will accept all these thanks, and believe them as sincere as they really are. Mr. Hill knows me well enough to be able to vouch for me that I am not over-much addicted to compliments and fine speeches ; nor do I mean either the one or the other, when I assure you that I am, dear madam, not merely for his sake, but your own, Your most obedient and affectionate servant. W. C. TO THE REV. JOFN JEWTON.* Jlney, Feb. 25, 1731. My dear Friend,— J J s +h> t tells a long story should take care tha* h be not made a long story by his manner of telling it. His ex- pression should be natural, and his method clear ; the incidents should be interrupted by very few reflections, and parentheses should be entirely discarded. I do not know that poor Mr. Teedon guides himself in the affair of story-telling by any one of these rules, or by any rule indeed that I ever heard of. He has just left us after a long visit, the greatest part of which he spent in the narration of a certain detail of facts that might have been compressed into a much smaller compass, and. my attention to which has wearied and worn out all my spirits. You know how scrupulously nice he is in the choice of his expression ; an exactness that soon becomes very inconvenient both to speaker and hearer, where there is not a great variety to choose out of. But Saturday evening is come, the * Private correspondence. time I generally devote to my correspondence with you ; and Mrs. Ilnwin will not allow me to let it pass without writing, though, having done it herself, both she and you might well spare me upon the present occasion. Notwithstanding my purpose to shake hands with the Muse, and take my leave of her for the present, we have already had a tete-a-tete since I sent you the last production. I am as much or rather more please * with my new plan than with any of the foregoing. I mean to give a short summary of the Jewish story, the miraculous interpositions in behalf of that people, their great privileges, their abuse of them, and their consequent destruction ; and .hen, by way of comparison, such another display of the favors vouchsafed to this coun- try the similar ingratitude with which they have requited them, and the punishment they have therefore reason to expect, unless re- formation interpose to prevent it. ' ; Expos- tulation " is its present title: but I have not yet found in the writing it that facility and readiness Without which 1 shall despair to finish it well, or indeed to finish it at all. Believe me, ray- deal' sir, with love to Mrs. N . Your ever affectionate, w. c. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, March 5, 1781. My dear Friend, — Since writing is be- come one of my principal amusements, and I have already produced so many verses on subjects that entitle them to a hope that they may possibly be useful, I should be sorry to suppress them entirely, or to publish them to no purpose, for want of that cheap ingredient, the name of the author. If my name there- fore will serve them in any degree as a pass- port into the public notice, they are welcome to it : and Mr. Johnson will, if he pleases, announce me to the world by the style and title of WILLIAM COWPER, ESO, OF THE INNER TEMPLE. If you are of my mind, I think " Table Talk " will be the best to begin with, as the subjects of it are perhaps more popular; and one would wish, at first setting out, to catch the public by the ear, and hold them by it as fast as possible, that they may be willing to hear one on a second and a third occasion. The passage you object to I inserted merely by way of catch, and think that it is not unlikely to answer the purpose. My design was to say as many serious things as I could, and yet to be as lively as was compatiblo with such a purpose. Do not imagine that T mean to stickle for it, as a pretty creature Oj * Private correspondence. 68 COWPER'S WORKS. my own that I am loath to part with ; hut I am apprehensive that, without the sprightli- ness of that passage to introduce it, the {bl- owing paragraph would not show to advan- tage. — If the world had been filled with men like yourself, I should never have written it ; but, thinking myself in a measure obliged to tickle if I meant to please, I therefore affected a jocularity I did not feel. As to the rest, wherever there is war there is misery and outrage ; notwithstanding which it is not only lawful to wish, but even a duty to pray, for the success of one's country. And as to the neutralities, I really think the Russian virago an impertinent puss for meddling with us, and engaging half a score kittens of her ac- quaintance to scratch the poor old lion, who, if .ie has been insolent in his day, has proba- bly acted no otherwise than they themselves would have acted in his circumstances, and with his power to embolden them. I am glad that the myrtles reached yru safe, but am persuaded from past experience that no management will keep them long alive in London, especially in the city. Our own English Trots, the natives of the coun- try, are for the most part too delicate to thrive there, much more the nice Italian. To give them, however, the best chance they can have, the lady must keep them well watered, giving them a moderate quantity in summer time every other day, and in winter about twice a week; not spring- water, for that would kijl them. At Michaelmas, as much of the mould as can be taken out without disturbing the roots must be evacuated, and its place supplied with fresh, the lighter the better. And once in two years the plants must be drawn out of their pots, with the entire ball of earth about them, and the mat- ted roots pared off with a sharp knife, when they must be planted again with an addition of rich light earth as before. Thus dealt with, they will grow luxuriantly in a green- house, where they can have plenty of sweet air, which is absolutely necessary to their health. I used to purchase them at Covent Garden almost every year when I lived in the Temple : but even in that airy situation they were sure to lose their leaf in winter, and seldom recovered it again in spring. I wish them a better fate at Hoxton. Olney has seen this day what it never saw before, and what will serve it to talk of, I suppose, for years to come. At eleven o'clock this morning, a party of soldiers entered the town, driving before them another party, who, after obstinately defending the bridge for some time, were obliged to quit it and run. They ran in very good order, frequently faced about and fired, but were at last obliged to eurr nder prisoners of war. There has been much drumming and shouting, much scamper- ing about in the dirt, but not an inch of lace made in the town, at least at the Silver End of it. It is our joint request that you will not again leave us unwritten to for a fortnight We are so like yourselves in this particular, that we cannot help ascribing so long a si- lence to the worst cause. The longer your letters the better, but a short one is better than none. Mrs. Unwin is pretty well, and adds the greetings of her love to mine. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* ' Olney, March 18, i781 My dear Friend, — A slight disorder in my eye may possibly prevent my writing you a long letter, and would perhaps have pre- vented my writing at all, if I had not known that you account a fortnight's silence a week too long. I am sorry that I gave you the trouble to write twice upon so trivial a subject as the passage in question. I did not understand by your first objections to it that you thought it so exceptionable as you do ; but, being better informed, I immediately resolved to expunge it, and subjoin a few lines which you will oblige me by substituting in its place. I am not very fond of weaving a political thread into any of my pieces, and that for two rea- sons ; first, because I do not think myself qualified, in point of intelligence, to form a decided opinion on any such topics; and, secondly, because I think them, though per- haps as popular as any, the most useless of all. The following verses are designed to succeed immediately after fights with justice on his side. Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, Reward his mem'ry, dear to every muse, &c.f I am obliged to you for your advice with respect to the manner of publication, and feel myself inclined to be determined by it. So far as I have proceeded on the subject of " Expostulation," I have written with tolera- ble ease to myself, and in my own opinion (for an opinion I am obliged to have about what I write, whether I will or no), with more emphasis and energy than in either of the others. But it seems to open. upon me with an abundance of matter that forebodes a con- siderable length: and the time of year is come when, what with walking and garden ing, I can find but little leisure for the pen. I mean however, as soon as I have engrafted a new scion into the " Progress of Error" instead of * * * *, and when I have tran * Private correspondence. t Vide Poems, where, in the next line, the epitbet un shaken is substituted for the iwblest, in the letter. scribed " Truth," and sent it to you, to apply myself to the composition last undertaken with as much industry as I can. * If, there- fore, the first three are put into the press while I am spinning and weaving the last, the whole may perhaps be ready for publica- tion before the proper season will be past. I mean at present that a few select smaller pieces, about seven or eight perhaps, the best I can find in a bookful that I have by me, shall accompany them. All together they will furnish, I should imagine, a volume of tolerable bulk, that need not be indebted to an unreasonable breadth of margin for the importance of its figure. If a board of inquiry were to be estab- lished, at which poets were to undergo an examination respecting the motives that in- duced them to publish, and I were to be sum- moned to attend, that I might give an account of mine, I think I could truly say, what per- haps few poets could, that, though I have no objection to lucrative consequences, if any such should follow, they are not my aim ; much less is it my ambition to exhibit myself to the world as a genius. What then, says Mr. President, can possibly be your motive ? I answer with a bow — amusement. There is nothing but this — no occupation within the compass of my small sphere, poetry ex- cepted, that can do much towards diverting that train of melancholy thoughts, which, when I am not thus employed, are forever pouring themselves in upon me. And if I did not publish what I write, I could not in- terest myself sufficiently in my own success to make an amusement of it. In my account of the battle fought at Ol- .iiey, I laid a snare for your curiosity and suc- ceeded. I supposed it would have an enig- matical appearance, and so it had ; but like most other riddles, when it comes to be solved, you will find that it was not worth the trouble of conjecture. There are soldiers quartered at Newport and at Olney. These met, by order of their respective officers, in Emberton Marsh, performed all the manoeu- vres of a deedy battle, and the result was that this town was taken. Since I wrote, they have again encountered with the same inten- tion ; and Mr. R kept a room for me and Mrs. Unwin, that we might sit and view them at our ease. We did so, but it did not answer our expectation ; for, before the con- test could be decided, the powder on both sides being expended, the combatants were obliged to leave it an undecided contest. If it were possible that, when two great armies spend the night in expectation of a battle, a „hird could silently steal away their ammuni- tion and arms of every kind, what a comedy fc ould it make of that which always has such t tragical conclusion ! Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. Olney, April 2, 1781. My dear Friend, — Fine weather, and a va- riety of extra-foraneous occupations, (starch Johnson's dictionary for that word, and if not found there, insert it — for it saves a deal of circumlocution, and is very lawfully com- pounded,) make it difficult, (excuse the length of a parenthesis, which I did not foresee the length of when I began it, nd which may perhaps a little perplex the sense of what I am writing, though, as I seldom deal in that figure of speech, I have the less need to make an apology for doing it at present,) make it difficult (I say) for me to find opportunities for writing. My morning is engrossed by the garden ; and in the afternoon, till I have drunk tea, I am fit for nothing. At five o'clock we walk, and when the walk is over lassitude recommends rest, and again I be- come fit for nothing. The current hour, therefore, which (I need not tell you) is comprised in the interval between four and five, is devoted to your service, as the only one in the twenty-four which is not otherwise engaged. I do not wonder that you have felt a. great deal upon the occasion you mention in your last, especially on account of the asperity you have met with in the behavior of your friend Reflect, however, that, as it is natural to you to have very fine feelings, it is equally natu- ral to some other tempers to leave those feelings entirely out of the question, and to speak to you, and to act towards you, just as they do towards the rest of mankind, with- out the least attention to the irritability of your system. Men of a rough and unspar- ing address should tajce great care that they be always in the right, the justness and pro- priety of their sentiments and censures being the only tolerable apology that can be made for such a conduct, especially in a country where civility of behavior is inculcated even from the cradle. But, in the instance now under our contemplation, I think you a suf- ferer under the weight of an animadversion not founded in truth, and which, consequently, you did not deserve. I account him faithful in the pulpit who dissembles nothing that he believes for fear of giving offence. To ac- commodate a discourse to the judgment and opinion of others, for the sake of pleasing them, though by doing so we are obliged to depart widely from our own, is to be un- faithful to ourselves at least, and cannot be accounted fidelity to Him whom we profess to serve. But there are few men wh do not stand in need of the exercise of charity and forbearance : and the gentleman in ques- tion has afforded you an ample opportunity in this respect to show how readily, though differing in your views, you can practise all that he could possibly expect from you, if 90 COWPER'S WORKS, your persuasion corresponded exactl) with his own. With respect to Monsieur U Cure, I think you Hot quite excusable for suffering such a man to give you any uneasiness at all. The gTOssness .and injustice of his demand ought to be its own antidote. . If a robber should miscall you a pitiful fellow for not carrying a purse full of gold about you, would his brutality give you any concern ? I suppose not. Why, then, have you been distressed in the present instance ? Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, April 8, 1781. My dear Friend, — Since I commenced au- thor, my letters are even less worth your ac- ceptance that they were before. I shall soon however, lay down the character, and cease to trouble you with directions to a printer, at least till the summer is over. If I live to see the return of winter, I may, perhaps, assume it again ; but my appetite for fame is not keen enough to combat with my love of fine v/eather, my love of indolence, and my love of gardening employments. I send you, by Mr. Old, my works com- plete, bound in brown paper, and numbered according to the series in which I would have them published. With respect to the poem called " Truth," it is so true, that it can hardly fail of giving offence to unenlightened read- ers. I think, therefore, that, in order to ob- viate in some measure those prejudices that will naturally erect their bristles against it, an explanatory preface, such as you (and no- body so well as you) can furnish me with, will have every grace of propriety to recom- mend it. Or, if you are not averse to the cask, and your avocations will allow you to undertake it, and if you think it would be etill more proper, I should be glad to be in- debted to you for a preface to the whole. J wish you, however, to consult your own judg- ment upon the occasion, and to engage in either of these works, or neither, just as your discretion guides you. I have written a great deal to-day, which must be my excuse for an abrupt conclusion. Our love attends you both. We are in pretty good health ; Mrs. Unwin, indeed, better than usual : and as to me, I ail nothing but the incurable ailment. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. Thanks for the cocoa-nut. I send you a cucumber, not of my own raising, and yet raised by me. Solve this enigma, dark enough To puzzle any brains That are not downright puzzle-proof, And eat it for your pains. * Private correspondence. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, Monday, April 23, 1781. My dear Friend, — Having not the leasi doubt of your ability to execute just such a preface as I should wish to see prefixed to my publication, and being convinced that -you have no good foundation for those which you yourself entertain upon the subject, I neither Withdraw my requisition nor abate one jot of the earnestness with which I made it. I admit the delicacy of the occasion, but am far from apprehending that you will therefore find it difficult to succeed. You can draw a hair-stroke where another man would make a blot as broad as a sixpence. I am much obliged to you for the interest you take in the appearance of my poems, and much pleased by the alacrity with which you do it. Your favorable opinion of them af- fords me a comfortable presage with respect to that of the public ; for though I make al- lowances for your partiality to me and mine, because mine, yet I am sure you would not suffer me unadmonished to add myself to the multitude of insipid rhymers, with whose productions the world is already too much pestered. It is worth while to send you a riddle, you make such a variety of guesses, and turn and tumble it about with such an industrious cu- riosity. The solution of that in question is — let me see ; it requires some consideration to explain it, even though I made it. I raised the seed that produced the plant that produced the fruit that produced the seed that produced the fruit I sent you. This latter seed I gave to the gardener of Tyring- ham, who brought me the cucumber you mention. Thus you see I raised it — that is to say, I raised it virtually by having raised its progenitor; and yet I did not raise it, because the identical seed from which it grew was raised at a distance. You observe I did not speak rashly when I spoke of it as dark enough to pose an (Edipus, and have no need to call your own sagacity in question for fall- ing short of the discovery. A report has prevailed at Olney that you are coming in a fortnight ; but, taking it for granted that you know best when you shall come, and that you will make us happy in the same knowledge as soon as you are possessed of it yourself, I did not venture to build any sanguine expectations upon it. I have at last read the second volume of Mr. 's work, and had some hope that I should prevail with myself to read the first likewise. I began his book at the latter end because the first part of it was engaged when I received the second ; but I had not so good an appetite as the soldier of the Guards, who, I was informed when 1 lived in London, would for a small matter, eat up a cat alive * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. 9i oeginning at her tail and finishing with her whiskers. Yours, ut semper, W. C. The period was now arrived, in which Cowper was at length to make his appear- ance in the avowed character of an author. It is an epoch in British literature worthy of being recorded, because poetry in his hands became the handmaid of morality and religion. Too often has the Muse been prostituted to more ignoble ends. But it is to the praise of Cowper, that he never wrote a line at which modesty might blush. His verse is identified with whatever is pure in conception, chaste in imagery, and moral in its aim. His object was to strengthen, not to enervate ; to impart health, not to administer to disease ; and to inspire a love for virtue, by exhibiting the deformity of vice. So long as nature shall possess the power to charm, and the interests of solid truth and wisdom, arrayed in the garb of taste, and enforced by nervous language, shall deserve to predominate over seductive imagery, the page of Cowper will demand our admiration, and be read with de- light and profit. The following letters afford a very pleasing circumstantial account of che manner in which he was induced to venture into the world as a poet. We will only add to the information they contain what we learn from the authority of his guardian friend, Mrs. Unwin, that she strongly solicited him, on his recovery from a very long fit of mental dejection, to devote his thoughts to poetry of considerable extent. She suggested to him, at the same time, the first subject of his verse, " The Progress of Error," which the reader will recollect as the second poem in his first volume. The time when that volume was completed, and the motives of its author for giving it to the world, are clearly displayed in an admirable letter to his poetical cousin, Mrs. Cowper. His feelings, on the approach of publication, are described with his usual nobleness of senti- ment and simplicity of expression, in reply to a question upon the subject from the anxious young friend to whom he gave the first notice of his intention in the next letter. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, May 1, YiSl. Your mother says I must write, and must admits of no apology; I might otherwise plead, that I have nothing to say, that I am weary, that I am dull, that it would be more convenient therefore for you, as well as for myself that I should let it alone. But all these pleas, and whatever pleas besides, either disinclination, indolence, or necessity might suggest are overruled, as they ought to be, ♦he moment a lady adduces her irrefragable argument, you must. You have still howevei one comfort left, that what I must write, you may or may not read, just as it shall please you ; unless Lady Anne at your elbow should say you must read it, and then, like a true knight, you will obey without looking for a remedy. In the press, and speedily will be published, in one volume octavo, price three shillings, Poems, by William Cowper, of the Inner Temple, Esq. You may suppose, by the size of the publication, that the • greatest part of them have been long kept secret, because you yourself have never seen them ; but the truth is, that they were most of them, except what you have in your possession, the produce of the last winter. Two-thirds of the compila- tion will be occupied by four pieces, the first of which sprung up in the month of December, and the last of them in the month of March, They contain, I suppose, in all, about two thousand and five hundred lines ; are known, or to be known in due time, by the names of Table Talk— The Progress of Error— Truth — Expostulation. Mr. Newton writes a pre- face, and Johnson is the publisher. The principal, I may say the only, reason why I never mentioned to you, till now, an affair which I am just going to make known to all the world (if that Mr. All-the-world should think it worth his knowing) has Leen this that till within these few days, I had m>t the honor to know it myself. This may seem strange, but it is true, for, not knowing where to find underwriters who would choose to insure them, and not finding it convenient to a purse like mine to run any hazard, even upon tiie credit of my own ingenuity, I was very much in doubt for some weeks whether any bookseller would be willing to subject himself to an ambiguity, that might prove very expensive in case of a bad market. But Johnson has heroically set all peradventures at defiance, and takes the whole charge upon himself. So out I come. I shall be glad of my Translations from Vincent Bourne in your next frank. My Muse will lay herself at y oui feet immediately on her first public appear ance. Yours, my dear friend, W*C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, May 9, 1781. My dear Sir, — I am in the press, and it is in vain to deny it. But how mysterious is the conveyance of intelligence from one end to the other of your great city ! Not many days since, except one man, and he but little taller than yourself, all London was ignorant of it ; for I do not suppose that the public prints have yet announced the most agreeable tidings ; the title-page, which is the basis of the advertisement, having so lately reached m COWPER'S WORKS. the publisher; and it is now known to you, who live at least two miles distant from my confidant upon the occasion. My labors are principally the production of the last winter ; all indeed, except a few of the minor pieces. When I can find no other occupation I think, and when I think I am very apt to do it in rhyme. Hence it comes to pass, that the season of the year which generally pinches off the flowers of poetry unfolds mine, such as they are, and crowns me with a winter garland. In this respect, therefore, I and my contemporary bards are by no means upon a par. They write when the delightful influen- ces of fine weather, fine prospects, and a brisk motion of the animal spirits, make poetry almost the language of nature; and I, when icicles depend from all the leaves of the Par- nassian laurel, and when a reasonable man would as little expect to suceeed in verse as to hear a blackbird whistle. This must be my apology to you for whatever want of fire and animation you observe in what you will shortly have the perusal of. As to the public, if they like me not, there is no remedy. A friend will weigh and consider all disadvan- tages, and make as large allowances as an author can wish, and larger perhaps than he has any right to expect ; but not so the world at large ; whatever they do not like, they will not by any apology be persuaded to forgive, and it would be in vain to tell them that I wrote #y verses in January, for they would immediately reply, " Why did not you write them in May?" A question that might puzzle a wiser head than we poets are generally blessed with. W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, May 10, 1781. My dear Friend, — Tt is Friday; I have just drunk tea, and just perused your letter; and though this answer to it cannot set off till Sunday, I obey the warm impulse I feel, which will not permit me to postpone the business till the regular time of writing. I expected you would be grieved; if you had not been so, those sensibilities which attend you irpon every other occasion must have left you upon this. I am sorry that I have given you pain, but no£ sorry that you have felt it. A concern of that sort would be absurd, be- cause it would be to regret your friendship for me, and to be dissatisfied with the effect of it. Allow yourself however three minutes only for reflection, and your penetration must ne- cessarily dive into the motives of my conduct. In the first place, and by way of preface, re- member that I do not (whatever your partiality may incline you to do) account it of much con- sequence to any friend of mine whether he is, or is net, employed by me upon such an oc- ».aaion. But all affected renunciations of po- etical merit apart, and all unaffected expres sions of the sense I have of my own littleness in the poetical character too, the obvious and only reason why I resorted to Mr. Newton, and not to my friend Unwin, was this: that the former lived at London, the latter at Stock ; the former was upon the spot to cor- rect the press, to give instructions respecting any sudden alterations, and to settle with the publisher everything that might possibly occur in the course of such a business ; the latter could not be applied to for these pur- poses without what I thought would be a manifest encroachment on his kindness; be- cause it might happen that the troublesome office might cost him now 7 and then a journey, which it was absolutely impossible for me to endure the thought of. When I wrote to you for the copies you have sent me, I told y/)u I was making a col- lection, but not with a design to publish. There is nothing truer than at that time I had not the smallest expectation of sending a volume of Poems to the press. I had several small pieces that might amuse, but I would not, when I publish, make the amusement of the reader my only object. When the winter deprived me of other employments, 1 began to compose, and, seeing six or sever months before me which would naturally afford me much leisure for such a purpose, i undertook a piece of some length; that fin ished, another; and so on, till I had amassed the number of lines I mentioned in my last. Believe of me what you please, but not that I am indifferent to you or your friend- ship for me on any occasion. Yours, » W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWTN. Olney, May 23, 1781. My dear Friend, — If a writer's friends have need of patience, how much more the writer ! Your desire to see my Muse in public, and mine to gratify you, must both suffer the mortification of delay. .1 expected that my trumpeter would have informed the world, by this time, of all that is needful for them to know upon such an occasion ; and that an advertising blast, blown through every news- paper, would have said — " The Poet is com- ing." — But man, especially man that writes verse, is born to disappointments, as surely as printers and booksellers are born to be the most dilatory and tedious of all crea- tures. The plain English of this magnificent preamble is, that the season of publication is just elapsed, that the town is going into the country every ' day, and that my book cannot appear till they return, that is to say, not till next winter. This misfortune, how ever, comes not without its attendant advan. tage ; I shall now have, what I should not LIFE OF COWPER. 9.i otherwise have had, an opportunity to cor- rect the press myself: no small advantage upon any occasion, but especially important where poetry is concerned ! A single erratum may knock out the brains of a whole pas- sage, and that, perhaps, which of all others the unfortunate poet is the most proud of. Add to this that, now and then, there is to be found in a printing-house a presumptuous intermeddler, who will fancy himself a poet too, and, what is still worse, a better than he that employs him. The consequence is that, with cobbling and tinkering, and patch- ing on here and there a shred of his own, he makes such a difference between the original and the copy, that an author cannot know his own work again. Now, as I choose to be responsible for nobody's dulness but my own, I am a little comforted when I, reflect that it will be in my power* to prevent all such impertinence, and yet not without your assistance. It will be quite necessary that the correspondence between me and Johnson should be carried on without the expense of postage, because proof-sheets would make double or treble letters, which expense, as in every instance it must occur twice, first when the packet is sent and again when it is re- turned, would be rather inconvenient to me, who, as you perceive, am forced to live by my wits, and to him who hopes to get a little matter, no doubt, by the same means. Half a dozen franks, therefore, to me, and totvlem to him will be singularly acceptible, if you can, without feeling it in any respect a trou- ble, procure them for me.* I am much obliged to you for your offer to support me in a translation of Bourne. It is but seldom, however, and never except for my amusement, that I translate ; because I find it disagreeable to work by another man's pattern ; I should, at least, be sure to find it so in a business of any length. Again, that is epigrammatic and witty in Latin which would be perfectly insipid in English, and a translator of Bourne would frequently find himself obliged to supply what is called the turn, which is in fact the most difficult and the most expensive part of the whole com- position, and could not, perhaps,"in many in- stances, be done with any tolerable success. If a Latin poem is neat, elegant, and musical, it is enough— but English readers are not so easily satisfied. To quote myself, you will find, in comparing the jackdaw with the original, that I was obliged to sharpen a point, which, though smart enough in the Latin, would in English have appeared as plain and as blunt as the tag of a lace. I * The privilege of fran'ting letters was formerly exer- cised in a very different nanner from what is now in use. The name of the M.P. was inserted, as is usual, on the cover of the letter, but the address was left to be tdded when and where the writer of the letter found it «tost expedient. love the memory of Vinny Bourne. I thinl> . him a better Latin poet than Tibullus, Pro- pertius, Ausonius,* or any of the writers i» his way, except Ovid, and not at all inferior to him. I love him too, with a love of par- tiality, because he was usher of the fifth form at Westminster, when I passed through it. He was so good-natured, and so indo- lent, that I lost more than I got by him ; for he made me as idle as himself. He was such a sloren, as if he had trusted to his genius as a cloak for everything that could disgust you in his person ; and indeed in his writings he has almost made amends for all. His humor is entirely original — he can speak of a magpie or a cat in terms so exquisitely ap- propriate to the character he draws, that one would suppose him animated by the spirit of the creature he describes. And with all his drollery there is a mixture of rational and even religious reflection at times, and always an air of pleasantry, good-nature, and humanity, that makes him, in my mind, one of the most amiable writers in the world. It is not com- mon to meet with an author, who can make you smile and yet at nobody's expense; who is always entertaining and yet always harm- less; and who, though always elegant, and classical to a degree not always found in the classics themselves, charms more by the sim- plicity and playfulness of his ideas than by the neatness and purity of his verse; yet such was poor Vinny. I remember seeing the Duke of Richmond set fire to his greasy locks, and box his ears to put it out again. Since I began to write long poems I seem to turn up my nose at the idea of a short one. I have lately entered upon one, which, if ever finished, cannot easily be comprised in much less than a thousand lines ! But this must make part of a second publication, and be accompanied, in due time, by others not yet thought of; for it seems (what I did not know till the bookseller had occasion to tell me so) that single pieces stand no chance, and that nothing less than a volume will go down You yourself afford me a proof of the cer tainty of this intelligence, by sending me franks which nothing less than a volume can fill. I have accordingly sent you one, but am obliged to add that, had the wind been in any other point of the compass, or, blowing as it does from the east, had it been less bois- terous, you must have been contented with a much shorter letter, but the abridgment of every ether occupation is very favorable *o that of writing. I am glad I did not expect to hear from * The classic beauty and felicity of expression in the Latin compositions of Bourne have been justly admired; but it doubt will exist in the mind of tlie classical reader, whether the praise which exalts his merits above chose of a Tibullus, to whom both Ovid and Horace have borne so distinguished testimony, does not exceed ton bounds of legitimate eulogy. 94 COWPER'S WORKS. you ly this post, for the boy has lost the oiur in which your "letter must have been en- closed — another reason for my prolixity ! Youis affeclonately, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, May 28, 1781. My dear Friend; — I am much obliged to you for the pains you have taken with my " Table Talk," and wish that my viva voce table-talk could repay you for the trouble you have had with the written one. The season is wonderfully improved within this dciy or two ; and if these cloudless skies are continued to us, or rather if the cold winds do not set in again, promises you a pleasant excursion, as far, at least, as the weather can conduce to make it such. You seldom complain of too much sunshine, and if you are prepared for a heat somewhat like that of Africa, the south walk in our long garden will exactly suit you. Reflected from the gravel and from the walls, and beating upon your head at the same time, it.may pos- sibly make you wish you could enjoy for an hour or two that immensity of shade afforded by the gigantic trees still growing in the land of your captivity.f If you could spend a day now and then in those forests, and return with a wish to England, it would be no small addit"oi; to the number of your best pleas- ures. But penrtce non homini data. The time will come, perhaps, (but death will come first,) when you will be able to visit them without either danger, trouble, or expense ; and when the contemplation of those well- remembered scenes will awaken in you emo- tions of gratitude and praise, surpassing all you could possibly sustain at present. Jn this sense, I suppose there is a heaven upon earth at all times, and that the disem- bodied spirit may find a peculiar joy, arising from the contemplation of those places it was formerly conversant with, and so far, at least, be reconciled to a world it was once so weary oi, as to use it in the delightful way of thankful recollection. Miss Catlett must not think of any other lodging than we can, without any inconve- nience as we shall with all possible pleasure, furnish her with. We can each of us say — that is, I can say it in Latin, and Mrs. Unwin in English — Nihil tui a me alienum puto. Having two more letters to write, I find "nyself obliged to shorten this ; so once more wishing you a good journey, and ourselves the happiness of receiving you in good Health and spirits, I remain affectionately yours, W. C. * Private corespondence. t Mr. Newton's voyage to Africa, and his state of mind at that period, are feelingly described by himself in his ywa writings, as well as the groat moral change which ■e subseqi 'tntly experienced. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. Olney, May 28, 1781. My dear Friend, — I believe I never gave you trouble without feeling more than I give So much by way of preface and apology ! Thus stands the case — Johnson has begun to print, and Mr. Newton has already cor- rected the first sheet. This unexpected de- spatch makes it necessary for me to furnish myself with the means of communication, viz., the franks, as soon as may be. There are reasons (I believe I mentioned in my last) why I choose to revise tne proof my- self: nevertheless, if your delicacy must sutler the puncture of a pin's point in pro- | curing the franks for me, I release you en- tirely from the task : you are as free as if I had never mentioned them. But you will oblige me by a speedy answer upon this sub- ject, because it is expedient that the printer should know to whom he is to send his copy ; and when the press is once set, those hum- ble servants of the poets are rather impa- tient of any delay, because the types are wanted for other authors, who are equally impatient to be born. This fine weather, I suppose, sets you on horseback, and allures the ladies into the garden. Ji I was at Stock, I should be of their party, and, while they sat knotting or netting in the shade, should comfort myself with the thought that I had not a beast under me whose walk would seem tedious, whose trot would jumble me, and whose gallop might throw me into a ditch. What nature expressly designed me for I have never been able. to conjecture, I seem to myself so uni- versally disqualified for the common and customary occupations and amusements of mankind. When I was a boy, I excelled at cricket and football, but the fame I acquired by achievements that way is long since for- gotten, and I do not know that I have made a figure in anything since. I am sure, how- ever, that she did not design me for a horse- man, and that, if all men were of my mind, there would be an end of all jockey ship for- ever. I am rather straitened for time, and not very rich in materials; therefore, with our joint love to you all, conclude myself, Yours ever, W. C. TL THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Jun. 5, 1781. My dear Friend, — If the old adage be true, that " he gives twice who gives speedily," it is equally true that he who not only uses ex- pedition in giving, but gives more than was asked, gives thrice at least. Such is the style in which Mr. confers a fayor. He has not only sent me franks to JohnPOD, but, under another cover, has added six to vou LIFE OF COWPER. Pa These last, for aught that appears by your letter, he threw in of his own mere bounty. I beg that my share of thanks may not be wanting on this occasion, and that, when you write to him next, you will assure him of the sense I have of the obligation, which is the more flattering, as it includes a proof of his predilection in favor of the poems his franks are destined to enclose. May they not for- feit his good opinion hereafter, nor yours, to whom I hold myself indebted in the first place, and who have equally given me credit for their deservings ! Your mother says that, although there are passages in them contain- ing opinions which will not be universally subscribed to, the world will at least allow what my great modesty will not permit me to subjoin. I have the highest opinion of her judgment, and know, by having experi- enced the soundness of them, that her observ- ations are always worthy of attention and regard. Yet, strange as it may seem, I do not feel the vanity of an author, when she commends me ; but I feel something better, a spur to my diligence, and a cordial to my spirits, both together animating me to de- serve, at least not to fall short of, her expect- ations. For I verily believe, if my dulness should earn me the character of a dunce, the censure would affect her more than me ; not that I am insensible of the value of a good name, either as a man or an author. With- out an ambition to attain it, it is absolutely unattainable under either of those descrip- tions. But my life having been in many respects a. series of mortifications and disap- pointments, I am become less apprehensive and impressible, perhaps, in some points, than I should otherwise have been ; and, though I should be exquisitely sorry to disgrace my friends, could endure my own share of the affliction with a reasonable measure of tran- quillity. These seasonable showers have poured floods upon all the neighboring parishes, but have passed us by. My garden languishes, and, what is worse, the fields too languish, and the upland-grass is burnt. These dis- criminations are not fortuitous. But if they are providential, what do they import? I can only answer, as a friend of mine once answered a mathematical question in the schools — " Prorsus nescio." Perhaps it is that men who will not believe what they cannot understand may learn the folly of their, conduct, while their very senses are made t to witness against them; and them- selves* in the course of providence, become the subjects of a thousand dispensations they cannot explain. But the end is never an- swered. The lesson is inculcated, indeed, frequently enough, but nobody learns it. Well. Instruction, vouchsafed in vain, is (I luppos^) a debt to be accounted for hereafter. You must understand this to be a soli- loquy. I wrote my thoughts without recol- lecting that I was writing a letter, and to you W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN. Olncy, June 24, 1781. My dear Friend, — The letter you withheld so long, lest it should £, ve me pain, gave me pleasure. Horace says, the poets area wasp- ish race; and, from my own e^eri'ence of the temper of two or three with whom I wa3 formerly connected, I can readily subscribe to the character he gives them. But, for my own part, I have never yet felt that exces- sive irritability, which some writers discover, when a friend, in the words of Pope, " Just hints a fault, or hesitates dislike." Least of all would I give way to such an un- seasonable ebullition, merely because a civ- il question is proposed to me, with such gentleness, and by a man whose concern foi my credit and diameter I verily believe to be sincere. I r,eply therefore, not peevishly, but with a sense of the kindness of your inten- tions, that I hope you may make yourself very easy on a subject, that I can perceive has occasioned you some solicitude. When I wrote the poem called " Truth," it was in- dispensably necessary that I should set forth that doctrine which I know to be true, and that I should pass what 1 understood to be a just censure upon opinions and persuasions that differ from or stand in direct opposition to it ; because, though some errors may be innocent, and even religious errors are not always pernicious, yet, in a case where the faith a~.v! hope of a Christian are concerned, they must necessarily be destructive ; and be- cause, neglecting this, I should have betrayed my subject ; either suppressing what in my judgment is of the last importance, or giving countenance by a timid silence to the very evils it was my design to combat. That you may understand me better, I will subjoin — that I wrote that poem on purpose to in- culcate the eleemosynary character of the Gospel, as a dispensation of mercy in the most absolute sense of the word, to the ex elusion of all claims of merit on the part of the receiver ; consequently to set the brand of invalidity upon the plea of works, and to discover, upon scriptural ground, the absurd ity of that notion, which includes a solecism in the very terms of it, that man by repent- of his Maker : I call it a solecism, because ance and good works may deserve the mercy mercy deserved ceases to be mercy, and musl take the name of justice. This is the opin- ion which I said in my last the world would not'acquiesce in, but except this I do not r©« collect that I have introduced a syllable into my cf my pieces that they can possibly ob- ject to ; and even this I have endeavored to deliver from doctrinal dryness, by as many pretty things in the way of trinket and play- thing as I could muster upon the subject. So f hat, if I have rubbed their gums, I have taken oare to do it with a coral, and even that coral embellished by the ribbon to whi.r i; s tied, and recommended by the tinkling ( f all the bells I could contrive to annex to it You need not trouble yourself to call on Johnson; being perfectly acqu.-.iuted with the progress of the business. I am able to satisfy your curiosity myself — the post be- fore the last, I returned to him the -,ptond sheet of " Table Talk," which he had sent me lor correction, and which stands foremost in the volume. The delay has enabled me to add a piece of considerable length, which, but for the delay, would not have made its ap- pearance upon this ecasion : it answers to the name of Hope. I remember a line in the Odyssey, which, .iterally translated, imports that there is no- thing in the world more impudent than the belly. But, had Homer met with an instance of modesty like yours, he would either have suppressed that observation, or at least have qualified it with an exception. I hope that, for the future, Mrs. Unwin will never suffer you to go to London without putting some victuals in your pocket ; for what a strange article would it make in a newspaper, that a tail, well-dressed gentleman, by his appear- ance a clergyman, and with a purse of gold in his pocket, was found starved to deaih in the street. How would it puzzle conjecture to account for such a phenomenon ! some would suppose that you had been kidnapped, like Betty Canning, of hungry memory ; others would say the gentleman was a Methodist, and had practised a rigorous self- denial, which had unhappily proved too hard for his constitution ; but I will venture to say that nobody would divine the real cause, or mspect for a moment that your modesty had Dccasioned the tragedy in question. By the way, is it not possible that the spareness and slenderness of your person may be owing to the same cause ? for surely it is reasonable to suspect that the bashfulness which could prevail against you on so trying an occasion may be equally prevalent on others. I re- member having been told by Colman, that, when he once dined with Garrick, he repeat- edly pressed him to eat more of a certain dish that he was known to be particularly fond of; Colman as often refused, and at last declared he could not, "But could not you," says Garrick, " if you was in a dark closet by your- self ? The same question might perhaps be i>n to you, with as much or more propriety and therefore I recommend it to you, either to furnish yourself with a little more assur- ance or always to eat in the dark. We sympathize with Mrs. Unwin, and, if it will be any comfort to her to know it, can assure her, that a lady in our neighborhood is always, on such occasions, the most mis- erable of all things, and yet escapes with great facility through all the dangers of hei state. Yours, ul semver* W. C. Among the occurrences that deserve to b* recorded in the life of Cowper, the com mencement of his acquaintance with Lad) Austen, from its connexion with his literary history, is entitled to distinct notice. This lady possessed a highly cultivated mind, and the power, in no ordinary degree, to engage and interest the attention. This acquaintance soon ripened into friendship, and it is to her that we are primarily indebted for the poem of " The Task," for the ballad of " John Gil- pin," and for the translation of Homer. The occasion of this acquaintance was as follows. A lady, whose name was Jones, was one of the few neighbors admitted in the resi- dence of the retired poet. She was the wife of a clergyman, who resided at the village of Clifton, within a mile of Olney. Her sister the widow of Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, came to pass some time with her in the sum- mer of 1781 ; and, as the two ladies mtered a shop in Olney, opposite to the house of Mrs. Unwin, Cowper observed them from his window. Although naturally shy, and now rendered more so by his very long ill- ness, he was so struck with the appearance of the stranger, that, on hearing she was sis ter to Mrs. Jones, he requested Mrs. Unwh to invite them to tea. So strong was his re- luctance to admit the company of strangers, that, after he had occasioned this invitation, he was for a long time unwilling to join the little party ; but, having forced himself at last to engage in conversation with Lady Austen, he was so delighted with her collo- quial talents, that he attended the ladies on their return to Clifton ; and from that time continued to cultivate the regard of his new acquaintance with such assiduous attention, that she soon received from him the familiar and endearing title of Si # ster Ann. The great and happy influence which an incident that seems at first sight so trivial produced on the imagination of Cowper, will best appear from the following epistle, which, soon after Lady Austen's return to London for the winter, the poet addressed to her on the 17th December, 1781. Dear Anna. — between friend and friend, Prose answers every common end ; Serves, in a plain and homely way, T' express th : occurrence of the day: LIFE OF COWPER. Our health, the weather, and the news ; What walks we take, what books we choose ; And all the floating thoughts we find Upon the surface of the mind. But when a poet takes the pen, Far more alive than other men, He feels a gentle tingling come Down to his finger and his thumb, Deriv d from nature's noblest part, The centre of a glowing heart ! And this is what the world, who knows No flights above the pitch of prose, BQs more sublime vagaries slighting, Denominates an itch for writing. No wonder I, who scribble rhyme, To catch the triflers of the time, And tell them truths divine and clear, Which, couch'd in prose, they will Aot hear; Who labor hard to allure, and draw. The loiterers I never saw, Should feel that itching and that tingling, With all my purpose intermingling, To your intrinsic merit true, When called to address myself to you. 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 ; Directs us in our distant road, And marks the bounds of our abode. Thus we were settled when you found us, Peasants and children all around us, Not dreaming of so dear a friend, Deep in the abyss of Silver End.* Thus Martha, ev'n against her will, Perch'd on the top of yonder hill ; And you, though you must needs prefer The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,f Are come from distant Loire, to choose A cottage on the banks of Ouse. This page of Providence quite new, And now just opening to our view, Employs our present thoughts and pains To guess and spell what it contains : But day by day. and year by year, Will make the dark enigma clear ; And furnish us perhaps at last, Like other scenes already past, With proof that we and our affairs Ane part of a Jehovah's cares : For God unfolds, by slow degrees, The purport of his deep decrees ; Sheds every hour a clearer light, r .n aid of our defective sight; And spreads at length before the soul, A beautiful and perfect whole, Which busy man's inventive brain Toils to anticipate in vain. Say, Anna, had you never known The beauties of a rose full blown, Could you, tho' luminous your eye, By looking on the bud descry, * An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the r ssidence of Cowper, which faced the market-place. t Lad} Austen's residence in France. Or guess with a prophetic power, The future splendor of the flower 1 Just so. th' Omnipotent who turns The system of a world 's concerns, From mere minutiae can educe Events of most important use , And bid a dawning sky display The blaze of a meridian day. The works of man tend one and all, As needs they must, from great to small ; And vanity absorbs at length The monuments of human strength. But who can tell how vast the plan W T hich this day's incident began 1 Too small perhaps the slight occasion For our dim-sighted observation ; It pass'd unnotic'd. as the bird That cleaves the yielding air unheard, And yet may prove, when understood, An harbinger of endless good. No£ that I deem or mean to call Friendship a blessing cheap or small; But merely to remark that ours, Like some of nature's sweetest flowers, Rose from a seed of tiny size, That seemed to promise no such prize : A transient visit intervening, And made almost without a meaning, (Hardly the effect of inclination, Much less of pleasing expectation !) Produced a friendship then begun, That has cemented us in one ; And plac'd it in our power to prove, By long fidelity and love, That Solomon has wisely spoken ; " A three-fold cord is not soon broken." In this interesting poem the author seems prophetically to anticipate the literary efforts that were to spring, in process of time, from a friendship so unexpected and so pleasing. Genius of the most exquisite kind is some- times, and perhaps generally, so modest and diffident as to require continual solicitation and encouragement from the voice of sym- pathy and friendship to lead it into perma- nent and successful exertion. Such was the genius of Cowper ; and he therefore con- sidered the cheerful .and animating society of his new and accomplished friend as a blessing conferred on him by the signal favor of Providence. We shall find frequent allusions to this lady in the progress of the following corre- spondence. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, July 7, 1781, My dear Friend, — Mr. Old brought us th* acceptable news of your safe arrival. My sensations at your departure were far from pleasant, and Mrs. Unwin suffered more upon the occasion than when you first took leave of Olney. When we shall meet again, and in what circumstances, or whether we shall meet or not, is an article to be found no- * Private correspondence. 7 08 COWPER'S WORKS. where but in that volume of Providence which belongs to the current year, and will not be understood till it is accomplished. This I know, that your visit was most agree- able here. It was so even to me, who, though I live in the midst of many agreea- bles, am but little sensible of their charms. But, when you came, I determined, as much as possible, to be deaf to the suggestions of despair ; that, if I could contribute but little to the pleasure of the opportunity, I might not dash it with unseasonable melancholy, and, like an instrument with a broken string, interrupt the harmony of the concert. Lady Austen, waving all forms, has paid us the first visit ; and, not content with show- ing us that proof of her respect, made hand- some apologies for her intrusion. We re- turned the visit yesterday. She is a lively, agreeable woman; has seen much of the world, and accounts it a great simpleton, as it is. She laughs and makes laugh, and keeps up a conversation without seeming to labor at it. I had rather submit to chastisement now than be obliged to undergo it hereafter. If Johnson, therefore, will mark with a margin- al Q, those lines that he or his object to as not sufficiently finished, I will willingly re- touch them, or give a reason for my refusal. I shall moreover think myself obliged by any hints of that sort, as I do already to some- body, who, by running here and there two or three paragraphs into one, has very much improved the arrangement of my matter. I am apt, I know, to fritter it into too many pieces, and, by doing so, to disturb that order to which all writings must owe their perspicuity, at least in a considerable meas- ure. With all that carefulness of revisal I have exercised upon the sheets as they have been transmitted to me, I have been guilty of an oversight, and have suffered a great fault to escape me, which I shall be glad to correct, if not too late. In the " Progress of Error," a part of the Young Squire's apparatus, before he yet en- ters upon his travels, is said to be Memorandum-book to minute down The several posts, and where the chaise broke down. Here, the reviewers would say, is not only "down," but "down derry down" into the bargain, the word being made to rhyme to itself. This never occurred to me till last night, just as I was stepping into bed. I should be glad, however, to alter it thus — With memorandum-book for every town, And ev'ry inn, and where the chaise broke down. I have advanced so far in " Charity," that I have ventured to give Johnson notice of it, And his iption whether he will print it now or hereafter. I rather wish he may choose the present time, because it will be a proper sequel to " Hope," and because I am willing to think it will embellish the collection. Whoever means to take my phiz will find himself sorely perplexed in seeking for a fit occasion. That I shall not give him one, is certain ; and if he steals one, he must be as cunning and quicksighted a thief as Auto- lycus himself. His best course will be to draw a face, and call it mine, at a venture. They who have not seen me these twenty years will say, It may possibly be a striking likeness now, though it bears no resemblance to what he was : time makes great altera- tions. They who know me better will say, perhaps, Though it is not perfectly the thing, yet there is somewhat of the cast of his countenance. If the nose was a little longer, and the chin a little shorter, the eyes a little smaller, and the forehead a little more pro- tuberant, it would be just the man. And thus, without seeing me at all, the artist may represent me to the public eye, with as much exactness as yours has bestowed upon you, though, I suppose, the original was full in his view w T hen he made the attempt. We are both as well as when you left us. Our hearty affections wait upon yourself and Mrs. Newton, not forgetting Euphro syne, the laughing lady. Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. The playfulness of Cowper's humor is amusingly exerted in the following letter : — TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. ' Olney, July 12, 1781. My very dear Friend, — I am going to send, what when you have read, you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows whether what I have got be verse or not ; — by the tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme, but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of yore, such a ditty before ? I have writ Charity, not for popularity, bu» as well as I could, in hopes to do good ; and if the Reviewer should say " to be sure the gentleman's Muse wears Methodist shoes, you may know by her pace and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard for the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoidening play, of the modern day ; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and then wear a tittering air, 'tis only her plan to catch, if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a new construction : she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap all that may come with a sugar-plum." — His opinion in this will not be amiss ; 'tis what I intend, my principal end, and, if I succeed, and folks should rend, till a few are brought to a serious thought, I sija!! LIFE OF COWPER. 93 think I am paid for all I have said and all I nave done, though I have run many a time, after a rhyme, as far as from hence to the end of my sense, and by hook or crook, write another book, if I live and am here, another year. I have heard before, of a room with a floor laid upon springs, and such like things, with so much art in every part, that when you went in you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe, or string, or any such thing ; and now 1 have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and as you advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what i have penn'd, which that you may do, ere Madam and you are quite worn out with jig- ging about, I take my leave, and here you re- ceive a bow profound, down to the ground, from your humble me — W. C- * TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, July 22, 1781. My dear Friend, — I am sensible of your difficulties in finding opportunities to write; and therefore, though always desirous and sometimes impatient to hear from you, am never peevish when I am disappointed. Johnson, having begun to print, has given me some sort of security for his perseverance ; else the tardiness of his operations would almost tempt me to despair of the end. He has, indeed, time enougji before him ; but that very circumstance is sometimes a snare, and gives occasion to delays that cannot be reme- died. Witness the hare in the fable, who fell asleep in the midst of the race, and waked not till the tortoise had won the prize. Taking it for granted that the new mar- riage-bill would pass, I took occasion, in the Address to Liberty, to celebrate the joyful era ; but in doing so afforded another proof that poets are not always prophets, for the House of Lords have thrown it out. I am, however, provided with four lines to fill up the gap, which I suppose it will be time enough to insert when the copy is sent down. I am in the middle of an affair called " Con- versation," which, as " Table Talk ".serves in the present volumes by way of introductory fiddle to the band that follows, I design shall perform the same office in a second. Sic brevi fortes jacularnur sevo. You cannot always find time to write, and I cannot always write a great deal ; not for want of time, but for want of something equally requisite ; perhaps materials, perhaps * Private correspond nee. spirits, or perhaps more frequently for want of ability to overcome an indolence that 1 have sometimes heard even you complain of.' Yours, my dear Sir, and Mrs. Newton's W. C TO THE REV WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, July 29, 1781. My dear Friend, — Having given the case you laid before me in your last all due con- sideration, I proceed to answer it : and. in or- der to clear my way, shall, in the first place, set down my sense of those passages in Scripture, which, on a hasty perusal, seem tc clash with the opinions I am going to give— " If a man smite one cheek, turn the other " — " If he take thy cloak, let him take thy coat also." That is, I suppose, rather than on a vindictive principle avail yourself of that remedy the law allows you, in the way of re- taliation, for that was the subject immedi- ately under the discussion of the speaker. Nothing is so contrary to the genius of the gospel as the gratification of resentment and revenge ; but I cannot easily persuade my- self to think, that the Author of that dispen- sation could possibly advise his followers to consult their own peace at the expense of the peace of society, or inculcate a universal ab- stinence from the use of lawful remedies, to the encouragement of injury and oppn» j severe, they will find it, I doubt, a hopeless ! contest to the last. Domestic murmurs will j grow louder, and the hands of faction, being j strengthened by this late miscarriage, will find j it easy to set fire to the pile of combustibles they have been so long employed in building These are my politics, and, for aught I can see, you and we, by our respective firesides, though neither connected with men in power, nor professing to possess any share of that sagacity which thinks itself qualified to wield the affairs of kingdoms, can make as probable conjectures, and look forward into futurity with as clear a sight as the greatest man in the cabinet. * " There is a solitude of the gods, and there is the solitude of wild beasts." t Privati correspondence. t The surrender of the army of Lord Cornwallis to the combined forces of America and France, Oct. 18th, 1781. It is remarkable that this event occurred precisely four years after the surrender of General Burgoyne, at Sara- toga, in the same month, and almost on the same day. This disastrous occurrence decided the fate of the Ameri- can war, which cost Great Britain an expenditure of one hundred and twenty millions, and drained it of ita best blood, and exhausted its vital resources. 8 14 UOWPER'S WORKS. Though, when I wrote the passage in ques- tion, I was not at all aware of any impropri- ety in it, and though I have frequently, since that time, both read and recollected it with the same approbation, I lately became uneasy upon the subject, and had no rest in my mind for three days, till I resolved to submit it to a trial at your tribunal, and to dispose of it ultimately according to your sentence. I am glad you have condemned it, and, though I do not feel as if I could presently supply .its place, shall be willing to attempt the task, whatever labor it may cost me, and rejoice that it will not be in the power of the critics, whatever else they may charge me with, to feccuse me of bigotry or a design to make a certain denomination of Christians odious, at the hazard of the public peace. I had rather my book were burnt than a single line of such a tendency should escape me. We thank you for two copies of your Ad- dress to your Parishioners. The first I lent to Mr. Scott, whom I have not seen since I put it into his hands. You have managed your subject well ; have applied yourself to despisers and absentees of every description, in terms so expressive of the interest you take in their welfare, that the most wrongheaded person cannot be offended. We both wish it may have the effect you intend, and that, prejudices and groundless apprehensions be- ing removed, the immediate objects of your ministry may make a more considerable part of your congregation. Yours, my dear Sir, as ever, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* FRAGMENT. Same date. My dear Friend, — A visit from Mr. Whit- ford shortened one of your letters to me: and now the cause has operated with the same effect upon one of mine to you. He is just gone, desired me to send his love, and talks of enclosing a letter to you in my next cover. Literas tuas irato Sacerdoti scriptas, legi. perlegi, et ne verbum quidem mutandum cen- seo. Gratias tibi acturum si sapiat, existimo ; sin aiiter eveniat, amici tamen officium prse- stitisti, et te coram te vindicasti. I have not written in Latin to show my scholarship, nor to excite Mrs. Newton's cu- riosity, nor for any other wise reason what- ever; but merely because, just a,\ that mo- ment, it came into my head to do so. I never wrote a copy of Mary and John m my life, except that which I sent to you. It was one of those bagatelles which 3 )me- times spring up like mushrooms in my ima- gination, either while I am writing or just * Private conespondence. before I begin. I sent it to you, because to you I send anything that I think may raise a smile, but should never have thought of mul- tiplying the impression. Neither did I evei repeat them to any one except Mrs. Unwin. The inference is fair and easy, that you have some friend who has a good memory.* This afternoon the maid opened the par- lor-door, and told us there was a lady in the kitchen. We desired she might be intro- duced, and prepared for the reception of Mrs. Jones. But it proved to be a lady unknown to us, and not Mrs. Jones. She walked di- rectly up to Mrs. Unwin, and never drew back till their noses were almost in contact. It seemed as if she meant to salute her. An uncommon degree of familiarity, accompanied with an air of most extraordinary gravity, made me think her a little crazy. I was alarmed, and so was Mrs. Unwin. She had a bundle in her hand — a silk handkerchief tied up at the four corners. When I found she was not mad, I took her for a smuggler, and made no doubt but she had brought samples of contraband goods. But our sur- prise, considering the lady's appearance and deportment, was tenfold what it had been, when we found that it was Mary Philips's daughter, who had brought us a few apples by way of a specimen of a quantity she had for sale. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f Olney, Dec. 2, 1781. My dear Friend, — I thank you for the rlote. There is some advantage in having a tenant who is irregular in his payments : the longer the rent is withheld, the more considerable the sum when it arrives ; to which we may add, that its arrival, being unexpected, a cir- cumstance that obtains always in a degree exactly in proportion to the badness of the tenant, is always sure to be the occasion of an agreeable surprise ; a sensation that de- serves to be ranked among the pleasantest that belong to us. I gave two hundred and fifty pounds for* the chambers. Mr. Ashurst's receipt, and the receipt of the person of whom he pur- chased, are both among my papers; and when wanted, as I suppose they will be in case of a sale, shall be forthcoming at your order. The conquest of America seems to go on but slowly. Our ill success in that quarter * The lines alluded to are the following, which appeared afterwards, somewhat varied, in the Elegant Extracts iu Verse : 1 If John marries Mary, and Mary alone, 'Tis a very good match between Mary and John. Should" John wed a score, oh ! the claws and thr scratches ! It CJi't be a match: 'tis a bundle of matches.— Ed, 1 Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. V tfill oblige me to suppress two pieces that I was rather proud of. They were written two or three years ago ; not long after the double repulse sustained by Mr. D'Estaing at Lucia and at Savannah, and when our operations in the western world wore a more promising aspect. Presuming upon such promises, that J might venture to prophesy an illustrious consummation of the war, I did so. But my predictions proving false, the verse in which they were expressed must perish with them. ■ Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, Dec. 4, 1781. My dear Friend, — The present to the queen of France, and the piece addressed to Sir Joshua Reynolds, my only two political ef- forts, being of the predictive kind, and both falsified, or likely to be so, by the miscar- riage of the royal cause in America, were already condemned when I received your last.f I have a poetical epistle which I wrote last summer, and another poem not vet finished, in stanzas, with which I mean * Private correspondence. t As t'le reader may wish to see the lines to Sir Joshua, they are here supplied from the doeuments left by Dr. Johnso:i. Those to the Queen of France are no . found, TO SIR JOSHUA. REYNOLDS. Dear President, whose art sublime Gives perpetuity to time, And bids transactions of a day, That fleeting hours would waft away To dark futurity, survive, And in unfading beauty live, — You cannot with a grace decline A special mandate of the Nine — Yourself, whatever task you choose, So much indebted to the Muse. Thus says the Sisterhood : — We come — Fix well your pallet on your thumb, Prepare the pencil and the tints — We come to furnish you with hints. French disappointment, British glory, Must be the subject of my story. First strike a curve, a graceful bow, Then slope it to a point below ; Your outline easy, airy, light, Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite. Let independence, sanguine, horrid, Blaze like a meteor on the forehead : Beneath (but lay aside your graces) Draw six and twenty rueful far.es, Each with a staring, stedfast eye, „ Fix'd on his great and good ally. , France flies the kite — 'tis on the wing- Britannia's lightning cuts the string. The wind that raised it, ere it ceases, Just rends it into thirteen pieces, Takes charge of every flutt'ring sheet, And lays them all at George's feet. Iberia, trembling from afar. Renounces the confed'rate war. Her efforts and her arts o'ercorae, France calls her shatter'd navies home : Repenling Holland learns to mourn The sacred treaties she has torn ; Astonishment and awe profound Are stamp'd upon the nations round ; Without one friend, hbove all foes, Britannia gives the world repose. to supply their places. Henceforth I bav* done with politics. The stage of national affairs is such a fluctuating scene that ar event which appears probable to-day be- comes impossible to-morrow ; and unless a man were indeed a prophet, he cannot, bui with the greatest hazard of losing his labor bestow his rhymes upon future contingen- cies, which perhaps are never to take place but in his own wishes and in the reveries of his own fancy. 1 learned when I was a boy being the son of a staunch Whig, and a man that loved his country, to glow with that pa- triotic enthusiasm which is apt to break forth into poetry, or at least to prompt a person, il he has any inclination that way, to poetical endeavors. Prior's pieces of that sort were recommended to my particular notice ; and, as that part of the present century was a season when clubs of a political character, and consequently political songs, were much in fashion, the best in tha.t style, some writ- ten by Rowe, and I think some by Congreve, and many by other wits of the day, were proposed to my admiration. Being grown up, I became desirous of imitating such bright examples, and while I lived in the Temple produced several half-penny ballads, two or three of which had the honor to be popular. What we learn in childhood we retain long ; and the successes we met with about three years ago, when D'Estaing was twice repulsed, once in America and once in the West Indies, having set fire to my patri- otic zeal once more, it discovered itself by the same symptoms, and produced effects much like those it had produced before. But, unhappily, the ardor I felt upon the occasion, disdaining to be confined within the bounds of fact, pushed me upon uniting the prophet- ical with the poetical character, and defeated its own purpose. — I am glad it did. The less there is of that sort in my book the better; it will be more consonant 'o your character, who patronize the volume, and, indeed, to the constant tenor of my o .. n thoughts upon public matters, that I should exhort my countrymen to repentance, than that I should flatter their pride — that vice for which, perhaps, they are even now so severely punished. We are glad, for Mr. Barham's sake, that he has been happily disappointed. How lit- tle does the world suspect what passes in it every day ! — that true religion is working the same wonders now as in the first ages of the church — that parents surrender up their children into the hands of God, to die at his own appointed moment, and by what death he pleases, without a murmur, and re- ceive them again as if by a resurrection from the dead ! The world, however, would be more justly chargeable with wilful blindness than it is, if all professors of the truth exem- 116 COWPER'S WORKS. plified its power in their conduct as conspic- uously as Mr. Barham. Easterly winds and a state of confinement within our own walls suit neither me nor Mrs. Unwin ; though we are both, to use the Irish term, rather unwell than ill. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. Mrs. Madan is happy. — She will be found ripe, fall when she may. We are sorry you speak doubtfully about a spring visit to Olney. Those doubts must not outlive the winter. W. C. We now conclude this portion of our work. The incidents recorded in it cannot fail to ex- cite interest, and to awaken a variety of re- flections. Remarks of this kind will, how- ever, appear more suitable, when all the details of the poet's singular history are brought to a close, and presented in a con- nected series. In the meantime we cannot but admire that divine wisdom and mercy, which often so remarkably overrules the darkest dispensations — From seeming evil still educing good. It might have been anticipated that the mor- bid temperament of Cowper would either have unfitted him for intellectual exertion, or that his productions would have been tinged with all the colors of distempered mind : but such was not the case. Whether he com- posed in poetry or prose, the effect upon his mind seems to have been similar to the influ- ence of the harp of David over the spirit of Saul. The inward struggles of the soul yielded to the magic power of song ; and the inimitable letter-writer forgot his sorrows in the sallies of his own sportive imagination. The peculiarity of his temperament, so far from restraining his powers, seems from his own account to have quickened them into action. " I write," he says, in one of his let- ters, "to amuse and forget myself; and yet always with the desire of benefiting others." His object in writing was twofold, and so was his success ; for he wrote and forgot himself; and yet wrote in such a manner, as never to be forgotten by others. We have now conducted Cowper to the threshhold of fame, with all its attendant hopes,' fears, and anxieties ; a fame resting on the noblest foundation, the application of the powers of genius to improvement of the age in which he lived. The circumstances under which he commenced his career as an Autho. are singular. They form a profitable subject of inquiry to those who analyze the operations of the human mind ; for he wrote it the moments of depression and sorrow, under the influence of a' morbid tempera ment, and with an imagination assailed bj the most afflicting images. In the n*dst of these discouragements his mind burst forth from its prison-house, arrayed n all the charms of wit and humor, sportive without levity, and never provoking a smile at the expense of virtue. A mind so constituted furnishes a t emark- able proof of the wisdom and goodness of God ; for it shows that the greatest trials are not without their alleviations, and that in the bitterest cup are to be found the ingredients of mercy. Who can tell how often the mind might lose its equilibrium, or sink under the pressure of its woes, were it not for the in- terposition of that Almighty Power which guides the planets in their orbits, and says to the great water, " Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further; and here shall thy proud waves be stayed." Job xxxviii. 11. We now resume the correspondence of Cowper which contains some incidental no tices of his admired Poems of Friendship and Retirement. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, Dec. 17, 1781. My dear Friend, — The poem I had in hand when I wrote last is on the subject of Friend- ship. By the following post I received a packet from Johnson. The proof-sheet it contained brought our business down to the latter part of "Retirement;" the next will consequently introduce the first of the smaller pieces. The volume consisting, at least four- fifths of it, of heroic verse as it is called, and graver matter, I was desirous to displace the " Burning Mountain"! from the post it held in the van of the light infantry, and throw it into the rear. Having finished " Friendship," and fearing that, if' I delayed to send it, the press would get the start of my intention and knowing perfectly that, with respect to the subject and the subject matter of it, it contained nothing that you would think ex- ceptionable, I took the liberty to transmit it to Johnson, and hope that the next post will return it to me printed. It consists of be- tween thirty and forty stanzas ; a length that qualifies it to supply the place of the two cancelled pieces, without the aid of the epis- tle I mentioned. According to the present arrangement, therefore, " Friendship," which is rather of a lively cast, though quite sober, will follow next after "Retirement," and " iEtna" will close the volume. Modern nat- uralists, I think, tell us that the volcano forms the mountain. I shall be charged therefore, perhaps, with an unphilosophical error in supposing that ^Etna was once unconscious * Private correspondence. t The poem afterwards entitled " Hei oism."— Vidfr Pooms. LIFE OF COWPER. 11 rf intestine fires, and as lofty as at present before the commencement of the eruptions, [t is possible, however, that the rule, though just in some instances, may not be of univer- sal application ; and, if it be, I do not know that a poet is obliged to write with a philo- sopher at his elbow, prepared always to bend down his imagination to mere matters of fact. You will oblige me by your opinion ; and tell me, if you please, whether you think an apologetical note may be necessary; for I would not appear a dunce in matters that every Review reader must needs be apprized of. I say a note, because an alteration of the piece is impracticable ; at least without cut- ting off its head, and setting on a new one ; a task I should not readily undertake, be- cause the lines which must, in that case, be thrown out, are some of the most poetical in the performance. Possessing greater advantages, and being equally dissolute with the most abandoned of the neighboring nations, we are certainly more criminal than they. They cannot see, and we will not. It is to be expected, there- fore, that when judgment is walking through the earth, it will come commissioned with the heaviest tidings to the people chargeable with the most perverseness. In the latter part of the Duke of Newcastle's administration, all faces gathered blackness. The people, as they walked the streets, had, every one of them, a countenance like what we may sup- pose to have been the prophet Jonah's, when he cried, " Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be destroyed." But our Nineveh too re- pented, that is to say, she was affected in a. manner somewhat suitable to her condition. She was dejected ; she learned an humbler language, and seemed, if she did not trust in God, at least to have renounced her confi- dence in herself. A respite ensued; the expected ruin was averted ; and her prosper- ity became greater than ever. Again she became self-conceited and proud, as at the first; and how stands it with our Nineveh now? Even as you say ; her distress is infi- nite, her destruction appears inevitable, and her heart as hard as the nether millstone. Thus, I suppose, it was when ancient Nine- veh found herself agreeably disappointed; she turned the grace of God into lascivious- ness, and that flagrant abuse of mercy ex- posed her, at the expiration of forty years, to the complete execution of a sentence she had only been threatened with before. A similarity of events, accompanied by a strong similarity of conduct, seems to justify our expectations that the catastrophe will not be very different. But, after all, the designs of Providence are inscrutable, and, as in the case of individuals, so in that of nations, the same causes do not always produce the same ef- fect*. Tfce jountry indeed cannot be saved in its present state of profligacy and profane- ness, but may, nevertheless, be led to re- pentance by means we are little aware ofj and at a time when we least expect it. Our best love attends yourself and Mrs. Newton, and we rejoice that you feel no bur- thens but those you bear in common with the liveliest and most favored Christians. It is a happiness in poor Peggy's case, that she can swallow five shillings' worth of physic in a day x but a person must be in her case to be duly sensible of it. Yours, my dear Sir, W. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN.* Olney, Dec. 19, 1781. My dear William, — I dare say I do not en- ter exactly into your idea of a present theo- cracy, because mine amounts to no more than the common one, that all mankind, though few are really aware of it, act under a provi- dential direction, and that a gracious superin- tendence in particular is the lot of those who trust in God. Thus I think respecting Indi- viduals, and with respect to the kingdoms oi the earth, that, perhaps, by his own immedi- ate operation, though more probably by the intervention of angels, (vide Daniel,) the great Governor manages and rules them, as- signs them their origin, duration, and end, appoints them prosperity or adversity, glory or disgrace, as their virtue or their vices, their regard to the dictates of conscience and his word, or their prevailing neglect of both, may indicate and require. But in this persuasion, as I said, I do not at all deviate from the gen- eral opinion of those who believe a Provi- dence, at least who have a scriptural belief of it. I suppose, therefore, you mean something more, and shall be glad to be more particu- larly informed. I see but one feature in the face of our na- tional concerns that pleases me; — the war with America, it seems, is to be conducted on a different plan. This is something, when a long series of measures, of a certain de- scription, has proved unsuccessful, the adop- tion of others is at least pleasing, as it en- courages a hope that they may possibly pro've wiser and more effectual : but, indeed, with- out discipline, all is lost. Pitt himself could have done nothing with such tools ; but ho would not have been so betrayed ; he would have made the traitors answer with their heads for their cowardice or supineness, and their punishment would have made survivors active. W. C, TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney. The shortest day, 1781. My dear Friend, — I might easily make thif * l*rivate correspondence. letter a continuation of my last, another na- tional miscarriage having furnished me with a fresh illustration of the remarks we have Doth been making.^ Mr. S ,* vho has most obligingly supplied me with franks throughout my whole concern with Johnson, accompanied the last parcel he sent me with a note dated from the House of Commons, in which he seemed happy to give me the earli- est intelligence of the capture of the French transports by Admiral Kempenfelt, and of a close engagement between the two fleets, so much to be expected. This note was written on Monday, and reached me by Wednesday's post; but, alas! the same post brought us the newspaper that informed us of his being forced to fly before a much superior enemy, and glad to take shelter in the port he had left so lately. This event, I suppose, will have worse consequences than the mere dis- appointment ; will furnish Opposition, as all our ill success has done, with the fuel of dis- sention, and with the means of thwarting and perplexing administration. Thus, all we purchase with the many millions expended yearly is distress to ourselves, instead of our enemies, and domestic quarrels instead of victories abroad. It takes a great many blows to knock down a great nation ; and, in the case of poor England, a great many heavy ones have not been wanting. They make us reel and stagger indeed, but the blow is not yet struck that is to make us fall upon our knees. That fall would save us ; but, if we fall upon our side at last, we are undone. So much for politics. I enclose a few lines on a thought which struck me yesterday. f If you approve of them, you know what to do with them. I should think they might occupy the place of aft introduction, and should call them by that name, if I did not judge the name I have given them necessary for the information of the reader. A flatting-mill is not met with in every street, and my book will, perhaps fall into the hands of many who do not know that such a mill was ever invented. It hap- pened to me, however, to spend much of my time in one, when I was a boy, when I fre- quently amused myself with watching the operation I describe. Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. The reader will admire the sublimity of the following letter in allusion to England rod America. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.J Olney. The last day of 1781. My dear Friend, — Yesterday's p:>st, which • Mr. Sir Uh, afterwards Lord Carrington. t The lin es alluded to are entitled " The Flatting-Mill, in niustrati on." ; Prirate correspondence. brought me yours, brought me a packet feota Johnson. We have reached the middle oi the Mahometan Hog. By tho way, you.' lines, t rich, when we had the pleasure of seeing you here, you said you would furnish him w ith, are not inserted in it. I did not recollect, till after I had finished the " Flat- ting-Mill," that it bore any affinity to the motto taken from Caraccioli. The resem- blance, however, did not appear to me to give any impropriety to the verses, as the thought is much enlarged upon, and enlivened by the addition of a new comparison. But if it is not wanted, it is superfluous, and if super- fluous, better omitted. I shall not bumble Johnson for finding fault with " Friendship," though I have a better opinion of it myself; but a poet is of all men the most unfit to be judge in his own cause. Partial to all his productions, he is always most partial to the youngest. But, as there is a sufficient quan- tity without it, let that sleep too. If I should live to write again, I may possibly take up that subject a second time, and clothe it in a different dress. It abounds with excellent matter, and much more than I could find room for in two or three pages. I consider England and America as once one country. They w 7 ere so, in respect of interest, intercourse, and affinity. A great earthquake has made a partition, and now the Atlantic Ocean flows between them. He that can drain that ocean, and shove the two shores together, so as to make them aptly coincide, and meet each other in every part, can unite them again. But this is a work for Omnipotence and nothing less than Omnipo- tence can heal the breach between us. This dispensation is evidently a scourge to Eng- land ; but is it a blessing to America ?* Time * Cowper, though a Whig, vindicates the American war, keenly as he censures the inefficiency with which it was conducted. The subject has now lost much of its interest, and is become rather a matter of historical rec- ord. Such is the influence of the lapse of time on the intenseness of political feeling ! The conduct of France, at this crisis, is exhibited with a happy poignancy of wit. " True we have lost an empire— let it pass. True ; we may th;nik the perfidy of France, That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown, With all the cunning of an envious shrew. And let that pass— 'twas but a trick of state." Task, book ii. Cowper subsequently raises' the question how far the attainment of Independence was likely to exercise a salu- tary influence on the future prospects of America. He anticipates an unfavorable issue. Events, however, have not fulfilled this prediction. What country has made such rapid strides towards Imperial greatness? Wher* shall we find a more boundless extent of territory, a more rapid increase of population, or ampler resources for a commerce that promises to make the whole world tribu- tary to its support? Besides, why should not the de- scendants prove worthy of their sires? Why should a great experiment in legislation and government suspend the natural course of political and moral causes? May the spiritual improvement of her religious privileges keep pace with the career of her national greatness! What we most apprehend for A merica is the danger of internal dissension. If corruption be the disease of mon- archies, faction is the bane of republics. We add on« more reflection, with sentiments of profound regret, and LIFE OF COWPER. lis may prove it one, bat at present it does not seem to wear an aspect favorable to their privileges, either civil or religious. I cannot doubt the truth of Dr. W.'s assertion; but the French, who pay but little regard to trea- ties that clash with their convenience, with- out a treaty, and even in direct contradiction to verbal engagements, can easily pretend a claim to a country which they have both bled and paid for; and, if the validity of that claim be disputed, behold an army ready anded, and well-appointed, and in possession j>f some of the most fruitful provinces, pre- pared to prove it. A scourge is a scourge at one end only. A bundle of thunderbolts, such as you have seen in the talons of Jupi- ter's eagle, is at both ends equally tremen- dous, and can inflict a judgment upon the West, at the same moment that it seems to intend only the chastisement of the East. Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. Dr. Johnson's celebrated work, " The Lives of the Poets," had at this time made its ap- pearance, and some of the following letters refer to that subject. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. Olney, Jan. 5, 1782. My dear Friend, — Did I allow myself to plead the common excuse of idle correspond- ents, and esteem it a sufficient reason for not .writing that I have nothing to write about, I certainly should not write now. But I have so often found, on similar occasions, when a great penury of matter has seemed to threaten me with an utter impossibility of hatching a letter, that nothing- is necessary but to put pen to paper, and go on, in order to conquer all difficulties ; that, availing my- self of past experience, I now begin with the most assured persuasion that, sooner or later, one idea naturally suggesting another, I shall some to a most prosperous conclusion. In the last " Review," I mean in the last but one, I saw Johnson's critique upon Prior and Pope. I am bound to acquiesce in his opin- ion of the latter, because it has always been my own. I could never agree with those who preferred him to Dry den, nor with others (I have known such, and persons of taste and discernment too) who could not allow him to be a poet at all. He was certainly a mechanical maker of verses, and, in every line he ever wrote, we see indubitable marks borrow the muse of Cowper to convey our meaning and our wishes. " I would not' have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No ; dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation priz'd above all price, T had much rather be myself the slave, Ani wear the bonds, than fasten them on him." Task, book iu of most indefatigable industry and labor Writers, who find it necessary to make such strenuous and painful exertions, are generally as phlegmatic as they are correct ; but Pop? was, in this respect, exempted from the com- mon lot of authors of that class. With thti unwearied application of a plodding Flemish painter, who draws a shrimp with the most minute exactness, he had all the genius of one of the first masters. Never, I believe, were such talents and such drudgery united. But I admire Dryden most, who has sue-, ceeded by mere dint of genius, and in spite of a laziness and carelessness almost pecu- liar to himself. His faults are numberless, and so are his beauties. His faults are those of a great man, and his beauties are such (at least sometimes) as Pope, with ail his touch- ing and retouching, could never equal. So far, therefore, I have no quarrel with Johnson. But I cannot subscribe to what he says of Prior. In the first place, though my memory may fail me, I do not recollect that he takes any notice of his Solomon, in my mind the best poem, whether we consider the subject of it or the execution, that he ever wrote.* In the next place, he condemns him for in- troducing Venus and Cupid into his love verses, and concludes it impossible his pas- sion could be sincere, because when he would express it, he has recourse to fables. But, when Prior wrote, those deities were not so obsolete as they are at present. His cotem- porary writers, and some that succeeded him, did not think them beneath their notice. Tibullus, in reality, disbelieved their existence as much as we do ; yet Tibullus is allowed to be the prince of all poetical inamoratos, though he mentions them in almost every page. There is a fashion in these things which the Doctor seems to have forgotten But what shall we say of his rusty-fusty re marks upon Henry and Emma ? I agree with him, that, morally considered, both the knight and his lady are bad characters, and that each exhibits an example which ought not to be followed. The man dissembles in a way that would have justified the woman had she renounced him, and the woman resolves to follow him at the expense of delicacy, pro- priety, and even modesty itself. But when the critic calls it a dull dialogue, who but a critic will believe him ? There are few read- ers of poetry of either sex in this country who cannot remember how that enchanting piece has bewitched them, who do not know that, instead of finding it tedious, they have been so delighted with the romantic turn of * This remark is inaccurate. Prior's Solomon is dis- tinctly mentioned, though Johnson observes that it fails in exciting interest. His concluding remarks are, how- ever, highly honorable to the merit of that work. " He that shall peruse it will be able to mark many passages, to which he may recur for instruction or delight ; man} from which the poet may learn to write, and the philosc pher to reason."— Life of Prior.— Editor. 120 COWPER'S WORKb. it as to have overlooked all its defects, and to have given it a consecrated place in their memories without ever feeling it a burthen. I wonder almost, that, as the bacchanals served Orpheus, the boys and girls do not tear this husky, dry commentator, limb from limb, in resentment of such an injury done to their darling poet. I admire Johnson as a man of great erudition and sense, but, when he sets himself up for a judge of writers upon the subject of love, a passion which I fiuppose he never felt in his life, he might as »vell think himself qualified to pronounce apon a treatise on horsemanship, or the art of fortification. The next packet I receive will bring me, I imagine, the last proof-sheet of my volume, which will consist of about three hundred and fifty pages, honestly printed. My public entree therefore is not far distant. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, Jan. 13, 1782. My dear Friend, — I believe I did not thank you for your anecdotes, either foreign or do- mestic, m my last, therefore I do it now ; and still feel myself, as I did at the time, truly obliged to you for them. More is to be learned from one matter of fact than from a thousand speculations. But alas! what course can Government take ? I have heard (for I never made the experiment) that if a man grasp a red-hot iron with his naked hand, it will stick to him, so that he cannot pres- ently disengage himself from it. Such are the colonies in the hands of administration. While they hold them they burn their lingers, and yet they must not quit them. I know not whether your sentiments and mine upon this part of the subject exactly coincide, but you will know when you understand what mine are. It appears to me that the King is bound, both by the duty he owes to himself and to his people, to consider him- self, with respect to every inch of his terri- tories, as a trustee deriving his interest in them from God, and invested with them by divine authority for the benefit of his sub- jects. As he may not sell them or waste them, so he may not resign them to an enemy, or transfer his right to govern them to any, not even to themselves, so long as it is possible for him to keep it. If he does, he betrays at once his own interest and that of his other dominions. It may be said, suppose Provi- dence has ordained that they shall be wrested from him, how then? I answer, that cannot appear to be the case, till God's purpose is actually accomplished ; and in the meantime the mo st probable prospect of such an event • Private correspondence. does not release him from his obligation to hold them to the last moment, forasmuch as adverse appearances are no infallible indica- tion of God's designs, but may give place to more comfortable symptoms, when we least expect it. Viewing the thing in this light, if I sat on his Majesty's throne, I should be as obstinate as he,* because, if I quitted the contest while I had any means of carrying it on, I should never know that I had not re- linquished what I might have retained, or be able to render a satisfactory answer to the doubts and inquiries of my own conscience. Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Jan. 17, 1782. My dear William, — I am glad we agree in our opinion of king critic,f and the writers on whom he has bestowed his animadversions. It is a matter of indifference to me whether I think with the world at large or not, but I wish my friends to be of my mind. The same work will wear a different appearance in the eyes of the same man, according to the different views with which he reads it; if merely for his amusement, his candor being in less danger of a twist from interest or prejudice, he is pleased with what is really pleasing, and is not over-curious to discover a blemish, because the exercise of a minute exactness is not consistent with his purpose. But if he once becomes a critic by trade, the case is altered. He must then, at any rate, establish, if he can, an opinion in every mind of his uncommon discernment, and his ex- quisite taste. This great end he can never accomplish by thinking in the track that has been beaten under the hoof of public judg- ment. He must endeavor to convince the world that their favorite authors have more faults than they are aware of, and such as they have never suspected. Having marked out a writer universally esteemed, whom he finds it for that very reason convenient to de- preciate and traduce, he will overlook some of his beauties, he will faintly praise others, and in such a manner as to make thousands, more modest though quite as judicious as himself, question whether they are beauties at all. Can there be a stronger illustration of all that I have said than the severity of Johnson's remarks upon Prior — I might have said the injustice ? His reputation as an au- thor, who, with much labor indeed, but with admirable success, has embellished all his poems with the most charming ease, stood * The retention of the American colonies was known to be a favorite project with George III. ; but the sense of the nation was opposed to the war, and the ex pense and reverses attending its prosecution increased tho pub- lic discontent. t Dr. Johnson. LIFE OF COWPEK. IX unshaken till Johnson thrust his head against it. And how does he attack him in this his principal fort? I cannot recollect his very words, but I am much mistaken indeed, if my memory fails me with respect to the purport of them. " His words," he says, " appear to be forced into their proper places. There indeed we find them, but find likewise that their arrangement has been the effect of con- straint, and that without violence they would certainly have stood in a different order."* By your leave, most learned Doctor, this is the most disingenuous remark I ever met with, and would have come with a better grace from Curl or Dennis. Every man con- versant with verse-writing knows, and knows by painful experience, that the familiar style is of all styles the most difficult to succeed in. To make verse speak the language of prose, without being prosaic, to marshal the words of it in such an order as they might naturally take in falling from the lips of an extemporary speaker, yet without meanness, harmoniously, elegantly, and without seeming to displace a syllable for the sake of the rhyme, is one of the most arduous tasks a poet can undertake. He that could accom- plish this task was Prior ; many have imitated his excellence in this particular, but the best copies have fallen far short of the original. And now to tell us, after we and our fathers have admired him for it so long, that he is an easy writer indeed, but that his ease has an air of stiffness in it ; in short, that his ease is not ease, but only something like it, what is it but a self-contradiction, an observation that grants what it is just going to deny, and de- nies what it has just granted, in the same sentence, and in the same breath ? — But I have filled the greatest part of my sheet with a very uninteresting subject. I will only say that, as a nation, we are not much indebted, in point of poetical credit, to this too saga- cious and unmerciful judge ; and that, for my- self in particular, I have reason to rejoice that he entered upon and exhausted the labors of his office, before my poor volume could pos- sibly become an object of them. [That Johnson, in his " Lives of the Poets," has exhibited many instances of erroneous criticism, and that he sometimes censures where he might have praised, is we believe very generally admitted. His treatment of Swift, Gay, Prior, and Gray, has excited re- gret; and Milton, though justly extolled as a sublime poet, is lashed as a republican, with Unrelenting severity.! Few will concur in j * The language in the original is as follows : " His ex- j Sression has every mark of laborious study ; the line sel- J oiJi seems to have been formed at once ; the words did \ not come till they were called, and were then put by con- i Btraint into their places, where they do their duty, but do | It sullenly." — See Lives of the Poets. t The severity of Johnson's strictures on Milton, in his Uvea of the Poets, awakened a keen sense of indignation ' Johnson's remarks on Gray's celebrated " Progress of Poetry ;" and Murphy, in speak- ing of his critique on the well-known and admired opening of " The Bard," "Ruin seize thee, ruthless king," &c, expresses a wish that it had been blot'ed out.* But Johnson was the Jupiter Ton ma of literature, and not unfrequently hurls lis thunder and darts his lightning with an air of conscious superiority, which, though it awakens terror by its power, does not always command respect for its judgment. With all these deductions, the " Lives of the Poets" is a work abounding in inimitable beauties, and is a lasting memorial of John- son's fame. It has been justly characterized as "the most brilliant, and, certainly, the most popular, of all his writings."f The most splendid passage, among many that might be in the breast of Cowper, which he has recorded in the marginal remarks, written in his own copy of that work. They are characteristic of the generous ardor of hia mind, in behalf of a man whose political views, however strong, were at least sincere and conscientious ; and the splendor of whose name ought to have dissipated the animosities of party feeling. From these curious and in- teresting comments we extract the following :— Johnson—" I know not any of the Articles which seem to thwart his opinions, but the thoughts of obedience, whether canonical or civil, roused his indignation.*' Cowper — " Candid.' 1 Johnson — " Of these Italian testimonies, poor as they are, he was proud enough to publish them before hia Soems ; though he says he cannot be suspected but to ave known that they were said, Jtfon tain de se, quam supra se." Coicpcr — u He did well." Johnson — " I have transcribed this title to show, by hia contemptuous mention of Usher, that he had now adopted a puritanical savageness of manners." Cowper — " Why is it contemptuous ? Especially, why is it savage ?" Johnson — " From this time it is observed, that he be- came an enemy to the Presbyterians, whom he had fa vored before. He that changes his party by his humor., is not more virtuous than he that changes it by his in terest. He loves himself rather than truth." Cowper — " You should have proved that he was influenced by his humor." Johnson—" It were injurious to omit, that Milton after- wards received her father and her brothers in his own house, when they were distressed, with other Royalists." Co wper— "Strong proof of a temper both forgiving and liberal." Johnson — " But, as faction seldom leaves a man hon- est, however it may find him, Milton is suspected of hav- ing interpolated the book called 'Ikon Basilike,' &c." Cowper—" A strange proof of your proposition !" Johnson — "I cannot but remark a kind of respect, per- haps unconsciously paid to this great man by his biogra- phers. Every house in which he resided is historically mentioned, as if it were an injury to neglect naming any place that he honored by his presence." Cvwper — " They have all paid him more than you." Johnson — "If he considered the Latin Secretary as ex- ercising any of the powers of Government, he that had showed authority either with the Parliament or with Cromwell, might have forborne to talk very loudly of hia honesty." Coioper — " He might if he acted on principle, talk as loudly as he pleased." Johnson— "This darkness, had his eyes been better employed, had undoubtedly deserved compassion." Cowper—" Brute !" Johnson—" That his own daughters might not break the ranks, he suffered them to be depressed by a mean and penurious education. He thought women made only for obedience, and man only for rebellion." Cowper — "And could you write this without blushing? Or hominis ."' Johnson—" Such is his malignity, that hell grows darkel at his frown." Cowper — u And at think !" * See Murphy's " Essay on the Genius of Di Johnson." + Ibid. Quoted, is perhaps the eloquent comparison instituted between the relative merits of Pope and Dryden. As Cowper alludes to this critique with satisfaction, we insert an ex- tract from it, to gratify those who are not familiar with its existence. Speaking of Dry- den, Johnson observes : " His mind has a larger range, and he collects his images and illustrations from a .more extensive circum- ference of science. Dryden knew more of man in his general nature, and Pope in his ocal manners. The notions of Dryden were formed by comprehensive speculation; and those of Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the knowledge of Dryden, and more certainty in that of Pope." Again : " Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid ; Pope is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden's page is a natural field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied exu- berance of abundant vegetation ; Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and lev- elled by the roller." " Of genius, that power which constitutes a poet; that quality without which judgment is cold, and knowledge is inert ; that energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and ani- mates ; the superiority must, with some hesi- tation, be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be inferred that of this poetical vigor Pope had only a little, because Dryden had more ; for every other writer since Milton must give place to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must be said that, if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not better poems." ,He concludes this brilliant comparison in the following words. "If the flights of Dry- den, therefore, are higher, Pope continues longer on the wing ; if of Dryden's fire the blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular and constant. Dryden often sur- passes expectation, and Pope never falls be- low it. Dryden is read with frequent aston- ishment, and Pope with perpetual delight."* We now insert the sequel of the preceding letter to Mr. Unwin.] You have already furnished John's memory with by far the greatest part of what a parent would wish to store it with. If all that is merely trivial, and all that has an immoral tendency, were expunged from our English poets, how would they shrink, and how would some of them completely vanish ! I believe there are some of Dryden's Fables, which he would find very entertaining; they are for the most part fine compositions, and not above his apprehension ; but Dryden has written few things that are not blotted here and there with an unchaste allusion, so that you must pick his way for him, lest he should tread in the dirt. You did not mention Mil- ton's "Allegro" and "Penseroso," which I * See "Life of Pope." remember being so charmed with when a boy, that I was never weary of them. There are even passages in the paradisiacal part oi " Paradise Lost," which he might study with advantage. And to teach him, as you can, to deliver some of the fine orations made in the Pandemonium, and those between Satan, Ithuriel, and Zephon, with emphasis, dignity, and propriety, might be of great use to him hereafter. The sooner the ear is formed, and the organs of speech are accustomed to the various inflections of the voice, which the rehearsal of those passages demands, the better. I should think too that Thomson's " Seasons " might afford him some useful les- sons. At least they would have a tendency to give his mind an observing and a philo- sophical turn. I do not forget that he is but a child, but I remember that he is a child fa- vored with talents superior to his years. We were much pleased with his remarks on youi alms-giving, and doubt not but it will be verified with respect to the two guineas you sent us, which have made four Christian people happy. Ships I have none, nor have touched a pencil these three years ; if ever I take it up again, which I rather suspect I shall not (the employment requiring stronger eyes than mine,) it shall be at John's service. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Jan. 31, 1782. My dear Friend, — Having thanked you for a barrel of very fine oysters, I should have nothing more to say, if I did not determine to say everything that may happen to occur. The political world affords no very agreeable subjects at present, nor am I sufficiently con- versant with it to do justice to so magnificent a theme, if it did. A man that lives as I do, whose chief occupation at this season of the year, is to walk ten times in a day from the fire-side to his cucumber frame and back again, cannot show his wisdom more, if he has any wisdom to show, than by leaving the mysteries of government to the management of persons in point of situation and informa- tion, much better qualified for the business. Suppose not, however, that I am perfectly an unconcerned spectator, or that I take no in- terest at all in the affairs of the country ; far from it — I read the news — I see that things go wrong in every quarter. I meet, now and then, with an account of some disaster that seems to be the indisputable progeny of treachery, cowardice, or a spirit of faction ; recollect that in those happier days, when you and I could spend our evening in enume- rating victories and acquisitions, that seemed to follow each other in a continued series * Private ccrespondence. LIFE OF COWPER. 123 there was some pleasure in hearing a politi- cian ; and a man might talk away upon so entertaining a subject, without danger of be- coming tiresome to others, or incurring weari- less himself. When poor Bob White brought me the news of Boscaweivs success off the coast of Portugal, how did I leap for joy ! When Hawke demolished Conflans, I was still more transported. But nothing could express my rapture, when Wolfe made the conquest of Quebec. I am not, therefore, I suppose, destitute of true patriotism; but the course of public events has, of late, af- forded me no opportunity to exert it. I can- not rejoice, because I see no reason ; and I wjll not murmur, because for that I can find no good one. And let me add, he that has seen both sides of fifty, has lived to little purpose, if he has not other views of the world than he had when he was much younger. He finds, if he reflects at all, that it will be to the end what it has been from the beginning, a shifting, uncertain, fluctuating scene ; that nations, as well as individuals, have their seasons of infancy, youth, and age. [f he be an Englishman, he will observe that ours, in particular, is affected with every symptom of decay, and is already sunk into a state of decrepitude. I am reading Mrs. Macaulay's History. I am not quite such a superannuated simpleton as to suppose that mankind were wiser or much better when I was young than they are now. But I may venture to assert, without exposing myself to the charge of dotage, that the men whose integrity, courage, and wisdom, broke the bands of tyranny, established our constitu- tion upon its true basis, and gave a people overwhelmed with the scorn of all countries an opportunity to emerge into a state of the highest respect and estimation, make a better figure in history than any of the present day are likely to do, when their petty harangues are forgotten, and nothing shall survive but the remembrance of the views and motives with which they made them. My dear friend, I have written at random, in every sense, neither knowing what senti- ments T should broach when I began, nor whether they would accord with yours. Ex- cuse a rustic, if he errs on such a subject, and believe me sincerely yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Feb. 2, 1782. My dear Friend, — Though I value your correspondence highly on its own account, I certainly value it the more in consideration of the many difficulties under which you Wrry it on. Having so many other engage- ments, a d engagements so much more wor- Ihy yoiu ttention, I ought to esteem it, as I do, a singular proof of your friendship that you so often make an opportunity to bestow a letter upon me ; and this not only because mine, which I write in a state of mind not very favorable to religious contemplations, are never worth your reading, but especially because while you consult my gratification, and endeavor to amuse my melancholy, your thoughts are forced out of the only channel in which they delight to flow, and constrained into another so different, and so little inter- esting to a mind like yours, that, but for me, and for my sake, they would perhaps never visit it. Though I should be glad therefore j to hear from you every week, J do not com- plain that I enjoy that privelege but once in a fortnight, but am rather happy to be in- dulged in it so often. I thank you for the jog you gave John- son's elbow ; communicated from him to the printer, it has produced me two more sheets, and two more will bring the business, I sup- pose, to a conclusion. I sometimes feel such a perfect indifference, with respect to the public opinion of my book, that I am ready to flatter myself no censure of reviewers or other critical readers would occasion me the smallest disturbance. But not feeling my- self constantly possessed of this desirable apathy, I am sometimes apt to suspect that it is not altogether sincere, or at least that I may lose it just at the moment when I may happen most to want it. Be it, however, as it may, I am still persuaded that it is not in their power to mortify me much. I have intended well, and performed to the best of my ability : so far was right, and this is a boast of which they cannot rob me. If they condemn my poetry, I must even say with Cervantes, " Let them do better if they can !" — if my doctrine, they judge that which they do not understand; I shall except to the jurisdiction of the court, and plead Coram non judice. Even Horace could say he should neither be the plumper for the praise nor the leaner for the commendation of his readers ; and it will prove me wanting to myself indeed, if, supported by so many sub- limer considerations than he was master of, I cannot sit loose to popularity, winch, like the wind, bloweth where it listeth, and is equally out of our command. If you, and two or three more such as you are, say, well done, it ought to give me more contentment than if I could earn Churchill's laurels, and by the same means. I wrote to Lord Dartmouth to apprise him of my intended present, and have received a most affectionate and obliging answer. I am rather pleased that you have adopted other sentiments respecting our intended present to the critical Doctor* I allow him to be a man of gigantic talents and «:«*»> * Dr. Jot 124 COWPER'S WORKS. profound learning, nor have I any doubts about the universality of his knowledge : but, by what I have seen of his animadversions on the poets, I feel myself much disposed to question, in many instances, either his can- dor or his taste. He finds fault too often, like a man that, having sought it very indus- triously, is at last obliged to stick it on a pin's point, and look at it through a micro- scope ; and, I am sure, I could easily convict him of having denied many beauties and overlooked more. Whether his judgment be in itself defective, or whether it be warped by collateral considerations, a writer upon such subjects as I have chosen would proba- bly find but little mercy at his hands. No winter, since we knew Olney, has kept us more confined than the present. We have not more than three times escaped into the fields since last autumn. Man, a change- able creature in himself, seems to subsist best in a state of variety, as his proper ele- ment: — a melancholy man, at least, is apt to grow sadly weary of the same walks, and the same pales, and to find that the same scene will suggest the same thoughts perpetually. Though I have spoken of the utility of changes, we neither feel nor wish for any in our friendships, and consequently stand just where we did with respect to your whole self. Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. Olney, Feb. 9, 1782. My dear Friend, — I thank you for Mr. Lowth's verses. They are so good that, had I been present when he spoke them, I should have trembled for the boy, lest the man should disappoint the hopes such early genius had given birth to. It is not common to see so lively a fancy so correctly managed, and so free from irregular exuberance, at so un- experienced an age, fruitful, yet not wan- ton, and gay without being tawdry. When school-boys write verse, if they have any fire at all, it generally spends itself in flashes and transient sparks, which may indeed suggest an expectation of something better hereafter, but deserve not to be much commended for any real merit of their own. Their wit is generally forced and false, and their sublim- ity, if they affect any, bombast. I remember well when it was thus with me, and when a turgid, noisy, unmeaning speech in a tragedy, which I should now laugh at, afforded me raptures, and filled me with wonder. It is not in general till reading and observation have settled the taste that we can give the prize k) the best writing in preference to the worst. Much less are we able to execute what is good ourselves. But Lowth seems to have stepped into excellence at once, and to hav« gained by intuition what we little folks are happy if we can learn at last, after much la- bor of our own and instruction of others. The compliments he pays to the memory of King Charles he would probably now retract though he be 5, bishop, and his majesty's zeal for episcopacy was one of the causes of his ruin. An age or two must pass before some characters can be properly understood. The spirit of party employs itself in veiling their faults and ascribing to them virtues which they never possessed. See Charles's face drawn by Clarendon, and it is a hand- some portrait. See it more justly exhibit- ed by Mrs. Macaulay, and it is deformed to a degree that shocks us. Every feature expresses cunning, employing itself in the maintaining of tyranny ; and dissimulation, pretending itself an advocate for truth. My letters have already apprized you of that close and intimate connexion that took place between the lady you visited in Queen Anne's street and us.* Nothing could be more promising, though sudden in the com- mencement. She treated us with as much unreservedness of communication as if we had been born in the same house and edu- cated together. At her departure, she her- self proposed a correspondence, and because writing does not agree with your mother, proposed a correspondence with me. By her own desire, I wrote to her under the assumed relation of brother, and she to me as my sister. I thank you for the search you have made after my intended motto, but I no longer need it. Our love is always with yourself and family. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. Lady Austen returned in the following summer to the house of her sister, situated on the brow of a hill, the foot of which is washed by the river Ouse, as it flows between Clifton and Olney. Her benevolent ingenuity was exerted to guard the spirit of Cowper from sinking again into that hypochondriacal dejection to which, even in her company, he still sometimes discovered an alarming ten- dency. To promote his occupation and amusement, she furnished him with a smalJ portable printing press, and he gratefully sent her the following verses printed by himself, and enclosed in a billet that alludes to the occasion on which they were composed — a very unseasonable flood, that interrupted the communication between Clifton and Olney, To watch the storms, and hear the sky Give all our almanacks the lie ; To shake with cold, and see the plains In autumn drown'd with wintry rains ; * Lady Austen. LIFE OF COWPER, 131 "Tis thus I spend my moments here, And wish myself a Dutch mynheer; I then should have no need of wit ; For lumpish Hollander unfit ! Nor should I then repine at mud, Or meadows deluged with a flood ; But in a bog live well content, And find it just my element; Should be a clod, and not a man ; Nor wish in vain for Sister Ann, With charitable aid to drag My mind out of its proper quag ; Should have the genius of a boor, And no ambition to have more. My dear Sister, — You see my beginning — I do not know but in time, I may proceed even to the printing of halfpenny ballads — excuse the coarseness of my paper — I wasted such a quantity before I could accomplish anything legible that I could not afford finer. I intend to employ an ingenious mechanic of the town to make me a longer case : for you may observe that my lines turn up their tails like Dutch mastiffs, so difficult do I find it to make the two halves exactly coincide with each other. We wait with impatience for the departure of this unseasonable flood. We think of you, and talk of you, but we can do no more till the waters shall subside. I do not think our correspondence should drop because we are within a mile of each other. It is but an imaginary approximation, the flood having in reality as effectually parted us as if the Brit- ish channel rolled "between us. Yours, my dear sister, with Mrs. Unwin's best love, W. C. A flood Jthat precluded him from the con- versation of such an enlivening friend was to Cowper d serious evil ; but he was happily relieved from the apprehension of such disap- pointment in future, by seeing the friend so pleasing and so useful to him very comfort- ably settled as his next-door neighbor. An event so agreeable to the poet was occasioned by circumstances of a painful nature, related .n a letter to Mr. Unwin, which, though it bears no date of month or year, seems pro- perly to claim insertion in this place. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. My dear William, — The modest terms in which you express yourswf on the subject of Lady Austen's commendation embolden me to add my suffrage to hers, and to confirm it by assuring you that I think her just and well- founded in her opinion of you. The compli- ment indeed glances at myself; for, were you less than she accounts you, I ought not to afford you that place in my esteem which you have held so long. My own sagacity, there- fore, and discernment are not a little con- cerned upon the occasion, for either you resemble the picture, or I have strangelv mistaken my man, and formed an erroneous jndgment of his character. With respect to your face and figure, indeed, there I leave the ladies' to determine, as being naturally best qualified to decide the point; but whether you are perfectly the man of sense and tne gentleman, is a question in which I am as much interested as they, and which, you be- ing my friend, I am of course prepared to settle in your favor. The lady (whom, when you know her as well, you will love her as much, as we do) is, and has been, during the last fortnight, a part of our family. Before she was perfectly restored to health, she re- turned to Clifton. Soon after she-came back, Mr. Jones had occasion to go to London. No sooner was he gone than the chateau, be- ing left without a garrison, was besieged as regularly as the night came on. Villains were both heard and seen in the garden, and at the doors and windows. The kitchen window in particular was attempted, from which they took a complete pane of glass, exactly oppo- site to the iron by which it was fastened, but providentially the window had been nailed to the wood- work in order to keep it close, and that the air might be excluded ; thus they were disappointed, and, being discovered by the maid, withdrew. The ladies, being worn out with continual watching and repeated alarms, were at last prevailed upon to take refuge with us. Men furnished with firearms were put into the house, and the rascals, having intelligence of this circumstance, beat a re- treat. Mr. Jones returned; Mrs. Jones and Miss Green, her daughter, left us, but Lady Austen's spirits having been too much dis- turbed to be able to repose in a place where she had been so much terrified, she was left behind. She remains with us till her lodg ings at the vicarage can be made ready for her reception. I have now sent you what has occured of moment in our history since my last. I say amen with all my heart to your ob- servation on religious characters. Men who profess themselves adepts in mathematical knowledge, in astronomy, or jurisprudence, are generally as "well qualified as they would appear. The reason may be, that they are always liable to detection should they at- tempt to impose upon mankind, and therefore take care to be what they pretend. In re- ligion alone a profession is often slightly taken up and slovenly carried on, because, forsooth, candor and charity require us to hope the best, and to judge favorably of our neighbor, and because it is easy to deceive the ignorant, who are a great majority, upon this subject. Let a man attach himself to a particular party, contend furiously for what are properly called evangelical doctrines, and enlist himself under the banner of some 126 COWPER'S WORKS. popular preacher, and the business is done. Behold a Christian ! a saint ! a phoenix ! In the meantime, perhaps, his heart and his temper, and even his conduct, are unsancti- fied ; possibly less exemplary than those of some avowed infidels. No matter — he can talk — he has the Shibboleth of the true church — -the Bible in his pocket, and a head well stored with notions. But the quiet, humble, modest, and peaceable person, who is in his practice what the other is only in his profession, who hates a noise, and therefore makes none, who, knowing the snares that are in the world, keeps himself as much out of it as he can, and never enters it but when duty calls, and even then with fear and trembling — is the Christian, that will al- ways stand highest in the estimation of those who bring all characters to the test of true wisdom, and judge of the tree by its fruit. You are desirous of visiting the prisoners ; you wish to administer to their necessities, and to give them instruction. This task you will undertake, though you expect to en- counter many things in the performance of it that will give you pain. Now this I can understand — you will, not listen to the sensi- bilities that distress yourself, but to the dis- tresses of others. Therefore, when I meet with one of the specious praters above men- tioned, I will send him to Stock, that by your diffidence he may be taught a lesson of mod- esty ; by your generosity, a little feeling for others ; and by your general conduct,- in short, to chatter less and do more. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Feb. 16, 1782. Carraccioli says — " There is something very bewitching in authorship, and that he who has once written will write again." It may be so ; I can subscribe to the former part of his assertion from my own experience, having never found an amusement, among the many I have been obliged to have re- course to, that so well answered the purpose for which I used it. The quieting and com- posing effect of it was such, and so totally absorbed have I sometimes been in my rhym- ing occupation, that neither the past nor the future (those themes which to me are so fruit- ful in regret at other times) had any longer a share in my contemplation. For this reason, I wish, and have often wished, since the fit left me, that it would seize me again ; but hitherto I have wished it in vain. I see no want of subjects, but I feel a total dis- ability to discuss them. Whether it is thus witn other writers or not I am ignorant, but I should suppose my case 'in this respect a Uttle peculiar. The voluminous writers, at least, whose vein of fancy seems always to have been rich in proportion to their oc* casions^annot have been so unlike and so unequal to themselves. There is this differ- ence between my poetship and the generality of them — they have been ignorant how much they have stood indebted to an Almighty power for the exercise of those taients they have supposed their own. Whereas I know, and know most perfectly, and am perhaps to b* taught it to the last, that my power to think whatever it be, and consequently my power to compose, is, as much as my outward form, afforded to me by the same hand thaf makes me in any respect to differ from a brute. This lesson, if not constantly inculcated, might perhaps be forgotten, or at least too slightly remembered. - W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Feb. 24, 1782. My dear Friend, — If I should receive a letter from you to-morrow, you must still remember, that I am not in your debt, hav- ing paid you by anticipation. Knowing that you take an interest in my publication, and that you have waited for it with some im- patience, I write to inform you, that, if it is possible for a printer to be punctual, I shall come forth on the first of March. I have ordered two copies to Stock; one for Mr. John Unwin. It is possible, after all, that my book may come forth without a preface. Mr. Newton has written (he could indeed write no other) a very sensible, as well as a very friendly one : and it is printed. But the bookseller, who knows him well, and es- teems him highly, is anxious to have it can- celled, and, with my consent first obtained, has offered to negotiate that matter with the author. He judges, that, though it would serve to recommend the volume to the re- ligious, it would disgust the profane, and that there is in reality no need of a preface at all. I have found Johnson a very judi- cious man on other occasions, and am there- fore willing that he should determine for me upon this. There are but few persons to whom I pre- sent my book. The Lord Chancellor is one. I enclose in a" packet I send by this post to Johnson a letter to his lordship, which will accompany the volume ; and to you I en- close a copy of it, because I know you will have a friendly curiosity to see it. An au- thor is an important character. Whatever his merits may be, the mere circumstance of authorship warrants his approach to persons whom otherwise perhaps he could hardly ad- dress without being deemed impertinent. He can do me no good. If I should happen to do him a little, I shall be a greater man thai? LIFE OF COWPER. 12* ■e. I have ordered a copy likewise to Mr. Smith. Yours, W. C. TO LORD THCRLOW. (EN-CLOSED TO MR. UXWIX.) • Olney, Bucks. Feb. 25. I78BL My Lord, — I make no apology for what I account a duty. I should offend against the cordiality of our former friendship should I send a volume into the world, and forget how much I am bound to pay my particular respects to your lordship upon that occasion. When we parted, you little thought of hear- ing from me again : and I as little that I should live to write to you. still less that I should wait on you in the capacity of an author. Among the pieces I have the honor to send there is one for which I must entreat your pardon : I mean that of which your lordship is the subject. The best excuse I can make is, that it riowed almost spontane- ously from the affectionate remembrance of a connexion that did me so much honor. A- to the rest, their merits, if they have any, and their defects, which are probably more than I am aware of, will neither of them escape your notice. But where there is much discernment, there is generally much candor : and I commit myself into your lord- ship's hands with the less anxiety, being well acquainted with yours. If my first visit, after so long an interval, should prove neither a troublesome nor a dull one, but especially, if not altogether an un- profitable one, omne tidit punctum. I have the honor to be, though with very different impressions of some subjects, yet with the same sentiments of affection and esteem as ever, your lordship's faithful and most obedient, humble servant, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Feb., 1782. My dear Friend, — I enclose Johnson's let- ter upon the subject of the Preface, and would send you my reply to it, if I had kept a copy. This however was the purport of it. That Mr. , whom I described as you described him to me, had made a similar ob- jection, but that, being willing to hope that two or three pages of sensible matter, well expressed, might possibly go down, though of a religious cast. I was resolved to believe him mistaken, and to pay no regard to it. That his judgment, however, who by his occupation is bound to understand what will promote the sale of a book, and what will hinder it, seemed to deserve more attention. That therefore, v ording to his own offer, written on a small slip of paper now lost, a should be obliged to him if he would state his difficulties to you ; adding, I need not inform Mm, who is so well acquainted with you, that he would find you easy to be per- suaded to sacrifice, if necessary, what you had written, to the interests of the book. I find he has had an interview with you upon the occasion, and your behavior in it has verified my prediction. What course he de- termines upon, I do not know, nor am I at all anxious about it. It is impossible for me, however, to be so insensible of your kindness in writing the Preface, as not to be desirous of defying all contingencies, rather than entertain a wish to suppress it. It will do me honor in the eyes of those whose good opinion is indeed an honor ; and if it hurts me in the estimation of others, I camiot help it ; the fault is neither yours, nor mine, but theirs. If a minister's is a more splendid character than a poet's, and I think nobody that understands their vaiue can hesitate in deciding that question, then undoubtedly the advantage of having our names united in the same volume is all on my side. We thank you for the Fast-sermon. I had not read two pages before I exclaimed — the man has read Expostulation. But though there is a strong resemblance between the two pieces, in point of matter, and some- times the very same expressions are to be met with, yet I soon recollected that, on such a theme, a striking coincidence of both might happen without a wonder. I doubt not that it is the production of an hones* man, it carries with it an air of sincerity an zeal that is not easily counterfeited. But, though I can see no reason why kings should not hear sometimes of their faults as well as other men, I think I see many good ones why they should not be reproved so publicly. It can hardly be done with that respect which is due to their office, on the part of the author, or without encouraging a spirit of unmannerly censure in his readers. His majesty too. perhaps, might answer — my own personal feelings, and offences, I am ready to confess, but were I to follow your advice, and cashier the profligate from my service, where must I seek men of faith and true Christian piety, qualified by nature and by education to succeed them ? Business must be done, men of business alone can do it, and good men are rarely found, under that description. When Xathan reproved David, he did not employ a herald, or accompany his charge with the sound of the trumpet ; nor can I think the writer of this sermon quite justifiable in exposing the king's faults in the sight of the people. Your answer respecting iEtna is quite sat- isfactory, and gives me much pleasure. 1 hate altering, though I never refuse the task 128 COWPER'S WORKS. when propriety seems to enjoin it ; and an alteration in this instance, if I am not mis- taken, would have been singularly difficult. Indeed, when a piece has been finished two or three years, and an author finds occasion to amend" or make an addition to it, it is not easy to fall upon the very vein from which he drew his ideas in the first instance, but either a different turn of thought or expres- sion will betray the patch, and convince a reader of discernment that it has been cob- bled and varnished. Our love to you both, and to the young Euphrosyne ; the old lady of that name be- Jig long since dead, if she pleases, she shall Sll her vacant office, and be my muse here- -fter. Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, March 6, 1782. Is peace the nearer because our patriots nave resolved that it is desirable ? Will the victory they have gained in the House of Commons be attended with any other ? Do they expect the same success on other occa- sions, and, having once gained a majority, are they to be the majority forever ?* These are the questions we agitate by the fire-side in an evening, without being able to come to any certain conclusion, partly, I suppose, be- cause the subject is in itself uncertain, and partly, because we are not furnished with the means of understanding it. I find the politics of times past more intelligible than those of the present. Time has thrown light upon what was , obscure, and decided what was ambiguous. The characters of great men, which are always mysterious while they live, are ascertained by the faithful his- torian, and sooner or later receive the wages of fame or infamy, according to their true deserts. How have I seen sensible, and learned men burn incense to the memory of Oliver Cromwell, ascribing to him, as the greatest hero in the world, the dignity of the British empire, during the interregnum. A century passed before that idol, which seemed to be of gold, was proved to be a wooden one. The fallacy, however, was at length detected, and the honor of that detec- tion has fallen to the share of a woman. I do not know whether you have read Mrs. Macaulay's history of that period. She has handled him more roughly that the Scots did at the battle of Dunbar. He would have thought it little worth his while to have broken through all obligations divine and * The nation was growing weary of the American war, especially since the surrender of Lord Comwallis's army »t York Town, and the previous capture of General Bur- goyne's at Saratoga. The ministry at this time were fre- quently odtvoted, and Lord North's administration was Utimately dissolved. human, to have wept crocodile's tears, and wrapped himself up in the obscurity of speeches that nobody could understand, could he have foreseen that, in the ensuing century, a lady's scissors would clip his lau- rels close, and expose his naked villainy to the scorn of all posterity. This however has been accomplished, and so effectually, that I suppose it is not in the power cf the most artificial management to make them grow again. Even the sagacious of man- kind are blind, when Providence leaves them to be deluded ; so blind, that a tyrant shall be mistaken for a true patriot : true patriots (such were the long Parliament) shall be ab- horred as tyrants, and almost a whole nation shall dream that they have the full enjoy, ment of liberty, for years after such a com- plete knave as Oliver shall have stolen it completely from them. I am indebted for all this show of historical knowledge to Mr. Bull, who has lent me five volumes of the work I mention. I was willing to display it while I have it ; in a twelvemonth's time, I shall remember almost nothing of the matter. . W. C. It has been the lot of Cromwell to be praised too little or too much. Of his politi- cal delinquencies, and gross hypocrisy, there can be only one opinion. But those who are conversant with that period well know how the genius of Mazarine, the minister of Louis XIII., was awed by the decision and boldness of Cromwell's character ; that Smin and Holland experienced a signal humilia- tion, and that the victories of Admiral Blake at that crisis are among the most brilliant records of our naval fame. It was in allu- sion to these triumphs that Waller remarks, in his celebrated panegyric on the Lord Pro- tector, " The seas our own, and now all nations greet, With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet. Your power extends as far as winds can blow, Or swelling sails upon the globe may go."* We add the following anecdote recorded of Waller, though it is probably familiar to many of our readers. On Charles's resto- ration the poet presented that prince with a congratulatory copy of verses, when the king shortly afterwards observed, "You wrote better verses on Cromwell ;" to which Wal- ler replied, " Please your majesty, we poets always succeed better in fiction than in truth." TO THE REV. WM. UNWIN. Olney, March 7, 1782. My dear Friend,— We have great pleasure in the contemplation of your northern jour- ney, as it promises us a sight of you and * Walter's Panegyric to my Lord Protector, 1654. L^FE OF COWPER. 123 yours by the way, and are only sorry Miss Shuttleworth cannot be of the party. A line to ascertain the hour when we may expect you, by the next preceding post, will be welcome. It is not much for my advantage that the printer delays so long to gratify your ex- pectation. It is a state of mind that is apt to tire and disconcert us; and there are but few pleasures that make us amends for the pain of repeated disappointment. I take it for granted you have not received the vol- ume, not having received it myself, nor in- deed heard from Johnson, since he fixed the first of the month for its publication. What a medley are our public prints ! Half the page rilled with the ruin of the country ; and the other half rilled with the vices and pleasures of it — here is an island taken, and there a new comedy — here an empire lost, and there an Italian opera, or a lord's rout on a Sunday ! " May it please your lordship ! I am an Englishman, and must stand or fall with the nation. Religion, its true palladium, has been stolen away; and it is crumbling into dust. Sin ruins us, the sins of the great especially, and of their sins especially the violation of the sabbath, because it is natu- rally productive of all the rest. If you wish well to our arms, and would be glad to see the kingdom emerging from her ruins, pay more respect to an ordinance that deserves the deepest ! I do not say, pardon this short remonstrance! The concern I feel for my country, and the interest I have in its pros- perity, give me a right to make it. I am, &e." Thus one might write to his lordship, and (I suppose) might be as profitably employed in whistling the tune of an old ballad. I have no copy of the Preface, nor do I know at present how Johnson and Mr. New- ton have settled it. In the matter of it there was nothing offensively peculiar. But it was thought too pious. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. It is impossible to read this passage with- out very painful emotions. How low must have been the state of religion at that period, when the introduction of a Preface to the Poems of Cowper, by the Rev. John New- ton, was sufficient to endanger their popu- larity. We are at the same time expressly assured, that there was nothing in the Pref- ace offensively peculiar ; and that the only charge alleged against it was that of its be- ing " too pious." What a melancholy .pic- ture does this single fact present of the state of religion in those days ; and with what sentiment'- of gratitude ought we to hail the great moral revolution that has since oc- curred ! Witness the assemblage of so many Christian charities, our Bible, Missionary, Jewish, and Tract Societies, which, to use the. emphatic language of Burke, "like so many non-conductors, avert the impending wrath of heaven !" Witness the increasing instances of rank ennobled by piety, and consecrated to its advancement ! Witness too tb° entrance of religion into our seats of learning, and into °ome of our public schools, thus presenting the delightful spectacle of classic taste and knowledge in alliance with heavenly wisdom. To these causes of pious gratitude we may add the revival of religion among our clergy, and generally among the ministers of the sanctuary, till we are con- strained to exclaim, " How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bring- eth good tidings, that publisheth peace, that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth !"* *We trust that we a:e indulging in no vain ex- pectation, when we express our firm persua- sion, that the dawn of a brighter day is ar- rived ; and though we see, both at home and on the comment of Europe, much over which piety may weep and tremble, while idolatry and superstition spread their thick veil of darkness over the largest portion of the globe, still, notwithstanding all these impedi- ments and discouragements, we believe that the materials for the moral amelioration of mankind are all prepared; and that nothing but the fire of the Eternal Spirit is wanting, to kindle them into flame and splendor. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, March 14, 178?, My dear Friend,— 1 can only repeat wha 1 said some time since, that the world i- grown more foolish and careless than it was when I had the honor of knowing it. Though your Preface was of a serious cast, it was yet free from everything that might with propriety expose it to the charge of xMethod- ism, being guilty of no offensive peculiari- ties, nor containing any of those obnoxious doctrines at which the world is apt to be an- gry, and which we must ofive her leave to be angry at, because we know she cannot help it. It asserted nothing more than every rational creature must admit to be true — " that divine and earthly things can no longer stand in competition with each other, in the judgment of any man, than while he continues igno- rant of their respective value ; and that the moment the eyes are opened, the latter are always cheerfully relinquished for the sake of the former." Now I do most certainly remember the time when such a proposition as this would have been at least supportable, and when it would not have spoiled the market of any volume to which it had been prefixed ; ergo — the times are altered for the worse. I have reason to be very much satisfied with my publisher — he marked such lines as * Isaiah Hi. 7. !> 130 COWPER'S WORKS did not please him, and, as often as I could, I paid all possible respect to his animadver- sions. You will accordingly find, at least if you recollect how they stood in the MS., thai several passages are better for having undergone h ; s critical notice. Indeed I know not where I could have found a bookseller who could have pointed out to me my de- fects with more discernment; and as I find it is a fashion for modern bards to publish the names of the literati who have favored their works with a revisal, would myself most willingly have acknowledged my obli- gations to Johnson, and so I told him. I am to thank you likewise, and ought to have ione it in the first place, for having recom- mended to me the suppression of some lines, which I am now more than ever convinced would at least have done me no honor. W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, March 14, 1782. My dear Friend, — As servant-maids, and such sort of folks, account a letter good for nothing, unless it begins with — This comes hoping you are well, as I am at this present : so I should be chargeable with a great omis- sion, were I not to make frequent use of the following grateful exordium — Many thanks for a fine cod and oysters. Your bounty never arrived more seasonably. I had just been observing that, among other deplorable effects of the war, the scarcity of fish which it occasioned was severely felt at Olney ; but your plentiful supply immediately reconciled .me, though not to the war, yet to my small share in the calamities it produces. I hope my bookseller has paid due atten- tion to the order I gave him to furnish you with my books. The composition of those pieces afforded me an agreeable amusement at intervals, for about a twelvemonth ; and I should be glad to devote the leisure hours of another twelvemonth to the same occu- pation ; at least, if my lucubrations should meet with a favorable acceptance. But I cannot write when I would ; and whether I shall find readers is a problem not yet decided. So the Muse and I are parted for the present. I sent Lord Thurlow a volume, and the following letter with it, which I communicate because you will undoubtedly have some cu- riosity to see it.f Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, March 18, 1782. My dear Friend, — Nothing has given me so much pleasure, since the publication of my rolume, as your favorable opinion of it. It * Private correspondence. < This letter lias been inserted in the preceding pages. may possibly meet with acceptance from hun- dreds, whose commendation would afford m« no other satisfaction than what I should find in the hope that it might do them good. I have some neighbors in this place, who say they like it; doubtless 1 had rather they should than that they should not, but I know them to be persons of no more taste in poetry than skill in the mathematics; their applause, therefore, is a sound that has no music in it for me. But my vanity was not so entirely quiescent when I read your friendly account of the manner it had affected you. It was tickled, and pleased, and told me in a pretty loud whisper, that others, perhaps, of whose taste and judgment I had a high opinion, would approve it too. As a giver of good counsel, I wish to please all ; as an author, I am perfectly indifferent to the judgment of all, except the few who are indeed judicious. The circumstance, however, in your letter which pleased me most, was, that you wrote in high spirits, and, though you said much, suppressed more, lest you should hurt my delicacy ; my delicacy is obliged to you, but you observe it is not so squeamish but that after it has feasted upon praise expressed, it can find a comfortable dessert in the content- plation of praise implied. -I now feel as if I should be glad to begin another volume,. bui from the will to the power is a step too wick for me to take at present, and the season of the year brings with it so many avocations into the garden, where I am my own fac-totum, that I have little or no leisure for the quill. I should do myself much wrong, were I to omit mentioning the great complacency with which I read your narrative of Mrs. Unwin's smiles and tears; persons of much sensibility are always persons of taste ; and a taste for poetry depends indeed upon that very article more than upon any other. If she had Aris- totle by heart, I should not esteem her judg- ment so highly, were she defective in point of feeling, as I do and must esteemit, know- ing her to have such feelings as Aristoti* could not communicate, and as half the reac* ers in the world are destitute of. This it i that makes me set so" high a price upon your mothers opinion. She is a critic by nature and not by rule, and has a perception of what is good or bad in composition that I never knew deceive her, insomuch that when two sorts of expression have pleaded equally for the precedence in my own esteem, and I have referred, as in such cases I always did, the decision of the point to her, I never knew her at a loss for a just one. Whether x shall receive any answer from his Chancellorship* or not, is at Dresent ir. ambiguo, and will probably continue in the same state of ambiguity much longer. He is so busy a man, and at this time, if the paperv * Lord Thurtow. may be credited, so particularly busy, that I am forced to mortify myself with the thought, that both my book and my letter may be thrown into a corner, as too insignificant for a statesman's notice, and never found till his executor finds them. This affair, however, is neither at my libitum nor his. I have sent him the truth. He that put it into the heart of a certain eastern monarch to amuse himself, one sleepless night, with listening to the rec- ords of his kingdom, is able to give birth to such another occasion, and inspire his lord- ship with a curiosity to know what he has received from a friend he once loved and valued. If an answer comes, however, you shall not long be a stranger to the contents of it. I have read your letter to their worships, and much approve of it. May it have the de- sired effect it ought ! If not, still you have acted a humane and becoming part, and the poor aching toes and fingers of The prisoners will not appear in judgment against you. I have made a slight alteration in the last sen- tence, which perhaps you will not disapprove. Yours ever, W. C. The conclusion of the preceding letter al- ludes to an application made by Mr. Unwin to the magistrates, for some warmer clothing for the prisoners in Chelmsford gaol. It is a gratifying reflection, that the whole system of prison discipline has undergone an entire revision since the above period. This reformation first commenced under the great philanthropist Howard, who devoted his life to the prosecution of so benevolent an object, and finally fell a victim to his zeal. Subse- quently, and in our own times, the system has been extended still further ; and the names of a Gurney, a Buxton, a Hoare, and others, will long be remembered with gratitude, as the friends and benefactors of these outcasts of society. One more effort was still wanting to complete this humane enterprise, viz., to en- deavor to eradicate the habits of vice, and to implant the seeds of virtue. This attempt has been made by Mrs. Fry and her excellent female associates in the prison of Newgate : and the result, in some instances, has proved that no one, however depraved, is beyond the reach of mercy ; and that divine truth, con- veyed with zeal, and in the accents of Chris- tian love and kindness, seldom fails to pene- trate into the heart and conscience. The unwillingness with which the mind receives the consolations of religion, when aborfng under an illusion, is painfully evinced n the following letter : — TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, March 24, 1782 My dear Friend, — I was not unacquahnud * Private correspondence. with Mr. B 's extraordinary case* befora you favored me with his letter and his in- tended dedication to the Queen, though I am obliged to you for a sight of those two curi- osities, which I do not recollect to have ever seen till you sent them. I could, however were it not a subject that would make us all melancholy, point out to you some essential differences between his state of mind and my own. which would prove mine to be by far the most deplorable of the two. I suppose no man would despair, if he did not apprehend something singular in the circumstances of his own story, something that discriminates it from that of every other man, and that in- duces despair as an inevitable consequence. You may encounter his unhappy persuasion witli as many instances as you please of per- sons who, like him, having renounced all hope, were yet restored; and may thence infer that he, like them, shall meet with a season of restoration — but it is in vain. Every such individual accounts himself an exception to all rules, and Therefore the blessed reverse that others have experienced affords no ground of comfortable expectation to him. But, you will say, it is reasonable to conclude, that a*- all your predecessors in this vale of misery and horror have found themselves delightful- ly disappointed at last, so will you :— I grant the reasonableness of it : it would be sinful, perhaps, because uncharitable, to reason oth- erwise ; but an argument, hypothetical in its nature, however rationally conducted, may lead to a false conclusion; and, in this in- stance, so will yours. But I forbear. For the cause above mentioned, I will say no more, though it is a subject on which I could write more than the mail would carry. 1 must deal with you as I deal with poor Mrs. Unwin, in all our disputes about it, cutting all controversy short by an appeal to the event. W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWLN. Olney, April 1, 17 ;. My dear Friend, — I could not have found a * The person here alluded to is Simon Browne, a learned Dissenting minister, born at Shepton Mallet, about the year 1680. He labored under a most extraor- dinary species of mental derangement, which led him to believe "thai God hud in a gradual manner annihilated in him the thinking substance, and utterly divested him of consciousness ; and that, although he retained the hu- man shape, and the faculty of speaking, in a manner that appeared toothers rational, he had all the while no more not ion of what he said than a parrot." His intellectual faculties were not in any way affected by this singular alienation of n.bid, in proof of which he published many theological works, written with groat clearness and vigor of thought. He addressed a Dedication to Queen Caroline, in which he details the peculiarities of his ex- traordinary case, but his friends prevented its publica tion. It was subsequently inserted in No. 83 of the " Ad venturer." Such was the force of his delusion, that he considered himself no longer to be a moral agent: he de- sisted from his ministerial functions, and could never b< induced to engage in any act of worship, public or fri Tate. In this state he died, in UV year 1.3-1 aged rift) five years. 132 COWP,ER'S WORKS. better trumpeter. Your zeal to serve the in- terest of my volume, together with your ex- tensive acquaintance, qualify you perfectly for that most useful office. Methinks I see' you with the long tube at your mouth, proclaim- ing to your numerous connexions my poetical merits, and at proper intervals levelling it at Olney, and pouring- into my ear the welcome sound of their approbation. I need not en- courage you to proceed ; your breath will never iailjn such a cause; and, thus encour- aged, I myself perhaps may proceed also, and, when the versifying tit returns, produce anoth- er volume. Alas ! we shall never receive such commendations from him on the woolsack as your good friend has lavished upon us. Whence I learn that, however important I may be in my own eyes, I am very insignifi- cant in his. To make me amends, however, for this mortification, Mr. Newton tells me that my book is likely to run, spread, and pros- per; that the grave cannot help smiling, and the gay are struck with the truth of it; and that it is likely to find its way into his Ma- jesty's hands, being put into a proper course for that purpose. Now, if the King should fall in love with my muse, and with you for her sake, such an event would make us am- ple amends for the Chancellor's indifference, and you might be the first divine that ever reached a mitre, from the shoulders of a poet. But (I believe) we must be content, I with my gains, if I gain anything, and you with the pleasure of knowing that I am a gainer. We laughed heartily at your answer to lit- tle John's question ; and yet I think you might have given him a direct answer — " There are various sorts of cleverness, my dear. — I do not know that mine lies in the poetical way, but I can do ten times more towards the entertainment of company in the way of conversation than our friend at Olney. He can ryhme and I can rattle. If he had my talent, or I had his, we should be too charm- ing, and the world would almost adore us." Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, April 27, 1782. My dear William, — A part of Lord Har- rington's new-raised corps have taken up their quarters at Olney, since you left us. They have the regimental music with them. The men have been drawn up this morning upon the Market-hill, and a concert, such as we have not heard these many years, has been performed at no great distance from our window. Your mother and I both thrust our heads into the coldest east wind that ever blew in April, that we might hear them to greater advantage. The band acquitted them- selves with taste and propriety, not blairing, like trumpeters at a fair, but producing gentle and elegant symphony, such as charmed oui ears and convinced us that no length of time can wear out a taste for harmony, and that though plays, balls, and masquerades, have lost all their power to please us, and we should find them not only insipid but insup- portable, yet sweet music is sure to find a corresponding faculty in the soul, a sensi- bility that lives to the last, which even re- ligion itself does not extinguish. When we objected to your coming for a single night, it was only in the way of argu- ment, and in hopes to prevail on you to con- trive a longer abode with us. But rather than riot see you at all, we should be glad of you though but for an hour. If the paths should be clean enough, and we are able to walk, (for you know we cannot ride,) we will endeavor to meet you in Weston-park. But I mention no particular hour, that I may not lay you under a supposed obligation to be punctual, which might be difficult at the end of so long a journey. Only, if the weather be favorable, you shall find us there in the evening. It is winter in the south, perhaps therefore it may be spring at least, if not summer, in the north ; for I have read that it is warmest in Greenland when it is coldest here. Be that as it may, we may hope at the hitter end of such an April, that the first change of wind will improve the season. The curate's simile Latinized — Sors adversa gerit stimulura, sed tendit et alas : Pungit api similis, sed velut ista fugit. What a dignity there is in the Roman lan- guage ; and what an idea it gives us of the good sense and masculine mind of the people that spoke it ! The same thought which, clothed in English, seems childish and even foolish, assumes a different air in Latin, and makes at least as good an epigram as some of Martial's. I remember your making an observation, when here, on the subject of " parentheses," to which I acceded without limitation ; but a little attention will convince us both that they are not to be universally condemned. When they abound, and when they are long, they both embarrass the sense, and are a proof that the writer's head is cloudy ; that he has not properly arranged his matter, or is not well skilled in the graces of expression. But, as parenthesis is ranked by grammarians among the figures of rhetoric, we may suppose they had a reason for conferring that honor upon it. Accordingly we shall find that, in the use of some of our finest writers, as well as in the hands of the ancient poets and orators, it has a peculiar elegance, and imparts a beauty which the period would want without it. 'Hoc nemus hunc, inquit, frondoso vertice collern (Q,uis deus incertum est") habitat deus." Virg. ffin. 8. LIFE OF COWPER. 183 In this instance, the first that occurred, it is graceful. I have not time to seek for more, nor room to insert them. But your own ob- servation, I believe, will confirm my opinion. Yours ever, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, May 27, 1782. My dear Friend, — Rather ashamed of having been at all dejected by the censure of % the Critical Reviewers, who certainly could not read without prejudice a book replete with opinions and doctrines to which they cannot subscribe, I have at present no liitle occasion to keep a strict guard upon my vanity, lest it should be too much flattered by the following eulogium. I send it to you for the reasons I gave, when I imparted to you some other anecdotes of a similar kind, while we were together. Our interests in the success of this same volume are so closely united, that you must share with me in the praise or blame that attends it; and, sympathizing with me under the burden of injurious treatment, have a right to enjoy with me the cordials I now and then receive, as I happen to meet with more candid and favorable judges. A merchant, a friend of ours,* (you will soon guess him,) sent my Poems to one of the first philosophers, one of the most emi- nent literary characters, as well as one of the most important in the political world, that the present age can boast of. Now perhaps your conjecturing faculties are puzzled, and you begin to ask " who, where, and what is he 1 speak out, for I am all impatience." I will not say a word more : the letter in which he returns his thanks for the present shall speak for him.f We may now treat the critics as the arch- bishop of Toledo treated Gil Bias, when he found fault with one of his sermons. His grace gave him a kick and said, " Begone for a jackanapes, and furnish yourself with a better taste, if you know where to find it." We are glad that you are safe at home again. Could we see at one glance of the eye what is passing every day upon all the roads in the kingdom, how many are terrified and hurt, how many plundered and abused, we should indeed find reason enough to be thankful for journeys performed in safety, and for deliverance from dangers we are not perhaps even permitted to see. When, in Bome of the high southern latitudes, and in a dark tempestuous night, a flash of lightning liscovered to Captain Cook a vessel, which danced along close by his side, and which rut for the lightning he must have run foul * John Thornton, Esq. t Here Cowper transcribed the letter written from Passy, by the American ambassador, Franklin, in praise ♦f his book. of, both the danger and the transient light that showed it were undoubtedly designed to convey to him this wholesome instruction, that a particular Providence attended him, and that he was not only preserved from evils of which he had notice, but from many more of which he had no information, or even the least suspicion. What unlikely contingencies may nevertheless take place ! How improb- able that two ships should dash against each other, in the midst of the vast Pacific Ocean, and that, steering contrary courses from parts of the world so immensely distant from each oi her, they should yet move so exactly in a line as to clash, fill, and go to the bottom, in a sea, where all the ships in the world might be so dispersed as that none should see another ! Yet this must have happened but for the remarkable interference which he has recorded. The same Providence indeed might as easily have conducted them so wide of each other that they should never have met at all, but then this lesson would have been lost ; at least, the heroic voyager would have encompassed the globe, without having had occasion to relate an incident that so naturally suggests it. I am no more delighted with the season than you are. The absence of the sun, which has graced the spring with much less of his presence than he vouchsafed to the winter, has a very uncomfortable effect upon my frame; I feel an invincible aversion to em- ployment, which I am yet constrained to fly to as my only remedy against something worse. If I do nothing I am dejected, if I do anything I am weary, and that weariness is best described by the word lassitude, which of all weariness in the world is the most op- pressive. But enough of myself and the weather. The blow we have struck in the West In- dies* will, I suppose, be decisive, at least for the present year, and so far as that part of our possessions is concerned in the present conflict. But the news-writers and their cor- respondents disgust me and make me sick. One victory, after such a long series of ad verse occurrences, has filled them with self conceit and impertinent boasting ; and, while Rodney is almost accounted a Methodist for * This alludes to the celebrated victory gained by Sir George Rodney over Count de Grasse, April 12, 1782. On this occasion, eight sail of the line were captured from the French, three foundered at sea, two were for- ever disabled, and the French Admiral was taken in the Ville de Paris, which had been presented by the city of Paris to Louis XV. Lord Robert Manners fell in this engagement. It was the first instance where the attempt was ever made of breaking the line, a system adopted afterwards with great success by Lord Nelson. Lord Rodney, on receiving the thanks of Parliament on this occasion, addressed a letter of acknowledgment to the speaker, conveyed in the following terms. "To fulfil," he observed, " the wishes, and execute the commands of my Sovereign, was my duty. To command a fleet so well appointed, both in officers and men, was my goou fortune ; as by their undaunted spirit and valor, under Divine Providence, the glory of that day was acquire** * 134 COWPER'S WORKS. ascribing his success to Providence* men who have renounced all dependence upon such a friend, without whose assistance nothing can be done, threaten to drive the French out of the sea, laugh at the Spaniards, sneer at the Dutch, and are to carry the world before them. Our enemies are apt to brag, and we deride them for it ; but we can sing as loud as they can, in the same key ; and no doubt, wherever our papers go, shall be de- rided in our turn. An Englishman's true glory should be, to do his business well and say little about it ; but he disgraces himself when he puffs his prowess, as if he had fin- ished his task, when he has but just begun it. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWLN. Olney, June 12, 1782. My dear Friend, — Every extraordinary oc- currence in our lives affords us an opportu- nity to learn, if we will, something more of our own hearts and tempers than we were before aware of. It is easy to promise ourselves beforehand that cur conduct shall be wise, or moderate, or resolute, on any given occasion. But when that occasion occurs, we do not always find it easy to make good the promise : such a difference there is between theory and practice. Perhaps this is no new remark : but it is not a whit the worse for being old, if it be true. Before I had published, I said to myself — you and I, Mr. Cowper, will not concern our- selves much about what the critics may say of our book. But, having once sent my wits for a venture, I soon became anxious about the issue, and found that I could not be satis- fied with a warm place in my own good graces, unless- my friends were pleased with me as much as I pleased myself. Meeting with their approbation,! began to feel the workings of ambition. It is well, said I. that my friends are pleased ; but friends are some- times partial, and mine, I have reason to think, are not altogether free from bias. Methinks I should like to hear a stranger or two speak well of me. I was presently gratified by the approbation of the "London Magazine" and the u Gentleman's," particularly by that of the former, and by the plaudit of Dr. Frank- lin. By the way, magazines are publications we have but little respect for till we ourselves are chronicled in them, and then they assume an, importance in our esteem which before we could not allow them. But the " Monthly Review," the most formidable of all my judges, is still behind What will that criti- * Lord Rodney's despatcl es commenced in the follow- ing words : " It has pleased God, out of his Divine Provi- dence, to grant to his Majesty's arms," &c. This was more religious than the nation at that time could tolerate. Lord Nelson afterwards was the first British Admiral tf $A adopted the same language. cal Rhadamanthus say, when my shivering genius shall appear before him? Still he keeps me in hot water, and I must wait an- other month for his award. Alas ! when ] wish for a favorable sentence fiom that quar- ter (to confess a weakness that I should not confess to all,) I feel myself not a little in- fluenced by a tender regard to my reputation here, even among my neighbors at Olney. Here are watchmakers, who themselves are wits, and who at present, perhaps think me one. Here is a carpenter, and a baker, and not to mention others, here is your idol, Mr. , whose smile is fame. All these read the "Monthly Review," and all these will set me down for a dunce, if those terrible critics should show them the example. But oh ! wherever else I am accounted dull, dear Mr. Griffith, let me pass for a genius at Olney. We are sorry for little William's illness. It is, however, the privilege of infancy to re- cover almost immediately what it has lost by sickness. We are sorry too for Mr. 's dangerous condition. But he that is Well prepared for the great journey cannot enter on it too soon for himself, though his friends will weep at his departure. Yours, W. C. The immediate success of his first volume was very far from being equal to its extraor- dinary merit. For some time it seemed to be neglected by the public, although the first poem in the collection contains such a pow- erful image of its author as might be thought sufficient not only to excite attention but to secure attachment : for Cowper had unde- signedly executed a masterly portrait of him- self in describing the true poet : we allude to the following verses in " Table Talk." Nature, exerting an unwearied power, Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower ; Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads The dancing Naiads thro' the dewy meads : She fills profuse ten thousand little throats With music : modulating all their notes ; [known And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds un With artless airs and concerts of her own ; Bur seldom (as if fearful of expense) Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence — Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought. Harmony, strength words exquisitely sought - Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky Brings colors, dipt in heaven, that never die ; A soul exalted above earth, a mind Skill'd in the characters that form mankind; And. as the sun in rising beauty drest Looks from the dappled orient to the west, And marks, whatever clouds may interpose, Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close — An eye like his to catch the distant goal — Or. ere the wheels of verse begin to roll, Like his to shed illuminating rays On every scene and subject it surveys: Thus grac'd, the man asserts a poet's name And the world cheerfully admits the cl lim. LIFE OF COWPER 13a The concluding lines may be considered as an omen of that celebrity which such a wilier, in the process of time, could not fail tc obtain. How just a subject of surprise and admiration is it, to behold an author starting under sue! 1 a load of disadvantages, and displaying on the sudden such a variety of excellence! For, neglected as it was for a few years, the first volume of Covvper exhib- its such a diversity of poetical powers as have very rarely indeed been known to be united in the same individual. He is not only great in passages of pathos and sublimity, but he is equally admirable in wit and humor. Af- ter descanting most copiously on sacred sub- jects, with the animation of a prophet and the simplicity of an apostle, he paints the ludicrous characters of common life with the comic force of a Moliere, particularly in his poem on Conversation, and his exquisite por- trait of a fretful temper; a piece of moral painting so highly finished and so happily cal- culated to promote good humor, that a tran- script of the verses cannot but interest tne reader. ' : Some fretful tempers wince at every touch; j You always do too little or too much : You speak with life, in hopes to entertain ; Your elevated voice goes through the brain : ! You fall at once into a lower key ; I That 's worse the drone-pipe of an humble bee ! , The southern sash admits too strong a light ; You rise and drop the curtain : — now it's night. He shakes with cold ; — you stir the fire and striv* To make a blaze : — that "s roasting him alive. Serve him with ven'son, and he chooses fish ; With sole, that's just the sort he would nst wish. He takes what he at first profess'd to loath p" And in due time feeds heartily on both; Yet, still o'erclouded with a constant frown, He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. Your hope to please him vain on every plan, Himself should work that wonder, if he can. Alas ! his efforts double his distress ; He likes yours little and his own still less. Thus, always teazing others, always teaz'd, His only pleasure is — to be displeas'd. PART THE SECOND, ■jAr. Bull, to whom the following poetical epistle is addressed, has already been mention- ed as the person who suggested to Cowper the translation of Madame Guion's Hymns. Cowper used to say of him, that he was the master of a fine imagination, or, rather, that he was not master of it. TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL* Olney, June 22, 1782. My dear Friend, If reading verse be your delight, 'Tis mine as much, or more, to write ; But what we would, so weak is man, Lies oft remote from what we can. For instance, at this very time, I feel a wish by cheerful rhyme, To soothe my friend and had I power, To cheat him of an anxious hour ; Not meaning (for I must confess, tt were but folly to suppress ) His pleasure or his good alone, But squinting partly at my own. But though the sun is flaming high I' th' centre of yon arch the sky, And he had once (and who but he 1) The name for setting genius free ; Yet whether poets of past days Yielded him undeserved praise, And he by no uncommon lot Was famed for virtues he had not; Or whether, which is like enough, His Highness may have taken huff, * Private correspondence. So seldom sought with invocation, Since it has been the reigning fashion To disregard his inspiration, I seem no brighter in my wits, For all the radiance he emits, Than if I saw through midnight vapor The glimm'ring of a farthing taper. O for a succedaneum. then, T' accelerate a creeping pen, O for a ready succedaneum, Qoiod caput cerebrum, et cranium Pondere liberet exoso Et morbo jam caliginoso ! 'Tis here ; this oval box well fill'd With best tobacco finely mill'd, Beats all Anlicyra's pretences To disengage the encumber'd senses. O Nymph of Transatlantic fame, Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name Whether reposing on the side Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide, Or list'ning with delight not small To Niagara's distant fall, 'Tis thine to cherish and to feed The pungent nose-refreshing weed, Which, whether, pulverized it gain A speedy passage to the brain, Or, whether touch'd with fire, it rise In circling eddies to the skies, Does thought more quicken and refine Than all the breath of all the Nine- Forgive the Bard, if Bard be he, Who once too wantonly made free To touch with a satiric wipe That symbol of thy power, the pije ; So may no blight infest thy plains, And no unseasonable rains, And so may smiling Peace once more Visit America's sad shore ; And thou, secure from all alarms Of thund'ring drums and glitt'ring arms, Rove unconfined beneath the shade Thy wide-expanded leaves have made; So may thy votaries increase, And fumigation never cease. May Newton, with renew'd delights, Perform thine odorif rous rites, While clouds of incense half divine Involve thy disappearing shrine ; And so may smoke-inhaling Bull Be always filling, never full. w. c. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, July 16, 1782. My dear Friend, — Though some people pretend to be clever in the way of propheti- cal forecast, and to have a peculiar talent of sagacity, by which they can divine the meaning of a providential dispensation while its conse- quences are yet in embryo, I do not. There is at this time to be found, I suppose, in the cabinet, and in both houses, a. greater assem- blage of able men, both as speakers and counsellors, than ever were contemporary in the same land. A man not accustomed to trace the workings of Providence, as record- ed in Scripture, and that has given no atten- tion to this particular subject, while employed in the study of profane history, would assert boldly, that it is a token for good, that much may be expected from them, and that the country, though heavily afflicted, is not yet to be despaired of, distinguished as she is by so many characters of the highest class. Thus he would say, and I do not deny that the event might justify his skill in prognostics. God works by means : and, in a case of great national perplexity and distress, wisdom and political ability seem to be the only natural means of deliverance, But a mind more re- ligiously inclined, and perhaps a little tinc- tured with melancholy, might with equal prob- ability of success hazard a conjecture di- rectly opposite. Alas ! what is the wisdom -of man, especially when he trusts in it as the only god of his confidence? When I con- sider the general contempt that is poured upon all things sacred, the profusion, the dis- sipation, the knavish cunning, of some, the rapacity of others, and the impenitence of all, I am rather inclined to fear that God, who honors himself by bringing human glory to shame, and by disappointing the expectations of those whose trust is in creatures, has sig- nalized the present day as a day of much hu- man sufficiency and strength, has brought together from all quarters of the land the most illustrious men to be found in it, only that h& may prove the vanity of idols, and that, when a great empire is falling, and he has pronounced a sentence of ruin against it, the inhabitants, be they weak or strong, wise or foolish, must fall with it. I am rather con firmed in this persuasion by observing that these luminaries of the state had no sooner fixed themselves in the political heaven, than the fall of the brightest of them shook all the rest. The arch of their power was no sooner struck than the key-stone slipped out of its place, those that were closest in con- nexion with it followed, and the whole build- ing, new as it is, seems to be already a ruin. If a man should hold this language, who could convict him of absurdity ? The Mar- quis of Rockingham is minister — all the world rejoices, anticipating success in war and a glorious peace. The Marquis of Rocking- ham is dead — all the world is afflicted, and relapses into its former despondence. What does this prove, but that the Marquis was their Almighty, and that, now he is gone, they know no other? But let us wait a little, they will find another. Perhaps the Duke of Portland, or perhaps the unpopular , whom they now represent as a devil, may ob- tain that honor. Thus God is forgot, and when he is, his judgments are generally his remembrancers. How shall I comfort you ijpon the subject of your present distress ? Pardon me that I find myself obliged to smile at it, because, who but yourself would be distressed upon such an occasion? You have behaved po« litely, and, like a gentleman, you have hos- pitably offered your house to a stranger, who could not, in your neighborhood at least, have been comfortably accommodated anywhere else. He, by neither refusing nor accepting an offer that did him too much honor, has disgraced himself, but not you. I think for the future you must be more cautious of lay- ing yourself open to a stranger, and never again expose yourself to incivilities from an archdeacon you are not acquainted with. Though I did not mention it, I felt with you what you suffered by the loss of Miss ; I was only silent because I could min- ister no consolation to you on such a subject, but what I knew your mind to be already stored with. Indeed, the application of com- fort in such cases is a nice business, and per- haps when best managed might as well be let alone. I remember reading many years ago a long treatise on the subject of conso- lation, written in French, the author's name I forgot, but I wrote these words in the mar- gin. Special consolation! at least for 2 Frenchman, who is a creature the most easily comforted of any in the world ! We are as happy in Lady Austen, and she in us, as ever — having a lively imagination; and being passionately d( sii-ous of consolida- ting all into one family ;Tor she has taken LIFE OF COWPER. ir? her leave of London), she has just sprung a project which serves at least to amuse us and to make us laugh ; it is to hire Mr. Small's house, on the top of Clifton-hill, which is large, commodious, and handsome, will hold us conveniently, and any friends who may occasionally favor us with a visit ; the house is furnished, but, if it can be hired without the furniture, will let for a trifle — your sen- timents if you please upon this demarche ! I send you my last frank — our best love attends you individually and all together. I give you joy of a happy change in the season, and myself also. I have filled four sides in less time than two would have cost me a week ago; such is the effect of sunshine upon such a butterfly as I am. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Aug. 3, 1782. My dear Friend, — Entertaining some hope that Mr. Newton's next letter would furnish me with the means of satisfying your inquiry on the subject of Dr. Johnson's opinion, I have till now delayed my answer to your last; but the information is not yet come, Mr. Newton having intermitted a week more than usual, since his last writing. When I receive it, favorable or not, it shall be com- municated to you; but I am not over-san- guine in my expectations from that quarter. Very learned and very critical heads are hard to please. He may perhaps treat me with lenity for the sake of the subject and design, but t^e composition, I think, will hardly es- cape his censure. But though all doctors may not be of the same mind, there is one doctor at least, whom I have lately discovered, my professed admirer.* He too, like John- son, was with difficulty persuaded to read, having an aversion to all poetry, except the " Night Thoughts," which, on a certain occa- sion, when being confined on board a ship he had no other employment, he got by heart. He was however prevailed upon, and read me several times over, so that if my volume had sailed with him instead of Dr. Young's, I perhaps might have occupied that shelf in his memory which he then allotted to the Doctor. It is a sort of paradox, but it is true : we are never more in danger than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure than when we seem to be most in Janger. Both sides of this apparent contra- diction were lately verified in my experience : passing from the greenhouse to the barn, I saw three kittens (for we have so many in our retinue) looking with fixed attention on iomething v Hieh lay on the threshold of a door nailed up. I took but little notice of * Dr. Irjmkliii. them at first, but a loud hiss engaged me to attend more closely, when behold — a viper the largest that I remember to have seen, rearing itself, darting its forked tongue, and ejaculating the aforesaid hiss at the nose of a kitten, almost in contact with his lips. I ran into the hall for a hoe with a long handle, with which I intended to assail him, and re- turning in a few seconds, missed him: he was gone, and I feared had escaped me. Still, however, the kitten sat watching immoveably on tho same spot. I concluded, therefore, that sliding between the door and the threshold, he had found his way out of the garden into the yard. I went round immediately, and there found him in close conversation with the old cat, whose curiosity being excited by so novel an appearance, inclined her to pat his head repeatedly with her fore foot, with her claws however sheathed, and not in anger, but in the way of philosophic inquiry and ex- amination. To prevent her falling a victim to so laudable an exercise of her talents, I interposed in a moment with the *hoe, and performed upon him an act of decapitation, which, though not immediately mortal, proved so in the end. Had he slid into the passages, where it is dark, or had he, when in the yard, met with no interruption from the cat, and secreted himself in any of the out-houses, it is hardly possible but that some of the family must have been bitten ; he might have bser. trodden upon without being perceived, and have slipped away before the sufferer could have distinguished what foe had wounded him. Three years ago we discovered one in the same place, which the barber slew with a trowel. Our proposed removal to Mr. Small's Was, as you may suppose, a jest, or rather a joco serious matter. We never looked upon it as entirely feasible, yet we saw in it something so like practicability that we did not esteem it altogether unworthy of our attention. It was one of those projects which people of lively imaginations play with and admire for a few days, and then break in pieces. Lady Austen returned on Thursday from London, where she spent the last fortnight, and whither she was called by an unexpected op- portunity to dispose of the remainder of her lease. She has therefore no longer any con- nexion with the great city, and no house but at Olney. Her abode is to be at the vicarage, where she has hired as much room as she wants, which she will embellish with her" own furniture, and which she will occupy as soon as the minister's wife has produced another child, which is expected to make its entry in October. Mr. Bull, a dissenting minister of New- port, a learned, ingenious, good-natured, pious friend of ours, who sometimes visits us, and h whom we visited last weep, put into mv 138 COWPER'S WORKS hands three volumes of French poetry, com- posed by Madame Guion — a quietist, say you, and a fanatic, I will have nothing to do with her. — 'Tis very well? you are welcome to have nothing to do with her, but, in the meantime, her verse is the only French verse I ever read that I found agreeable ; there is a neatness in it equal to that which we applaud, with so much reason, in the compositions of Prior. I have translated several of them, and shall proceed in my translations till I have filled a Lilliputian paper-book I happen to have by me, which, when filled, I shall pre- sent to Mr. Bull. He is her passionate ad- mirer ; rode twenty miles to see her picture in the house of a stranger, which stranger politely insisted on his acceptance of it, and it now hangs over his chimney. It is a strik- ing portrait, too characteristic not to be a strong resemblance, and, were it encompassed with a glory, instead of being dressed in a nun's hood, might pass for the face of an angel. Yours, W. C. To this letter we annex a very lively lusus poeticus from the pen of Cowper, on the sub- ject mentioned in the former part of the pre- ceding letter. THE COLUBRIAD. Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast, Three kittens sat ; each kitten look'd aghast. I, passing swift and inattentive by, At the three kittens cast a careless eye ; [there, Not much concerned to know what they did Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. But presently a loud and furious hiss Caus'd me to stop, and to exclaim, '•'■ What's this ?" When, lo ! upon the threshold met my view, With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, Darting it full against a kitten's nose ; Who, having never seen, in field or house, The like, sat still and silent as a mouse : Only projecting, with attention due, [you V Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, " Who are On tc the hall went I, with pace not slow, But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe : With which well arm'd I hastened to the spot, To find the viper, but I found him not. And turning up the leaves and shrubs around, Found only — that he was not to be found. But still the kittens, sitting as before, Sat watching close the bottom of the door. " I hope," said I, "the villian I would kill Has slipt between the door and the door's sill ; And, if I make despatch and follow hard, No doubt but I shall find him in the yard ;" For long ere now it should have been rehearsed, 'Twas in the garden that I found him first. Ev'n there I found him, there the full-grown cat Hi3 head with velvet paw did gently pat: As curious as the kittens erst had been -To learn what this phenomenon might mean. Fill'd with heroic ardor at the sight, And fearing every moment he would bite, And rob our household of our only cat, That was of age to combat with a rat ; With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door, And taught him never to come there no more, Lady Austen became a tenant of the vi- carage at Olney. When Mr. Newton occu- pied that parsonage, he had opened a door in the garden-wall, which admitted him in the most commodious manner to visit the se- questered poet, who resided in the next house. Lady Austen had the advantage of this easy intercourse ; and so captivating was her society, both to Cowper and to Mrs. Unwin, that these intimate neighbors might be almost said to make one family, as it be- came their custom to dine always together, alternately in the houses of the two ladies. The musical talents of Lady Austen in- duced Cowper to write a few songs of pecu- liar sweetness and pathos, to suit particular airs that she was accustomed to play on the harpsichord. We insert three .of these, as proofs that, even in his hours of social amusement, the poet loved to dwell on ideas of tender devotion and pathetic solemnity. SONG WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OP 1783, AT TH1 REQUEST OP LADY AUSTEN. Air — " My fond shepherds of late" &c. No longer I follow a sound ; No longer a dream I pursue : happiness ! not to be found, Unattainable treasure, adieu ! 1 have sought thee in splendor and dress, In the regions of pleasure and taste ; I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess But have proved thee a vision at last. An humble ambition and hope The voice of true wisdom inspires ! 'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scope And the summit of all our desires. Peace may be the lot of the mind That seeks it in meekness and love; But rapture and bliss are confined To the glorified spirits above ! Air — " The lass of Pattie's mill.' When all within is peace, How nature seems to smile ! Delights that never cease, The live-long day beguile. From morn to dewy eve, With open hand she showers Fresh blessings to deceive And soothe the silent hours. It is content of heart Gives Nature power to please ; The mind that feels no smart Enlivens all it sees ; Can make a wint'ry sky Seem bright as smiling May And evening's closing eye As peep of early day. LIFE OF COWPER. 13* The vast majestic globe, So beauteously array'd In Nature's various robe, With wond'rous skill display 'd, is to a mourner's heart A dreary wild at best ; It flutters to depart. And longs to be at rest. The following song, adapted to the march in Scipio, obtained too great a celebrity not to merit insertion in this place. It relates to the loss of the Royal George, the flag-ship of Admiral Kempenfelt, which went down with nine hundred persons on board, (among whom was Rear-Admiral Kempenfelt,) at Spithead, August 29, 1782. . The song was a favorite production of the poet's ; so much so, that he amused himself by translating it into Latin verse. We take the version from one of his subsequent letters, for the sake of i/mexing it to the original. Sf NG, ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. Toll for the brave ! The brave that are no more ! All sunk beneath the wave. Fast by their native shore ! Eight hundred of the brave. Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. 1 land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset ; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave ! Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; His last sea-fight is fought ; His work of glory done. It was not m the battle ; No tempest gave the shock ; She sprang no fatal leak ; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath ; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up. Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again. Full-charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.* But Kempenfelt is gone. His victories are o'er ; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. * Attsmpts have recently been made to recover this ressel ; and some of t»e guns have been raised, and bund to be in excellent order. IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGII, CUI 0EORGIUS, REG1L1 NOMEN, INDITUM. Plangimus fortes. Periere fortes, Patrium propter periere littus Bis quater centum ; subito sub alto "^iEquore mersi. Navis. innitens lateri, jacebat, Malus ad summas trepidabat undas, Cum levis funes quatiens. ad imum Depulit aura. Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducam Fortibus vitam voluere parcae, Nee sinunt ultra tibi nos recentes Nectere laurus. Magne. qui nomen. licet incanorum, Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti ! At tuos olim memorabit aevuni 5 Oinne triumphos. Non hyems illos furibunda mersit, Non mari in clauso scopuh latentes, Fissa non rimis abies, nee atrox Abstulit ensis. Navitae sed turn nimium jocosi Voce fallebant hilari laborem, Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram un- pleverat hems. Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque, Humidum ex alto spolium levate, Et putrescentes sub aquis amicos Reddite amicis ! Hi quidem (sic diis placuit) fuere : Sed ratis. nondum putris, ire possit Rursus in bellum. Britonumque nomen Tollere ad astra. Let the reader, who wishes to impress ou his mind a just idea of the variety and ex- tent of Cowper's poetical powers, contrast this heroic ballad of exquisite pathos with his diverting history of John Gilpin! That admirable and highly popular piece of pleasantry was composed at the period of which we are now speaking. An elegant and judicious writer, who has favored the public with three interesting volumes relating to the early poets of our country,* conjec- tures, that a poem, written by the celebrated Sir Thomas More in his youth, (the merry jest of the Serjeant and Frere) may have suggested to Cowper his tale of John Gilpin ; but this singularly amusing ballad had a dif- ferent origin; and it is a very remarkable fact, that, full of gayety and humor as this favorite of the public has abundantly proved itself to be, it was really composed at a time when the spirit of the poet was very deeply tinged with his depressive malady. It hap. pened one afternoon, in those years when his accomplished friend, Lady Austen, made a part of his little evening circle, that she ob- served him sinking into increasing dejection * See Ellis's " Specimens of the early English Poet^ with an historical sketch of the rise and progress ol Eng lish poetry and language." 140 COWPER'S WORKS, [t was her custom on these occasions, to try all the resources of her sprightly powers for his immediate relief. She told him the story of John Gilpin (which had been treasured in aer memory, from her childhood) to dissipate the gloom of the passing hour. Its effect on the fancy of Cowper had the air of enchant- ment: he informed her the next morning, that convulsions of laughter, brought on by nis recollection of her story, had kept him waking during the greatest part of the night, and that he had turned it into a ballad. — So arose the pleasant poem of John Gilpin. It was eagerly copied, and, finding its way rap- idly to the newspapers, it was seized by the lively spirit of Henderson the comedian, a man, like the Yorick described by Shakspeare, " of infinite jest and most excellent fancy." By him it was selected as a proper subject for the display of his own comic powers, and, by reciting it in his public readings, he gave un- common celebrity to the ballad, before the public suspected to what poet they were in- debted for the sudden burst of ludicrous amusement. Many readers were astonished when the poem made its first authentic ap- pearance in the second volume of Cowper. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Sept. 6, 1782. My dear Friend,— Yesterday, and not be- fore, I received your letter, dated the 11th of j June, from the hands of Mr. Small. I should have been happy to have known him sooner ; but whether being afraid of that horned mon- ster, a Methodist, or whether from a principle of delicacy, or deterred by a flood, which has rolled for some weeks between Clifton and Olney, I- know not, — he has favored me only with a taste of his company, and will leave me on Saturday evening, to regret that our acquaintance, so lately begun, must be so soon suspended. He will dine with us that day, which I reckon a fortunate circumstance, as 1 shall have an opportunity to introduce nim to the liveliest and most entertaining woman in the country, f I have seen him out for half an hour, yet, without boasting of much discernment, I see that he is polite, easy, cheerful, and sensible. An old man thus qualified, cannot fail to charm the lady in ques- tion. As to his religion, I leave it — I am neither his bishop nor his confessor. A man of his character, and recommended by you, would be welcome here, were he a Gentoo or a Mahometan. I learn from him that certain friends of mine, whom I have been afraid to inquire about by letter, are alive and well. The cur- rent of twenty years has swept away so many tyhom I once knew, that I doubted whether * Private correspondence, t Lady Austen, it might be advisable to send my love to youi mother and your sisters. They may have thought my silence strange, bu 4 , they haw here the reason of it. Assure them of my affectionate remembrance, and that nothing would make me happier than to receive you all in my greenhouse, your own Mrs. Hill included. It is fronted with myrtles, and lined with mats, and would just hold us, for Mr. Small informs me your dimensions are much the same as usual. Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Nov. 4, 1782. My dear Friend, — You are too modest ; though your last consisted of three sides only, I am certainly a letter in your debt. It is possible that this present writing may prove as short. Yet, short as it may be, it will be a letter, and make me creditor, and you my debtor. A letter, indeed, ought not to be estimated by the length of it, but by the con- tents, and how can the contents of any letter be more agreeable than your last. You tell me that John Gilpin made you laugh tears, and that the ladies at court are delighted with my poems. Much good may they do them ! May they become as wise as the writer wishes them, and they will be much happier than he ! I know there is in the book that wisdom which cometh from above, because it was from above that I re ceived it. May they receive it too ! For whether they drink it out of the cistern, o. whether it falls upon them immediately from the clouds, as it did on me, it is all one. 11 is the water of life, which whosoever drinketh shall thirst no more. As to the famous horse- man above mentioned, he and his feats are an inexhaustible source of merriment. At least we find him so, and seldom meet without re- freshing ourselves with the recollection of them. You are perfectly at liberty to deal with them as you please. Auctore tantum anonymo, imprimantur-; and when printed send me a copy. I congratulate you on the discharge of youi duty and your conscience by the pains you have taken for the relief of the prisoners. — You proceeded wisely, yet courageously, and deserved better success. Your labors, how- ever, will be remembered elsewhere, when- you shall be forgotten here ; and, if the poor folks at Chelmsford should never receive the benefit of them, you will yourself receive it in heaven. It is pity that men of fortune should be determined to acts of benefience, sometimes by popular whim or prejudice, and sometimes by motives still more unworthy. The liberal subscription, raised in behalf of the widows of seamen lost in the Royal George was an instanee of the former. At '.east a plain, short and sensible letter* in the newspaper, convinced me at the time that it was an unnecessary and injudicious collec- tion: and the difficulty you found in effectu- ating your benevolent intentions on this occa^ sion, constrains me to think that, had it been an affair of more notoriety than merely to fur- nish a few poor fellows with a little fuel to preserve their extremities from the frost, you would have succeeded better. Men really pious delight in doing good by stealth. But nothing less than an ostentatious display of bounty will satisfy mankind in general. I feel myself disposed to furnish you with an opportunity to shine in secret. We do what we can. But that can is little. You have rich friends, are eloquent on all occasions, and know how to be pathetic on a proper one. The winter will be severely felt at Olney by many, whose sobriety, industry, and honesty, recommended them to charitable notice; and we think we could tell such persons as Mr. , or Mr. , half a dozen tales of dis- tress, that would find their way into hearts as feeling as theirs. You will do as you see good ; and we in the meantime shall remain convinced that you will do your best. Lady Austen will, no doubt, do something, for she has great sensibility aud compassion. Yours, my dear Unwin, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL* Olney, Nov. 5, 1782. c/harissime Taurorum — Q,uot sunt, vel fuerunt, vel posthac aliis erunt in annis, We shall rejoice to see you, and I just write to tell you so. Whatever else 1 want, 1 have, at least, this quality in common with publicans and sinners, that I love those that love me, and for that reason, you in particular. Your warm and affectionate manner demands it of me. And, though I consider your love as growing out of a mistaken expectation that you shall see me a spiritual man hereafter, 1 do not love you much the less' for it. I only regret that 1 did not know you intimately in those happier days, when the frame of my heart and mind was such as might have made a connexion with me not altogether unworthy of you. I add only Mrs. Unwin's remembrances, and that I am glad you believe me to be, what I truly am, Your faithful and affectionate, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Nov. 11, 1782. My dear Friend, — Your shocking scrawl, * Private correspondence. as you term it, was however a very welcome one. The character indeed has not quite thf neatness and beauty of an engraving; but if it cost me some pains to decipher it, they were well rewarded by the minute informa- tion it conveyed. I am glad your health is such that you have nothing more to complain of than may be expected on the down-hil! side of life. If mine is better than yours, it is to be attributed, I suppose, principally to the constant enjoyment of country air and retirement; the most perfect regularity in matters of eating, drinking, and sleeping ; and a happy emancipation from everything that wears the face of business. I lead the life I always wished for, and, the single circum- stance of dependence excepted, (which, be- tween ourselves, is very contrary to my pre- dominant humor and disposition,) have no want left broad enough for another wish to stand upon. You may not, perhaps, live to see your trees attain to the dignity of timber : I never- theless approve of your planting, and the dis- interested spirit that prompts you to it. Few people plant when they are young ; a thou- sand other less profitable amusements divert their attention ; and. most people, when the date of youth is once expired, think it too late to begin. I can tell you, however, for your comfort and encouragement, that when a grove which Major Cowper had planted was of eighteen years' growth, it was no small ornament to his grounds, and afforded as complete a shade as could be desired. Were I as old as your mother, in whose longevity I rejoice, and the more because I consider it as in some sort a pledge and assurance of yours, and should come to the possession of land worth planting, I would begin to-mor- row, and even without previously insisting upon a bond from Providence that I should live five years longer. I saw last week a gentleman who was lately at Hastings. I asked him where he lodged. He replied at P 's. I next in- quired after the poor man's wife, whether alive or dead. He answered, dead. So then, # said I, she has scolded her last ; and a sensi- ble old man will go down to his grave in peace. Mr. P , to be sure, is of no great consequence either to you or to me; but, having so fair an opportunity to inform my- self about him, I could not neglect it. If gives me pleasure to learn somewhat of a man I knew a little of so many years since, and for that reason merely I mention the cir- cumstance to you. I find a single expression in your lette* which needs correction. You say I carefull) avoid paying you a visit at Wargrave. Not so ; but connected as I happily am, and rooted where I am, and not having travelled these twenty years — being besides of an indolent 142 COWPER'S WORKS. temper, and having - spirits that cannot bear a bustle — all these are so many insuperables in the way. They are not however in yours ; and if you and Mrs. Hill will make the ex- periment, you shall find yourselves as wel- come here, both to me and to Mrs. Unwin, as it is possible you can be anywhere. Yours affectionately, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Nov., 1782. My dear Friend, — I am to thank you for a very fine cod, which came most opportunely to make a figure on our table, on an occa- sion that made him singularly welcome. I write, and you send me a fish. This is very well, but not altogether what I want. I wish to hear from you, because the fish, though he serves to convince me that you have me still in remembrance, says not a word of those that sent him ; and, with re- spect to your and Mrs. Hill's health, pros- perity, and happiness, leaves me as much in the dark as before. You are aware, like- wise, that where there is an exchange of let- ters it is much easier to write. But I know the multiplicity of your affairs, and therefore perform my part of the correspondence as well as I can, convinced that you would not omit yours, if you could help it. Three days since I received a note from old Mr. Small, which was more than civil — it was warm and friendly. The good vet- eran excuses himself for not calling upon me, on account of the feeble state in which a fit of the gout had left him. He tells me however that he has seen Mrs. Hill, and your improvements at Wargrave, which will soon become an ornament to the place. May they, and may you both live long to enjoy them ! I shall be sensibly mortified if the season and his gout together should deprive me of the pleasure of receiving him here ; for he is a man much to my taste, and quite an unique in this country. My eyes are in general better than I re- member them to have been since I first opened them upon this sublunary stage, which is now a little more than half a century ago. We are growing old ; but this is between ourselves : the world knows nothing of the matter. Mr. Small tells me you look much as you did ; and as for me, being grown rather plump, the ladies tell me I am as young a;- ever. Yours ever, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Nov. 18, 1782. My dear William,— On the part of the pcor, and on our part, be pleased to make * Frivfite coi respondencc. acknowledgements, such as the occasion calls for, to our beneficent friend, Mr. . I call him ours, because, having experienced his kindness to myself, in a former instance, and in the present his disinterested readiness to succor the distressed, my ambition will be satisfied with nothing less. He may de- pend upon the strictest secrecy ; no creature shall hear him mentioned, either now or hereafter, as the person from whom we have received this bounty. But when I speak of him, or hear him spoken of by others, which sometimes happens, I shall not forget what is due to so rare a character. I wish, and your mother wishes too, that he could some- times take us in his way to : he will find us happy to receive a person whom we must needs account it an honor to know^ We shall exercise our best discretion in the disposal of the morey ; but in this town, where the gospel has been preached so many years, where the people have been favored so long with laborious and conscientious ministers, it is not an easy thing to find those who make no profession of religion at all, and are yet proper objects of charity. The profane are so profane, so drunken, dis- solute, and in every respect worthless, that to make them partakers of his bounty would be to abuse it. We promise, however, that none shall touch it but such as are miserably poor, yet at the same time industrious and honest, two characters frequently united here, Where the most watchful and unremitting labor will hardly procure them bread. W make none but the cheapest laces, and th« price of them is fallen almost to nothing. Thanks are due to yourself likewise, and are hereby accordingly rendered, for waiving your claim in behalf of your own parishion- ers. You are always with them, and they are always, at least some of them, the better for your residence among them. Olney is a populous place, inhabited chiefly by th« half- starved and the ragged of the earth, and it is not possible for our small party and small ability to extend their operations so far as to be much felt among such numbers. Accept, therefore, your share of their gratitude, and be convinced that, when they pray for a blessing upon those who relieved their wants, he that answers that prayer, and when he answers it, will remember his servant at Stock. I little thought when I was writing the ..istory of John Gilpin, that he would appear in print — I intended to laugh, and to make two or three others laugh, of whom you were one. But now all the world laugh, at least if they have the same relish for a tale ridiculous in itself, and quaintly told, as we have. Well, they do not always laugh so innocently, and at so small an expense, for in a world like this, abounding with subjects LIFE OF COWPER. 143 for satire, and with satirical wits to mark them, a laugh that hurts nobody has at least the grace of novelty to recommend it. Swift's darling motto was, Vive la bagatelle ! a good wish for a philosopher of his completion, the greater part of whose wisdom, whence- soever it came, most certainly came not from above. La bagatelle has no enemy in me, though it has neither so warm a friend nor so able a one as it had in him. If I trifle, and merely trifle, it is because 1 am reduced to it by necessity — a melancholy that noth- ing else so effectually disperses engages me sometimes in the arduous task of being mer- ry by force. And, strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood, and but for that saddest mood, perhaps, had never been written at all. I hear from Mrs. Newton that some great persons have spoken with great approbation of a certain book — who they are, and what they have said, I am to be told in a future letter. The Monthly Reviewers, in the mean- time, have satisfied me well enough. Yours, my dear William, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. My dear William, — Dr. Beattie is a re- spectable character.* I account him a man of sense, a philosopher, a scholar, a person of distinguished genius, and a good writer. I believe him too a Christian; with a pro- found reverence for the scripture, with great zeal and ability to enforce the belief of it, both which he exerts with the candor and good manners of a gentleman: he seems well entitled to that allowance ; and to deny it him, would impeach one's right to the ap- pellation. With all these good things to recommend him, there can be no dearth of sufficient reasons to read his writings. You favored me some years since with one of his volumes ; by which I was both pleased and instructed : and I beg you will send me the new one, when you can conveniently spare it, or rather bring it yourself, while the swallows are yet upon the wing : for the summer is going down apace. You tell me you have been asked, if I am intent upon another volume? I reply, not at present, not being convinced that I have met with sufficient encouragement. I ac- count myself happy in having pleased a few, but am not rich enough to despise the many. [ do not know what sort of market my com- modity has found, but, if a slack one, I must beware how I make a second attempt. My bookseller will not be willing to incur a cer- tain loss ; and I can as little afford it. Not- withstanding what I have said, I write, and * The well-known author of "The Minstrel." am even now writing, for the press. I told you that I had translated several of the poems of Madame Guion. I told you too, or I am mistakeu, that Mr. Bull designed to print them. That gentleman is gone to the sea-side with Mrs. Wilberforce, and will be absent six weeks. My intention is to sur- prise him at his return with the addition of as much more translation as I have already given him. This, however, is still less likely to be a popular work than my former. Men that have no religion would despise it ; and men that have no religious experience would not understand it. But the strain of simple and unaffected piety in the original is sweet beyond expression. She sings like an angel, and for that very reason has found but few admirers. Other things I write too, as you will see on the other side, but these merely for my amusement.* TO MRS. NEWTON.f Olney, Nov. 23, 1782. My dear Madam, — Accept my thanks for the trouble you take in vending my poems, and still more for the interest you take in their success. My authorship is undoubt- edly pleased, when I hear that they are ap- proved either by the great or the small ; but to be approved by the great, as Horace ob- served many years ago, is fame indeed. Hav- ing met with encouragement, I consequently wish to write again ; but wishes are a very small part of the qualifications necessary for such a purpose. Many a man, who has suc- ceeded tolerably well in his first attempt, has spoiled all by the second. But it just occurs to me that I told you so once before, and, if my memory had served me with the intelligence a minute sooner, I would not have repeated the observation now. The winter sets in with great severity. The rigor of the season, and the advanced price of grain, are very threatening to the poor. It is well with those that can feed upon a promise, and wrap themselves up warm in the robe of salvation. A good fire- side and a well-spread table are but very in- different substitutes for these better accom- modations ; so very indifferent, that I would gladly exchange them both for the rags and the unsatisfied hunger of the poorest crea- ture that looks forward with hope to a bet- ter world, and weeps tears of joy in the midst of penury and distress. What a world is this ! How mysteriously governed, and in appearance left to itself! One man, having squandered thousands at a gaming-table, finds it convenient to travel ; gives his estate to somebody to manage for him; amuses * This letter closed with the English and Latin verse* on the lo-i* of the [toy il George, inserted before. t Private conv-jKnidence. 144 COWPER'S WORKS himself a few years in France and Italy ; re- turns, perhaps, wiser than he went, having acquired knowledge which, but for his follies, he would never have acquired ; again makes a splendid figure at home, shines in the sen- ate, governs his country as its minister, is admired for his abilities, and, if successful, I adored at least by a party. When he dies I he is praised as a demi-god, and his monu- \ ment records everything but his vices. The exact contrast of such a picture is to be found in many cottages at Olney. I have no need to describe them; you know the characters I mean. They love God, they trust him, they pray to him in secret, and, though he means to reward them openly, the day of recompense is delayed. In the meantime they suffer everything that infirmi- ty and poverty can inflict upon them. Who would suepect, that has not a spiritual eye to discern it, that the fine gentleman was one whom his Maker had in abhorrence, and the wretch last-mentioned dear to him as the apple of his eye ! It is no wonder that the world, who are not in the secret, find them- selves obliged, some of them, to doubt a Providence, and others absolutely to deny it, when almost all the real virtue there is in it is to be found living and dying in a state of neglected obscurity, and all the vices of others cannot exclude them from the privi- lege of worship and honor ! But behind the curtain the matter is explained; very little, wwever, to the satisfaction of the great. If you ask me why I have written thus, and to you especially, to whom there was no need to write thus, I can only reply, that, having a letter to write, and no news to communicate, r picked up the first subject I found, and pur- sued it as far as was convenient for my purpose. Mr. Newton and I are of one mind on the subject of patriotism. Our dispute was no sooner begun than it ended. It would be well, perhaps, if, when two disputants begin to en- gage, their friends would hurry each into a separate chaise, and order them to opposite points of the compass. Let one travel twenty miles east, the other as many west ; then let them write their opinions by the post. Much altercation and chafing of the spirit would be prevented; they would sooner come to a right understanding, and running away from each other, would carry on the combat more judiciously, in exact proportion to the dis- tance. My love to that gentleman, if you please ; and tell him that, like him, though I love my country, I hate its follies and its sins, and had j rather see it scourged in mercy than judi r.ially hardened by prosperity. Yours, dear Madam, as ever, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Dec. 7, 1782. My dear Friend, — At seven o'clock thia evening, being the seventh of December. I imagine I see you in your box at the coffee- house. No doubt the waiter, as ingenious and adroit as his predecessors were before him, raises the tea-pot to the ceiling with his right hand, while in his left the tea-cup de- scending almost to the floor, receives a limpid stream ; limpid in its descent, but no sooner has it reached its destination, than frothing and foaming to the view, it becomes a roaring syllabub. This is the nineteenth winter since I saw you in this situation ; and if nineteen more pass over me before I die, I shall still remember a circumstance we have often laughed at. How different is the complexion of your evenings and mine ! — yours, spent amid the ceaseless hum that proceeds from the inside of fifty noisy and busy periwigs ; mine, by a do- mestic fire-side, in a retreat as silent as retire- ment can make it, where no noise is made but what we make for our own amusement. For instance, here are two rustics and your hum- ble servant in company. One of the ladies has been playing on the harpsichord, while I with the other have been playing at battledore and shuttlecock. A little dog, in the mean- time, howling under the chair of the former, performed in the vocal way to admiration. This entertainment over, I began my letter, and, having nothing more important to com- municate, have given you an account of it. 1 know you love dearly to be idle, when you can find an opportunity to be so ; but, as such opportunities are rare with you, I thought it possible that a short description of the idle- ness I enjoy might give you pleasure. The happiness we cannot call our own we yet seem to possess, while we sympathize with our friends who can. The papers tell me that peace is at hand, and that it is at a great distance ; that the siege of Gibralter is abandoned, and that it is to be still continued. It is happy for me, that, though I love my country, I have but little curiosity. There was a time when these contradictions would have distressed me; but I have learned by experience that it is best for little people like myself to be pa- tient, and to wait till time affords the intelli- gence which no speculations of theirs can ever furnish. I thank you for a fine cod with oysters and hope that ere long I shall have to thank you for procuring me Elliott's medicines. Every time I feel the least uneasiness in either eye, I tremble lest, my iEsculapius be- ing departed, my infallible remedy should be lost forever. Adieu. Mv respects to Mrs : Hill. Yours, faithfully, W. C. * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. 145 TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Jan. 19, 1783. My dear William, — Not to retaliate, but for want of opportunity, I have delayed writing. From a scene of most uninterrupted retire- ment, we have passed at once into a state of constant engagement, not that our society is much multiplied. The addition of an indi- vidual has made all this difference. Lady Austen and we pass our days alternately at each other's chateau. In the morning I walk with one or other of the ladies, and in the afternoon wind thread. Thus did Hercules and Sampson, and thus do I ; and, were both those heroes living, I should not fear to chal- lenge them to a trial of skill in that business, or doubt to beat them both. As to killing lions, and other amusements of that kind, with which ihey were so delighted, I should be their humble servant, and beg to be ex- cused. Having no frank, I cannot send you Mr. 's two letters, as I intended. We corre- sponded as long as the occasion required, and then ceased. Charmed with his good sense, politeness, and liberality to the poor, I was in- deed ambitious of continuing a correspond- ence with him, and told him so. Perhaps I had done more prudently had I never proposed it. But warm hearts are not famous for wis- dom, and mine was too warm to be very con- siderate on such an occasion. I have not heard from him since, and have long given up all expectation of it. I know he is too busy a man to have leisure for me. and I cught to have recollected it sooner. He found time to do much good, and to employ us, as his agents, in doing it, and that might have satisfied me. Though laid under the strictest injunctions of secrecy, both by him and by you on his be- nalf, I consider myself as under no obligation to conceal from you the remittances he made. Only, in my turn, I beg leave to request se- crecy on \our part, because, intimate as you are with him, and highly as he values you, I cannot yet be sure, that the communication would please him, his delicacies on this sub- ject being as singular as his benevolence. He sent forty pounds, twenty at a time. Olney has not had such a friend as this many a day ; nor has there been an instance, at any time, of a few T families so effectually relieved, or so completely encouraged to the pursuit of that honest industry, by which, their debts being paid, and the parents and children comforta- bly clothed, they are now enabled to maintain themselves. Their labor was almost in vain before ; but now it answers : it earns them bread, and all their other wants are plentiful- ly supplied.* I wish that, by Mr. 's assistance, your purpose in behalf of the prisoners may be * The benevolent character here alluded to is John Thornton, Esq. effectuated. A pen so formidable as his might do much good, if properly -directed. The dread of a bold censure is ten times more moving than the most eloquent persua- sion. They that cannot feel for others are the persons of all the world who feel most sensibly for themselves. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Jan. 26, 1783. My dear Friend, — It is reported among per sons of the best intelligence at Olney — the barber, the schoolmaster, and the drummer of a corps quartered at this place — that the bel- ligerent powers are at last reconciled, the ar- ticles of the treaty adjusted, and that peace is at the door.f I saw this morning, at nine o'clock, a group of about twelve figures, very closely engaged in a conference, as I suppose, upon the same subject. The scene of con- sultation was a blacksmith's shed, very com- fortably screened from the wind, and directly opposed to the morning sun. Some held their hands behind them, some had them folded across their bosom, and others had thrust them into their breeches pockets. Every man's posture bespoke a pacific turn of mind ; but, the distance being too great for their words to reach me, nothing transpired. I am willing, however, to hope that the secret will not be a secret long, and that you and I, equally interested in the event, though not perhaps equally well informed, shall soon have an opportunity to rejoice in the completion of it. The powers of Europe have clashed with each other to a fine purpose ;t that the Amer icans, at length declared independent, may keep themselves so, if they can; and that what the parties, who have thought proper to dispute upon that point have wrested from each other in the course of the conflict may be, in the issue of it, restored to the proper owner. Nations may be guilty of a conduct that would render an individual infamous for- ever: and yet carry their heads high, talk of their glory, and despise their neighbors. Your opinions and mine, I mean our political ones, are not exactly of a piece, yet I cannot think otherwise upon this subject than I have always done. England, more perhaps through the fault of her generals than her councils, has, in some instances, acted with a spirit of cruel animosity she was never chargeable with till now. But this is the worst that can be said. On the other hand, the Americans, who, if they had contented themselves with a strug- gle for lawful liberty, would have deserved * Private correspondence. | Preliminaries of peace with America and France were signed at Versailles, Jan. 20th, 1783. % France, Spain, and Holland, all of whom united 'Titta America against England. 10 146 COWPER'S WORKS. applause, seem to me to have incurred the guilt of parricide, by renouncing their parent, by making her ruin their favorite object, and hv associating themselves with her worst en- emy for the accomplishment of their purpose. Prance, and of course Spain, have acted a treacherous, a thievish part. They have sto- len America from England; and, whether they are able to posses.s themselves of that jewel or not hereafter, it was doubtless what they in- tended. Holland appears to me in a meaner light than any of them. They quarrelled with a friend for an enemy's sake. The French led them by the nose, and the English have thrashed them for suffering it. My views of the contest being, and having been always, such, I have consequently brighter hopes for England than her situation some time since seemed to justify. She is the only injured party. America may perhaps call her the ag- gressor; but, if she were so, America has not only repelled the injury, but done a greater. As to the rest, if perfidy, treachery, avarice, and ambition, can prove their cause to have been a rotten one, those proofs are found upon them. I think, therefore, that, what- ever scourge may be prepared for England on some future day, her ruin is not yet to be expected. Acknowledge now that I am worthy of a place under the shed I described, and that I should make no small figure among the quid- nuncs of Olney. I wish the society yon have formed may prosper. Your subjects will be of greater importance, and discussed with more suffi- ciency.* The earth is a grain of sand, but the spiritual interests of man are commensu- rate with the heavens. Yours, my dear friend, as ever, W. C. The humor of the following letter in refer- ence to the peace, is ingenious and amusing. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.f Olney, Feb. 2, 1783. I give you joy of the restoration of that sincere and firn friendship between the kings of England and France, that has been so long interrupted. II is a great pity when hearts so cordially united are divided by trifles. Thirteen pitiful colonies, which the king of England chose to keep, and the king of France to obtain, if he could, have disturbed that harmony which would else no doubt have subsisted between those illustrious per- sonages to this moment. If the king of France, whose greatness of mind is only * This passage alludes to the formation of what was called "the Eclectic Society," consisting of several pious ministers, who statedly met for the purpose of mutual edification. It consisted of Newton, Scott, Cecil, Foster, fee. It is still in existence. t Private correspondence. equalled by that of his queen, had regarded them, unworthy of his notice as they were, with an eye of suitable indifference ; or, had he thought it a matter deserving in any de- gree his princely attention, lhat they were in reality the property of his good friend the king of England; or, had the latter been less obstinately delermined to hold fast his inter- est in them, and could he with that civility and politeness in which monarchs are ex- pected to excel, have entreated his majesty of France to accept a bagatelle, for which he seemed to have conceived so strong a predi- lection, all this mischief had been prevented. But monarchs, alas ! crowned and sceptred as they are, are yet but men ; they fall out, and are reconciled, just like the meanest of their subjects. I cannot, however, sufficient* ly admire the moderation and magnanimity of the king of England. His dear friend on the other side of the Channel has not indeed taken actual possession of the colonies in question, but he has effectually wrested them out of the hands of their original owner, who nevertheless, letting fall the extinguisher of patience upon the flame of his resentment, and glowing with no other flame than that of the sincerest affection, embraces the king of France again, gives him Senegal and Goree in Africa, gives him the islands he had taken from him in the West, gives him his con- quered territories in the East, gives him a fishery upon the banks of Newfoundland; and, as if all this were too little, merely be- cause he knows that Louis has a partiality for the king of Spain, gives to the latter an island in the Mediterranean, which thousands of English had purchased with their lives; and in America all that he wanted, at least all that he could ask. No doubt there will be great cordiality between this royal trio for the future : and, though wars may perhaps be kindled between their posterity some ages hence, the present generation shall never be witnesses of such a calamity again. I ex- pect soon to hear that the queen of Fiance, who just before this rupture happened, made the queen of England a present of a watch, has, in acknowledgment of all these acts of kindness, sent her also a seal wherewith to ratify the treaty. Surely she can do no less, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, Feb. 8, 1783. My dear Friend, — When I consider the peace as the work of our ministers, and re- flect that, with more wisdom, or more spirit, they might perhaps have procured a better. I confess it does not please me.f Such ano- * Private correspondence. t Lord Shelbunie, who made this peace, was taunted in the House of Commons by Mr. Fox with hiving be.»n previously averse to it, and even of having c-yi-1 r nat, LIFE OF COWPER. 14T other peace would ruin us, I suppose, as ef- fectually as a war protracted to the extremcst inch of our ability to bear if. I do not think it just that the French should plunder us and be paid fordoing it ; nor does it appear to me that there was absolute necessity for such tameness on our part as we discover in the present treaty. We give away all that is demanded, and receive nothing but what was our own before. So far as this stain upon cur national honor, and this diminution of our national property, are a judgment upon our iniquities, I submit, and have no doubt but that ultimately it will be found to be judgment mixed with mercy. But so far as I see it to be the effect of French knavery and British despondency, I feel it as a dis- grace, and grumble at it as a wrong. I dis- like it the more, because the peacemaker has been so immoderately praised for his per- formance, which is, in my opinion, a con- temptible one enough. Had he made the French smart for their baseness, I would have praised him too ; a minister should have <;hown his wisdom by securing some points, at least for the benefit of his country. A schoolboy might have made concessions. After all perhaps the worse consequence of this awkward business will be dissension in the two Houses, and dissatisfaction through- out the kingdom. They that love their country will be grieved to see her trampled upon ; and they that love mischief will have a fair opportunity of making it. Were I a member of the Commons, even with the same religious sentiments as impress me now, I should think it my duty to condemn it. You will suppose me a politician ; but in truth I am nothing less. These are the thoughts that occur to me while I read the newspaper ; and, when I have laid it down, I feel myself more interested in the success -)f my early cucumbers than in any part of this great and important subject. If I see them droop a little, I forget that we have been many years at war ; that we have made a humiliating peace ; that we are deeply in debt, and unable to pay. All these reflec- tions are absorbed at once in the anxiety I feel for a plant, the fruit of which I cannot eat when I have procured it. How wise, how consistent, how respectable a creature is man ! Mrs. Unwin thanks Mrs. Newton for her kind letter, and for executing her commis- when the independence of America skould be granted, the sun of Britain would haoc set ; and that the recognition of its independence deserved to be stained with the blood of the minister who should sign it. It was in allusion to this circumiuince that Mr. Fox applied to him the follow- ing ludicrous distich : You've done a noble deed, in Nature's spite, Tho' you think you are wrong, yet I'm sure you are right. Lord Slwlburne's defence was, that he was compelled to Ihc measare, and not so much the author as the instru- neatof it. See Parliamentary Debates of that time. sions. We truly love you both, think of you often, and one of us prays for you ; — the other will, when he can pray for himself. W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, Feb. 13, 1783. My dear Friend, — In writing to you 1 never want a subject. Self is always at hand, and self, with its concerns, is always interesting to a friend. You may think perhaps that, having com- menced poet by profession, I am always writ- ing verses. Not so ; I have written nothing, at least finished nothing, since I published, except a certain facetious history of John Gilpin, which Mrs. Unwin would send to the " Public Advertiser," perhaps you might read it without suspecting the author. My took procures me favors, which my modesty will not permit me to specify, ex- cept one, which, modest as I am, I cannot suppress, a very handsome letter from Dr. Franklin at Passy. These fruits it has brought me. I have been refreshing myself with a walk in the garden, where I find that January (who according to Chaucer was the husband of May) being dead, February has married the widow. Yours, &c. W. C TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, Feb. 20, 1783. Suspecting that I should not have hinted at Dr. Franklin's encomium under any other influence than that of vanity, I was several times on the point of burning my letter for that very reason. But, not having time to write another by the same post, and believing that you would have the grace to pnrdon a little self-compLicency in an authu.- on so trying an occasion, I let it pass. One sin int. urally leads to another and a greater, and thus it happens now, for I have no way to gratify your curiosity, but by transcribing the letter in question. It is addressed, by the way, not to me, but to an acquaintance of mine, who had transmitted the volume to him without my knowledge. " Passy,* May 8, 1782. " Sir, I received the letter you did me the honor of writing to me, and am much obliged by your kind present of a book. The relish for reading of poetry had long since left me, but there is something so new in the man. ner, sc easy, and yet so correct in the Ian- guag -;.. vio clear in the expression, yet concise, * A beautiful village near Paris, on the road to Ve» sailles. 148 COWPER'S WORKS. and so just ic the sentiments, that I have read the whole' with great pleasure, and some of the pieces more than once. I beg you to ac- cept my thankful acknowledgments, and to present my respects to the author. " Your most obedient humble servant, "B. Franklin." TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. My dear Friend, — Great revolutions happen in this ants' nest of ours. One emmet of il- lustrious character and great abilities pushes out another ; parties are formed, they range themselves in formidable opposition, they threaten each other's rain, they cross over and are mingled together,* and like the corusca- tions of the Northern Aurora amuse the spec- tator, at the same time that by some they are supposed to be forerunners of a general dis- solution. There are political earthquakes as well as natural ones, the former less shocking to the eye, but not always less fatal in their iiiilu T ence than the latter. The image which Ne- buchadnezzar saw in his dream was made up of heterogeneous and incompatible ma- terials, and accordingly broken. Whatever is so formed must expect a like catastrophe. I have an etching of the late Chancellor hanging over the parlor chimney. I often contemplate it, and call to mind the day when I was intimate with the original. It is very like him, but he is disguised by his hat, which, though fashionable, is awkward ; by his great wig, the tie of which is hardly dis- cernible in profile, and by his band and gown, which give him an appearance clumsily sacer- dotal. Our friendship is dead and buried ; yours is the only surviving one of all with which I was once honored. Adieu. W. C. The sarcasm conveyed in the close of this letter, and evidently pointed at Lord Thur- low, is severe, and yet seems to be merited. It will be remembered, that Lord Thnrlow and Cowper were on terms of great intimacy when at Westminster school, though separ- ated in after life ; that Cowper subsequently presented him with a copy of his poems, ac- companied by a letter, reminding him of their former friendship ; and that his lordship treated him with forgetfulness and neglect. It is due, however, to the memory of Lord Thurlow, to state that instances are not want- ing to prove the benevolence of his character. When the south of Europe was recommended to Dr. Johnson, to renovate his declining strength, he generously offered to advance the sum of five hundred pounds for that purpose.f * This expression, as well as the allusion to Nebuchad- nezzar's image, refers to the famous coalition ministry, Under Lord North and Mr. Fox. t See Murphy's Life of Johnson. Nor ought we to forgot Lord Thurlow'j treatment of the poet Crabbe. The latte* presented to him one of his poems. " I have no time," said Lord Thurlow, " to read verses, my avocations do not permit it." " There was a time," retorted the poet, " when the encour agement of literature was considered to be a duty appertaining to the illustrious station which your lordship holds." Lord Thurlow frankly acknowledged his error, and nobly redeemed it. " I ought," he , observed, " to have noticed your poem, and I heartily for- give your rebuke :" and in proof of his sin- cerity he generously transmitted the sum of one hundred pounds, and subsequently gave him preferment in the church. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, Feb. 24, 1783. My dear Friend,- — A weakness in one of my eyes may possibly shorten my letter, but I mean to make it as long as my present materials, and my ability to write, can suffice for. I am almost sorry to say that I am recon- ciled to the peace, being reconciled to it not upon principles of approbation but necessity. The deplorable condition of the country, in- sisted on by the friends of administration, and not denied by their adversaries, convinces me that our only refuge under Heaven was in the treaty with which I quarrelled. The treaty itself I find less objectionable than I did, Lord Shelburne having given a color to some of the articles that makes them less painful in the contemplation. But my opinion upon the whole affair is, that now is the time (if indeed there is salvation for the country) for Providence to interpose to save it. A peace with the greatest political advantages would not have healed us ; a peace with none may procrastinate our ruin for a season, but cannot ultimately prevent it. The prospect may make all tremble who have no trust in God, and even they that trust nnxy tremble. The peace will probably be of short duration; and in the ordinary course of things another war must end us. A great country in ruins will not be beheld with eyes of indifference, even by those who have a better country to look to. But with them all will be well at last. As to the Americans, perhaps I do not forgive them as I ought; perhaps I shall always think of them with some resentment, as the destroyers, intentionally the destroyers, of this country. They have pushed that point farther than the house of Bourbon could have carried it in half a century. I may be preju- diced against them, but I do not think them equal to the task of establishing an empire * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER, 14! Great men are necessary for such a purpose : and their great men, I believe, are yet un- born.* They have had passion and obstinacy enough to do us much mischief; but whether the event will be salutary to themselves or not, must wait for proof. I agree with you that it is possible America may become a land of extraordinary evangelical light, f but at the same time, I cannot discover anything in their new situation peculiarly favorable to such a supposition. They cannot have more liberty of conscience than they had ; at least, if that. liberty was under any restraint, it was a re- straint of their own making. Perhaps a new settlement in church and state may leave them less. — Well — all will be over soon. The time is at hand when an empire will be es- tablished that shall fill the earth. Neither statesmen nor generals will lay the founda- tion of it, but it shall rise at the sound of the tmmpet. I am well in body, but with a mind that would wear out a frame of adamant ; yet, upon my frame, which is not very robust, its effects are not discernable. Mrs. Unwin is in health. Accept our unalienable love to you both. Yours, my dear friend, truly, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.J Olney, March 7, 1783. My dear Friend, — When will you come and tell us what you think of the peace ? Is it a good peace in itself, or a good peace only in reference to the ruinous condition of our country ? I quarrelled most bitterly with it at first, finding nothing in the terms of it but disgrace and destruction to Great Britain. But, having learned since that we are already destroyed and disgraced, as much as we can be, I like it better, and think myself deeply indebted to the King of France for treating us with so much lenity. The olive-branch indeed has neither leaf nor fruit, but it is still * This anticipation has not been fulfilled. America has produced materials for national greatness, that have laid the foundation of a mighty empire ; and both Gen- eral Washington and Franklin were great men. t There is a remarkable passage in Herbert's Sacred Poems expressive of this expectation, and indicating the probable period of its fulfilment. "Religion stands on tiptoe in our land, Ready to pass to the American strand. When height of malice, and prodigious lusts, Impudent sinning, witchcrafts, and distrusts. The marks of future bane, shall fill our cup Unto the brim, and make our measure up ; When Seine shall swallow Tiber, and the Thames, By letting in them both, pollute her streams ; When Italy of us shall have her will, And all her calendar of sins, fulfil ; Then shall Religion to America flee ; They have their times of Gospel ev'n as we." Herbert concludes by predicting that Christianity shall fcen complete its circuit by returning once more to the East, the original source of Empire, of the Arts, and of Religion, and so prepare the way for the final consumma- tion of all things. t Private correspondence. . an olive-branch. Mr. Newton and I have ex changed several letters on the subject ; some, times considering, like grave politicians as w/» are, the state of Europe at large ; sometimes the state of England in particular ; sometimes the conduct of the house of Bourbon ; some times that of the Dutch ; but most especially that of the Americans. We have not differed perhaps very widely, nor even so widely as we seemed to do ; but still we have differed. We have however managed our dispute with temper, and brought it to a peaceable conclu- sion. So far at least we have given proof o* a wisdom which abler politicians than myself would do well to imitate. How do you like your northern mountain- eers ?* Can a man be a good Christian that goes without breeches % You are better quali- fied to solve me this question than any man t know, having, as I am informed, preached to many of them, and conversed, no doubt, with some. You must know I love a Highlander, and think I can see in them what Englishmen once were, but never will be again. Such have been the effects of luxury ! You know that I kept two hares. I havi written nothing since I saw you but an epi- taph on one of them, which died last week. I send you the first impression of it. Here lies, &c.| Believe me, my dear friend, affectionate^ yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.J Olney, March 7, 1783. My dear Friend, — Were my letters com- posed of materials worthy of your acceptance, they should be longer. There is a subject upon which they who know themselves inter- ested in it are never weary of writing. . That subject is not within my reach ; and there are few others that do not soon fatigue me Upon these, however, I might possibly be more diffuse, could I forget that I am writing to you, to whom I think it just as improper and absurd to send a sheet full of trifles, as it would be to allow myself that liberty, were I writing to one of the four evangelists. But, since you measure me with so much exact- ness, give me leave to requite you in your own way. Your manuscript indeed is close, and I do not reckon mine very 1 ax. You make no margin, it is true ; if you did, you would have need of their Lilliputian art, who can enclose the creed within the circle of a shil- ling ; for, upon ttr nicest comparison, I find your paper an inch smaller every way than mine. Were my writing therefore as com pact as yours, my letters with a margin would * Scotch Highlanders, quartered at Newport Pagna* where Mr. Bull lived. t Vide Cowper's Poems. X Private correspondence. be as long as yours without one. Let this consideration, added to that of their futility, prevail with you to think them, if not long, yet long enough. Yesterday a body of Highlanders passed through Olney. They are part of that regi- ment which lately mutinied at Portsmouth. Convinced to a man that General had sold them to the East India Company, they breathe nothing but vengeance, and swear they will pull down his house in Scotland, as soon as they arrive here. The rest of thco are quartered at Dunstable, Woburn, and Newport; in all eleven hundred. A party of them, it is said, are to continue some days at Olney. None of their .principal officers are with them ; either conscious of guilt, or at least knowing themselves to be suspected as privy to and partners in the in-' iquitous bargain, they fear the resentment of the corps. The design of government seems to be to break them into small divisions, that they may find themselves, when they reach Scotland, too weak to do much mischief.— Forty of them attended Mr. Bull, who found himself singularly happy in an opportunity to address himself to a flock bred upon the Caledonian mountains. He told them he would walk to John O'Groat's house to hear a soldier pray. They are in general so for religious that they will hear none but evan- gelical preaching ; and many of them are said to be truly so. Nevertheless, General 's skull was in some danger among them ; for he was twiced felled to the ground with the butt end of a musket. The sergeant-major rescued him, or he would have been forever rendered incapable of selling Highlanders to the India Company. I am obliged to you for your extract from Mr. Bowman's letter. I feel myself sensibly pleased by the appro- bation of men of taste and learning ; but that my vanity may not get too much to windward, my spirits are kept under by a total inability to renew my enterprises in the poetical way. We are tolerably well, and love you both. Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, April 5, 1783. My dear Friend, — When one has a letter to write, there is nothing more useful than to make a beginning. In the first placed be- cause unless it be begun, there is no good reason to hope it will ever be ended ; and secondly, because the beginning is half the business, it being much more difficult to put '.he pen in motion at first, than to continue fch' 1 - progress of it when once moved. Mrs C 's illness, likely to prove mortal, nnd seizing her at such a time, has excited much compassion in my breast, and in Mrs. Jnwin's, both for her : ad her daughter. To have parted with a child she loves so much, intending soon to follow her; to find herself arrested before she could set out, and at so great a distance from her most valued rela. tions ; her daughter's life too threatened by a disorder not often curable, are circumstan- ces truly affecting. She has indeed much natural fortitude, and, to make her condition still more tolerable, a good Christian hope for her support. But so it is, that the dis- tresses of those who least need our pity ex- cite it most ; the amiableness of the character engages our sympathy, and we mourn for persons for whom perhaps we might more reasonably rejoice. There is still however a possibility that she may recover ; an event we must wish for, though for her to depart would be far better. Thus we would always withhold from the skies those who alone can reach them, at least till we are ready to bear them company. Present our love, if you please, to Miss C * I saw in the " Gentleman's Maga- zine," for last month, an account of a physi- cian who has discovered a new method of treating consumptive cases, which has suc- ceeded wonderfully in the trial. He finds the seat of the distemper in the stomach, and cures it principally by emetics. The old method of encountering the disorder has proved so unequal to the task, that 1 should be much inclined to any new practice that comes well recommended. He is spoken of as a sensible and judicious man, but his name I have forgot. Our love to all under your roof, and in particular to Miss Catlett, if she is with you. Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f Olney, April 21, 1783. My dear Friend, — My device was intended to represent, not my own heart, but the heart of a Christian, mourning and yet re- joicing, pierced with thorns, yet wreathed about with roses. I have the thorn without the rose. My briar is a wintry one; the flowers are withered, but the thorn remains. My days are spent in vanity, and it is impossi- ble for me to spend them otherwise. No man upon earth is more sensible of the un- profitableness of a life like mine than I am, or groans more heavily under the burden. The time when I seem to be most rationally employed is when I am reading. My studies however are very much confined, and of little use, because I have no books but what I bor- row, and nobody will lend me a memory. My own is almost worn out. I read the Bi- ographia and the Review. If all the readers of the former had memories like mine, the * Miss Cunnir.gham'. t Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER, 15, compilers of that work would in vain have labored to rescue the great names of past ages from oblivion, for what I read to day I forget to-morrow. A by-stander might say, This- is rather an advantage, the book is always new ; — but I beg the by-standees par- don ; I can recollect, though I cannot remem- ber, and with the book in my hand I recog- nize those passages which, without the book, I should never have thought of more. The Review pleases me most, because, if the con- tents escape me, I regret them less, being a very supercilious reader of most modern writers. Either I dislike the subject, or the manner of treating it ; the style is affected, or the matter is disgusting. I see (though he was a learned man, and sometimes wrote like a wise one,) laboring under invincible prejudices against the truth and its professors ; heterodox in his opinions upon some religious subjects, and reasoning most weakly in support of them. How has he toiled to prove that the perdition of the wicked is not eternal, that there may be re- pentance in hell, and that the devils may be saved at last : thus establishing, as far as in him lies, the belief of a purgatory. When I i.hink of him, I think too of some who shall « comnhm fogs. " De La Lande." TV* .'anger to which men of philosophical minds seem ruary occurred the calamitous earthquakes in Calabria and Sicily ;* by which solemn catas- trophe the city of Messina was overthrown and the greater portion of its population, consisting of thirty thousand souls, whclly destroyed. This awful event was preceded by an horizon full of black intense fog, the earthquake next followed, with two succesive shocks, and subsequently a whirlpool of fire issued from the earth, which completed th3 entire destruction of the noble and great ed- ifices that still remained. We refer the reader for the terrible details of this afflicting calamity to the narrative of Sir William Hamilton, which cannot be read without alarm and terror. Nor can we omit the fol- lowing just and impressive moral from tho pen of Cowper. What then ! were they the wicked above all, And we the righteous, whose fast anchor'd islts Mov'd not. while theirs was rock'd, like a ligbi skiff The sport of every wave 1 No : none are clear, And none than we more guilty. But, where all Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts Of wrath obnoxious. God may choose his mark; May punish if he please, the less to warn The more malignant. If he spar'd not them, Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape, Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee. Taek, book ii. to be peculiarly exposed is the habit of accounting for the phenomena of nature too exclusively by the opera- tion of mere secondary causes; while the supreme agency of a first Great Cause is too much overlooked. The universality of these appearances occurring at the same time in England, France, Italy, and so many other countries, awakens reflections of a more solemn cast, in a mind imbued with Christian principles. He who reads Professor Barruel's work, and the concurring testimony adduced by Robinson, as to the extent of infidelity and even atheism, gathering at that time in the different states of Europe, might, we think, see in these signs in the moon, and in the stars, and in the heavens, some in- timations of impending judgments, which followed so shortly after; and evidences of the power and existence of that God, which many so impiously questioned and defied. * Cowper has selected this awful catastrophe for the exercise of his poetic powers. His mind seems to have been impregnated with the grandeur of the theme., which he has presented to the imagination of the readei with all the accuracy of historic detail. We quote ths following extracts. " Alas for Sicily ! rude fragments now Lie scatter'd, where the shapely column stood. Her palaces are dust. In all her streets The voice of singing and the sprightly chord Are silent. .... The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise — The sylvan scene Migrates uplifted ; and with all its soil Alighting in far distant fields, finds out A new possessor, and survives the changw. Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwrought To an enormous and o'crbearing height, . Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice Which winds and waves obey, invades the shor* Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, Upridg'd so high, and sent on such a charge, Possessed an inland scene. Where now the thronf That press'd the beach, and, hasty to depart, Look'd to the sea for safety ?— They are gone, Gone with the refluent wave into the deep — A prince with half his people !" Task> book ii 156 COWPER'S WORKS. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, June 17, 1783. My dear Friend, — Your letter reached Mr. S while Mr. was with him ; whether it wrought any change in his opinion of thf.t gentleman, as a preacher, I know not ; but for my own part I give you full credit for the soundness and rectitude of yours. No man was ever scolded out of his sins. The heart, corrupt as it is, and because it is so, grows angry if it be not treated with some manage- ment and good manners, and scolds again. A surly mastiff will bear perhaps to be stroked, though he will growl even under that operation, but, if you touch him rough- ly, he will bite. There is no grace that the spirit of self can counterfeit with more suc- cess than a religious zeal. A man thinks he is fighting for Christ, and he is fighting for his own notions. He thinks that he is skil- fully searching the hearts of others, when he is only gratifying the malignity of his own, and charitably supposes his hearers destitute of all grace, that he may shine the more in his own eyes by comparison. When he has performed this notable task, he wonders that they are not converted, " he has given it them soundly," and if they do not tremble and confess that God is in him of a truth, he gives them up as reprobate, incorrigible, and lost forever. But a man that loves me, if he sees me in an error, will pity me, and endeav- or calmly to convince me of it, and persuade me to forsake it. If he has great and good news to tell me, he will not do it angrily, and in much heat and discomposure of spirit. It is not therefore easy to conceive on what ground a minister can justify a conduct which only proves that he does not understand his errand. The absurdity of it would cer- tainly strike him, if he were not himself de- luded. A people will always love a minister, if a minister seems to love his people. The old maxim, Simile agit in simile, is in no case more exactly verified; therefore you were beloved at Olney, and, if you preached to. the Chicksaws and Chactaws, would be equally beloved by them. W, C. Tenderness in a minister is a very impor- tant qualification, and indispensable to his success. The duty of it is enjoined in an apostolical precept, and the wisdom of it in- culcated in another passage of scripture. " Speaking the truth in love." " He that vnnneth souls is wise." We have often thought that one reason why a larger portion of divine blessing fails to accompany the ministrations of the sanctuary, is tl s want of more affectionate expostulation, more earnest entreaty, and more tenderness and sympathy in the preacher. The heart that is unmoved by our reproof may perhaps yield to the persuasiveness of our appeal. We fully admit that it is divine grace alone that can subdue the power of sin in the soul ; but in the whole economy of grace, as well as oi Providence, there is always perceptible a wise adaptation of means to the end. Who is not impressed by the tenderness and earnest solicitations of St. Paul ? Who can contem- plate the Saviour weeping over Jerusalem, without emotions of the profoundest admi- ration ? And who does not know that the spectacle of man's misery and guilt first sug- gested the great plan of redemption, and that the scheme of mercy which divine love de- vised in heaven dying love accomplished on earth? TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, June 19, 1783. My dear Friend, — The translation of your letters* into Dutch was news that pleased me much. 1 intended plain prose, but a rhyme obtruded itself, and I became poetical when I least expected it. When you wrote those letters, you did not dream that you were de- signed for an apostle to the Dutch. Yet, so it proves, and such among many others are the advantages we derive from the art of printing — an art in which indisputably man was instructed by the same great Teacher, who taught him to embroider for the service of the sanctuary, and which amounts almost to as great a blessing as the gift of tongues. The summer is passing away, and hitherto has hardly been either seen or felt. Perpetual clouds intercept the influence of the sun, and for the most part there is an autumnal cold- ness in the weather, though we are almost upon the eve of the longest day. We are well, and always mindful of you : be mindful of us, and assured that we love you. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, July 27, 1783. My dear Friend, — You cannot have mora pleasure in receiving a letter from me than I should find in writing it, were it not almosj impossible in such a place to find a subject. I live in a world abounding with incidents, upon which many grave and perhaps some profitable observations might be made ; but, those incidents never reaching* my unfortu- nate ears, both the entertaining narrative, and the reflection it might suggest, are to me an- nihilated and lost. I look back to the past week and say, what did it produce ? I ask * Newton's " Cardiphonia," a work of great merit and interest, and full of edification. LIFE OF COWPER. 151 the same question of the week preceding, and duly receive the same answer from both —nothing ! A situation like this, in which I am as unknown to the world as I am igno- rant of all that passes in it, in which I have nothing to do but to think, would exactly suit me, were my subject of meditation as agree- able as my leisure is uninterrupted : my pas- sion for retirement is not at all abated, after so many years spent in the most sequestered state, but rather increased. A circumstance I should esteem wonderful to a degree not to ,e accounted for, considering the condition of my mind, did I not know that we think as we are made to think, and of course approve and prefer as Providence, who appoints the bounds of our habitation, chooses for us. Thus I am both free and a prisoner at the same time. The world is before me ; I am not shut up in the Bastile ; there are no moats about my castle, no locks upon my gates, of which I have not the key — but an invisible, uncon- trollable agency, a local attachment, an incli- nation more forcible than I ever felt, even to the place of my birth, serves me for prison- walls, and for bounds which I cannot pass. In former years I have known sorrow, and before I had ever tasted of spiritual trouble. The effect was an abhorrence of the scene in vmich I had suffered so much, and a weari- xiess of those objects which I had so long looked at with an eye of despondency and dejection. But it is otherwise with me now. The same cause subsisting, and in a* much more powerful degree, fails to produce its natural effect. The very stones in the gar- den-walls are my intimate acquaintance. I should miss almost the minutest object, and be disagreeably affected by its removal/ and am persuaded that, were it possible I could leave this incommodious nook for a twelve- month, I should return to it again with rap- ture, and be transported with the sight of ob- jects, which to all the world beside would be at least indifferent; some of them, perhaps, such as the ragged thatch and the tottering walls of the neighboring cottages, disgusting. But so it is, and it is so, because here is to be my abode, and because such is the appoint- ment of Him that placed me in it. Iste terrarum mihi praeter omnes Angulus ridet. It is the place of all the world J love the most, not for any happiness it affords me, but because here I can be miserable with most convenience to myself, and with the least dis- turbance to others. You wonder, and (I dare say) unfeignedly, because you do not think yourself entitled to such praise, that I prefer your style, as an historian, to that of the two most renowned writers of history the present day has seen. That y % u may not suspect me of having said more than my real opinion will warrant, ] will tell you why. In your style I see np affectation, in every line of theirs I see noth ing else. They disgust me always ; Robert- son with his pomp and his strut, and Gibbon with his finical and French mannerc. You are as correct as they. You express your- self with as much precision. Your words are ranged with as much propriety, but you do not set your periods to a tune. They dis- cover a perpetual desire to exhibit themselves tc advantage, whereas your subject engrosser you. They sing, and you say ; which, as his- tory is a thing to be said and not sung, is ir my judgment very much to your advantage, A writer that despises their tricks, and is yet neither inelegant nor inharmonious, proves himself, by that single circumstance, a man of superior judgment and ability to them both. You have my reasons. I honor a manly character, in which good sense and a desire of doing good are the predominant features — but affectation is an emetic. W. (_. It is impossible to read the former part ol the preceding letter without emotion. Who has not felt the force of local associations, and their power of presenting affecting recol- lections to the mind? " I could not bear," says Pope, in one of his letters, " to have even an old post removed out of the way with which my eyes had been familiar from my youth." Among the Swiss, the force of association is so strong, that it is known by the appella- tion of the " maladie du pays ;" and it is re- corded that on hearing one of their national airs in a foreign land, so overpowering was the effect that, though engaged in warfare at the time, they threw down their arms and re- turned to their own country. The emotions awakened by some of the Swiss airs, such as the " Rantz des Vaches," and the affecting pathos of " La Suissesse au bord du lac," when heard on their native lakes, are always remembered by the traveller with delight. The feelings of a still higher kind connected with local associations are expressed with so much grace and eloquence in Dr. John- son's celebrated allusion to this subject, that we close our remarks by inserting the pas- sage, — " We were now treading that illustrious island, which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible, if it were endeavored, and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses, whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future, predominate over the 158 COWPER S WORKS present, advances us in the dignity of think- ing beings. Far from me and far from my friends be such frigid philosophy, as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wis- dom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little ! Jo be envied, whose patriotism would not | gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona."* TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. Olney, Aug. 4, 1783. My dear William, — I feel myself sensibly ; obliged by the interest you take in the sue- i cess of my productions. Your feelings upon I the subject are such as I should have my- ! self, had I an opportunity of calling Johnson j aside to make the inquiry you propose. But [ am pretty well prepared for the worst, and ' so long as I have the opinion of a few capa- ble judges in my favor, and am thereby con- vinced that I have neither disgraced myself nor my subject, shall not feel myself dis- posed to any extreme anxiety about the sale. To aim, with success, at the spiritual good of mankind, and to become popular by writ- ing on scriptural subjects, were an unreason- able ambition, even for a poet to entertain in days like these. Verse may have many charms, but has none powerful enough to con- quer the aversion of a dissipated age to such instruction. Ask the question therefore bold- ly, and be not mortified, even though he should shake his head, and drop his chin; for it is no more than we have reason to ex r pect. We will lay the fault upon the vice of the times, and we will acquit the poet. I am glad you were pleased with my Latin ode, and indeed with my English dirge as much as I'was myself. The tune laid me under a disadvantage, obliging me to write in Alexandrines; which, I suppose, would suit no ear but a French one ; neither did I intend anything more than that the subject and the words should be sufficiently accom- modated to the music. The ballad is a spe- cies of poetry, I believe, peculiar to this country, equally adapted to the drollest and the most tragical subjects. Simplicity and ease are its proper characteristics. Our fore- fathers excelled in it ; but we moderns have lost the art. It is observed, that we have few good English odes. But, to make amends, we have many excellent ballads, not inferior, perhaps, in true poetical merit to some of the very best odes that the Greek or Latin languages have to boast of. It is a sort of tomposition I was ever fond of, and, if graver matters had not called me another way, should have addicted myself to it more than -', any other. I inherit a taste for it from * See his journey to the Western Islands. my father, who succeeded well ir. it himself and who lived at a time when the best piecea in that way were produced. What can be prettier than Gay's ballad, or rather Swift's, Arbuthnot's, Pope's, and Gay's, in the What do ye call it — "'Twas when the seas were roaring." I have been well informed that they all contributed, and that the most cele- brated association of clever fellows this coun- try ever saw, did not think it beneath them to unite their strength and abilities in the composition of a song. The success, how- ever, answered their wishts. The ballads that Bourne has translated, beautiful in them- selves, are still more beautiful in his version of them, infinitely surpassing in my judg- ment all that Ovid or Tibullus have left be- hind tjiem. They are quite as elegant, and far more touching and pathetic, than the tenderest strokes of either. So much for ballads and ballad-writers.— "A worthy subject," you will say, "for a man whose head might be filled with better things ;" — and it is filled with better things, but to so ill a purpose, that I thrust into it all manner of topics that may prove more amusing ; as, for instance, I have two gold- finches, which in the summer occupy the greenhouse. A few days since, being em- ployed in cleaning out their cages, I placed that which I had in hand upon the table, while the other hung against the wall : the windows and the doors stood wide open. I went to fill the fountain at the pump, and, on my return, was not a little surprised to find a goldfinch sitting on the top of the cage I had been cleaning, and singing to and kissing the goldfinch within. I approached him, and he discovered no fear; still nearer, and he discovered none. I advanced my hand towards him, and he took no notice of it. I seized him, and supposed I had caught a new bird, but, casting my eye upon the other cage, perceived my mistake. Its in- habitant, during my absence, had contrived to find an opening, where the wire had been a little bent, and" made no other use of the escape it afforded him than to salute hia friend, and to converse with him more inti mately than he had done before. I returned him to his proper mansion, but in vain. In less than a minute, he had thrust his little person through the aperture again, and again perched upon his neighbor's cage, kissing him, as at the first, and singing, as if trans- ported with the fortunate adventure. I could not but respect such friendship, as for the sake of its gratification, had twice declined an opportunity to be free, and consenting to their union, resolved that for the future one cage should hold them both. I am glad of such incidents. For at a pinch, and when I eed entertainment, the versification of thf'ui erves to diver; me. LIFE OF COWPER. 151 * I transcribe for you a piece of Madam Guion, not as the best, but as being shorter than many, and as good as most of them. Yours ever, W. C. The following letter contains a judicious and excellent critique on the writings of Madame Guion, and on the school of mys- tics to which she belonged. The defect at- tributed to that school is too much famil- iarity of address, and a warmth of devotional fervor in their approach to the Deity, ex- ceeding the bounds of just propriety. There is, however, much to quicken piety, and to elevate the affections of the heart. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNsVlN. Olney, Sept. 7, 1783. My dear Friend, — So long a silence ueeds wi apology. I have been hindered by a three-weeks' visit from our Hoxton fnends,* and by a cold and feverish complaint which are but just removed. The French poetess is certainly charge able with the fault you mention, though .unto whose efforts have staved off the ex- pected dissolution, franks have not yet lost their currency. Ignorant as they were that my writing by this post depended upon the existence of the present parliament, they have conducted their deliberations with a sturdi- ness and magnanimity that would almost tempt one to suppose that they had known it. So true it is that the actions of men are connected with consequences they are little aware of ; and that events, comparatively tri- vial in themselves, may give birth to the most important. My thoughts of ministers and men in pow- er are nearly akin to yours. It is well for the public, when the rulers of a state are actuated by principles that may happen to coincide with its interests. ' The ambition of an indi- vidual has often been made subservient to the general good; and many a man has served his country merely for the sake of immortal- izing himself by doing it. So far, it seems to me, the natural man is to be trusted, and no farther. Self it is at the bottom of all his conduct. If self can be pleased, flattered, enriched, exalted by his exertions, and his talents are such as qualify him for great use- fulness, his country shall be the better for him. And this, perhaps, is all the patriotism we have a right to look for. In the meantime, however, I cannot but think such a man in some degree a respectable character, and am willing at least to do him honor so far as I feel myself benefited by him. Ambition and the love of fame are certainly no Christian principles, but they are such as commonly belong to men of superior minds, and the fruits they produce may often plead their apology. The great men of the world are of a piece with the world to which they belong ; they are raised up to govern it, and in the government of it are prompted by worldly * Private correspondence. motives : but it prospers perhaps under then management ; and, when it does, the Chris, tian world, which is totally a distinct creation, partaking of the advantage, has cause to be thankful. The sun is a glorious creature ; he does much good, but without intending it. I, however, who am conscious of the good he does, though I know not what religion he is of, or whether he has any or none, rejoice in his effects, admire him, and am sensible that it is every man's duty to be thankful for him. In this sentiment I know you agree with me, for I believe he has not a warmer votary than yourself. We say the king can do no wrong ; and it is well for poor George the Third that he cannot. In my opinion, however, he has lately been within a hair's-breadth of that pre- dicament.* His advisers, indeed, are guilty, and not he : but he will probably find, how- ever hard it may seem, that if he can do no wrong, he may yet suffer the consequences of the wrong he cannot do. He has dismissed his servants, but not disgraced them; they triumph in their degradation, and no man is willing to supply their places. Must their offices remain unoccupied, or must they be courted to resume them ? Never was such a distracted state of things within my remem- brance ; and I much fear that this is but the beginning of sorrows. It is not a time of day for a king to take liberties with the people : there is a spirit in the Commons that will not endure it : and his Majesty's advisers must be less acquainted with the temper of the times than it is possible to suppose them, if they imagine that such strides of prerogative will not be resented. The address will gall him. I am sorry that he has exposed himself to such a reprehension, but I think it warranted by the occasion. I pity him ; but, king as he is, and much as I have always honored him, had I been a member, I should have voted for it. I am obliged to Mr. Bacon for thinking of me. That expression, however, does not do justice to my feelings. Even with the little knowledge I ha^e of him, I should love him, had I no reason to suppose myself at any time an object of his attention ; but, knowing that I am so happy as to have a share in his remembrance, I certainly love him the more. Truly, I am not in his debt : I cannot say wherefore it is so, but certainly few days pass in which I do not remember him. The print, indeed, with which he favored me, and which is always in my view, must often suggest the recollection of him ; but though I greatly val- ue it, I do not believe it is my only prompter * This alludes to the influence supposed to have been exercised by the king against the passing of Mr. Fox'o celebrated East India Bill ; and to his having commis- sioned Lord Temple, afterwards Lord Buckingham, to make known his sentiments on that subject. This event led to the dissolution of the famous coalition viinistry. I finish with what I wish may make you .augh, as it did me. Mr. Scott, exhorting the people to frequent prayer, closed his address thus : — " You have nothing to do but to ask and you will ever find him ready to be- stow. Open your wide mouths, and he will fill them." Mrs. Unwin is well. Accept an old but a true conclusion — our united love to you and yours, and believe me, my dear friend, Your ever affectionate W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. No date. My dear Friend, — It is hard upon us strip- lings, who have uncles still living (N. B. I myself have an uncle still alive) that those venerable gentlemen should stand in our way, even when the ladies are in question ; that I, for instance, should find in one page of your letter a hope that Miss Shuttle worth would be of your party, and be told in the next that she is engaged to your uncle. Well, we may perhaps never be uncles, but we may reason- ably hope that the time is coming, when others, as young as we are now, shall envy us the privilege of old age, and see us engross that share in the attention of the ladies, to which their youth must aspire in vain. Make our compliments, if you please, to your sister Eliza, and tell her that we are both mortified at having missed the pleasure of seeing her. Balloons are so much the mode, that even in this country we have attempted a balloon. You may possibly remember that at a place called Weston, a little more than a' mile from Olney, there lives a family whose name is Throckmorton. The present possessor is a young man, whom I remember a boy. He has a wife, who is young, genteel, and handsome. They are Papists, but much more amiable than many Protestants. We never had any intercourse with the family, though ever since we lived here, we have enjoyed the range of their pleasure grounds, having been favored with a key, which admits us into all. When this man succeeded to the estate, on the death of his elder brother, and came to settle at Weston, 1 sent him a complimentary card, requesting the continuance of that privilege, having till then enjoyed it by favor of his mother, who on that occasion went to finish her davs at Bath. You may conclude that he grantbd it, and for about two years nothing more passed between us. A fortnight ago, I received an invitation, in the civil est terms, in which he told me that the next day he should attempt to fill a balloon, and if it would be any pleasure to me to be present, should be happy to see me. Your mother and I went. The whole country were there, but the bal- loon could not be filled. The endeavor was, I believe, very philosophically made, but such a process depends, for its success, upon sucb niceties as make it very precarious. Our re. ception was, however, flattering to a great degree, insomuch that more notice seemed to be taken of us than we could possibly have expected, indeed rather more than of any of his other guests. They even seemed anxious to recommend themselves to our regards. We drank chocolate, and were asked to dine, but were engaged. A day or two afterwards Mrs. Unwin and I walked that way, and were overtaken in a shower. I found a tree that I thought would shelter us both, a large elm, in a grove that fronts the mansion. Mrs. T. ob- served us, and, running towards us in the rain, insisted on our walking in. He was gone out. We sat chatting with her till the weather cleared up, and then at her instance took a walk with her in the garden. The garden is almost their only walk, and is certainly their only retreat in which they are not liable to interruption. She offered us a key of it, in a manner that made it impossible not to ac cept it, and said she would send us one. A few days afterwards, in the cool of the even ing, we walked that way again. We saw them going towards the house, and exchangee bows and courtesies at a distance, but did not join them. In a few minutes, when we ha\ into precedent, unless it could be alleged, &s a sufficient reason for not hanging a rogue, that perhaps magistracy might grow wanton in the exercise of such a power, and now and then hang up an honest man for its amuse- ment. When the Governors of the Bank shall have deserved the same severity, I hope hey will meet with it. In the meantime I lo not think them a whit more in jeopardy oecause a corporation of plunderers have been brought to justice. We are well and love you all. I never ♦vrote in such a hurry, nor in such disturb- ance. Pardon the effects, and believe me yours affectionately, . W. C. TO MRS. HILL."* Oluey, Jan. 5, 1784. Dear Madam, — You will readily pardon the trouble I give you by this line, when I plead my attention to your husband's convenience in my excuse. I know him to be so busy a man, that I cannot in conscience trouble him with a commission, which I know it is im- possible he should have leisure to execute. After all, the labor would devolve upon you, and therefore I may as well address you in the first instance. I have read and return the books you were so kind as to procure for me. Mr. Hill gave me hopes, in his last, that from the library, to which I have subscribed, T might still be sup- plied with more. I have not many more to wish for, nor do I mean to make any un- reasonable use of your kindness. In about a fortnight I shall be favored, by a friend in Essex, with as many as will serve me during the rest of the winter. In summer I read but little. In the meantime, I shall be much obliged to you for Forsters NarratiAe of the same voyage, if your librarian has it; and likewise for " Swinburn's Travels" which Mr. Hill mentioned. If they can be sent at once, which perhaps the terms of subscription may not allow, I shall be glad to receive them so. If not, then Forster\s first, and Swinburn afterwards : and Swinburn, at any rate, if Forster is not to be procured. Reading over what I have written, I find it perfectly free and easy ; so much indeed in that style, that had I not had repeated proofs of your good-nature in other instances, I should have modesty enough to suppress it, and attempt something more civil, and becom- ing a person who has never had the hap- piness of seeing you. But I have always ob- served that sensible people are best pleased with what is natural and unaffected. Nor can I tell you a plainer truth, than that I am, * Private correspondence. without the leas,'-, dissimulation, and with £ warm remembrance of past favors, My dear Madam, Your affectionate humble servant, w. c. I beg to be remembered to Mr. Hill. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Jan. 8, 1784. My dear Friend, — I wish you had moie leisure, that you might often er favor me with a page of politics. The authority of a news- paper is not of sufficient weight to determine my opinions, and I have no other documents to be set down by. I therefore on this sub- ject am suspended in a sta ». of constant scepticism, the most uneasy condition in which the judgment can find itself. But ijour politics have weight with me, because I know your independent spirit, the justness of your reasonings, and the opportunities you have of information. But I know likewise the urgency and the multiplicity of your con- cerns; and therefore, like a neglected clock, must be contented to go wrong, except when perhaps twice in the year you shall come to set me right, Public credit is indeed shaken, and the funds at a low ebb. How can they be other- wise when our western wing is already clip- ped to the stumps, and the shears at this moment threaten our eastern. Low however as our public stock is, it is not lower than my private one; and this being the article that touches me most nearly at present, I shall be obliged to you if you will have recourse to such ways and means for the replenishment of my exchequer as your wisdom may sug gest and your best ability suffice to execute The experience I have had of your readiness upon all similar occasions has been very agreeable to me ; and I doubt not but upon the present I shall find you equally prompt to serve me. So, Yours ever, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Jan. 18, 1784. My dear Friend, — I too have taken leave of the old year, and parted with it just when you did, but with very different sentiments and feelings upon the occasion. I looked back upon all the passages and occurrences of it as a traveller looks back upon a wilderness, through which he has passed with weariness and sorrow of heart, reaping no other fruit of his labor than the poor consolation that, dreary as the desert was, he has left it all be. * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. 1T7 hind him. The traveller would find even this comfort considerably lessened, if, us soon as he had passed one wilderness, another of equal length and equally desolate should ex. pect him. In this particular, his experience and mine would exactly tally. I should re- joice indeed that the old year is over and gone, if I had not every reason to prophesy a new one similar to it. I am glad you have found so much hidden treasure ; and Mrs. Unwin desires me to tell you, that you did her no more than justice in believing that she would rejoice in it. It is not easy to surmise the reason why the Reverend Doctor, your predecessor, concealed it. Being a subject of a free government, and I suppose full of the divinity most in fashion, he could not fear lest his great riches should expose him to persecution. Nor can I suppose that he held it any disgrace for a dignitary of the church to be wealthy, at a time when churchmen in general spare no pains to become so. But ttic wisdom of some men has a droll sort of knavishness in it, much like that of the magpie, who hides what he finds with a deal of contrivance, merely for the pleasure of doing it. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Jan., 1784. My dear William, — When I first resolved to write an answer to your last this evening, I had no thought of anything more sublime than prose. But before I began it occured to me that perhaps you would not be dis- pleased with an attempt to give a poetical translation of the lines you sent me. They are so beautiful, that I felt the temptation ir- resistible. At least, as the French say, it was -plus forte que moi ; and I accordingly com- plied. By this means I have lost an hour; and whether I shall be able to fill my sheet before supper is as yet doubtful. But I will do my best. For your remarks, I think them perfectly just. You have no reason to distrust your taste, or to submit the trial of it to me. You understand the use and the force of language as well as any man. You have quick feel- ings and you are fond of poetry. How is it possible then that you should not be a judge of it? I venture to hazard on\y one alter- ation, which, as it appears to me, would amount to a little improvement. The seventh and eighth lines I think I should like better thus — Aspirante Ievi zephyro et redeunte serena Anni temperie foecundo e cespite surgunt. My reason is, that the word cum is re- peated too soon. At least my ear does not like it, and when it can be done without in- jury to the sense, there seems to be an ele- gance in diversifying the expression, as much as possible, upon similar occasions. It dis- covers a command of phrase, and gives a more masterly air to the piece; If exlincta stood unconnected with telis, I should prefer your word micant, to the doctor's vige.nl. But the latter seems to stand more in direct opposition to that sort of extinction which is effected by a shaft or arrow. In the daytime the stars may be said to die,' and in the night to recover their strength. Perhaps the doctor had in his eye that noble line of Gray's, Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war ! But it is a beautiful composition. It is ten- der, touching and elegant. It is not easy to do it justice in English, as for example.* Many thanks for the books, which being most admirably packed came safe. They will furnish us with mary a winter evening's amusement. We are glad that you intend to be the carrier back. We rejoice too that your cousin has re- membered you in her will. The money she left to those who attended her hearse, would have been better bestowed upon you : and by this time perhaps she thinks so. Alas ! what an inquiry does that thought suggest, and how impossible to make it to any purpose ! What are the employments of the departed spirit? and where does it subsist? Has it any cognizance of earthly things ? Is it trans- ported to an immeasurable distance ; or is it still, though imperceptible to us, conversant with the same scene, and interested in what passes here ? How little we know of a state to which we are all destined; and how docc the obscurity that hangs over that undiscovered country increase the anxiety we sometimes feel as we are journeying towards it ! It is sufficient however for such as you and a few more of my aquaintance to know that in your separate state you will be happy. Provision is made for your reception; and you will have no cause to regret aught that you have left behind. I have written to Mr. . My letter went this morning. How I love and honor that man ! For many reasons I dare not tell him how much. But I hate the frigidity of the style in which I am forced to address him. That line of Horace, Dii tibi divitias dederunt artemque fruendi, was nc-er so applicable to the poet's friend, as to Mr. . My bosom burns to immor- talize him. But prudence says, " Forbear !" and, though a poet, I pay respect to her injunc- tions.f * The verses appearing again with the original in the next letter, are omitted. t John Thornton, Esq., is the person here alluded to. 12 178 COWPER'S WOK.K8. I sincerely give you joy of the good you have unconsciously done by your example and conversation. That you seem to your- self not to deserve the acknowledgment your friend makes of it, is a proof that you do. Grace is blind to its own beauty, where- as such virtues as men may reach without it are remarkable self-admirers. May you make such impressions upon many of your order! I know none that need them more. You do not want my praises of your con- duct towards Mr. . It is well for him however, and still better for yourself, that you are capable of such a part. It was said of some good man (my memory does not serve me with his name) " do him an ill turn and you make him your friend forever." But it is Christianity only that forms such friends. I wish his father may be duly af- fected by this instance and proof of your superiority to those ideas of you which he has so unreasonably harbored. He is not in my favor now, nor will be upon any other terms. I laughed at the comments you make on your own feelings, when the subject of them was a newspaper eulogium. But it was a laugh of pleasure, and approbation : such in- deed is the heart, and so is it made up. There are few that can do good, and keep their own secret, none perhaps without a struggle. Yourself and your friend are no very common instances of the fortitude that is necessary in such a conflict. In for- mer days I have felt my heart beat and every vein throb upon such an occasion. To pub- lish my own deed was wrong. I knew it to be so. But to conceal it seemed like a vol- untary injury to myself. Sometimes I could and sometimes I could not succeed. My oc- casions for such conflicts indeed were not very numerous. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Jan. 25, 1784. My dear Friend, — This contention about East Indian patronage seems not unlikely to avenge upon us by its consequences the mis- chiefs we have done there. The matter in dispute is too precious to be relinquished by either party ; and each is jealous of the influ- ence the other would derive from the posses- sion of it. In a country whose politics have so long rolled upon the wheels of corruption, an affair of such value must prove a weight in either scale, absolutely destructive of the very idea of a balance. Every man has his senti- ments upon this subject, and I have mine. Were I constituted umpire of this strife, with full powers to decide it, I would tie a talent of lead about the neck of this patronage, and plunge it into the depths of the sea. To speak less figuratively, I would abandon all territorial interest in a country to which we can have no right, and which we cannot gov- ern with any security to the happiness of the inhabitants, or without the danger of incur- ring either perpetual broils, or the most in- supportable tyranny at home. That sort of tyranny I mean, which flatters and tantalizes the subject with a show of freedom, and in reality allows him nothing more, bribing to the right and left, rich enough to afford the purchase of a thousand consciences, and consequently strong enough, if it happen to meet with an incorruptible one, to render all the efforts of that man, or of twenty such men, if they could be found, romantic and of no effect. I am the king's most loyal sub- ject, and most obedient humble servant. But, by his majesty's leave, I must acknowledge I am not altogether convinced of the rectitude even of his own measures, or of the simplic- ity of his views ; and, if I were satisfied that he himself is to be trusted, it is nevertheless palpable that he cannot answer for his suc- cessors. At the same time he Ms my king, and I reverence him as such. I account his prerogative sacred, and shall never wish pros- perity to a party that invades it, and under that pretence of patriotism, would annihilate all the consequence of a character essential to the very being of the constitution. For these reasons I am sorry that we have any dominion in the East ; that we have any such emoluments to contend about. Their im- mense value will probably prolong the dis- pute, and such struggles having been already made in the conduct of it as have shaken our very foundations, it seems not unreasonable to suppose that still greater efforts and more fatal are behind ; and, after all, the decision in favor of either side may be ruinous to the whole. In the meantime, that the Company themselves are but indifferently qualified for the kingship is most deplorably evident. What shall I say therefore 1 I distrust the court, I suspect the patriots ; I put the Com- pany entirely aside, as having forfeited all claim to confidence in such a businsss, and see no remedy of course, but in the annihi- lation, if that could be accomplished, of the very existence of our authority in the East Indies. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. It was natural for Cowper to indulge in such a reflection, if we consider, that in his time India presented a melancholy scene tf rapine and corruption. It used to be said by Mr. Burke, that every man became unbaptized in going to India, and that, should it please Providence, by some unforeseen dispensation, to deprive Great Britain of her Indian empire, she Vrould leave behind no memorial but the LIFE OF COWPER. 17k evidences of her ambition, and the traces of her desolating wars. Happily we have lived to see a great moral revolution, and England has at length re- deemed her character. She has ennobled the triumphs of her arnfe, by making ihetn sub- servient to the introduction oi* the Gospel ; and seems evidently destined by Providence to be the honored instrument of evangelizing the nations of the East. Already the sacred Scriptures have been translated, in whole or in part, into nearly forty of the Oriental lan- guages or dialects. Schools have been es- tablished, and are rapidly multiplying in the three presidencies. The apparently insur- mountable barrier of caste is giving way, and the great fabric of Indian superstition is crumbling into dust, while on its ruins will arise the everlasting empire of righteousness and truth. The following lines, written by Dr. Jortin, to which we subjoin Cowper's translation, were inclosed in the last letter. IN BREVITATEM VITJE SPATII, HOMINIBUS CONCESSI. ^ Hei mihi ! Lege rata sol occidit atque resurgit, Lunaque mutatas repavat dispendia formae, Astraque, purpurei telis extincta diei, Rursus nocte vigent. Humiles telluris alumni, Graminis herba virens, et florum. picta propago, Q,uos crudelis hyems lethali tabe peredit Cum zephyri vox bland a vocat. rediitque sereni Temperies anni, foecundo c cespite surgunt. Nos domini rerum nos. magna et pulchra minati, Cum breve ver vitas robustaque transiit setas, Deficimus; nee nos ordo revolubilis auras R« ddit in aetherias, tumuli neque claustra resolvit. ON THR SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE. Suns that set. and moons that wane, Rise, and are restored again. Stars, that orient day subdues, Night at her return renews. Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth Of the genial womb of earth, ' Suffer but a transient death From the winter's cruel breath. Zephyr speaks ; serener skies Warm the glebe, and they arise. We, alas ! earth's haughty kings, We, that promise mighty things. Losing soon life's happy prime, Droop, and fade, in little time. Spring returns, but not our bloom, Still 'tis winter in the tomb. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Feb., 1784. My deai Friend, — I am glad that you have finished a .vork, of which I well remember the beginning, and which I was sorry you thought it expedient to discontinue.* Your reason for not proceeding was, however, such * The "Review of Ecclesiastical History. as I was obliged to acquiesce in, being sug- gested by a jealousy you felt, "lest your spirit should be betrayed into acrimony, in writing upon such a subject." I doubt not you have sufficiently guarded that point ; and indeed, at the time I could not discover that you had failed in it. I have busied myself this morning in contriving a Greek title, and in seeking a motto. The motto you mention is certainly apposite. But I think it an ob- jection that it has been so much in use; al- most every writer that has claimed a liberty to think for himself, upon whatever subject, having choserr it. I therefore send you one which I never saw in that shape yet, and which appears to me equally apt and proper. The Greek word J^o^ which signifies literally a slwckle, may figuratively serve to express those chains which bigotry and prejudice cast upon the mind. It seems therefore, to speak like a lawyer, no misnomer of your book to call it— ~M.iaoSea^Oi. The following pleases me most of all the mottos I have thought of. But with respect both to that and the title you will use your pleasure. Querelis Haud justis assurgis, et irrita jurgia jactas Mn. x. 94. From the little I have seen, and the much I have heard, of the manager of the Review you mention, I cannot feel even the smallest push of a desire to serve him in the capacity of a poet. Indeed I dislike him so much that, had I a drawer full of pieces fit for his purpose, I hardly think I should contribute to his collection. It* is possible too that I may live to be once more a publisher myself; in which case, I should be glad to find myself in possession of any such original pieces as might decently make their appearance in a volume of my own. At present, Ik-., ever, I have nothing that would be of use to fwa, nor have I many opportunities of compObi..g. Sunday being the only day in the week which we spend alone. I am at this moment pinched for time, but was desirous of proving to jou with what alacrity my Greek and Latin memory are al- ways ready to obey you, and therefore, by the first post, have to the best of my ability complied with your request. Believe me, my dear friend, Affectionately yours, W. C TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Feb. 10, 178*. My dear Friend, — The morning is my vriting time, and in the morning I have no spirits. So much the worse for my corre 180 COWPER'S WORKS Bpondents. Sleep, that refreshes my body, seems to cripple me in every other respect. As the evening approaches, I grow more alert, and when I am retiring to bed am more fit for mental occupation than at any other time. So it fares with us whom they call nervous. By a strange inversion of the ani- mal economy, we are ready to sleep when we have most need to be awake, and go to bed just when we might sit up to some purpose. The watch is irregularly wound up, it goes in the night when it is not wanted, and in the day stands still. In many respects we have the advantage of our forefathers, the Picts. We sleep in a whole skin, are not obliged to submit to the painful operation of puncturing ourselves from head to foot in order that we may be decently dressed, and lit to appear abroad. But, on the other hand, we have reason enough to envy them their tone of nerves, and that flow of spirits which effect- ually secured them from all uncomfortable im- pressions of a gloomy atmosphere, and from every shade of melancholy from every other, cause. They understood, I suppose, the use of vulnerary herbs, having frequent occasion for some skill in surgery, but physicians I pre- sume they had none, having no need of any. Is it possible that a creature like myself can be descended from such progenitors, in whom there appears not a single trace of /amity re- semblance? What an alteration have a few ages made ! They, without clothing, would defy the severest season, and I, with all the accommodations that art has since invented, am hardly secure even in the mildest. If the wind blows upon me when my pores are open, I catch cold. A cough is the conse- quence. I suppose, if such a disorder could have seized a Pict, his friends would have concluded that a bone had stuck in his throat, and that he^was in some danger of choking. They would perhaps have ad- dressed themselves to the cure of his cough by thrusting their fingers into his gullet, which would only have exasperated the case. But they would never have thought of ad- ministering laudanum, my only remedy. For this difference however that has obtained be- tween me and my ancestors, I am indebted to the luxurious practices and enfeebling self-indulgence of a long line of grandsires, who from generation to generation have been employed in deteriorating the breed, till at last the collected effects of all their follies have centred in my puny self — a man, in- deed, but not in the image of those that went before me — a man who sighs and groans, who wears out life in dejection and oppression of spirits, and who never thinks of the aborigines of the country to which I belong, without wishing that I had been born imong them. The evil is without a remedy, unless the ages that are passed could be re- e-alled, my whole pedigree be permitted ta live again, and being properly admunished to beware of enervating sloth and refinement, would preserve their hardiness of nature un- impaired, and transmit the desirable quality to their posterity. I once saw Adam in a dream. We sometimes say of a picture that we doubt not its likeness to the original, though we never saw him ; a judgment we have some reason to form, when the face is strongly charactered, and the features full of expression. So I think of my visionary Adam, and for a similar reason. His figure was awkward indeed in the extreme. It was evident that he had never been taught by a Frenchman to hold his head erect, or to turn out his toes ; to dispose of his arms, or to simper without a meaning. But, if Mr. Ba- con' was called upon to produce a statue of Hercules, he need not wish for a juster pat- tern. He stood like a rock; the size of his limbs, the prominence of his muscles, and the height of his stature, all conspired to bespeak him a creature whose strength had suffered no diminution, and who, being the first of his race, did not come into the world under a necessity of sustaining a load of infirmities, derived to him from the intemperance of others. He was as much stouter than a Pict, as I suppose a Pict to be than I. Upon my hypothesis, therefore, there has been a gradual declension in point of bodily vigor, from Adam down to me; at least, if my dream were a j ust representation of that gentleman and deserve the credit I cannot help giving it, such must have been the case. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Feb., 1784. . My dear Friend, — I give you joy of a thaw that has put an end to a frost of nine weeks' continuance with very little interruption; the longest that has happened since the year 1739. May I presume that you feel yourself indebted to me for intelligence, which per- haps no other of your, correspondents will vouchsafe to communicate, though they are as well apprised of it, and as much convinced of the truth of it, as myself? It is I sup- pose everywhere felt as a blessing, but no- where more sensibly than at Olney ; though even at Olney the severity of it has been al- leviated in behalf of many. The same benefactor, who befriended them last year, has with equal liberality administered a sup- ply to their necessities in the present. Like the subterraneous flue that warms my myr- tles, he does good and is unseen. His in- junctions of secrecy are still as rigorous as ever, and must therefore be observed with the same attention. He however is a happy man, whose philanthropy is not like mine, an LIFE OF COWPER. 18rd, called it " a fourth estate in the realm ■;" and Mr. Burke denominated it " a power behind the throte greater lia?t tk : th -one itself." You, who are master of their plan, can tel. me whether such a contribution would be welcome. If you think it would, I wouK be punctual in my remittances ; and a labor of that sort would suit me better in mj present state of mind than original composi- tion on religious subjects. Remember us as those that love you, ana are never unmindful, of you. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.* Olney, Feb. 22, 1784. My dear Friend, — 1 owe you thanks for your kind remembrance of me in your letter sent me on occasion of your departure, and as many for that which I received last night. I should have answered, had I known where a line or two from me might find you ; but, uncertain whether you were at home or abroad, my diligence I confess wanted the necessary spur. It makes a capital figure among the com- forts we enjoyed during the long severity of the season, that the same incognito to ail ex- cept ourselves made us his almoners this year likewise, as he did the last, and to the same amount. Some we have been enabled I suppose to save from perishing, and cer- tainly many from the most pinching neces- sity. Are you not afraid, Tory as you are, to avow your principles to me, who am a Whig ? Know that I am in the opposition ; that, though I pity the king, I do not wish him success in the present contest.f But this is too long a battle to fight upon paper. Make haste, that we may decide it face to face. Our respects wait upon Mrs. Bull, and our love upon the young Hebrsean.J I wish you joy of his proficiency, and am glad that you can say, with the old man in Terence, Omnes continuo laudare fortunas meas, Qui natum habeam tali ingenio praeditum. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney. Feb. 29, 1784. My dear Friend, — We are glad that you have such a Lord Petre in your neighbor- hood. He must be a man of a liberal turn to employ a heretic in such a service. I wish you a further acquaintance with him, not doubting that the more he knows you, he will find you the more agreeable. You despair * Private correspondence. t This alludes to Mr. Pitt being retained in office, though frequently outvoted in Parliament. t Mr. Bull's son, who afterwards succeeded his father, both in the ministerial office, and also in the seminar; 2stablished at Newport Pagnel, a' d with no less claini to respect and esteem. J 82 COWPER'S WORKS of becoming a prebendary, for want of cer- tain rhythmical talents, which you suppose me possessed of. But what think you of a cardinal's hat? Perhaps his lordship may have interest at Rome, and that greater honor may await you. Seriously, however, I re- spect his character, and should not be sorry if there were many such Papists in the land. Mr. has given free scope to his gene- rosity, and contributed as largely to the relief of Olney as he did last year. Soon after 1 had given you notice of his first remittance, we received a second to the same amount, ac- companied indeed with an intimation that we were to consider it as an anticipated supply, which, but for the uncommon severity of the present winter, he should have reserved for the next. The inference is that next winter we are to expect nothing. But the man, and his beneficent turn of mind considered, there is some reason to hope that, logical as the in- ference seems, it may yet be disappointed. Adverting to your letter again, I perceive that you wish for my opinion of your answer to his lordship. Had I forgot to tell you that I approve of it, I know you well enough to be aware of the misinterpretation you vould have put upon my silence. I am glad therefore that 1 happened to cast my eye upon your appeal to my opinion, before it was too late. A modest man, however able, has always some reason to distrust himself upon extraordinary occasions. Nothing is so apt to betray us into absurdity as too great a dread of it; and the application of more strength $han enough is sometimes as fatal as too little : but you have escaped very well. For my own part, when I write to a stranger, I feel myself deprived of half my intellects. I suspect that I shall write nonsense, and I do so. I tremble at the thought of an inac- curacy, and become absolutely ungrammati- cal. I feel myself sweat. I have recourse to the knife and the pounce. I correct half a dozen blunders, which in a common case I should not have committed, and have no sooner despatched what I have written, than I recollect how much better I could have made it ; how easily and genteelly I could have relaxed the stiffness of the phrase, and have cured the insufferable awkwardness of the whole, had they struck me a little earlier. Thus we stand in awe of we know not what, and miscarry through mere desire to excel. I read Johnson's Prefaces every night, ex- cept when the newspaper calls m 3 off. At a time like the present, what author can stand in competition with a newspaper; or who, that has a spark of patriotism, does not point &11 his attention to the present crisis. W. C. I am so disgusted with -, for allow- ing himself to be silent, when so loudly called upon to write to you, that I do not choose t« express my feelings. Woe to the man whom kindness cannot soften ! TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, March 8, 1784. My dear Friend, — I thank you for the two first numbers of the Theological Miscellany. I have not read them regularly through, but sufficiently to observe that they are much in- debted to Omicron.* An essay, signed Par- vulus, pleased me likewise ; and I shall be glad if a neighbor of ours, to whom I have lent them, should be able to apply to his own use the lesson it inculcates. On' farther con- sideration, I have seen reason to forego my purpose of translating Caraccioli. Though I think no book more calculated to teach the art of pious meditation, or to enforce a conviction of the vanity of all pursuits that have not the soul's interests for their object, I can yet see a flaw in his manner of instruct- ing, that in a country so enlightened as ours would escape nobody's notice. Not enjoying the advantage of evangelical ordinances and Christian communion, he falls into a mistake, natural in his situation, ascribing always the pleasures he found in a holy life, to his own industrious perseverance in a contemplative course, and not to the immediate agency of the great Comforter of his people, and direct- ing the eye of his readers to a spiritual prin- ciple within, which he supposes to subsist in the soul of every man, as the source of all divine enjoyment, and not to Christ, as he would gladly have done, had he fallen under Christian teachers. Allowing for these de- fects, he is a charming writer, and by those who know how to make such allowances may be read with great delight and improve- ment. But, with these defects in his man- ner, though, I believe, no man ever had a heart more devoted to God, he does not seem dressed with sufficient exactness to be fit for the public eye, where man is known to be nothing, and Jesus all in all. He must there- fore be dismissed, as ah unsuccessful candi- date for a place in this Miscellany, and will be less mortified at being rejected in the first instance than if he had met with a refusal from the publisher. I can only therefore re- peat what I said before, that, when I find a proper subject, and myself at liberty to pur- sue it, I will endeavor to contribute my quota. W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, March 11, 1784 I return you many thanks for your Apol- ogy, which I have read with great pleasure You know of old that your style always * The signature assumed by Mr. Newton. LIFE OF COWPER. 193 pleases me ; and having, in a former letter, given you the reasons for whieh 1 like it, I spare you now the pain of a repetition. The spirit too in which you write pleases me as much, But [ perceive that in some eases it is possible to be severe, and at ihe same time perfectly good-tempered; in all cases, I sup- pose, where we suffer by an injurious and un- reasonable attack, and can justify our conduct by a plain and simple narrative. On such oc- casions truth itself seems a satire, because by implication at least it convicts our adversaries of the want of charity and candor. For this reason perhaps you will rind that you have made many angry, though you are not so ; and it is possible they may be the more angry upon that very account. To assert and to prove that an enlightened minister of the gospel may, without any violation of his conscience, and even upon the ground of prudence and propriety, continue in the Establishment, and to do this with the most absolute composure, must be very provoking to the dignity of some dissenting doctors ; and, to nettle them still more, you in a manner impose upon them the necessity of being silent, by declaring that you will be so yourself. Upon the whole, however, I have no doubt that your 'Apology will do good. If it should irritate some who have more zeal than knowledge, and more of bigotry than of either, it may serve to enlarge the views of others, and to convince them that there may be grace, truth, and efficacy in the ministry of a church of which they are not members. I wish it success, and all that attention to which, both from the nature of the subject and the manner in which you have treated it, it is so well entitled. The patronage of the East Indies will be a dangerous weapon, in whatever hands. 1 have no prospect of deliverance for this country, but the same that I have of a possi- bility that we may one day be disencumbered of our ruinous possessions in the East. Our good neighbors,* who have so success- fully knocked away our western crutch from under us, seem to design us the same favor on the opposite side, in which case we shall be poor, but I think we shall stand a better chance to be free; and I had rather drink water gruel for breakfast, and be no man's slave, than wear a chain, and drink tea. I have just room to add that we love you as' usual, and are your very affectionate William and Mary. W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f Olney, March 15, 1784. My dear Friend, — I converse, you say, upon other subjects than that of despair, and may * The French nalion, who ait led America in her strug- gle for icdependen73. + Pri late correspondence. therefore write upon others. Indeed, m) friend, I am a man of very little conversatioa upon any subject. From that of despair I abstain as much as possible, for the sake of my company ; but I will venture to say that it is never out of my mind one minute in the whole day. I do not mean to say that I am never cheerful. I am often so ; always in- deed when my nights have been undisturbed for a season. But the effect of such couth* ual listening to the language of a heart hope, less and deserted is that I can never give much more than half my attention to what 'a started by others, and very rarely start any- thing myself. My silence, however, and my absence of mind, make me sometimes as en- tertaining as if I had wit. They furnish an occasion for friendly and good-natured rail- lery ; they raise a laugh, and I partake of it. But you will easily perceive that a mind thus occupied is but indifferently qualified for the consideratiou of theological matters. The most useful and the most delightful topics of that kind are to me forbidden fruit ; — I tremble if I approach them. It has happened to me sometimes that I have found myself imperceptibly drawn in, and made a party in such discourse. The consequence has been, dissatisfaction and self-reproach. You will tell me, perhaps, that I have written upon these subjects in verse, and may therefore, if I please, in prose. But there is a difference. The search after poetical expression, the rhyme, and the numbers, are all affairs of some difficulty ; they amuse, indeed, but are not to be attained without study, and en- gross, perhaps, a larger share of the attention than the subject itself. Persons fond of music will sometimes find pleasure in the tune, when the words afford them none. There are, however, subjects that do not always terrify me by their importance; such I mean as relate to Christian life and man- ners ; and when such a one presents itself, and finds me in a frame of mind that does ndt absolutely forbid the employment, I shall most readily give it my attention, for the sake, however, of your request merely. — • Verse is my favorite occupation, and what I compose in that way I reserve for my own use hereafter. I have lately finished eight volumes of Johnson's Prefaces, or Lives of the Poets In all that number I observe but one ma»r— a poet of no great fame — of whom I did not know that he existed till I found him there, whose mind seems to have had the slightest tincture of religion ; and he was hardly in his senses. His name was Collins. He sank into a state of melancholy, and died young. Not long before his death he was found at his lodgings in Islington, by his biographer, with the New Testament in his hand. He said to Johnson, " I have but one book, but it is the best." Of him, therefore, there are some hopes. But from the lives of all the rest there is but one inference to be drawn — that poets are a very worthless, wicked set of people. Yours, my dear friend, truly, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, March 19, 1784. My dear Friend, — I wish it were in my power to give you any account of the Mar- quis Caraccioli. Some years since I saw a short history of him in the ' Review,' of which I recollect no particulars, except that he was (and for aught I know may be still) an officer in the Prussian service. I have two volumes of his works, lent me by Lady Austen. One is upon the subject of self- acquaintance, and the other treats of the art of conversing with the same gentleman. Had I pursued my purpose of translating him, my design was to have furnished my- self, if possible, with some authentic account of him, which I suppose may be procured at any bookseller's who deals in foreign publi- cations. But for the reasons given in my last I have laid aside the design. There is something in his style that touches me ex- ceedingly, and which I do not know how to describe. I should call it pathetic, if it were occasional only, and never occurred but when his subject happened to be particularly affect- ing. But it is universal ; he has not a sen- tence that is not marked with it. Perhaps therefore I may describe it better by 4 saying that his whole work has an air of pious and tender melancholy, which to me at least is extremely agreeable. This property of it, which depends perhaps altogether upon the arrangement of his words, and the modula- tion of his sentences, it would be very diffi- cult to preserve in a translation. I do not know that our language is capable of being so managed, and rather suspect that it is not, and that it is peculiar to the French, be- cause it is not unfrequent among their writ- ers, and I never saw anything similar to it in our own. My evenings are devoted to books. I read aloud for the entertainment of the party, thus making amends by a vociferation of two hours for my silence at other times. We are in good health, and waiting as pa- tiently as we can for the end of this second winter. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. The following letter will be read with in- terest as expressing. Cowper's sentiments on Dr. Johnson's " Lives of the Poets." TO THE REV. WM. T7NW1N.* Olney, March 21, 1784. My dear William, — I thank you for the entertainment you have afforded me. I often wish for a library, often regret my folly in selling a good collection, but I have one in Essex. It is rather remote indeed, too dis- tant for occasional reference; but it serves the purpose of amusement, and a wagon be- ing a very suitable vehicle for an author, ] find myself commodiously supplied. Last' night I made an end of -reading " Johnson's Prefaces ;" but the number of poets whom he has vouchsafed to chronicle being fifty- six, there must be many with whose history I am not yet acquainted. These, or some of these, if it suits you to give them a part of your chaise when you come, will be heart- ily welcome. I am very much the biogra- pher's humble admirer. His uncommon share of good sense, and his forcible expression, secure to him that tribute from all his read- ers. He has a penetrating insight into char- acter, and a happy talent of correcting the popular opinoin upon all occasions where it is erroneous ; and this be does with the boldness of a man who will think for him- self, but at the same time with a justness of sentiment that convinces us he does not dif- fer from others through affectation, but be- cause he has a sounder judgment. This remark, however, has his narrative for its object rather than his critical performance. In the latter I do not think him always just, when he departs from the general opinion. He finds no beauties in Milton's Lycidas. He pours contempt upon Prior, to such a degree, that, were he really as undeserving of notice as he represents him, he ought no longer to be numbered among the poets. These indeed are the two capital instances in which he has offended me. There are others less important, which I have not room to enumerate, and in which L am less con- fident that he is wrong. What suggested to him the thought that the Alma was written in imitation of Hudibras., I cannot conceive. In former years, they were both favorites of mine, and I often read them ; but never saw in them the least resemblance to each other ; nor do I now, except that they are composed in verse of the same measure. After all, it is a melancholy observation, which it is impossible not to make, after having run through this series of poetical lives, that where there were such shining talents there should be so little virtue. These luminaries of our country seem to have been kindled into a brighter blaze than others only that their spots might be more noticed ! So much can nature do for our intellectual part, and so little for our moral. What vanity * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. 18* what petulance in Pope! How painfully sensible of censure, and yet how restless in provocation ! To what mean artifices could Addison stoop, in hopes of injuring the repu- tation of his friend ! Savage, how sordidly vicious! and the more condemned for the pains that are taken to palliate his vices. Offensive as they appear through a veil, how would they disgust without one ! What a sycophant to the public taste was Dryden; sinning against his feelings, lewd in his writ- ings, though chaste in his conversation. I know not but one might search these eight volumes with a candle, as the prophet says, to find a man, and not find one, unless per- haps Arbuthnot were he. I shall begin Beattie this evening, and propose to myself much satisfaction in reading him. In him at least I shall find a man whose faculties have now and then a glimpse from heaven upon them; a man, not indeed in possession of much evangelical light, but faithful to what he has, and never neglecting an opportunity to use it! How much more respectable such a character than that of thousands who would call him blind, and yet have not the grace to practise half his virtues ! He too is a poet and wrote the Minstrel. The speci- mens which I have seen of it pleased me much. If you have the whole, I should be glad to read it. I may perhaps, since you allow me the liberty, indulge myself here and there with a marginal annotation, but shall not use that allowance wantonly, so as to deface the volumes. Yours, my dear William, W. G. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, March 29, 1784. My dear Friend, — It being his majesty's p.easure that I should yet have another op- portunity to write before he dissolves the parliament, I avail myself of it with all pos- sible alacrity. I thank you for your last, which was not the less welcome for coming, like an extraordinary gazette, at a time when it was not expected. As, when the sea is uncommonly agitated, the water finds its way into creeks and holes of rocks, which in its calmer state it never reaches, in like manner the effect of these turbulent times is felt even at Orchard-side, where in general we live as undisturbed by the political element as shrimps or cockles, that have been accidentally deposited in some hollow beyond the water-mark, by the usual dashing of the waves. We were sit- ting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies and myself, very composedly, and without the least apprehension of any such intrusion in our snug parlor, one lady knitting, the other netting, and the gentlem-m winding «voi sted, when, to our unspeakable surprise, a mob appeared before the window ; a smart rap was heard at the door, the boys hallooed and the maid announced Mr. G . Puss* was unfortunately let out of her box, so that the candidate, with all his good friends at his heels, was refused admittance at th6 grand entry, and referred to the back-door, as the only possible way of approach. Candidates are creatures not very suscep- tible of affronts, and would rather, I sup- pose, climb in at a window than be abso- lutely excluded. In a minute, the yard, the kitchen, and the parlor were filled. Mr. G , advancing toward me, shook me by the hand with a degree of cordiality that was extremely seducing. As soon as he and as many more as could find chairs were seated, he began to open the intent of his visit. I told him I had no vote, for which he readily gave me credit. I assured him I had no influence, which he was not equally inclined to believe, and the less, no doubt, because Mr. A , addressing himself to me at that moment, informed me that I had a great deal. Supposing that I could not be pos- sessed of such a treasure without knowing it, I ventured to confirm my first assertion, by saying that if I had any, I was utterly at a loss to imagine where it could be, or wherein it consisted. Thus ended the conference. Mr. G squeezed me by the hand again, kissed the ladies, and withdrew. He kissed likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind- hearted gentleman. He is very young, gen- teel, and handsome. He has a pair of very good eyes in his head, which not being suffi- cient as it should seem for the many nice and difficult purposes of a senator, he has a third also, which he wore suspended by a ribbon from his button-hole. The boys hal- looed, the dogs barked, Puss scampered, the hero, with his long train of obsequious fol- lowers, withdrew. We made ourselves very merry with the adventure, and in a short time settled into our former tranquillity, never probably to be thus interrupted more. I thought myself however happy in being able to affirm* truly that I had not that influ- ence for which he sued, and for which, had I been possessed of it, with my present views of the dispute between the Crown and the Commons,! I must have refused him, for he is on the side of the former. It is comfort- able to be of no consequence in a world, where one cannot exercise any without dis- obliging somebody. The town however seems to be much at his service, and, if he be equally successful throughout the county he w T ill undoubtedly gain his election. Mr A , perhaps, was a litte mortified, be * His tame hare. t We have already stated that Mr. Pitt was frequently outvoted at this time in the House of Commons, but, being suppor'.ed by the king, did not choose to resign. !86 COWPER'S WORKS. cause it was evident that I owed the honor of this visit to his misrepresentation of my importance. But had he thought proper to assure Mr. G that I had three heads, I should not I suppose have been bound to produce them. Mr. S , who you say was so much ad- mired in your pulpit, would be equally ad- mired in his own, at least by all capable judges, were he not so apt to be angry with lis congregation. This hurts him, and, had le the understanding and eloquence of Paul himself, would still hurt him. . He seldom, hardly ever, indeed, preaches a gentle, well- tempered sermon, but I hear it highly com- mended: but warmth of temper, indulged to a degree that may be called scolding, defeats the end of preaching. It is a misapplication of his powers, which it also cripples, and teases away his hearers. But he is a good man, and may perhaps outgrow it. Yours; W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, April, 1784. People that are but little acquainted with the terrors of divine wrath, are not much afraid of trifling with their Maker. But, for my own part, I would sooner take Empedo- jle's leap, and fling myself into Mount JEtna than I would do it in the slightest instance, were I in circumstances to make an election. In the scripture we find a broad and clear ex- hibition of mercy; it is displayed in every page. Wrath is, in comparison, but slightly touched upon, because it is not so much a discovery of wrath as of forgiveness. But, had the displeasure of God been the principal subject of the book, and had it circumstan- tially set forth that measure of it only which may be endured even in this life, the Chris- tian world perhaps would have been less comfortable ; but I believe presumptuous deddlers with the gospel would have been less frequently met with. The word is a flaming sword ; and he that touches it with unhallowed fingers, thinking to make a tool of it, will find that he has burned them. What navoc in Calabria ! Every house is built upon the sand, whose inhabitants have no God or only a false one. Solid and fluid are such in respect to each other; but with reference to the divine power they are equal- ly fixed or equally unstable. The inhabi- tants of a rock shall sink, while a cock-boat shall save a man alive in the midst of the fathomless ocean. The Pope grants dispen- sations for folly and madness during the car- nival. But it seems they are as offensive to him, whose vicegerent he pretends himself, at that season as at any other. Were I a Cala- brian, I would not give my papa at Rome one farthing for his amplest indulgence, from this time forth forever. There is a word that makes this world tremble; and the Pope cannot countermand it. A fig for such a conjurer! Pharaoh's conjurers had twice his ability. Believe me, my dear friend, Affectionately yours, W.. C. We have already alluded to this awfu catastrophe, which occurred Feb. 5, 1783, though the shocks of earthquake continued to be felt sensibly, but less violently, till May 23rd. The motions of the earth are de- scribed as having been various, either whirl- ing like a vortex, horizontally, or by pulsa- tions and beatings from the bottom upwards ; the rains continual and violent, often accom- panied with lightning and irregular and furi- ous gusts of wind. The sum total of the mortality in Calabria and Sicily, by the earth- quakes alone, as returned to the Secretary of State's office, in Naples, was 32,367 ; and, including other casualties, was estimated at 40,000.* TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. Olney, April 5, 1784. My dear William, — I thanked you in my last for Johnson ; I now thank you with more emphasis for Beattie, the most agreeable and amiable writer I ever met with — the only au- thor I have seen whose critical and philo- sophical researches are diversified and embel- lished by a poetical imagination, that makes even the driest subject and the leanest a feast for an epicure in books. He is so much at his ease, too, that his own character appears in every page, and, which is very rare, we see not only the writer but the man ; arid that man so gentle, so well-tempered, so happy in his religion, and so humane in his philosophy, that it is necessary to love him if one has any sense of what is lovely. If you have not his poem called the Minstrel, and cannot borrow it, I must beg you to buy it for me; for. though I cannot afford to deal largely in so expensive a commodity as books, I must af- ford to purchase at least the poetical works of Beattie. I have read six of Blair's Lec- tures, and what do I say of Blair ? That he is a sensible man, master of his subject, and, excepting here and there a Scotticism, a good writer, so far at least as perspicuity of expres- sion and method contribute to make- one. But, O the sterility of that man's fancy ! if indeed he has any such faculty belonging to him. Perhaps philosophers, or men designed for such, are sometimes born without one or perhaps it withers for want of exercise. However that may be, Dr. Blair has such a brain as Shakspeare somewhere describes * See Sir William Hamilton's account of this aw fa event. LIFE OF COWPER. 181 — "dry as the remainder biscuit after a voy- age."* I take it for granted, that these good men are philosophically correct (for they are both agreed upon the subject) in their account of !he origin of language ; and, if the Scripture had !dft us in the dark upon that article, I should very readily adopt their hypothesis for want of better information. I should sup- pose, for instance, that man made his first ef- fort in speech, in the way of an interjection, and that ah! or oh! being uttered with won- derful gesticulation, and variety of attitude, must have left his powers of expression quite exhausted: that in a course of time he would invent many names for many things, but first for the objects of his daily wants. An apple would consequently be called an apple, and perhaps not many years would elapse before the appellation would receive the sanction of general use. In this case, and upon this sup- position, seeing one in the hand of another man, he would exclaim, with a most moving pathos, " Oh apple !" — well and good — oh ap- ple ! is a very affecting speech, but in the meantime it profits him nothing. The man that holds it, eats it, and he goes away with Oh apple in his mouth, and with nothing bet- ter. Reflecting on his disappointment, and that perhaps it arose from his not being more explicit, he contrives a term to denote his idea of transfer or gratuitous communication, and, the next occasion that offers of a similar kind, performs his part accordingly. His speech now stands thus, " Oh give apple !" The ap- ple-holder perceives himself called on to part with his fruit, and having satisfied his own hunger, is perhaps not unwilling to do so. But unfortunately there is still room -for a mistake, and a third person being present he gives the apple to him. Again disappointed, and again perceiving that his language has not all the precision that is requisite, the ora- tor retires to his study, and there, after much deep thinking, conceives that the. insertion of a pronoun, whose office shall be to signify that he not only wants the apple to be given, but given to himself, will remedy all defects, he uses it the next opportunity, and succeeds to a wonder, obtains the apple, and by his suc- cess, such credit to his invention, that pro- nouns continue to be in great repute ever after. Now, as my two syllable-mongers, Beattie and Blair, both agree that language was ori- ginally inspired, and that the great variety of languages we find upon earth at preseir took its rise from the confusion of tongues at * This criticism on Blair'a Lectures seuuis to be too severe. There was a period when his Sermons were among the most admired productions of the day; sixty thousand copies, it was saidj were sold. They formed the standard of divinity fifty years ago : but they are now justly considered to be deficient, in not exhibiting the great and fundamental truths of the Gospel, and to be merely en.itled t<\ the praise of being a beautiful system %f ethics. Babel, I am not perfectly convinced that there is any just occasion to invent this very inge- nious solution of a difficulty which Scripture has solved already. My opinion, however, is, if I may presume to have an opinion of my own, so different from theirs, who are -so much wiser than myself, that, if a man had been his own teacher, and had acquired hia words and his phrases only as necessity or convenience had prompted, his progress must have been considerably slower than it was, and in Homer's days the production of such a poem as the Iliad impossible. On the con- trary, I doubt not Adam, on the very day of his creation, was able to express himself iri terms both forcible and elegant, and that he was at no loss for sublime dictfon and logical combination, when he wanted to praise Ma Maker. Yours, my dear friend, W. C TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, April 15, 1784. My dear William, — I wish I had both burn- ing words and bright thoughts. But I have at present neither. My head is not itself. Having had an unpleasant night and a melan- choly day, and having already written a long letter, I do not find myself in point of spirits at all qualified either to burn or shine. The post sets out early on Tuesday. The morn- ing is the only time of exercise with me. In order therefore to keep it open for that pur- pose, and to comply with your desire of an immediate answer, I give you as much as 1 can spare of the present evening. Since I despatched my last, Blair has crept a little farther into my favor. As his subjects improve, he improves with them ; but upon the whole I account him a dry writer, usefu/ no doubt as an instructor, but as little enter- taining as, with so much knowledge, it is pos- sible to be. His language is (except Swift's) the least figurative I remember to have §een, and the few figures found in it are not always happily employed. I take him to be a critic very little animated by what he reads, who rather reasons about the beauties of an au- thor than really tastes them, and who finds that a passage is praiseworthy, not because it charms him, but because it is accommo- dated to the laws of criticism, in that case made and provided. I have a little complied with your desire of marginal annotations ami si ould have dealt in them more largely had I read the books to myself; but, being reader to the ladies, I have not always time to settle my own opinion of a doubtful ex- pression, much less to suggest an emenda- tion. I have not censured a particular ob- servation in the book, though, when I met with it, it displeased me. I this moment recollect it, and may oj well therefore note 188 COWPER'S WORKS. it here. He is commending, and deservedly, that most noble description of a thunder- storm in the first Georgic, which ends with . .... Ingeminant austri et densissimus imber. Being in haste, I do not refer to the volume for his very words, but my memory will serve me with the matter. When poets describe, he says, they should always select such cir* cumstances of the subject as are least obvi- ous, and therefore most striking. He there- fore admires the effects of the thunderbolt, splitting mountains, and filling a nation with astonishment, but quarrels with the closing member of the period, as containing particu- lars of a storm not worthy of Virgil's notice, because obvious to the notice of all. But here I differ from him ; not being able to con- ceive that wind and rain can be improper in the description of a tempest, or how wind and rain could possibly be more poetically described. Virgil is indeed remarkable for finishing his periods well, and never comes to a stop but with the most consummate dig- nity of numbers and expression, and in the' instance in question I think his skill in this respect is remarkably displayed. The line is perfectly majestic in its march. As to the wind, it is such only as the word ingeminant could describe and the words densissimus im- ber give one an idea of a shower indeed, but of such a shower as is not very common, and such a one as only .Virgil could have done justice to by a single epithet. ( Far therefore from agreeing with the Doctor in his stricture, I do not think the iEneid contains a nobler line, or a description more magnificently fin- ished. We are glad that Dr. C has singled you out upon this occasion. Your perform- ance we doubt not will justify his choice: fear not, you have a heart that can feel upon charitable occasions, and therefore will not fail you upon this. The burning words will come fast enough when the sensibility is such'as yours. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. The ingenuity and humor of the following verses as well as their poetical merit, give them a just claim to admiration. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN.* Olney, April 25, 1784. My dear William, — Thanks for the fish, with its companion, a lobster, which we mean to eat to-morrow. TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALYBUTT ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 26, 1784. Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued Thy pastime'? when wast thou an egg new- epawn'd * Private correspondence. Lost in th' immensity of ocean's waste 1 Roar as they might, the overbearing winds That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe And in thy minikin and embryo state, Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed, Didst Outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'a The joints of many a stout and gaHant bark, And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss. Indebted to no magnet and no chart, Nor under guidance of the polar fire, Thou wast a voyager on many coasts, Grazing at large in meadows submarine, Where flat Batavia, just emerging, peeps Above the brine — where Caledonia's rocks Beat back the surge — and where Hibernia shoot* Her wondrous causeway far into the main. — Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought'st, And I not more, that I should feed on thee. Peace, therefore, and good health, and much good fish,* To him who sent thee ! and success as oft As it descends into the billowy gulf, [well To the same drag that caught thee ! — Fare thee Thy lot, thy brethren of the slimy fin [doom'd Would envy, could they know that thou wast To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, April 26, 1784. We are glad that your book runs. It will not indeed satisfy those whom nothing could satisfy but your accession to their party ; but the liberal will say you do well, and it is in the opinion of such men only that you can feel yourself interested. I have lately, been employed in reading Beattie and Blair's Lectures. The latter 1 have not yet finished. I find the former the most agreeable of the two, indeed the most entertaining writer upon dry subjects I ever met with. His imagination is highly poetical, his language easy and elegant, and his man- ner so familiar that we seem to be conversing with an old friend upon terms of the most sociable intercourse while we read him. Blair is on the contrary rather stiff, not that his style is pedantic, but his air is formal. He is a sensible man, and understands his sub- jects, but too conscious. that he is addressing the public, and too solicitous about his suc- cess, to indulge himself for a moment in that play of fancy which makes the other so agreeable. In Blair we find a scholar, in Beattie both a scholar and an amiable man, indeed so amiable that I have wished for hia acquaintance ever since I read his book. Having never in my life perused a page of Aristotle, I am glad to have had an opportu- nity of learning more than (I suppose) he would have taught me, from the writings of two modern critics. I felt myself too a little disposed to compliment my own acumen upon the occasion. For, though the art of writing and composing was never much my study, ) did not find that they had any great nc ws to LIFE OF COWPER. 181 tell me. Th6y have assisted me in putting my observations into some method, but have not suggested many of which I was not by some means or other previously apprized. In fact, critics did not originally beget authors, but authors made critics. Common sense dictated to writers the necessity of method, connexion, and thoughts congruous to the nature of their subject; genius prompted them with embellishments, and then came the critics. Observing the good effects of an at- tention to these items, they enacted laws for the observance of them in time to come, and, having drawn their rules for good writing from what was actually well written, boasted themselves the inventors of an art which yet the authors of the day had already exempli- fied. They are however useful in their way, giving us at one view a map of the bounda- ries which propriety sets to fancy, and serv- ing as judges to whom the public may at once appeal, when pestered with the vagaries of those who have had the hardiness to trans- gress them. ( The canditades for this county have set an example of economy which other candidates would do well to follow, having come to an agreement on both sides to defray the ex- penses of their voters, but to open no houses for the entertainment of the rabble ; a reform however, which the rabble did not at all ap- prove of, and testified their dislike of it by a riot. A stage was built, from which the ora- tors had designed to harangue the electors. This became the first victim of their fury. Having very little curiosity to hear what gentlemen could say who would give them nothing better than words, they broke it in pieces, and threw the fragments upon the hustings. The sheriff, the members, the lawyers, the voters, were instantly put to flight. They rallied, but were again routed by a second assault like the former. They then proceeded to break the windows of the inn to which they had fled; and a fear pre- vailing that at night they would fire the town, a proposal was made by the freeholders to face about, and endeavor to secure them. At that instant a rioter, dressed in a merry An- drew's jacket, stepped forward and challenged the best man among ^hem. Olney sent the hero to the field, who made him repent of his presumption: Mr. A was he. Seizing him by the throat, he shook him — he threw him to the earth, he made the hollowness of his scull resound by the application of his fists, and dragged him into custody without the least damage to his person. Animated by this example, the other freeholders fol- lowed it, and in five minutes twenty-eight out of thirty ragamuffins were safely lodged in gaol. Adieu my dear friend. We love you and are yours, W. &M. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, May 3, 1784. My dear Friend, — Tiie subject of face- painting may be considered (I think) in two points of view. First, there is room for dis. pute with respect to the consistency of the practice with good morals; and, secondly, whether it be on the whole convenient or not may be a matter worthy of agitation. I set out with all the formality of logical disquisi- tion, but do not promise to observe the same regularity any farther than it may comport with my purpose of writing as fast as I can. As to the immorality of the custom, were I in France, I should see none. On the con- trary, it seems in that country to be a symp- tom of modest consciousness and a tacit con- fession of what all know to be true, that French faces have in fact neither red nor white of their own. This humble acknowl- edgment of a defect looks the more like a virtue, being found among a people not re- markable for humility. Again, before we can prove the practice to be immoral, we must prove immorality in the design of those who use it ; either, that they intend a decep- tion or to kindle unlawful desires in the be- holders. But the French ladies, as far as their purpose comes in question, must be ac- quitted of both these charges. Nobody sup- poses their color to be natural for a moment, any more than if it were blue or green : and this unambiguous judgment of the matter is owing to two causes ; first, to the universal .knowledge we have that French women are naturally brown or yellow, with very few exceptions, and, secondly, to the inartificial manner in which they paint : for they do not, as I am satisfactorily informed, even attempt an imitation of nature, but besmear them- selves hastily and at a venture, anxious only to' lay on enough. Where, therefore, there is no wanton intention nor a wish to deceive, I can discover no immorality. But in Eng- land (I am afraid) our painted ladies are not clearly entitled to the same apology. They even imitate nature with such exactness that the whole public is sometimes divided into parties, who litigate with great warmth the question, whether painted or not. This was remarkably the case with a Miss B ^ whom I well remember. Her roses and lilies were never discovered to be spurious till she attained an age that made the supposition of their being natural impossible. This anxiety to be not merely red and white, which is all they aim at in France, but to be thought very beautiful and much more beautiful than na- ture has made them, is a symptom not very favorable to the idea we would wish to en- tertain of the chastity, purity, and modesty of our countrywomen. That they are guilty of a design to deceive is certain ; otherwise, why so much art? and if to deceive, wherefore 190 COWPER'S WORKS. and with what purpose 1 Certainly either to gratify vanity of the silliest kind, or, which is still more criminal, to decoy and inveigle, and carry on more successfully the business of temptation. Here therefore my opinion splits itself into two opposite sides upon the same question. I can suppose a French wo- man, though painted an inch deep, to be a virtuous, discreet, excellent character, and in no instance should I think the worse of one because she was painted. But an English belle must •pardon me if I have not the same charity for her. She is at least an impostor, whether she cheats me or not, because she means to do so ; and it is well if that be all the censure she deserves. This brings me to my second class of ideas upon this topic : and here I feel that I should be fearfully puzzled were I called upon to re- commend the practice on the score of conve- nience. If a husband chose that his wife should paint, perhaps it might be her duty as well as her interest to comply ; but I think he would not much consult his own for reasons that will follow. In the first place she would admire herself the more, and, in the next, if she managed the matter well, she might be more admired by others ; an acquisition that might bring her virtue under trials to 'which otherwise it might never have been exposed. In no other case, however, can I imagine the practice in this country to be either expedient or convenient. As a general one," it certainly 'is not expedient, b'ecause in general English women have no occasion for it. A swarthy complexion is a rarity here, and the sex, es- pecially since inoculation has been so much in use, have very little cause to complain that nature has not been kind to them in^he article of complexion. They may hide and spoil a good one, but they cannot (at least they hardly can) give themselves a better. But, even if they could, there is yet a tragedy in the sequel, which should make them tremble. I understand that in France, though the use of rouge be general, the use of white paint is far from being so. In England, she that uses one commonly uses both. Now all white paints, or lotions, or whatever they be called, are mercurial, consequently poisonous, con- sequently ruinous in time to the constitution. The Miss B above mentioned, was a mis- erable witness of this truth, it being certain that her flesh fell from her bones before she died. Lady C was hardly a less melan- choly proof of it ; and a London physician prrhaps, were he at liberty to blab, could publish a bill of female mortality of a length that would astonish us. For these reasons I utterly condemn the practice as it obtains in England ; and for a reason superior to all these I must disapprove it. I cannot indeed discover that Scripture "orbids it in so many words. But that anxious solicitude about the person which such an ar tifice evidently betrays is, I am sure, com* rary to the tenor and spirit of it throughout. Show me a woman with a painted face, and I wiE show you a woman whose heart is set on things of the earth, and not on things above. But this observation of mine applies to it only when it is an imitative art : for, in the use of French women, I tiiink it as innocent as in the use of the wild Indian, who draws a cir- cle round her face, and makes two spots, per- haps blue, perhaps white, in the middle of it. Such are my thoughts upon the matter. Vive, -valeque. Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, May 8, 1784. My dear Friend,- -You do well to make your letters merry ones, though not very merry yourself, and that both for my sake and your own ; for your own sake, because i* sometimes happens that, by assuming an air of cheerfulness, we become cheerful in re- ality ; and for mine, because I have always more need of a laugh than a cry, being some- what disposed to melancholy by natural tem- perament, as well as by other causes. It was long since, and even in the infancy of John Gilpin, recommended to me by a lady, now at Bristol, to write a sequel. But, having always observed that authors, elated with the success of a first part, have fallen below them- selves when they have attempted a second, I had more prudence than to take her counsel. I want you to read the history of that hero published by Bladon, and to tell me what it is made of. But buy it not. For, puffed as it is in the papers, it can be but a bookseller's job, and must be dear at the price of two shillings. In the last packet but one that I received from Johnson, he asked me if I had any improvements of John Gilpin in hand, or if I designed any ; for that to print only the original again would be to publish what has been hackneyed in every magazine, in every newspaper, and in every street. I answered that the copy which I sent him contained two or three small variations from the first, ex- cept which I had none to propose ; and if he thought him now too»trite to make a part of my volume, I should willingly acquiesce in his judgment. I take it for granted therefore that he will not bring up the rear of my Poems according to my first intention, and shall not be sorry for the omission. It may spring from a principle of pride ; but spring from what it may, I feel and have long felt a disinclination Jo a public avowal that he in mine ; and since he became so popular, I have felt it more than ever ; not that I should ever have expressed a scruple, if Johnson had not. But a fear has su^-ested its- elf to me, 'hat I might expose myself to a charge of vanity by admitting him into my book, and that some people would impute it to me as a crime. Cons ; der what the world is made of, and you will not find my suspicions chimerical. Add to this, that when, on correcting the latter part of the fifth book of - The Task," I came to consider the solemnity and sacred nature of the subjects there handled, it seemed to me an incongruity at the least, not to call it by a harsher name, to follow up such premi- ses with such a conclusion. 1 am well con- tent therefore with having laughed, and made others laugh ; and will build my hopes of suc- cess as a poet upon more important matter. In our printing business we now jog on merrily enough. The coming week will I hope bring me to an end of" The Task." and the next fortnight to an end of the whole. I am glad to have Paley on my side in the affair of education. He is certainly on all subjects a sensible man, and, on such, a wise one. But I am mistaken if " Tirocinium" do not make some of my friends angry, and pro- cure me enemies not a fe\V. There is a sting in verse that prose neither has nor can have ; and I do not know that schools in the gross, and especially public schools, have ever been so pointedly condemned before. Bin they are become a nuisance, a pest, an abomina- tion; and it is fit that the eyes and noses of mankind should if possible be opened to per- ceive it. This is indeed an authors letter ; but it is an author's letter to his friend. If you will be the friend of an author, you must expect such letters. Come July, and come yourself, with as many of your exterior selves as can possibly come with you ! Yours, my dear William, affectionately, and with your mother's remembrances. Adieu, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHX HKWTOW.* Olney, May 10. 1784. My dear Friend, — We rejoice in the ac- count you give us of Dr. Johnson. His con- version will indeed be a singular proof the omnipotence of grace : and the more singular, the more decided. The world will set his age against his wisdom, and comfort itself with the thought that he must be superannu- ated. Perhaps therefore in order to refute the slander, and do honor to the cause to which he becomes a convert, he could not do better than devote his great abilities, and a consid- erable part of the remainder of his years, to the production of some important work, not Immediately connected with the interests of leligion. He would thus give proof that a man of profound learning and the best sense may become a child without being a fool ; * Private correspondence. and that to embrace the gospel is no evidence either of enthusiasm, infirmity, or insanity. But He who calls him will direct him. On Friday, by particular invitation, we at- tended an attempt to throw off a balloon at Mr. Throckmorton's, but it did not succeed. We expect however to be summoned again in the course of the ensuing week. Mrs. Un- win and I were the party. We were enter- tained with the utmost politeness. It is not possible to conceive a more engaging and agreeable character than the gentleman's, or a more consummate assemblage of all that is called good-nature, complaisance, and inno- cent cheerfulness, than is to be seen in the lady. They have lately received many gross affronts from the people of this place, on ac- count of their religion. We thought it there- fore the more necessary to treat them with respect. Best love and best wishes, W. C. We think there must be an error of date in this letter, because the period of time gen- erally ascribed to the fact recorded in the former part of it, occurred in the last illness of Dr. Johnson, which was in December, 1784. A discussion has arisen respecting the circumstances of this case, but not as to the fact itself. As regards this latter point, it is satisfactorily established that Dr. John- son, throughout a long life, had been pecu- liarly harassed by fears of death, from which he was at length happily delivered, and en- abled to die in peace. This happy change of mind is generally attributed to the Rev. Mr. Latrobe having attended him on his dying bed, and directed him to the only sure ground of acceptance, viz., a reliance upon God's promises of mercy in Christ Jesus. The truth of this statement rests on the testimony of the Rev. Christian Ignatius Latrobe, wno received the account from his own father. Some again assign the instrumentality to an- other pious individual, Mr. Winstanley* We do not see why the services of both may not have been simultaneously employed, and equally crowned with success. It is the fact itself which most claims our own attention. We here see a man of profound learning and 1 great moral attainments deficient in correct views of the grand fundamental doctrine of the gospel, the doctrine of the atonement; and consequently unable to look forward to eternity without alarm. We believe this state of mind to be peculiar to many who are distinguished by genius and learning. The gospel, clearly understood in its design, as a revelation' of mercy to every penitent and believing sinner, and cordially received into the heart, dispels these fears, and by directing the eye of faith to the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of tne world, will jr» * See "Christian Observer," Jan., 1835. 192 COWPER'S WORKS. fallibly fill the mind with that blessed hope which is full of life and immortality. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, May 22, 1784. My dear Friend. — I am glad to have re- ceived at. last an account of Dr. Johnson's favorable opinion of my book. I thought it wanting, and had long since concluded that, not having the happiness to please him, I owed my ignorance of his sentiments to the tenderness of my friends at Hoxton, who would not mortify me Math an account of his disapprobation. It occurs to me that 'I owe him thanks for interposing between me and the resentment of the Reviewers, who sel- dom show mercy to an advocate for evangel- cal truth, whether in prose or verse. I there- fore enclose a short acknowledgment, which, if you see no impropriety in the measure, you can, I imagine, without mu,ch difficulty, convey to him through the hands of Mr. Latrobe. If on any account you judge it an inexpedient step, you can very easily sup- press the letter. I pity Mr. Bull. What harder task can any man undertake than the management of those M'ho have reached the age of manhood with- out having ever felt the force of authority, or passed through any of the preparatory parts of education ? I had either forgot, or never adverted to the circumstance, that his disci- ples were to be men. At present, however, I am not surprised that, being such, they are found disobedient, untractable, insolent, and conceited ; qualities that generally prevail in the minds of adults in exact proportion to their ignorance. He dined with us since I received your kst. It was on Thursday that he was here. He came dejected, burthened, full of complaints. But we sent him away cheerful. He is very sensible of the pru- dence, delicacy, and attention to his charac- ter, which the Society have discovered in their conduct towards him upon this occasion; and indeed it does them honor ; for it were past all enduring, if a charge of insufficiency should obtain ^a moment's regard, when brought by five such coxcombs against a man of his erudition and ability.* Lady Austen is gone to Bath. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, June 5, 1784. When you told me that the critique upon my volume was written, though not by Doc- tor Johnson himself, yet by a friend of his, to whcm he recommended the book and the business, I inferred from that expression that * A spirit of insubordination had manifested itself at the Theological Seminary at Ne ivport, under the superin- tendence of Mr. BulL I was indebted to him for an active interpo- sition in my favor, and consequently that ha had a right to thanks. But now! concu. entirely in sentiment with you, and heartily second your vote for the suppression of thanks which do not seem to be much called for. Yet even now, were it possible that I could fall into his company, I should not think a slight acknowledgment misapplied. I was no other way anxious about his opin- ion, nor could be so, after you and some others had given a favorable one, than it was natural I should be, knowing as I- did that his opinion had been consulted. I am affectionately yours, W. C. TO THF REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, June 21, 1784. My dear Friend, — We are much pleased with your designed improvement of the late preposterous celebration, and have no doubt that in good hands the foolish occasion will turn to good account. A religious service, instituted in honor of a musician, and per- formed in the house of God, is a subject that calls loudly for the animadversion of an en lightened minister ; and would be no mean one for a satirist, could a poet of that de- scription be found spiritual enough to feel and to resent the profanation. It is reason- able to suppose that in the next year's alma- nac we shall find the name of Handel among the red-lettered worthies, for it would surely puzzle the Pope to add anything to his can- onization. This unpleasant summer makes me wish for winter. The gloominess of that season is the less felt, both because it is expected, and because the days are short. But such M T eather, when the days are longest, makes a double winter, and my spirits feel that it does. We have now frosty mornings, and so cold a wind that even at high noon we have been" obliged to break off our walk in the southern side of the garden, and seek shelter, I in the greenhouse, and Mrs. Unwin by the fireside. Haymaking begins here to- morrow, and would have begun sooner, had the weather permitted it. Mr. Wright called upon us last Sunday. The old gentleman seems happy in being ex- empted from the effects of time to such a degree that, though we meet but once in the year, I cannot perceive that the twelve months that have elapsed have made any change in him. It seems, however, that as much as he loves his master, and as easy as I suppose he has always found his service, he now and then heaves a sigh for liberty, and wishes to taste it before he dies. But his wife is not so minded. She cannot leave a family, the * Private corresDondenc«» LIFE OF COWPER. 193 •ons and daughters of which seem all to be her own. Her brother died lately in the East Indies, leaving twenty thousand pounds behind him, and half of it to her; but the ship that was bringing home this treasure is supposed to be lost. Her husband appears perfectly unaffected by the misfortune, and *he perhaps may even be glad of it. Such an acquisition would have forced her into a state of independence, and made her her own mistress, whether she would or not. I charged him with a petition to Lord Dartmouth, to send me Cook's last Voyage, which I have a great curiosity to see, and no other means of procuring. I dare say I shall obtain the favor, and have great pleasure in taking my last trip with a voyager whose memory I re- spect so much. Farewell, my dear friend: our affectionate remembrances are faithful to you and yours. W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.* Olney, July 3, [probably 1784.J My dear Friend, — I am writing in the greenhouse for retirement's sake, where I shiver with cold on this present 3d of July. Summer and winter therefore do not depend on the position of the sun with respect to the earth, but on His appointment who is sovereign in all things. Last Saturday night the cold was so severe that it pinched oil many of the young shoots of our peach-trees. The nurseryman we deal with informs me that the wall-trees are almost everywhere cut off; and that a friend of his, near Lon- don, has lost all the full-grown-fruit-trees of an extensive garden. The very walnuts, which are now no bigger than small hazel- nuts, drop to the ground, and the flowers, though they blow, seem to have lost all their odors. I walked with your mother yester- day in the garden, wrapped up in a winter surtout, and found myself not at all incum- bered by it ; not more indeed than I was in January. Cucumbers contract that spot which is seldom found upon them except late in the autumn ; and melons hardly grow. It is a comfort however to reflect that, if we cannot have these fruits in perfection, neither do we want them. Our crops of wheat are said to be very indifferent ; the stalks of an unequal height, so that some of the ears are in danger of being smothered by the rest ; and the ears, in general, lean and scanty. I never knew a summer in which we had not now and then a cold day to conflict with ; but such a wintry fortnight as the last, at this season of the year, I never remember. I fear you have made the discovery of the webs you mention a day too late. The ver- min have probably by this time left them, * PitwhIo correspondence and may laugh at all human attempts to de- stroy them. For every web they have hung upon the trees and bushes this year, you will next year probably find fifty, perhaps a hun- dred. Their increase is almost infinite ; so that, if Providence does not interfere, and man see fit to neglect them, the laughers you mention may live to be sensible of their mis- take. Love to all. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, July 5, 1784. My dear Friend, — A dearth of materials, a consciousness that my subjects are for the most part, and must be, uninteresting and unimportant, but above all, a poverty of ani- mal spirits, that makes writing - much a great fatigue to me, have occasioned my choice of smaller paper. Acquiesce in the justice of these reasons for the present ; and, if ever the times should mend with me, I sincerely prom- ise to amend with them. Homer says, on a certain occasion, that Ju- piter, when he was wanted at home, was gone to partake of an entertainment provided for him by the ^Ethiopians. If by Jupiter we understand the weather, or the season, as the ancients frequently did, we may say that our English Jupiter has been absent on account of some such invitation : during the whole month of June he left us to experience al- most the rigors of winter. This fine day, however, affords us some hope that the feast is ended, and that we shall enjoy his company without the interference of his ^Ethiopian friends again. Is it possible that the wise men of antiqui- ty could entertain a real reverence for the fabulous rubbish which they dignified with the name of religion'? We, who have been favored from our infancy with so clear a light, are perhaps hardly competent to decide the question, and may strive in vain to imagine the absurdities that even a good understand- ing may receive as truths, when totally un- aided by revelation. It seems, however, that men, whose conceptions upon other subjects were often sublime, whose reasoning powers were undoubtedly equal to our own, and whose management in matters of jurispru- dence, that required a very industrious exam- ination of evidence, was as acute and subtle as that of a modern Attorney-general, could not be the dupes of such imposture as a child among us would detect and laugh at. Juve- nal, I remember, introduces one of his Sat- ires with an observation that there were some in his day who had the hardiness to laugh at the stories of Tartarus and Styx, and Charon, and of the frogs that croak upon the banks of the Lethe, giving his reader, at t,h^ same time, cause to suspect that he was i 9 194 COWPER'S WORKS. himself one of that profane number. Horace, on the other hand, declares in sober sadness, that he would not for all The world get into a boat with a man who had divulged the Eleu- einian mysteries. Yet we know that those mysteries, whatever they might be, were al- together as unworthy to be esteemed divine, as the mythology of the vulgar. How, then, must we determine ? If Horace were a good and orthodox heathen, how came Juvenal to be such an ungracious libertine in principle as to ridicule the doctrines which the other held as sacred? Their opportunities of in- formation, and their mental advantages, were equal. I feel myself rather inclined to believe that Juvenal's avowed infidelity was sincere, and that Horace was no better than a canting, hypocritical professor.* You must grant me a dispensation for say- ing anything, whether it be sense or nonsense, upon the subject of politics. It is truly a matter in which I am so little interested, that, were it not that it sometimes serves me for a theme when I can find no other, I should nev- er mention it. I would forfeit a large sura; if, after advertising a month in the Gazette, the minister of the day, whoever he may be, could discover a. man who cares about him or his measures so little as I" do. When I say that I would forfeit a large sum, I mean to have it understood that I would forfeit such a sum if I had it. If Mr. Pitt be indeed a vir- tuous man, as such I respect him. But, at the best, I fear he will have to say at last with iEneas, Si Pergama dextra Defendi possent. etiam hac defensa fuissent. Be he what he may, I do not like his taxes. At least, I am much disposed to quarrel with some of them. The additional duty upon candles, by which the poor will be much af- fected, hurts me most. He says indeed that they will but little feel it, because even now they can hardly afford the use of them. He had certainly put no compassion into his budget, when he produced from it this tax, and such an argument to support it. Justly translated, it seems to amount to this — " Make the necessaries of life too expensive for the poor to reach them, and you will save their money. If they buy but few candles, they will pay but little tax ; and if they buy none, the tax, as to them, will be annihila- ted." True. But in the meantime they will break their shins against their furni- ture, if they have any, and will be but little the richer when the hours in which they might work, if they could see, shall be de- ducted. I have bought a great dictionary, and want * Some of the learned have been inclined to believe that the Eleusiiiian mysteries inculcated a rejection of Ihe absurd mythology of those times, and a belief in one toeat Supr, :ne " cause, at the same time that I would not imitate, I have not affectedly differed. Cook in the affair alluded to. From the little personal acquaintance which I had myself with this humane and truly Christian navigator, and from the whole tencr ol his life, I cannot believe it possible for him to have acted, under any circumstances, with such impious arroganca as might appear offensive in the eyes of the Almighty." LIFE OF COWPER. SO* If the v _>rk cannot boast a regular plan, (in which respect however I do not think it altogether indefensible,) it may yet boast that the reflections are naturally suggested always by the preceding passage, and that, except the fifth book, which is rather of a political aspect, the whole has one tendency; to discountenance the modern enthusiasm after a London life, and to recommend rural ease and leisure, as friendly to the cause of piety and virtue. ** If it pleases you I shall be happy, and col- lect from your pleasure in it an omen of its general acceptance. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Oct. 20, 1784. My dear William, — Your letter has relieved me from some anxiety, and given me a good deal of positive pleasure. I have faith in your judgment, and an implicit confidence in the sincerity of your approbation. The writ- ing of so long a poem is a serious business ; and the author must know little of his own heart who does not in some degree suspect himself of partiality to his own production ; and who is he that would not be mortified by the discovery that he had written five thousand lines in vain? The poem, how- ler, which you have in hand, will not of Itself make a volume so large as the last, or as a bookseller would wish. I say this, be- cause when I had sent Johnson five thousand verses, he applied for a thousand more. Two years since I began a piece which grew to the length of two hundred, and there stopped.* 1 have lately resumed it, and (I believe) shall finish it. But the subject is fruitful, and will not be comprised in a smaller compass than seven or eight hundred verses. It turns on the question whether an education at school or at home be preferable, and I shall give the preference to the latter. I mean that it shall pursue the track of the former. That is to say, that it shall visit Stock in its way to publication. My design also is to inscribe it to you. But you must see it first ; and, if, after seeing it, you should have any ob- jection, though it should be no bigger than the tittle of an i, I will deny myself that pleasure, and find no fault with your refusal. I have not been without thoughts of adding John Gilpin at the tail of all. He has made a good deal of noise in the world, and per- haps it may not be amiss to show that though I write generally wi.h a serious in.entioa, 1 know how to be occasionally merry. The Critical Reviewers charged me with an at- tempt at humor. John, having been more celebrated upon the score of humor than * Tirocinium. See Poems. most pieces that have appeared in moderi days, may serve to exonerate me from the imputation : but in this article I am entirely under your judgment, and mean to be set down by it. All these together will make an octavo like the last. I should have told you, that the piece which now employs me is in rhyme. I do not intend to write any more blank. It is more difficult than rhyme, and not so amusing in the composition. If, when you make the offer of my book to Johnson, he should stroke his chin, and look up to the ceiling, and cry, " Humph f anti- cipate him, I beseech you, at once, by saying, " that you know I should be sorry that he should undertake for me to his own disad- vantage, or that my volume should be in any degree pressed upon him. I make him the offer merely because I think he would have reason to complain of me if I did not." But, that punctilio once satisfied, it is a matter of indifference to me what publisher sends me forth. If Longman should have difficulties, which is the more probable, as I understand from you that he does not in these cases see with his own eyes, but will consult a brother poet, take no pains to conquer them. The idea of being hawked about, and especially of your being the hawker, is insupportable. Nichols, I have heard, is the most learned printer of the present day. He may be a man of taste as well as learning; and I sup- pose that you would not want a gentleman usher to introduce you. He prints " The Gentleman's Magazine," and may serve us, if the others should decline; if not, give yourself no farther trouble about the matter. I may possibly envy authors who can afford to publish at their own expense, and in that case should write no more. But the mortifi- cation should not break my heart. I proceed to your corrections, for which I most unaffectedly thank you, adverting to them in their order. Page 140. — Truth generally without the article the, would not be sufficiently defined. There are many sorts of truth, philosophical, mathematical, moral, &c, and a reader -not much accustomed to hear of religious or scriptural truth, might possibly and indeed easily doubt what truth was particularly in- tended. I acknowledge that grace, in my use of the word, does not often occur in poetry. So neither does the subject which I handle. Every subject has its own terms, and relig- ious ones take theirs with most propriety from ihe scripture. Thence I take the word grace. The sarcastic use of it in the mouths of infidels 1 admit, but not their authority to proscribe it, especially as God's favor in the abstract has no other word in all our lan- guage by which it can be expressed. Page 150. — Impress the mind faintly or not at all— I prefer this line, because of the in. 204 COWPER'S WORKS. terrupted run of it, having always observed that a little unevenness of this sort, in a long work, has a good effect, used, as I mean, sparingly, and with discretion. Page 127. — This should have been noted first, but was overlooked. Be pleased to al- ter for me thus, with the difference of only one word, from the alteration proposed by you — We too are friends to royalty. We love The king who loves the law, respects his bounds, And reigns content within them. You observed probably, in your second reading, that I allow the life of an animal to be fairly takeir away, when it interferes either with . the interest or convenience of man. Consequently snails and all reptiles that spoil our crops, either of fruit or grain, may be destroyed, if we can catch them. It gives me real pleasure that Mrs. Unwin so readily understood me. Blank verse, by the un- usual arrangement of the words, and t>y the frequent infusion of one line into another, not less than by the style, which requires a kind of tragical magnificence, cannot be chargeable with much obscurity, must rather be singularly perspicuous, to be so easily comprehended. It is my labor, and my prin- cipal one, to be as clear as possible. You do not mistake me, when you suppose that I have great respect for the virtue that flies temptation. It is that sort of prowess, which the whole train of scripture calls upon us to manifest, when assailed by sensual evil. In- terior mischiefs must be grappled with. There is no flight from them. But solicitations to sin, that address themselves to our bodily senses, are, I believe, seldom conquered in any other way. I can easily see that you may have very reasonable objections to my dedicatory pro- posal. You are a clergyman, and I have banged your order. You are a child of alma mater, and I have banged her too. Lay yourself, therefore, under no constraints that I do not lay you under, but consider your- self as perfectly free. With our best love to you all, I bid you r heartily farewell. I am tired of this endless scribblement. Adieu ! Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, Oct. 22, 1784. My dear Friend, — I am now reading a book which you have never read, and will probably never read — Knox's Essays. Per- haps I should premise that I am driven to such reading by the want of books that would please me better, neither having any, ftor th<& means of procuring any. I am not * Private correspondence. sorry, however, that I have met with him J though, when I have allowed him the praise of being a sensible man, and in his way a good one, I have allowed him all that I can afford. Neither his style pleases me, which is sometimes insufferably dry and hard, and sometimes ornamented even to an Harveian tawdriness ; nor his manner, which is never lively without being the worse for it; so unhappy is he in his attempts at character and narration. But, writing chiefly on the manners, vices, and follies of the modern day, to me he is at least so far useful, as that he gives me information upon points which I neither can nor would be informed upon except by hearsay. Of such informa- tion, however, I have need, being a writer upon those subjects myself, and a satirical writer too. It is fit, therefore, in order that I may find fault in the right place, that I should know where fault may properly be found. W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Oct. 30, 1784. My dear Friend, — I accede most readily tc the justice of your remarks, on the' subject of the truly Roman heroism of the Sandwich islanders. Proofs of such prowess, I be- lieve, are seldom exhibited by a people who have attained to a high degree of civilization. Refinement and profligacy are too nearly al- lied to admit of anything so noble ; and I question whether any instances of faithful friendship, like that jvhich so much affected you in the behavior of the poor savage, were produced even by the Romans themselves in the latter days of the empire. They had been a nation, whose virtues it is impossible not to wonder at. But Greece, which was to them what France is to us, a Pandora's box of mischief, reduced them to her own standard, and they naturally soon sunk still lower. Religion .in this case seems pretty much out of the question. To the produc- tion of such heroism undebauched nature herself is equal. When. Italy was a land of heroes, she knew no more of the true God than her cicisbeos and her fiddlers know now ; and indeed it seems a matter of indif- ference whether a man be born under a truth, which does not influence him, or un- der the actual influence of a lie ; or, if there be any difference between the cases, it seems to be rather in favor of the latter; for a false persuasion, such as the Mahometan, for instance, may animate the courage, and fur- nish motives for the contempt of death, while despisers of the true religion are pun- ished for their folly, by being abandoned to the last degrees of depravity. Accord- ingly, we see a Sandwich islander sacrificing LIFE OF COWPER. 20* seamen and mariners, instead of being im- pressed by a sense of his generosity, butch- ering him with a persevering cruelty that will disgrace them forever; for he was a defenceless, unresisting enemy, who meant nothing more than to gratify his love for the deceased. To slay him in such circum- stances was to murder him, and with every aggravation of the crime that can be ima- gined. I am again at Johnson's, in the shape of a poem in blank verse, consisting of six books and called " The Task." I began it about this time twelvemonth, and writing some- times an hour in a day, sometimes half a one, and sometimes two hours, have lately fin- ished it. . I mentioned it not sooner, because almost to the last I was doubtful whether I should ever bring it to a conclusion, working often in such distress of mind as, while it spurred me to the work, at the same time threatened to disqualify me for it. My book- seller, I suppose, will be as tardy as before. I do not expect to be born into the world till the month of March, when I and the cro- tuses shall peep together. You may assure yourself that I shall take my first opportu- nity to wait on you. I mean likewise to gratify myself by obtruding my muse upon Mr. Bacon. Adieu, my dear friend ! We are well, and love you. " W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Nov. 1, 1.784. My dear Friend, — Were I to delay my an- swer, I must yet write without a frank at last, and may as well therefore write without one now, especially feeling as I do a desire to thank you for your friendly offices so well performed. I am glad, for your sake as well as for my own, that you succeeded in the first instance, and that the first trouble proved the last. I am willing too to consider John- son's readiness to accept a second volume of mine as an argument that at least he was no loser by the former. I collect from it some reasonable hope that the volume in question may not wrong him either. My imagination tells me (for I know you inter- est yourself in the success of my produc- tions) that your heart fluttered when you approached Johnson's door, and that it felt itself discharged of a burden when you came out again. You did well to mention it at the T s ; they will now know that you do not pretend to a share in my confidence, whatever be the value of it, greater than you actually possess. I wrote to Mr. Newton by the last post to tell him that I was gone to the press again. He will be surprised and perhaps not pleased. But I think he cannot complain, for he keeps his own au- thorly secrets without participating them with me. I do not think myself in the leasl injured by his reserve, neither should 1, if he were to publish a whole library without fa. voring me with any previous notice of his intentions. In these cases it is no violation of the laws of friendship not to commu- nicate, though there must be a friendship where the communication" is made. But many reasons may concur in disposing a writer to keep his work secret, and none of them injurious to his friends. The influence of one I have felt myself, for which none of them would blame me — I mean the desire of surprising agreeably. And, if I have de- nied myself this pleasure in your instance, it was only to give myself a greater, by eradi- cating from your mind any little weeds of suspicion that might still remain in it, that any man living is nearer to me than your- self. Had not this consideration forced up the lid of my strong-box like a lever, it would have kept its contents with an invis- ible closeness to the last : and the first news that either you or any of my friends would have heard of " The Task," they would have received from the public papers. But you know now that neither as a poet nor a man do I give to any man a precedence in my estimation at your expense. I am proceeding with my new work (which at present I feel myself much inclined to call by the name of Tirocinium) as fast as the muse permits. It has reached the length of seven hundred lines, and will probably receive an addition of two or three hundred more. When you see Mr. perhaps you will not find it difficult to procure from him half-a- dozen franks, addressed to yourself, and dated the fifteenth of December, in which case they will all go to the post, filled with my lucubra- tions, on the evening of that day. I do not name an earlier, because I hate to be hurried; and Johnson cannot want it sooner than, thus managed, it will reach him. I am not sorry that " John Gilpin," though hitherto he has been nobody's child, is likely to be owned at last. Here and there I can give him a touch that I think will mend him ; the language in some places not being quite so quaint and old-fashioned as it should be ; and in one of the stanzas there is a false rhyme. When I have thus given the finish- ing stroke to his figure, I mean to grace him with two mottoes, a Greek and a Latin one which, when the world shall see that I have only a little one of three words to the vol- ume itself, and none to the books of which it consists, they will perhaps understand as a stricture upon that pompous display of lit- erature, with which some authors take occa- sion to crowd their titles. Knox in particu- lar, who is a sensible man too, has not I 206 COWPER'S WORKS. think fewer than half-a-dozen to his "Es- says." Adieu, W.C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, Nov., 1784. My dear Friend, — To condole with you on the death of a mother aged eighty-seven would be absurd — rather therefore, as is rea- sonable, I congratulate you on the almost singular felicity of having enjoyed the com- pany of so amiable and so near a relation so long. Your lot and mine in this respect have been very different, as indeed in almost every other. Your mother lived to see you rise, at least to see you comfortably established in the world. Mine, dying when I was six years old, did not live to see me sink in it. You may remember with pleasure while you live a blessing vouchsafed to you so long, and I while I live must regret a comfort, of which I was deprived so early. T can truly say that not a week passes (perhaps I might with equal veracity say a day) in which I do not think of her. Such was the impression her tenderness made upon me, though the oppor- tunity she had for showing it was so short. But the ways of God are equal — and, when I reflect on the pangs she would have suf- fered had she been a witness of all mine, I see more cause to rejoice than to mourn that she was hidden in the grave so soon. We have, as you say, lost a lively and sen- sible neighbor in Lady Austen, but we have been long accustomed to a state of retirement within one degree of solitude, and, being naturally lovers of still life, can relapse into our former duality without being unhappy at the change. To me indeed a third is not necessary, while I can have the companion I have had these twenty years. I am gone to the press again ; a volume of mine will greet your hands some time either in the course of the winter or early in the spring. You will find it perhaps on the whole more entertaining than the former, as it treats a greater variety of subjects, and those, at least the most, of a sublunary kind. It will consist of a poem in six books, called " The Task." To which will be added an- other, which I finished yesterday, called I believe " Tirocinium," on the subject of edu- cation. You perceive that I have taken your advice, ind given the pen no rest. W.C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Nov. 27, 1784. My dear Friend, — All the interest that you lake in my new publication, and all the pleas that you U'ge in behalf of your right to my confidence, the moment I had read your let- ter, struck me as so many proofs of your re- gard ; of a friendship in which distance and time make no abatement. But it is difficult to adjust opposite claims to the satisfaction of all parties. I have done my best, and must leave it to your candor to put a just in- terpretation upon all that has passed, and to give me credit for it as a certain truth that, whatever seeming defects in point of atten- tion and attachment to you my conduct on this occasion may have appeared to have been chargeable with, I am in reality as clear of all real ones as you would wish to find me. I send you enclosed, in, the first place, a copy of the advertisement to the reader, which accounts for my title, not otherwise easily ac- counted for; secondly, what is called an ar- gument, or a summary of the contents of each book, more circumstantial and diffuse by far than that which I have sent to the press. It will give you a pretty accurate acquaint- ance with my matter, though the tenons and mortices, by which the several passages are connected, and let into each other, cannot be explained in a syllabus : and lastly, an extract, as you desired. The subject of it I am sure will please you ; and, as I have admitted into my description no images but what are scrip- tural, and have aimed as exactly as I could at the plain and simple sublimity cf the scrip- ture language, I have hopes the manner of it may please you too. As far as the num- bers and diction are concerned, it may serve pretty well for a sample of the whole. But, the subjects being so various, no single pas- sage can in all respects be a specimen of the book at large. My principal purpose is to allure the read- er, by character, by scenery, by imagery, and such poetical embellishments, to the reading of what may profit him; subordinately to this, to combat that predilection in favor of a metropolis that beggars and exhausts the country, by evacuating it of all its principal inhabitants ; and collaterally, and, as far as is consistent with this double intention, to have a stroke at vice, vanity and folly, wher- ever I find them. I have not spared the Universities. A letter which appeared in the " General Evening Post" of Saturday, said to have been received by a general officer, and by him sent to the press as worthy of public notice, and which has all the appear- ance of authenticity, would alone justify the severest censures of those bodies, if any such justification were wanted. By way of sup- plement to what I have written on this sub- ject. I have added a poem, called " Tirocini- um," which is in rhyme. It treats of the scandalous relaxation of discipline that ob- tains in almost all schools universally, but es- pecially in the largest, which are so negligent I in the* article of murals that boys are de* LIFE OF COWPER, 207 bauched in general the moment they are ca- pable of being so. It recommends the office of tutor to the father where there is no real impediment, the expedient of a domestic tu- tor where there is, and the disposal of boys nto the hands of a respectable country cler- gyman, who limits his attention to two, in all cases where they cannot be conveniently 'educated at home. Mr. Unwin happily af- fording me an instance in point, the poem is inscribed to him. Youwili now I hope com- mand your hunger to be patient, and be satis- fied with the luncheon, that I send, till dinner comes. That piecemeal perusal of the work sheet by sheet, would be so disadvantageous to the work itself, and therefore so uncom- fortable to me, that (I dare say) you will waive your desire of it. A poem thus disjointed cannot possibly be fit for anybody's inspec- tion but the author's. Tully's rule — Nulla dies sine lined — will make a volume in less time than one would suppose. I adhered to it so rigidly that, though more than once I found three lines as many as I had time to compass, still I wrote ; and, finding occasionally, and as it might happen a more fluent vein, the abundance of one day made me amends for the barrenness of another. But I do not mean to write blank verse again. Not having the music of rhyme, it requires so close an attention to the pause an id the cadence, and such a peculiar mode of expression, as render it, to me at least, the most difficult species of poetry that I have ever meddled with. I am obliged to you and to Mr. Bacon for your kind remembrance of me when you meet. No artist can excel, as he does, with- out the finest feelings ; and every man that has the finest feelings is and must be amiable. Adieu, my dear friend ! Affectionately yours, W. C. ; for the conveyance of " Tirocinium," dated on a day therein mentioned and the earliest which at that time I could venture to appoint. It has happened, however, that the poem is finished a month sooner than I expected, and ' two thirds of it are at this time fairly tran- scribed ; an accident to which the riders of a ! Parnassian steed are liable, who never know* before they mount him, at what rate he "wiL choose to travel. If he be indisposed to de- spatch, it is impossible to accelerate his pace ; : if otherwise, equally impossible to stop him Therefore my errand to you at this time is ; to cancel the former assignation, and to in- '• form you that by whatever means you please, and as soon as you please, the piece in ques- ; tion will be ready to attend you ; for, with- out exerting any extraordinary diligence, I shall have completed the transcript in a week. The critics will never know that four lines of it were composed while I had a dose of ipecacuanha on my stomach : in short, that 1 was delivered of the emetic and the verses at the same moment. Knew they this, they would at least allow me to be a poet of sin- j gular industry, and confess that I lose no | time. I have heard of poets who have found j cathartics of sovereign use, when they had j occasion to be particularly brilliant. Dryden ; always used them, and, in commemoration j of it, Bayes, in " The Rehearsal," is made to I inform the audience, that in a poetical einer- j gency he always had recourse to stewed prunes. But I am the only poet who has dared to reverse the prescription, and whose enterprise, having succeeded to admiration warrants him to recommend an emetic to al, future bards, as the most infallible means of producing a fluent and easy versification. My love to all your family. Adieu. W C TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, 1784. My dear William, — The slice which (you observe) has been taken from the top of the sheet, it lost before I began to write , but, being a part of the paper which is seldom used, I thought it would be pity to discard, or to degrade to meaner purposes, the fair and ample remnant, on account of so imma- terial a defect. I therefore have destined it to be the vehicle of a letter, which you will accept as entire, though a lawyer perhaps would, without much difficulty, prove it to be but a fragment. The best recompense I can make you for writing without a frank, is to propose it to you to take your revenge by returning an answer under the same predica- ment; and the best reason I can give for do- ing it is the occasion following. In my last [ recommended it to yon to procure franks TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Nov. 29, 1784. My dear Friend, — I am happy that you are pleased, and accept it as an earnest that I shall not at least disgust the public. For, though I know your partiality to me, I know at the same time with what laudable tender- ness you feel for your own reputation, and that, for the sake of that most delicate part of your property, though you would not criticise me with an unfriendly and undue severity, you would however beware of being satisfied too hastily, and with no warrant- able cause of being so. I called you the tu- tor of your two sons, in contemplation of the certainty of that event : it is a fact in sus pense, not in fiction. My principal errand to you now is to give you information on the following subject: — ■ The moment Mr. Newton knew (and I took 208 COWPER'S WORKS. care that he should learn it first from me) that I had communicated to you what I had concealed from him, and that you were my authorship's go-between with Johnson on this occasion, he sent me a most friendly letter indeed, but one in every line of which J could hear the soft murmurs of something like mortification, that could not be entirely suppressed. It contained nothing however that you yourself would have blamed, or that I had not every reason to consider as evidence of his regard to me. He concluded the subject with desiring to know something of my plan, to be favored with an extract, by way of specimen, or (which he should like better still) with wishing me to order John- son to send him a proof as fast as they were printed off. Determining not to accede to this last request for many reasons (but es- pecially because I would no more show my poem piecemeal than I would my house if I had one; the merits of the structure in either case being equally liable to suffer by such a partial view of it), I have endeavored to compromise the difference between us, and to satisfy him without disgracing myself. The proof-sheets I have absolutely, though civilly refused. But I have sent him a copy of the arguments of each book, more dilated and circumstantial than those inserted in the work ; and to these I have added an extract, as he desired ; selecting, as most suited to his taste, the view of the restoration of all things — which you recollect to have seen near the end of the last book. I hold it necessary to tell you this, lest, if you should call upon him, he should startle you by dis- covering a degree of information upon the subject which you could not otherwise know how to reconcile or to account for. You have executed your commissions d merveille. We not only approve but admire. No apology was wanting for the balance struck at the bottom, which we accounted rather a beauty than a deformity. Pardon a poor poet, who cannot speak even of pounds, shillings, and pence, but in his own way. I have read Lunardi with pleasure. He is a lively, sensible young fellow, and I sup- pose a very favorable sample of the Italians. When I look at his picture, I can fancy that I can see in him that good sense and courage that no doubt were legible in the face of a young Roman two thousand years ago. Your affectionate W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Dec. 4, 1784. My dear Friend, — You have my hearty thanks for a very good barrel of oysters; which necessary acknowledgment once made, L might perhaps show more kindness by cut- * Private correspondence. ting short an epistle than by continuing one, in which you are not likely to find your ac- count, either in the way of information oi amusement. The season of the year indeed is not very friendly to such communications A damp' atmosphere and a sunless sky will have their effect upon the spirits ; and when the spirits are checked, farewell to all hope of being good company either by letter or otherwise. I envy thobe happy voyagers, v/ho with so much ease ascend to regions unsullied with a cloud, and date their epistles from an extra-mundane situation. No won- der if they outshine us, who poke about in the dark below, in the vivacity of their sallies, as much as they soar above us in their ex- cursions. Not but that I should be very sorry to go to the clouds for wit: on the contrary, I am satisfied that I discover more by con- tinuing where I am. Every man to his busi- ness. Their vocation is to see fine pros- pects, and to make pithy observations upon the world below ; such as these, for instance : that the earth, beheld from a height that one trembles to think of, has the appearance of a circular plain; that England is a very rich and cultivated country, in which every man's property is ascertained by the hedges that intersect the lands; and that London and Westminster, seen from the neighborhood of the moon, make but an insignificant figure. I admit the utility of these remarks ; but, in the meantime, I say cliacun a son gout ; and mine is rather to creep than fly, and to carry with me, if possible, an unbroken neck to the grave. I remain, as ever, Your affectionate W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Dec. 13, 1784. My dear Friend, — Having imitated no man, I may reasonably hope that I shall not incur the disadvantage of a comparison with my betters. Miltons manner was peculiar. So is Thomson's. He that should write like either of them would in my judgment de- serve the name of a copyist, but not a poet. A judicious and sensible reader therefore, like yourself, will not say that my manner is not good, because it does not resemble theirs, but will rather consider what it is in itself. Blank verse is susceptible of a much greater diversification of manner than verse in rhyme : and, why the modern writers of it have all thought proper to cast their numbers alike, I know not. Certainly it was not necessity that compelled them to it. I flatter myself however that I have avoided that sameness with others, which would entitle me to nothing but a share in one common oblivion with them all. It is possible that, as a re viewer of mv former volume found cause to LIFh OF COWPER, 20S say, that he knew not to what class of writ- era to refer me, the reviewer of this, who- ever he shall be, may see occasion to remark the same singularity. At any rate, though as little apt 10 be sanguine as most men, and more prone to fear and despond than to overrate my own productions, I am per- suaded that I shall not forfeit anything by this volume that I gained by the last. As to the litle, I take it to be the best that is to be had. It is not possible that a book including I su»h a variety of subjects, and in which no ! particular one is predominant, should find a I title adapted to them all. In such a case it seemed almost necessary to accommodate the name to, the incident that gave birth to the poem ; nor does it appear to me that, be- cause I performed more than my task, there- fore " The Task " is not a suitable title. A house would still be a house, though the builder of it should make it ten times as big as he at first intended. I might indeed, fol- lowing the example of the Sunday news- monger, call it the Olio. But I should do myself wrong: for, though it have much va- riety, it has I trust no confusion. For the same reason none of the inferior titles apply themselves to the contents at large of that book to which they belong. They are, every one of them, taken either from the leading (I should say the introduc- tory) passage of that particular book, or from that which makes the most conspicuous figure in it. Had I set off with a design to vrite upon a gridiron, and had I actually ivritten near two hundred lines upon that utensil, as I have upon the Sofa, the gridiron should have been my title. But the Sofa being, as I may say, the starting-post, from which I addressed myself to the long race that I soon conceived a design to run, it ac- quired a just pre-eminence in my account, and was very worthily advanced to the titu- lar honor it enjoys, its right being at least so far a good one, that no word in the. language i could pretend a better. The Time-piece appears to me (though by ; some accident the import of that title has | escaped you) to have a degree of propriety beyond, the most of them. The book to which it belongs is intended to strike the hour that gives notice of the approaching judgment; and, dealing pretty largely in the signs of the times, seems to be denominated, as it is, with a sufficient degree of accommo- dation to the subject. As to the word worm, it is the very appel- lation which Milton himself, in a certain pas- sage of the Paradise Lost, gives to the ser- pent. Not having the book at hand, I cannot now refer to it, but I am sure of the fact. I am mistaken^ too, if Shakspeare's Cleopatra do not call the asp by which she thought fit to destrov herself by the sime name: but. not having read the play these five-and- twenty years, I will not affirm it. They are however, without all doubt, convertible terms. A worm is a small serpent, and a serpent is a large worm. And when an epi- thet significant of the most terrible species of those creatures is adjoined, the idea is surely sufficiently ascertained. No animal of the vermicular or serpentine kind is crested but the most formidable of all. Yours affectionately, W. C. The passages alluded to by Cowper are as follows : O Eve. in evil hour thou didst give ear To that false worm, of whomsoever taught To counterfeit man's voice ; &c. Paradise Lost, book 9. Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there, That kills and pains not 1 Shakspeare : s Anthony $• Cleopatra, Act ?> ' TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. Olney, Dec. 18, 1784. My dear Friend, — I condole with you that you had the trouble to ascend St. Paul's in vain, but at the same time congratulate you that you escaped an ague. I should be very well pleased to have a fair prospect of a bal- loon under sail, with a philosopher or two on board, but at the same time should be very sorry to expose myself, for any length of time, to the rigor of the upper regions at this season for the sake of it, The travellers themselves, I suppose, are secured from all injuries of the weather by that fervency of spirit and agitation of mind which must needs accompany them in their flight: advantages which the more composed and phlegmatic spectator is not equally possessed of. The inscription of the poem is more your own affair than any other person's. You have therefore an undoubted right to fashion it to your mind, nor have I the least objection to the slight alteration that you have made in it. I inserted w T hat you have erased for a reason that was perhaps rather chimerical than solid. I feared however that the reviewers, or some of my sagacious readers not more merciful than they, might suspect that there was a se- cret design in the wind, and that author and friend had consulted in what manner author might introduce frjend to public notice as a clergyman every way qualified to entertain a pupil or two, if peradventure any gentleman of fortune were in want of a tutor for his children: I therefore added the words "And of his two sons only," by way of insinuating that you are perfectly satisfied with youi present charge, and that you do not wish foi more : thus meaning to obviate an illiberal eons'ruetinn which we are both of us incapa- 210 COWPER'S WORKS. ble of deserving. But, the same caution not having appeared to you to be necessary, I ara very willing and ready to suppose that it is not so. I intended in my last to have given you my reasons for the compliment that I paid Bishop Bagot, lest, knowing that I have no personal connexion with him, you should suspect me of having done it rather too much at a ven- ture* In the first place, then, I wished the world to know that I have no objection to a bishop, quia bishop. In the second place, the brothers were all five my schoolfellows, and very amiable and valuable boys they were. Thirdly, Lewis, the bishop, had been rudely and coarsely treated in the Monthly Review, on account of a sermon which appeared to me, when I read their extract from it, to de r serve the highest commendations, as exhibit- ing explicit proof both of his good sense and his unfeigned piety. For these causes, me thereunto moving, I felt myself happy in an opportunity to do public honor to a worthy man who had been publicly traduced; and indeed the reviewers themselves have since repented of their aspersions, and have travelled not a little out of their way in order to retract them, having taken occasion, by the sermon preached at the bishop's visitation at Nor- wich, to say everything handsome of his lordship, who, whatever might be the merit of the discourse, in that instance, at least, could himself lay claim to no other than that of being a hearer. Since I wrote, I have had a letter from Mr. Newton that did not please me, and returned an answer to it that possibly may not have pleased him. We shall come together again soon (I suppose) upon as amicable terms as usual : but at present he is in a state of mor- tification. He would have been pleased had the book passed out of his hands into yours, or even out of yours into his, so that he had previously had opportunity to advise a measure which I pursued without his recom- mendation, and had seen the poems in manu- script. But my design was to pay you a whole compliment, and I have done it. If he says more on the subject, I shall speak free- ly, and perhaps please him less than I have dore already. Yours, with our love to you all, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN. NEWTON. Olney, Christmas-eve, 1784. My dear Friend, — I am neither Mede nor Persian, neither am I the son of any such, but was born at Great Berkhamstead, in Hert- fordshire, and yet I can neither find a new title for my book, nor please myself with aiv addition to the old one. I an/, however, * Tirocinium. willing to hope, that when the volume shall cast itself at your feet, you will be in some measure reconciled to the name it bears, es- pecially when you shall find it justified both by the* exordium of the poem and by the con- clusion. But enough, as you say with great truth, of a subject very unworthy of so much consideration. Had I heard any anecdotes of poor dying , that would have bid fair to deserve youi attention, I should have sent them. The little that he is reported to have uttered, of a spir- itual import, was not very striking. That little, however, I can give you upon good au- thority. His brother, asking him how he found himself, he replied, " I am composed, and think that I may safely believe myself entitled to a portion." The world has had much to say in his praise, and both prose and verse have been employed to celebrate him in " The Northampton Mercury." But Chris- tians, I suppose, have judged it best to be silent. If he ever drank at the fountain of life, he certainly drank also, and often too freely, of certain other streams, which are no* to be bought without money and without price. He had virtues that dazzled the nat- ural eye, and failings that shocked the spirit- ual one. But iste dies indicabit. w. c. In reviewing the events in Cowper's Life, recorded in the present volume, our remarks must be brief. His personal history contin- ues to present the same afflicting spectacle of a man always struggling under the pressure of a load from which no effort, either on his own part, or on that of others, is able to ex- tricate him. We know nothing mere touch- ing than some of the letters in the private correspondence in reference to this subject; and 'we consider them indispensable to a clear elucidation of the state of his mind and feelings. Their deep pathos, their ingenuous disclosure of all that he feels, and still more, of all that he dreads; the delusion under which the mind evidently labors, and yet the fixed and unalterable integrity of principle that reigns within, form a sublime scene, that awakens sympathy and commands ad- miration. That under circumstances of such deep trial, the powers of his mind should remain free and unimpaired ; that he should be able to produce a work like " The Task," destined to survive so long as taste, truth, and nature shall exercise their empire over the heart, is not only a phenomenon in the history of the human mind, but serves to show that the greatest calamities are not without their al- leviation ; that God knows how to temper the wind to the shorn lamb, and .hat the busk may be on tire without being consumed. It is bv dispensations such as these that, the LIFE OF COWPER. 2i Moral Governor of the world admonishes and instructs us; and that we learn to adore his wisdom and overruling power and love. We also see the value of mental resources, and that literature, and art, and science, when consecrated to the highest ends, not only en- noble our existence, but are a solace under its heaviest cares and disquietudes. It was this divine philosophy, so richly poured over the pages of the Task, that strengthened and sustained the mind of Cowper. The Muse was his. delight and refuge, but it was the Muse clad in the panoply of heaven, and soaring to the heights of Zion. He taught the school of poets a sublime moral lesson, not to debase a noble art by ministering to the corrupt passions of our nature, but to make it the vehicle of pure and elevated thought, the honorable ally of virtue, and the handmaid of true religion : that it is not suffi- flient to captivate the taste, and to lead 'hrough the regions of poetic fancy; — "The still small voice is wanted." 't is this characteristic feature that consti- tutes the charm of Cowper's poetry, and his title to immortality. He approached the temple of fame through the vestibule of the sanctuary, and snatched the live coal from the burning altar. It is his object to reprove vice, to vindicate truth from error, to endear home, by making it the scene of our virtues, and the source of our joys, to enlarge the bounds of simple and harmless pleasure, to exhibit na- ture in all its attractive forms, and to trace God in the works of his Providence, and in the mighty dispensation of his Grace. The completion of the second volume of Cowper's poems formed an important period in his literary history. It was the era of the establishment of his poetical fame. His first volume had already laid the foundation ; the second raised the superstructure, which has secured for him a reputation as honor-able as it is likely to be lasting. He was more par- ticularly indebted for this distinction to his inimitable production, " The Task," a work which every succeeding year has increasingly stamped with the seal of public approbation. If we inquire into the causes of its celebrity, they are to be found not merely in the multi- tude of poetical beauties, scattered through- out the poem ; it is the faithful delineation of nature, and of the scenes of real life ; it is the vein of pure and elevated morality, the ex- quisite sensibility of feeling, and the power- ful appeals to the heart and conscience, which constitute its great charm and interest. The court, the town, and the country, all united in its praise, because conscience and nature aever sufie- their rights to be extinguished, except in minds the most perverted or de praved. These rights are coeval with ou» birth: they grow with our growth, and yield only to that universal decree, which levels taste, perception, and every moral feeling with the d ust ; and which will finally dissolve the whole system of created nature, and merge time itself into eternity. Cowper's second volume, containing his " Task," and " Tirocinium," to which some smaller pieces were afterwards attached, was ready for the press in November, 1784,* though its publication was delayed till June, 1785. The close of a literary undertaking is always contemplated as an event of great interest to the feelings of an author. It is the termination of his labors and the com- mencement of his hopes and fears. Gibbon the historian has thought proper to record the precise hour and day, in which he con- cluded his laborious work, of the " Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," with feelings i of a mingled and impressive character. " I have presumed," he says, " to mark the I moment of conception ; I shall now com- memorate the hour of my final deliverance. It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of aca- cias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on the recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind, by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that, v/hitever might be the future fate of my history, the life of the historian might be short and p e carious. "f These chastened feelings are implanted b) a Divine Power, to check the pride and exul- tation of genius, and to maintain the mind in lowly humility. Nor is Pope's reflection less just and affecting : ' ; The morning after my exit," he observes, " the sun will rise as bright as ever, the flowers smell as sweet, the plants spring as green, the world will proceed in its old course, and people laugh and marry as they were used to do."J What then is the moral that is conveyed 1 If life be so evanescent, if its toils and labors. its sorrows and joys, so quickly pass away, it becomes us to leave some memorial behind, * See p. 166. t See Life a*d Writings of Edward Gibbon, p 30, pr» fixed to his •• Decline and Fall," &c. X See Pope's Letters. 212 COWPER'S WORKS. that we have not lived unprofitably either to ethers or to ourselves ; to keep the rnind free from prejudice, the heart from passion, and the life from error ; to enlighten the ignorant, to raise the fallen, and to comfort the de- pressed ; to scatter around us the endear- ments of kindness, and diffuse a spirit of righteousness, of benevolence, and of truth ; to enjoy the sunshine of an approving con- science, and the blessedness of inward joy and peace ; that thus, when the closing scene shall at length arrive, the ebbings of the dis- solving frame may be sustained by the triumph of Christian hope, and death prove the portal of immortality. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, Jan. 5, 1785. I have observed, and you must have had occasion to observe it oftener than I, that when a man who once seemed to be a Chris- tian has put off that character and resumed his old one, he loses, together with the grace which he seemed to possess, the most amiable part of the character that he resumes. The best features of his natural face seem to be struck out, that after having worn religion only as a handsome mask he may make a more disgusting appearance than he did be- fore he assumed it. According to your request, I subjoin my epitaph on Dr. Johnson ; at least I mean to do it, if a drum, which at this moment an- nounces the arrival of a giant in the town, will give me leave. Yours, W. C. EPITAPH ON Dr. JOHNSON. Here Johnson lies — a sage, by all allow'd. Whom to have bred may well make England proud ; Whose prose was eloquence by wisdom taught The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought; Whose verse may claim, grave, masculine, and strong, Superior praise to the mere poet's song : Who many a noble gift from Heaven possess'd, And faith at last — alone worth all the rest. man immortal by a double prize. By fame on earth, by glory in the skies ! TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. Olney, Jan. 15, 1785. My dear William, — Your letters are always welcome. You can always either find some- thing to say, or can amuse me and yourself with a sociable and friendly way of saying no- thing. I never found that a letter was the more easily written, because the writing of it had been long delayed. On the contrary, ex- perience has taught me to answer soon, that [ may do it without difficulty. It is in vain * Private correspondence. to wait for an accumulation of materials in t situation such as yours and mine, productive of few events. At the end of our expecta- tions we shall find ourselves as poor as at the beginning. I can hardly tell you with any certainty of information, upon what terms Mr. Newton and I may be supposed to si and at present. A month (I believe) has passed since I heard from him. But my friseur, having been in London in the course of this week, whence he returned last night, and having called al Hoxton, brought me his love and an excusb for his silence, which, he said, had been oc- casioned by the frequency of his preaching!. at this season. He was not pleased that my manuscript was not first transmitted to him, and I have cause to suspect that he was even mortified at being informed that a certain in- scribed poem was not inscribed to himself But we shall jumble together again, as people that have an affection for each other at bot- tom, notwithstanding now and then a slight disagreement, always do. I know not whether Mr. has acted in consequence of your hint, or whether, not needing one, he transmitted to us his bounty before he had received it. He has however send us a note for twenty pounds; with which we have performed wonders in behalf of the ragged and the starved. He is a most extraordinary young man, and, though I shall probably never see him, will always have a niche in the museum of my reverential re- membrance. The death of Dr. Johnson has set a thou- sand scribbers to work, and me among the rest. While I lay in bed, waiting till I could reasonably hope that the parlor might be ready for me, I invoked the Muse and composed the following epitaph.* It is destined, I believe, to the " Gentle- man's Magazine," which I consider as a re- spectable repository for small matters, which, when entrusted to a newspaper, can expect but the duration of a day. But, Nichols hav- ing at present a small piece of mine in his hands, not yet printed, (it is called the Poplar Field* and I suppose you have it,) I wait till his obstetrical aid has brought that to light, before I send him a new one. In his last he published my epitaph upon Tiney ;f which, I likewise imagine, has been long in your collection. Not a word yet from Johnson ; I am easy however upon the subject, being assured that, so long as his own interest is at stake he will not want a monitor to remind him of the proper time to publish. * The same which has been inserted in the preceding tetter, t One of Cowper's favorite hares ■ " Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow," &c. See Poems. LIFE OF COWPER. 2; You and your family have our sincere love. Forget not to present my respectful compli- ments to Miss Unwin, and, if you have not done it already, thank her on my part for the vtit agreeable narrative of Lunardi. He is a young man, I presume, of great good sense and spirit, (his letters at least and his enter- prising turn bespeak him such,) a man quali- fied to shine not only among the stars,* but in the more useful though humbler sphere of terrestrial occupation. I have been crossing the channel in a bal- loon, ever since I read of that achievement by Blanchard.f I have an insatiable thirst to know the philosophical reason why his vehicle had like to have fallen into the sea, when, for aught that appears, the gas was not at all ex- hausted. Did not the extreme cold condense the inflammable air, and cause the globe to collapse? Tell me," and be my -Apollo for- ever. Affectionately yours, W. C. The incident connected with the Poplar Field, mentioned in the former part of the above letter, is recorded in the verses. The place where the poplars grew is called Laven- don Mills, about a mile from Olney ; it was one of Cowper's favorite walks. After a long absence, on revisiting the spot, he found the greater part of his beloved trees lying prostrate on the ground. Four only sur- vived, and they have recently shared *he same fate. But poetry can dignify the mi- nutest events, and convert the ardor of hope or the pang of disappointment into an oc- casion for pouring forth the sweet melody of song. It is to the above incident that we are indebted for the following verses, which unite the charm of simple imagery with a beautiful and affecting moral at the close. THE POPLAR FIELD. The poplars are felled farewell to the shade. And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade ; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves. Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. Twelve years have elapsed : since I last took a view Of my favorite field, and the bank where they grew ; And now in the grass behold they are laid. And the tree is my seat, ' that once lent me a shade. The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, * Lunardi's name is associated with the aeronauts of that time. t Blanchard, accompanied hy Dr. Jeffries, took his de- parture for Calais from the castle at Dover. When within ttve or six miles of the French co;tst, the balloon fell rapidly towards the sea, and, had it not been lightened wid a br oze sprung up, they must have perished in the raves. And the scene where his irielody chararc m« before, Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. My fugitive years are hasting away And I must ere long lie as lowly as they. With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head. Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. The change both my heart and my fancy employs; I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys; Short-lived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Jan. 22, 1785. My dear Friend, — The departure of the long frost, by which we were pinched and squeezed together for three weeks, is a most agreeable circumstance. The weather is now (to speak poetically) genial and jocund; and the appearance of the sun, after an eclipse, peculiarly welcome. For, were it not that I have a gravel walk about sixty yards long, where I take my daily exercise, I should be obliged to look at a fine day through the window, without any other enjoyment of it; a country rendered impassable by frost, that has been at last resolved into rottenness, keeps me so close a prisoner. Long live the inventors and improvers of balloons! It is always clear overhead, and by and by we shall use no other road. How will the Parliament employ them- selves when they meet ? — to any purpose, or to none, or only to a bad one ? They are utterly oat of my favor. I despair of them altogether. Will they pass an act .for the cultivation of the royal wilderness] Will they make an effectual provision for a north- ern fishery ? Will they establish a new sink- ing fund that shall infallibly pay off the na- tional debt ? I say nothing about a more equal representation,! because, unless they bestow upon private gentlemen of no prop- erty the privilege of voting, I stand no chance of ever being represented myself. Will they achieve all these wonders or none of them? And shall I derive.no other ad- vantage from the great Wittena-Gemot of the nation, than merely to read their debates, for twenty folios of which I would not give one farthing? Yours, my dear friend, W. C TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Feb. 7, 1785. My dear Friend, — We live in a state Oi * Private correspondence. t Mr. Pitt had introduced, at this time, his celebrated bill for effecting a reform in the national representation the leading feature of which was to transfer the elective franchise from the smaller and decayed boroughs to th« larger towns. The proposition was, howevei, rejected by a considerable majoritj such uninten up(ed retirement, in which inci- dents worthy to be recorded occur so seldom, that I always sit down to write with a dis- couraging conviction that I have nothing to say. The event commonly justifies the pres- age. For, when I have filled my sheet, I *ind that I have said nothing. Be it known to you, however, that I may now at least com- municate apiece of intelligence to which you will not be altogether indifferent ; that I have received and returned to Johnson the two first proof-sheets of my new publication. The business was despatched indeed a fort- night ago, since when I have heard from him no further. From such a beginning, how- ever, I venture to prognosticate .the progress, and in due time the conclusion of the matter. In the last Gentleman's Magazine my Pop- lar Field appears. I have accordingly sent up two pieces more, a Latin translation of it, which you have never seen, and another on a rose-bud, the neck of which I inadvertently broke, which whether you have seen or not I know not. As fast as Nichols prints off the poems I send him, I send him new ones. My remittance usually consists of two ; and he publishes one of them at a time. I may indeed furnish him at this rate, without put- ting myself to any great inconvenience. For my last supply was transmitted to him in August, and is but now exhausted. I communicate the following at your mother's instance, who will suffer no part of my praise to be sunk in oblivion. A certain lord has hired a house at Clifton, in our neighborhood, for a hunting seat.* There he lives at present with his wife and daughter. They are an exemplary family in some re- spects, and (I believe) an amiable one in all. The Reverend Mr. Jones, the curate of that parish, who often dines with them by invita- tion on a Sunday, recommended my volume to their reading; and his lordship, after having perused a part of it, expressed an ardent de- sire to be acquainted with the author, from motives which my great modesty will not suffer me to particularize. Mr. Jones, how- ever, like a wise man, informed his lordship that, for certain special reasons and causes, I had declined going into company for many years, and that therefore he must not hope for my acquaintance. His lordship most civilly subjoined that he was sorry for it. "And is that all ?" say you. Now were I to hear you say so, I should look foolish and say, " Yes." But, having you at a distance, I snap my fingers at you and say, " No that is not all." Mr. , who favors us now and then with his company in an evening as usual, was not long since discoursing with that eloquence which is so peculiar to him- self, on the many providential interpositions jiat had taken place in his favor. " He had * Lord Peterborough. wished for many things," he said, " which, ai the time when he formed these wishes, seemed distant and improbable, some of them indeed impossible. Among other wishes that h*» had indulged, one was that he might be con- nected with men of genius and ability — and in my connexion with this worthy gentleman,' said he, turning to me, " that wish, I am sure, is amply gratified." You may suppose that I felt the sweat gush out upon my forehead when I heard this speech ; and if you do, you will not be at all mistaken. So much was I delighted with the delicacy of that incense. Thus far I proceeded easily enough ; and here I laid down my pen, and Spent some minutes in recollection, endeavoring to find some subject with which I might fill the little blank that remains. But none presents itself Farewell therefore, and remember those who are mindful of you ! Present our love to all your comfortable fireside, and believe me ever most affection- ately yours, W. C. They that read Greek with the accents, would pronounce the s in fiXsu as an v. But I do not hold with that practice, though edu- cated in it. I should therefore utter it just as I do the Latin word jilio, taking the quan- tity for my guide. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, Feb. 19, 1785. My dear Friend, — I am obliged to you for apprising me of the various occasions of de- lay to which your letters are liable. Fur- nished with such a key, I shall be able to ac- count for any accidental tardiness, without supposing anything worse than that you yourself have been interrupted, or that your messenger has not been punctual. Mr. Teedon has just left us.f He came to exhibit to us a specimen of his kinsman's skill in the art of book-binding. The book on which he had exercised his ingenuity was your life. You did not indeed make a very splendid appearance; but, considering that you were dressed by an untaught artificer, and that it was his first attempt, you had no cause to be dissatisfied. The young man has evidently the possession of talents, by which he might shine for the benefit of others and for his own, did not his situation smother him. He can make' a dulcimer, tune it, play upon it, and with common advantages would undoubtedly have been able to make a harp- sicord. But unfortunately he lives where neither the one nor the other is at all in vogue. He can convert the shell of a cocoa, nut into a decent drinking-cup ; but, when hi * Private correspondence. t He was an intelligent schoolmaster at Olnev. has djne, lie must either fill it at the pump, or use it merely as an ornament of his own mantel-tree. In like manner, he can bind a book ; but, if he would have books to bind, he must either make them or buy them, for we have few or no literati at Olney. Some men have talents with which they do mis- chief; and others have talents with which if they do no mischief to others, at least they can do but little gcod to themselves. They are however always a blessing, unless by our own folly we make them a curse ; for. if we cannot turn them to a lucrative account, they may however furnish us, at many a dull sea- son, witli the means of innocent amusement. Such is the use that Mr. Killing-worth makes of his ; and this evening we have, I think, made him happy, having furnished him with two octavo volumes, in which the principles and practise of all ingenious arts are incul- cated and explained. I make little doubt that, by the help of them, he will in time be able to perform many feats, for which he will never be one farthing the richer, but by which nevertheless himself and his kin will )e much diverted. The winter returning' upon us at this late season with redoubled severity is an event unpleasant even to us who are well furnished with fuel, and seldom feel much of it, unless when we step into bed or get out of it ; but how much more formidable to the poor! When ministers talk of resources, that word never fails to send my imagination into the mud-wall cottages of our poor at Olney. There I find assembled in one individual the miseries of age, sickness, and the extremest penury. We have many such instances around us. The parish perhaps allows such a one a shilling a week ; but, being numbed with cold and crippled by disease, she cannot possibly earn herself another. Such persons therefore suffer all that famine can inflict upon them, only that they are not actually starved ; a catastrophe which so many of them I suppose would prove a happy release- One cause of all this misery is the exorbitant taxation with which the country is encum- bered, so that to the poor the few pence they are able to procure have almost lost their value. Yet the budget will be opened soon, and soon we shall hear of resources. But I could conduct the statesman who rolls down to the House in a chariot as splendid as that of Phaeton into scenes that, if he had any sensibility for the woes of others, would make him tremble at the mention of the word. — This, however, is not what I intended when I began this paragraph. I was going to observe that, of all the winters we have passed at Olney, and this is the seventeenth, the present has confined us most. Thrice, ind but thrice, since the middle of October, aave we escaped into the fields for a little fresh air and a little change of motion. The last time indeed it was at some peril that w^ did it, Mrs. Unwin having slipped into a ditch and, thoug i I performed the part of an active 'squire upon the occasion, escaped out of it upon her hands and knees. if the town afford any other news than I here send you, it has not reached me yet. I am in perfect health, at least of body, and Mrs. Unwin is tolerably well. Adieu ! We remember you always, you and yours, with as much affection as you can desire ; which being said, and said truly, leaves me quite at a loss for any other conclusion than that of W. C TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Feb. 27, 1785 My dear Friend, — I write merely to in- quire after your health, and with a sincere desire to hear that you are better. Horace somewhere advises his friend to give his client the slip, and come and spend the even- ing with him. I am not so inconsiderate as to recommend, the same measure to you, be- cause we are not such very near neighbors as a trip of that sort requires that we should be. But I do verily wish that you would fa- vor me with just five minutes of the time that properly belongs to your clients, and place it to my account. Employ it, I mean, in telling me that you are better at least, if not recovered. I have been pretty much indisposed myself since I wrote last; but except in point of strength am now as well as before. My dis- order was what is commonly called and best understood by the name of a thorough cold; which being interpreted, no doubt you well know, signifies shiverings, aches, burnings, lassitude, together with many other ills that flesh is heir to. James's powder is. my nos- trum on all such occasions, and. never fails. Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. The next letter discovers the playful and sportive wit of Cowper. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, March 19, 178:. My dear Friend, — You will wonder Dc doubt when I tell you that I write upon a card-table ; and will be still more surprised when I add that we breakfast, dine, sup, upon a card-table. In short, it serves all purposes, except the only one for which it was originally designed. The solution of this mystery shall follow, lest it should run in your head at a wrong time, and should puzzle you perhaps* when you are on the point of ascending your pulpit : for I have * Private correspondence. 216 COWPER'S WORKS. leard you say that at such seasons your mind is often troubled with impertinent in- trusions. The round table which we for- merly had in use was unequal to the pressure of my superincumbent breast and elbows. When I wrote upon it, it creaked and tilted, and by a variety of inconvenient tricks dis- turbed the process. The fly-table was too slight and too small ; the square dining-table too heavy and too large, occupying, when its leaves were spread, almost the whole parlor : and the sideboard-table, having its station at too great a distance from the fire, and not being easily shifted out of its place and into it again, by reason of its size, was equally unfit for my purpose. The card-table, there- fore, which had for sixteen years been ban- ished as mere lumber ; the card-table, which is covered with green baize, and is therefore preferable to any other that has a slippery surface ; the card-table, that stands firm and never totters, — is advanced to the honor of assisting me upon my scribbling occasions, and, because we choose to avoid the trouble of making frequent changes in the position of our household furniture, proves equally serviceable upon all others. It has cost us now and then the downfall of a glass : for, when covered with a table-cloth, the fish- ponds are not easily discerned; and, not being seen, are sometimes as little thought of. But, having numerous good qualities which abundantly compensate that single in- convenience, we spill upon it our coffee, our wine, and our ale, without murmuring, and resolve that it shall be our table still to the exclusion of all others. Not to be tedious, I will add but one more circumstance upon the subject, and that only because it will impress upon you, as much as anything that I have said, a sense of the value we set upon its es- critorial capacity. Parched and penetrated on one side by the heat of the fire, it has opened into a large fissure, which pervades not the moulding of it only, but the very substance of the plank. At the mouth of this aperture a sharp splinter presents itself, which, as sure as it comes in contact with a gown or an apron, tears it. It happens un- fortunately to be on that side of this excel- lent and never-to-be-forgotton table which Mrs. Unwin .sweeps with her apparel almost as often as she rises from her chair. The consequences need not, to use the fashionable phrase, be given in detail : but the needle sets all to rights; and the card-table still uolds possession of its functions without a rival. Clean roads and milder weather have once more released us, opening a way for our es- cape into our accustomed walks. We have both I believe been sufferers by such a long confinement. Mrs. Unwin has had a nervous rever all the winter, and I a stomach that has quarrelled with everything, and not seldoa even with its bread and butter. Her com- plaint I hope is at length removed; but mine seems more obstinate, giving way to nothing that I can oppose to it, except just in the moment when the opposition ' is made. 1 ascribe this malady — both our maladies, in deed — in a great measure to our want of ex- ercise. We have each of us practised more in other days than lately we have been able to take ; and, for my own part, till I was more than thirty years old, it was almost essential to my comfort to be perpetually in motion. My constitution therefore misses, I doubt not its usual aids of this kind ; and, unless foi purposes which I cannot foresee, Providence should interpose to prevent it, will probably reach the moment of its dissolution the sooner for being so little disturbed. A vitia- ted digestion I believe always terminates, ii not cured, in the production of some chroni- cal disorder. In several I have known it produce a dropsy. But no matter Death is inevitable ; and whether we die to-day or to- morrow, a watery death or a dry one, is of no consequence. The state of our spiritual health is all. Could 1 discover a few more symptoms of convalescence there, this body might moulder into its original dust, without one sigh from me. Nothing of all this did 1 mean to say ; but I have said it, and must now seek another subject. .One of our most favorite walks is spoiled. The spinney is cut down to the stumps — even the lilacs and the syringas, to the stumps. Little did I think, (though indeed I might have thought it.) that the trees which screened me from the sun last summer would this winter be employed in roasting potatoes and boiling tea-kettles for the poor of Olney. But so it has proved ; and we ourselves have at this moment more than two wagon-loads of them in our wood-loft. Such various service* can trees perform; Whom once they screen'd from heat, in time they warm. A letter from Manchester reached our town last Sunday, addressed to the mayor or othsr chief magistrate of Olney. The purport of it was to excite him and his neighbors to peti- tion Parliament against the concessions to Ireland that Government has in contempla- tion. Mr. Maurice Smith, as constable, took the letter. But whether that most respecta- ble personage amongst us intends to comply with the terms of it, or not, I am ignorant. For myself, however, I can pretty well an swer, that I shall sign no petition of the sort both because I do not- think myself compe- tent to a right understanding of the question, and because it appears to me that, whatever be the event, no place in England can be less concerned in it than Olney. LIFE OF COWPER. 21 We rejoice that you are all well. Our love attends Mrs. Newton and yourself, and the young ladies. I am yours, my dear friend, as usual, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. 4 . Olney, March 20, 1785. My dear William, — I thank you for your letter. It made me laugh, and there are not many things capable of being contained within the dimensions of a letter for which I see cause to be more thankful. I was pleased too to see my opinion of his lordship's noro- chalcfiice, upon a subject that you had so much at heart, completely verified. I do not know that the eye of a nobleman was ever dissected. I cannot help supposing, however, that were that organ, as it exists in the head of such a personage, to be accurately ex- amined, it would be found to differ materi- ally in its construction from the eye of a commoner ; so very different is the view that men in an elevated and in an humble station have of the same object. What appears great, sublime, beautiful, and important to you and to me, when submitted to my lord or his grace, and submitted too with the ut- most humility, is either too minute to be visi- ble at all, or, if seen, seems trivial and of no account. My supposition therefore seems not altogether chimerical. In two months I have corrected proof- sheets to the amount of ninety-three pages, and no more. In other words, I have re- ceived three packets. Nothing is quick enough for impatience, and I suppose that the impatience of an author has the quickest of all possible movements. It appears to me, however, that at this rate we shall not pub- lish till next autumn. Should you happen therefore to pass Johnson's door, pop in your head as you go, and just insinuate to him that, were his remittances rather more fre- quent, that frequency would be no inconve- nience to me. I much expected one this evening, a fortnight having now elapsed since the arrival of the last. But none came, and I felt myself a little mortified. I took up the newspaper, however, and read it. There I found that the emperor and the Dutch are, after all their negotiations, going to war. iSuch reflections as these struck me. A great part of Europe is going to be involved in the greatest of all calamities : troops are in mo- tion — artillery is drawn together — cabinets are busied in contriving schemes of blood and devastation — thousands will perish who are incapable of understanding the dispute, and thousands who, whatever the event may be, are little more interested in it than my- self, will suffer unspeakable hardships in the *ourse of the quarrel —Well ! Mr. Poet, and how then ? You have composed certain verses, which you are desirous to see in print, and, because the impression seems to be delayed, you are displeased, not to say dispirited. Be ashamed of yourself! you live in a world in which your feelings may find worthier subjects — be concerned for the havoc of nations, and mourn over your re- tarded volume when you find a dearth of more important tragedies ! You postpone certain topics of conference to our next meeting. When shall it take place ? I do not wish for you just now, be- cause the garden is a wilderness, and so is all the country around us. In May we shall have 'sparagus, and weather in Which we may stroll to Weston; at least we may hope for it ; therefore come in May : you will find us happy to receive you and as much of your fair household as you can bring with you. We are very sorry for your uncle's indis- position. The approach of summer seems however to be in his favor, that season being of all remedies for the rheumatism, I believe the most effectual. I thank you for your intelligence concern ing the celebrity of John Gilpin. You may be sure that it was agreeable ; but your own feelings, on occasion of that article, pleased me most of all. Well, my friend, be com- forted! You had not an opportunity of say- ing publicly, " I know the author." But the author himself will say as much for you soon, and perhaps will feel- in doing so a gratification equal to your own.* In the affair of face-painting, I am precisely of your opinion. Adieu. W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f Olney, April 9, 1785. My dear Friend, — In a letter to the printer of the Northampton Mercury, we have the following history: — An ecclesiastic of the name of Ziehen, German superintendent or Lutheran bishop of Zetterfeldt, in the year 1779 delivered to the courts of Hanover and Brunswick a prediction to the following pur- port: that an earthquake is at hand, the greatest and most destructive ever known ; that it will originate in the Alps and in their neighborhood, especially at Mount St. Goth- ard ; at the foot of which mountain it seems four rivers have their source, of which the Rhine is onej — the names of the rest I have forgotten — they are all to be swallowed up ; * He alludes to the poem of "Tirocinium," which was inscribed to Mr. Unwin. t Private correspondence. t This is a geographical error. The Rhine takes its rise in the canton of the Grisons. It is the Rhone which derives its source from the western flank of Mount St Gothard, where there are three springs, which unita their waters to that torrent. The river Aar rises not ffV distant, but there is no other river. — Ed. timt the earth will open into an immense fis- sure, which will divide all Europe, reaching from the aforesaid mountain to the states of Holland ; that the Zuyder Sea will be ab- sorbed in the gulf; that the Bristol Channel will be no more ; in short, that the north of Europe will be separated from the south, and that seven thousand cities, towns, and vil- lages will be destroyed. This prediction he delivered at the aforesaid courts in the year seventy-nine, asserting that in February fol- lowing the commotion would begin, and that by Easter 1786 the whole would be accom- plished. Accordingly, between the 15th and 27th of February, in the year eighty, the pub- lic gazettes and newspapers took notice of several earthquakes in the Alps, and in the regions at their foot; particularly about Mount St. Gothard. From this partial ful- filment, Mr. O r argues the probability of a complete one, and exhorts the world to watch and be prepared. He adds moreover that Mr. Ziehen was a pious man, a man of science, and a man of sense ; and that when he gave in his writing he offered to swear to it — I suppose, as a revelation from above. He is since dead. Nothing in the whole affair pleases .me so much as that he has named a short day for the completion of his prophecy. It is tedious work to hold the judgment in suspense for many years ; but anybody methinks may wait with patience till a twelvemonth shall pass away, especially when an earthquake of such magnitude is in question. I do not say that Mr. Ziehen is deceived ; but, if he be not, I will say that he is the first modern prophet who has not both been a subject of deception himself and a deceiver of others. A year will show. Our love attends all your family. Believe me, my dear friend, affectionately yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, April 22, 1785. My dear Friend, — When I received your account of the great celebrity of John Gilpin, I felt myself both flattered and grieved. Being man, and having in my composition all the ingredients of which other men are made, and vanity among the rest, it pleased me to reflect that I was on a sudden become so famous, and that all the world was busy inquiring after me: but the next moment, recollecting my former self, and that thirteen years ago, as harmless as John's history is, I should not then have written it, my spirits Bank, and I was ashamed of my success. Your letter was followed the next post by one from Mr. Unwin. You tell me that I * Private correspondence. am rivalled by Mrs. Bellamy ;* and he, thai I have a competitor for fame not less formid* able in the Learned Pig. Alas! what is an author's popularity worth in a world that can suffer a prostitute on one side, and a pig on the other, io eclipse his brightest glories 1 J am therefore sufficiently humbled by these considerations ; and, unless I should here- after be ordained to engross the public atten tion by means more magnificent than a song, am persuaded that I shall suffer no real de- triment by their applause. I have produced many things, under the influence of despair, which hope would not have permitted to spring. But if the soil of that melancholy in which I have walked so long, has tnVown up here and there an unprofitable fungus, it is well at least that it is not chargeable with having brought forth poison. Like you, I see, or think I can see, that Gilpin may have his use. Causes, in appearance trivial, pro- duce often the most beneficial consequences ; and perhaps my volumes may now travel to a distance, which, if they had not been ush- ered into the world by that notable horse- man, they would never have reached. Our temper differs somewhat from that cf the ancient Jews. They would neither dance nor weep. We indeed weep not, if a man mourn unto us ; but I must needs say that, if he pipe, we seem disposed to dance with the greatest alacrity. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, April 30, 1785. My dear Friend, — I return you thanks for a letter so warm with the intelligence of the celebrity of John Gilpin. I little thought, when I mounted him upon my Pegasus, -that he would become so famous. I have learned also from Mr. Newton that he is equally re- nowned in Scotland, and that a lady there had undertaken to write a second part, on the subject of Mrs. Gilpin's return to Lon- don; but, not succeeding in it as she wished, she dropped it. He tells me likewise that the head master of St. Paul's school (who he is I know not) has conceived, in conse quence of the entertainment that John has af- forded him, a vehement desire to write to me. Let us hope he will alter his mind; for, should we even exchange civilities on the occasion, Tirocinium will spoil all. The great estimation however in which this knight of the stone-bottles is held may turn out a circumstance propitious to the volume, of which his history will make a part. Those events that prove the prelude to our greatest success are often apparently triv^s. in them- * A celebrated actress, who wrote her memoirs, wbi.'li vere much read at that time LIFE OF COWPER. 213 selves, and such as seemed tc promise no- tfr'ng. The disappointment that Horace men- liens is reversed — We design a mug, and it proves a hogshead. It is a little hard that 1 alone should be unfurnished with a printed copy of this facetious story. When you visit London next, you must buy the most elegant impression of it, and bring it with you. I thank you also for writing to John- son. I likewise wrote to him myself. Your letter and mine together have operated to admiration. There needs nothing more but that the effect be lasting, and the whole will soon be printed. We now draw towards the middle of the fifth book of " The Task." The man, Johnson, is like unto some vicious horses that I have known. They would not budge till they were spurred, and when they were spurred they would kick. So did he — his temper was somewhat disconcerted ; but his pace was (Juickened, and I was con- tented. I was very much pleased with the follow- ing sentence in Mr. Newton's last — "I am perfectly satisfied with the propriety of your proceeding as to the publication." — Now, therefore, we are friends again. Now he once more inquires after the work, which, till he had disburdened himself of this ac- knowledgment, neither he nor I in any of our letters to each other ever mentioned. ►Some side-wind has wafted to him a report of those reasons by which I justified my con- duct. I never made a secret of them. Both your mother and I have studiously deposited them with those who we thought were most likely to transmit them to him. They wanted only a hearing, which once obtained, their solidity and cogency were such that they were sure to prevail. You mention . I formerly knew the man you mention, but his elder brother much better. We were school-fellows, and he was one of a club of seven Westminster men, to which I belonged, who dined together every Thursday. Should it please God to give me ability to perform the poet's part to some purpose, many whom I once called friends, but who have since treated me with a most magnificent indifference, will be ready to take me by the hand again, and some, whom I neyer held in that estimation, will, like , who was but a boy when I left Lon- don, boast of a connexion with me Which they never had. Had I the virtues, and graces, and accomplishments of St. Paul himself, I might have them at Olney, and nobody would care a button about me, your- self and one or two more excep.ed. Fame begets favor, arid one talent, if it be rubbed a little bright by use and practice, will pro- cure a man more friends than a thousand vir- tues. Dr. Johnson (I believe), in the life of Dne of our poets, says that he retired from the world flattering himself that he should be regretted But the world never missed him. I think his observation upon it is, that the vacancy made by the retreat of any indi- vidual is soon filled up ; that a man may al- ways be obscure, if he chooses to be so ; and that he who neglects the world will be by the world neglected. Your mother and I walked yesterday in the Wilderness. As we entered the gate, a glimpse of something white, contained in a little hole in the gate-post, caught my eye. I looked again, and discovered a bird's nest, with two tiny eggs in it. By-and-by they will be fledged, and tailed, and get wing- feathers, and fly. My case is somewhat simi- lar to that of the parent bird. My nest is in a little nook. Here I brood and hatch, and in due time my progeny takes wing and whistles. We wait for the time of your coming with expectations. Yours truly, W. C. The following letter records an impressive instance of the instability of human life ; and also contains some references, of deep pathos, to his own personal history and feelings. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, May, 1785. My dear Friend, — I do not know that ) shall send you news; but, whether it be news or not, it is necessary that I should re- late the feet, lest I should omit an article of intelligence important at least at Olney. The event took place much nearer to you than to us, and yet it is possible that no account of it may yet have reached you. — Mr. Ash- burner the elder w T ent to London on Tues- day se'nnight in perfect health and in high spirits, so as to be remarkably cheerful ; and was brought home in a hearse the Friday following. Soon after his arrival in town, he complained of an acute pain in his elbow, then in his shoulder, then in both shoulders, was blooded ; took two doses of such medi- cine as an apothecary thought might do him good ; and died on Thursday in the morning at ten o'clock. When I first heard the ti- dings I could hardly credit them; and yet have lived long enough myself to have seen manifold and most convincing proofs that neither health, great strength, nor even youth itself afford the least security from the stroke of death. It is not common, however, fof men at the age of thirty-six to die so sud- denly. I saw him but a few days before, with a bundle of gloves and hatbands under his arm, at the door of Geary Ball, who lay at that time a corpse. The following day I * Private correspondence. 220 COWPER'S WORKS. saw him march before the coffin, and lead the procession that attended Geary to the grave. He might be truly said to march, for his step was heroic, his figure athletic, and his countenance as firm and confident as if he had been born only to bury others, and was sure never to be buried himself. Such he appeared to me, while. I stood at the win- dow and contemplated his deportment ; and then he died. I am sensible of the tenderness and affec- tionate kindness with which you recollect our past intercourse, and express your hopes of my future restoration. I too, within the last eight months have had my hopes, though they have been of short duration, cut off like the foam upon the waters. Some previous adjustments indeed are necessary, before a lasting expectation of comfort can have place in me. There are those persuasions in my mind which either entirely forbid the en- trance of hope, or, if it enter, immediately eject it. They are incompatible with any such inmate, and must be turned out them- selves before so desirable a guest can possi- bly have secure possession. This, you say, will be done. It may be, but it is not done yet ; nor has a single step in the course of God's dealings with me been taken towards it. If I mend, no creature ever mended so slowly that recovered at last. I am like a slug or snail, that has fallen into a deep well : slug as he is, he performs his descent with an alacrity proportioned to his weight ; but he does not crawl up again quite so fast. Mine was a rapid plunge ; but «my return to day- light, if I am indeed returning, is leisurely enough. I wish you a swift progress, and a pleasant one, through the great subject that you have in hand ;* and set that value upon your letters to which they are in themselves entitled, but which is certainly increased by that peculiar attention which the writer of them pays to me. Were I such as I once was, I should say that I have a claim upon your particular notice which nothing ought to supersede. Most of your other connex- ions you may fairly be said to have, formed by your own act ; but your connexion with me was the work of God. The kine that went up with the ark from Bethshemish left what they loved behind them, in obedience to an impression which to them was perfectly dark and unintelligible. f Your journey to Huntingdon was not less wonderful. He indeed who sent you knew well wherefore, but you knew not. That dispensation there- fore would furnish- me, as long as we can both remember it, with a plea for some dis- tinction at your hands, had I occasion to use * Mr. Newton was at this time preparing two volumes tf Sermons for the press, on the subject of the Messiah, preached on the occasion of the Commemoration of Handel. t See 1 Sail vi. 7—10, and urge it, which I have not. But I am al- tered since that time ; and if your affection for me has ceased, you might very reason, ably justify youi change by mine. I can say nothing for myself at present ; but this I can venture to foretell, that, should the restora- tion of which my friends assure me obtain, 1 shall undoubtedly love those who have con- tinued to love me, even in a state of trans- formation from my former self, much more than. ever. I doubt not that Nebuchadnezzar had friends in his prosperity ; all kings have many. But when his nails became like eagles' claws, and he ate grass like an ox, suppose he had few to pity him. We are going to pay Mr. Pomfret* a morn ing visit. Our errand is to see a fine bed of tulips, a sight that I never saw. Fine paint- ing, and God the artist. Mrs. Unwin has something to say in the cover. I leave her therefore to make her owti courtesy, and only add that I am yours and Mrs. Newton's Affectionate W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f Olney, June 4, 1-785. My dear Friend, — Mr. Greatheed had your letter the day after we received it.| He is a well-bred, agreeable young man, and one whose eyes have been opened, I doubt not, for the benefit of others, as well as for his own. He preached at Olney a day or two ago, and I have reason to think with accept- ance and success. One person, at least, who had been in prison some weeks, received his enlargement under him. I should have been glad to have been a hearer, but that privilege is not allowed me yet. My book is at length printed, and T re- turned the last proof to Johnson on Tuesday. I have ordered a copy to Charles Square, and , have directed Johnson to enclose one with it, addressed to John Bacon, Esq. I was obliged to give you this trouble, not being sure of the place of his abode. I have taken the liberty to mention him, as an artist, in terms that he well deserves. The passage was written soon after I received the engraving with which he favored me,§ and while the impression that it made upon me was yet warm. He will therefore excuse the liberty that I have taken, and place it to the account of those feelings which he himself excited. * The rector at that time of Emberton, near Olney. t Private correspondence. t The Rev. Mr. Greatheed was a man of piety and talent, and much respected in his day. He wrote a short and interesting memoir of Cowper. § The engraving of Bacon's celebrated monument it Lord Chatham, in Westminster Abbey. The passage alluded to is as follows : — " Bacon there Gives more than female beauty to a stone And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips." The Task, Book I. LIFE OF COWPER. 29* • The walking 1 season is returned. We visit the Wilderness daily. Mr. Throckmor- ton last summer presented me with the key of his garden. The family are all absent, except the priest and a servant or two ; so that the honeysuckles, lilacs, and syringas, are all our own. We are well, and our united love attends yourselves and the young ladies. Yours, my dear friend, With much affection, W. C. - TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, June 25, 1785. My dear Friend, — I write in a nook that I call my boudoir. It is a summer-house not much bigger than a sedan-chair, the door of which opens into the garden, that is now crowded with pinks, roses, and honeysuckles, and the window into my neighbor's orchard. It formerly served an apothecary, now dead, as a smoking-room ; and under my feet is a trap-door which once covered a hole in the ground, where he kept his bottles ; at pres- ent, however, it is dedicated to sublimer uses. Having lined it with garden-mats, and furnished it with a table and two chairs, here I write all that I write in summer time, whether to my friends or to the public. It is secure from all noise, and a refuge from all intrusion ; for intruders sometimes trouble me in the winter evenings at Olney : but (thanks to my boudoir /) I can now hide my- self from them. A poet's retreat is sacred : they acknowledge the truth of that proposi- tion, and never presume to violate it.* The last sentence puts me in mind to tell -you that I have ordered my volume to your door. My bookseller is the most dilatory of all his fraternity, or you .would have re- ceived it long since. It is more than a month since I returned him the last proof, and con- sequently, since the printing was finished. I sent him the manuscript at the beginning of last November, that he might publish while the town was full, and he will hit the exact moment when it is entirely empty. Patience (you will perceive) is in no situation ex- empted from the severest trials; a remark that may serve to comfort you under the numberless trials of your own. W. C. * Cowper's summer-house is still in existence. It is a small, humble building, situate at the back of the prem- ises which he occupied at Olney, and commanding a full view of the church and of the vicarage-house. Humble however as it appears, it is approached with those feel- ing* of veneration which the scene of so many interest- ing recollections cannot fail to inspire. There he wrote " The Task," and most of his Poems, except during the rigor of the winter months. There too he carried on that epistolatory correspondence, which is distinguished by so much wit, ease and gracefulness, and by the over- flowings of a warm and affectionate heart. No traveller seems to enter without considering it to be the shrine of the muses, and leaving behind a poetical tribute to the memory of so distinguished an author. Cowper again feelingly alludes in the let- ter which follows, to that absence of menta* comfort under which he so habitually la« bored. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON .* Olney, June 25, 1785. My dear Friend, — A note that we received from Mr. Scott, by your desire, informing us of the amendment of Mrs. Newton's health, demands our thanks, having relieved us from no little anxiety upon her account. The welcome purport of it was soon alter con- firmed, so that at present we feel ourselves at liberty to hope that by this time Mrs. Newton's recovery is complete. Sally's looks do credit to the air of Hoxton. She seems to have lost nothing, either in complexion or dimensions, by her removal hence ; and, which is still more to the credit of your great town, she seems in spiritual things also to be the very same Sally whom we knew once at Olney. Situation therefore is nothing. They who have the means of grace and an art to use them, will thrive anywhere ; others, nowhere. More than a few, -who were formerly ornaments of this garden which you once watered, here flourished, and here have seemed to wither. Others, trans- planted into a soil apparently less favorable to their growth, either find the exchange an advantage, or at least are not impaired by it. Of myself, who had once both leaves and fruit, but who have now T neither, I say notl ing, or only this — that when I am over- whelmed with despair I repine at my barren- ness, and think it hard to be thus blighted ■ but when a glimpse of hope breaks in upon me, I am contented to be the sapless thing I am, knowing that He who has commanded me to wither can command me to flourish again when He pleases. My Experiences however of this latter kind are rare and tran- sient. The light that reaches me cannot be compared either to that of the sun or of the moon. It is a flash in a dark night, during whieh the heavens seem opened only to shut again. We inquired, but could not learn, that anything memorable passed in the last mo- ments of poor Nathan. I listened in expec- tation that he would at least acknowledge what all who knew him in his more lively days had so long seen and lamented, his neglect of the best things, and his eager pur- suit of riches. But he was totally silent upon that subject. Yet it was evident that the cares of the world had choked in him much of the good seed, and that he was no longer the Nathan whom we have so often heard at the old house, rich in spirit, though pocr in expression: whose desires were un- utterable in every sense, both because the* * Private correspondence. 222 COWPER'S WORKS. were too big for language, and because Na- than had no language for them. I believe with you however that he is safe at home. He had a weak head and strong passions, which He who made him well knew, and for which He would undoubtedly make great allowance. The forgiveness of God is large and absolute ; so large, that though in gen- eral He calls for confession of our. sins, He sometimes dispenses with that preliminary, and will not suffer even the delinquent him- self to mention his transgression. He has so forgiven it, that He seems to have forgot- ten it too, and will have the sinner to forget it also. Such instances perhaps may not be common, but I know that there have been such, and it might be so with Nathan. I know not what Johnson is about, neither do I now inquire. It will be a month to- morrow since I returned him the last proof. He might, I suppose, have published by this time without hurrying himself into a fever, or breaking his neck through the violence of his despatch. But having never seen the Dook advertised, I conclude that he has not. Had the Parliament risen at the usual time, he would have been just too late, and though it sits longer than usual, or is likely to do so, I should not wonder if he were too late at last. Dr. Johnson laughs at Savage for charging the still-birth of a poem of his upon the bookseller's delay ; yet, when Dr. Johnson had a poem of his own to publish, no man ever discovered more anxiety to meet the market. But T have taken thought about it till I am grown weary of the subject, and at last have placed myself much at my ease upon the cushion of this one resolution, that, if ever I have dealings hereafter with my present manager, we will proceed upon other terms. . Mr. Wright called here last Sunday, by whom Lord Dartmouth made obliging inqui- ries after the volume, and was pleased to say that he was impatient to see it. I told him that I had ordered a copy to his lordship, which I hoped he would receive, if not soon, at least before he should retire into the country. I have also ordered one to Mr. Barham. We suffer in this country very much by drought. The corn, I believe, is in most places thin, and the hay harvest amounts in some to not more than the fifth of a crop. Heavy taxes, excessive levies for the poor, and lean acres, have brought our farmers al- most to their wits' end ; and many who are not farmers are not very remote from the same point of despondency. I do not de- spond, because I was never much addicted to anxious thoughts about the future in respect of temporals. But I feel myself a little an- grj with a minister who. when he imposed a lax ipon troves, was not ashamed to call them a luxury. Caps and boots lined witfc fur are not accounted a luxury in Russia neither can gloves 'be reasonably deemed such in a climate sometimes hardly less se- vere than that. Nature indeed is content with little, and luxury seems, in some re- spect, rather relative than of any fixed con- struction. Accordingly it may become in time a luxury for an Englishman to wear breeches, because it is possible to exist with- out them, and because persons of a moderate income may find them too expensive. I hope however to be hid in the dust before that day shall come ; for, having worn them so many years, if they be indeed a luxury, they are such a one as I could very ill spare ' yet spare them I must, if I cannot afford tc wear them. We are tolerably well in health, and as to spirits, much as usual — seldom better, some- times worse. Yours, my dear friend, affectionately, W. C TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, July 9, 1785. My dear Friend, — You wrong your own judgment when you represent it as not to be trusted ; and mine, if you suppose that I have that opinion of it. Had you disap- proved, I should have been hurt and morti- fied. No man's disapprobation would have hurt me more. Your favorable sentiments of my book must consequently give me pleasure in the same proportion. By the post, last Sunday, I had a letter from Lord Dartmouth, in which he thanked me for my volume, of which he had read only a part. Of that part however he expresses himself in* terms with which my authorship has abun- dant cause to be satisfied ; and adds that the specimen has made him impatient for the whole. I have likewise received a letter from a judicious friend of mine in London, and a man of fine taste, unknown to you, who speaks of it in the same language Fortified by these cordials, I feel myself qualified to face the world without much anxiety, and delivered in a great measure from those fears which I suppose all men feel upon the like occasion. My first volume I sent, as you may remem- ber, to the Lord Chancellor, accompanied by a friendly but respectful epistle. His Lord- ship however thought it not worth his while to return me any answer, or to take the least notice of my present. I sent it also to Coi- man, with whom I once was intimate. He likewise proved too great a man to recollect me ; and, though he has published since, did not account it necessary to return the com pliment. I have allowed myself to be a little * Private < orresDOiidence. LIFE OF COWPER. 22. pleased with an opportunity to show them that I resent their treatment of me, and have sent this book to neither of them. They in- leed are the former friends to whom I par- ticularly allude in my epistle to Mr, Hill; and it is possible that they may take to themselves a censure that they so well de- serve. If not, it matters not ; for I shall never have any communication with them hereafter. If Mr. Bates has found it difficult to fur- nish you with a motto to your volumes I have no reason to imagine that I shall do it easily. I shall not leave my books unran- sacked ; but there is something so new and peculiar in the occasion that suggested your subject, thai I question whether in all the classics can be found a sentence suited to it. Our sins and follies, in this country, assume a shape that heathen writers had never any opportunity to notice. They deified the dead indeed, but not in the Temple of Ju- piter.* The new-made god had an altar of his own ; and they conducted the ceremony without sacrilege or confusion. It is pos- sible however, and I think barely so, that somewhat may occur, susceptible of accom- nodation to your purpose ; and if it should, shall be happy to serve you with it. I told you, I believe, that the spinney has been cut down; and, though it may seem sufficient to have mentioned such an occur- rence once, I cannot help recurring to the melancholy theme. Last night,- at near nine o'clock, we entered it for the first time this summer. We had not walked many yards n it, before we perceived that this pleasant retreat is destined never to be a pleasant re- treat again. In one more year, the whole will be a thicket. That which was once the serpentine walk is now in a state of trans- formation, and is already become as woody as the rest. Poplars and elms without num- ber are springing in the turf. They are now as high as the knee. Before the sum- mer is ended they will be twice as high ; and the growth of another season will make them trees. It will then be impossible for any but a sportsman and his dog to penetrate ; t. The desolation of the whole scene is such that it sank our spirits. The ponds are dry. The circular one, in front of the her- mitage, is filled with flags and rushes; so that if it contains any water, not a drop is visible. The weeping willow at the side of * Cowper alludes, in this passage, to the Commemora- tion of Handel, in Westminster Abbey, and its resem- blance to an act of canonization. His censure is doubly recorded ; in poetry, as well as in prose : — Ten thousand sit Patiently present at a sacred song, Commemoration mad ; content to hear (O wonderful effect of Music's power!) Messiah's eulug) for Handel's sake. "But less, methinKs, tfian sacrilege might serve," &c. The Task, Book VI. it, the only ornamental plant that has es. caped the axe, is dead. The ivy and the moss, with which the hermitage was lined, are torn away ; and the very mats that cov- ered the benches have been stripped off, rent in tatters, and trodden under foot. So farewell, spinney ; I have promised myself that I will never enter it again. We have both prayed in it : you for me, and I for you. But it is desecrated from this time forth, and the voice of prayer will be heard in it no more. The fate of it in this* respect, how- ever deplorable, is not peculiar. The spot where Jacob anointed his pillar, and, which is more apposite, the spot once honored with the presence of Him who dwelt in the bush, have long since suffered similar dis- grace, and are become common ground. , There is great severity in the application of the text you mention — I am their music. But it is not the worse for that. We both approve it highly. The other in Ezekiel does not seem quite so pat. The prophet complains that his word was to the people like a pleasant song, heard with delight, but soon forgotten. At the Commemoration, I suppose that the word is nothing, but the music all in all. The Bible however will abundantly supply you with applicable pas- sages. All passages, indeed, that animadvert upon the profanation of God's house and worship seem to present themselves upon the occasion. Accept our love and best wishes ; and be- lieve me, my dear friend, with warm and true affection, Yours, W C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, July 27, 1785. My dear William, — You and your party left me in a frame of mind that indisposed me much to company. I comforted myself with the hope that I should spend a silent day, in which I should find abundant leisure to indulge sensations, which, though of the melancholy kind, I yet wished to nourish. But that hope proved vain. In less than an hour after your departure, Mr. made his appearance at the greenhouse door. We were obliged to ask him to dinner, and he dined with us. He is an agreeable, sensible, well-bred young man, but with all his recom- mendations I felt that on that occasion 1 could have spared him. So much better are the absent, whom we love much, than the present whom we love a little. I have how- ever made myself amends since, and, nothing else having interfered, have sent many a thought after you. You had been gone two days, when a vio- lent thunder-storm came over us. I wai passing out of the parlor into the hall, with 224 COWPER'S WORKS. Mungo at my heels, when a flash seemed to fill the room with fire. In the same instant came the clap, so that the explosion was, I suppose, perpendicular to the roof. Mungo's courage upon the tremendous occasion con- strained me to smile, in spite of the solemn impression that such an event never fails to affect me with — the moment that he heard the thunder (which was like the burst of a great gun) with a wrinkled forehead, and with eyes directed to the ceiling, whence the sound seemed to proceed, he barked ; but he barked exactly in concert with the thunder. It thundered once, and he barked once, and so precisely the very instant when the thun- der happened, that both sounds seemed to begin and end together. Some dogs will clap their tails close, and sneak into a corner at such a time, but Mungo it seems is of a more fearless family. A house at no great distance from ours was the mark to which the lightning was directed ; it knocked down the chimney, split the building, and carried away the corner of the next house, in which lay a fellow drunk and asleep upon his bed. It roused and terrified him, and he promises to get drunk no more ; but I have seen a woeful end of many such conversions. I remember but one such storm at Olney since I have known the place, and I am glad that it did not happen two days sooner for the sake of the ladies, who would probably, one of them at least, have been alarmed by it, I have received, since you went, two very flat- tering letters of thanks, one from Mr. Bacon, and one from Mr. Barham, such as might make a lean poet plump and an humble poet proud. But, being myself neither lean nor humble, I know of no other effect they had than that they pleased me ; and I communi- cate the intelligence to you, not without an assured hope that you will be pleased also. We are now going to walk, and thus far I have written before I have received your letter. Friday. — I must now be as compact as possible. When I began, I designed four sides, but, my packet being tranformed into two single epistles, I can consequently afford you but three. I have filled a large sheet with animadversions upon Pope. I am pro- ceeding with my translation — " Veli9 et remis, omnibus nervis," as Hudibras has it; and if God give me health and ability, will put it into your hands when I see you next. Mr. has just left us. He has read my book, and, as if fearful that I had overlooked some of them myself, has pointed out to me all its beauties. I do assure you the man has a very acute discern- ment, and a taste that I have no fault to find Kith, I hope that you are of the same opinion. Be not sorry that your love of Christ was excited in you by a picture. Could a dog of a cat suggest to me the thought that < Christ is precious, I would not despise that though* because a dog or cat suggested it. ' The meanness of the instrument cannot debase the nobleness of the principle. He that kneels before a picture of Christ is an idola- ter. But he in Whose heart the sight of a picture kindles a warm remembrance of the Saviour's sufferings, must be a Christian. Suppose that I dream, as Gardiner did, that Christ walks before me, that he turns and smiles upon me, and fills my soul with inef- fable love and joy, will a man tell me that I am deceived, that I ought not to love or re- joice in him for such a reason, because a dream is merely a picture drawn upon the imagination ! 1 hold not with such divinity. To love Christ is the greatest dignity of man, be that affection wrought in him how it ma^. Adieu ! May the blessing of God be upon you all ! It is your mother's heart's wish and mine. Yours ever, W. C. The humble and unostentatious spirit and the fine tone of Christian feeling whicn per- vade the following letter, impart to it a pe- culiar interest. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, Aug. 6, 1785. My dear Friend, — I found your account of what you experienced in your state of maiden authorship very entertaining, because very natural. I suppose that no man ever made his first sally from the press without a" conviction that all eyes and ears would be engaged to attend him, at least, without a thousand anxieties lest they should not. But, however arduous and interesting such an enterprise may be in the first instance, it seems to me that our feelings on the occa- sion soon become obtuse. I can answer at least for one. Mine are by no means what they were when I published my first volume. I am even so indifferent to the matter, that I can truly assert myself guiltless of the very idea of my book, sometimes w T hole days to- gether. God knows that, my mind having been occupied more than twelve years in the contemplation of the most distressing sub- jects, the world, and its opinion of what I write, is become as unimportant to me as the whistling of a bird in a bush. Despair made amusement nee'essary, and I found poetry the most agreeable amusement. Had I not en deavored to perform my best, it would no. have amused me at all. The mere blotting of so much paper would have been but indif- ferent sport. God gave me grace also to wish that I might not write in vain, Ac- * Private correspondence. iordingly I have mingled much truth with much trifle ; and such truths as deserved at least to be dad as well and as handsomely as I could clothe the'ra. If the world approve me not, so much the worse for them, but not for me. I have only endeavored to serve them, and the loss will be their own. And as to their commendations, if I should chance to win them. 1 feel myself equally invulner- able there. The view that I have had of myself, for many years, has been so truly humiliating, that I think the praises of all mankind could not hurt me. God knows that I speak my present sense of the matter at least most truly, when I say that the ad- miration of creatures like myself seems to me a weapon the least dangerous that my worst enemy could employ against me. I am fortified against it by such solidity of real self-abasement, that I deceive myself mo 4 egregiously if I do not heartily despise it. Praise belongeth to God; and I seem to my- self to covet it no more than I covet divine honors. Could I assuredly hope that God would at last deliver me, I should have rea-, son to thank him for all that I have suffeied, were it only for the sake of this single fruit of my affliction — that it has taught me how much more contemptible I am in myself than I ever before suspected, and has reduced my former share of self-knowledge (of which at that time I had a tolerably good opinion) to a mere nullity, in comparison with what I have acquired since. Self is a subject of in- scrutable misery and mischief, and can never De studied to so much advantage as in the dark ; for as the bright beams of the sun seem to impart a beauty to the foulest ob- jects, and can make even a dunghill smile. .so the light of God's countenance, vouch- safed to a fallen creature, so sweetens him and softens him for the time, that he seems, both to others and to himself, to have noth- ing savage or sordid about him. But the heart is a nest of serpents, and will be such whilst it continues to beat. If God cover the mouth of that nest with his hand, they are hush and snug; but if he withdraw his hand, the whole family lift up their heads and hiss, and are as active and venomous as ever. This I always professed to believe from the time that I had embraced the truth, but never knew it as I know, it now. To what end I have been made to know it as I do, whether for the benefit of others, or for my own, or for both, or for neither, will appear hereafter. What I have written leads me naturally to the mention of a matter that I had forgot. I should blame nobody, not even my intimate friends, and those who have thfe most favor- able opinion of me, were they to charge the publication of John Gilpin, at the end of so much solemn and serious truth, to the score of the author's v*ani*y; and + o however sober I may be upon proper occa- sions. I have yet that itch of popularity that would not suffer me to sink my title to a jest that had been so successful. But the case is not such. When I sent the copy of " Thft Task" to Johnson, I desired, indeed, Mr. Unwin to ask him the question whether or not he would choose to make it a part of the volume? This I did merely with a view to promote the sale of it. Johnson answered, " By all means." Some months afterwards he enclosed a note to me in one of my pack- ers, in which he expressed a change of mind, alleging, that to print John Gilpin would only be to print what had been hackneyed in every magazine, in every shop, and at the corner of every street. I answered that I desired to be entirely governed by his opin- ion : and that if he chose to waive it, I should be better pleased with the omission. Nothing more passed between us upon the subject, and I concluded that I should never have the immortal honor of being generally known as the author of John Gilpin. In the last packet, however, down came John, very fairly printed and equipped for public ap pe. ranee. The business having taken this turn, I concluded that Johnson had adopted my original thought, that it might prove ad- vantageous to the sale; and as he had had the trouble and expense of printing it, I cor rected the copy, and let it pass. Perhaps, however, neither the book nor the writer may be made much more famous by John's good company than they would have been without if. for the volume has never yet been advertised, nor can I learn that Johnson intends it. He fears the expense, and the consequence must be prejudicial. Many who would purchase will remain uninformed: but I am perfectly content. I have considered your motto, and like the* purport of it ; but the best, because the most laconic manner of it, seems to be this — Cum talis sis, sis noster ; uiinam being, in my account of it, unneces- sary.* Yours, my dear friend, most truly, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN HEWTOff.f Olney, Aug. 17, I78S. My dear Friend, — I did very warmly and very sincerely thank Mr. Bacon for his most friendly and obliging letter : but, having writ- ten my acknowredgements in the cover, I suppose that they escaped your notice. I should i.ot have contented myself with trans- mitting them through your hands, but should o The original passage is as follows : — Cum talis sis, utinam uoster esses. If intended, therefore, as a quotation, it should be quoted witlio it alteration. • P ; " It is the business of a biographer to pass lightly over those performances and actions which produce vulgar greatness; to lead the thoughts into domestic privacies, and display the rcinute details of daily life, where ex- tern r appcaranfl ** are laid a^ide." — Rambler, No. 60, Jol ii. ing, and this day concluded the Apocalypse. I think that no part was missed." '• My purpose of reading the rest of the Bible was forgotten, till I took by chance the resolutions of last Easter in my hand." " I hope to read the whole Bible once a year, as long as I live." April 26. — " It is a comfort to me, that at last, in my sixty-third year, I have attained to know, even thus hastily, confusedly, and im- perfectly, what my Bible contains." 1775. — " Yesterday, I do not recollect that to go to church came into my thoughts; but I sat in my chamber preparing for preparation: interrupted I know not how. I was near two hours at dinner." 1777. — "I have this year omitted church on most Sundays, intending to supply the deficiency in the week. So that J owe twelve attendances on worship" " When I look back upon resolutions of improvement and amendment which have, year after year, been made and broken, either by negligence, forgetfulness, vicious idleness, casual interruption, or morbid infirmity ; when I find that so much of my life has stolen un- profitably away, and that I can descry, by re- trospection, scarcely a fe\v single days prop- erly and vigorously employed, why do I yet try to resolve again 1 1 try, because reforma- tion is necessary, and despair criminal; I try in humble hope of the help of God."* Our sole object, in the introduction of these extracts, is to found upon them an ap- peal to those who question the necessity of conversion, in that higher sense and accepta- tion which implies an inward principle oi grace, changing and transforming the heart. VVe would beg to ask whether it was not the want of the vital power and energy of this principle, that produced in Johnson the vacil- lation of mind and purpose, which we have just recorded ; the hours lost ; the resolu- tions broken ; the Sabbaths violated ; and the sacred volume not read, till the shades of evening advanced upon him? What instance can be adduced that more clearly demon- strates the insufficiency of the highest ac- quirements of human learning, and that noth- ing but a Divine power can illuminate the mind, and convert the heart ? Happily, Jolmson is known to have at length found what he needed, and to have died with a full hope of immortality, f But we would go further. We maintain that all men, without respect of character or person, need conversion ; for "all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God;" all par take of the corruption and infirmities of a fallen nature, and inherit the primeval curse Shall reason, shall philosophy effect the cure Reason sees what is right; erring nature, in despite :>f reason, follows what is wrong * See Diarj jf Dr. Johnson. T See p. 191. 228 COWPER'S WORKb. Philosophy can penetrate into the abstrusest mysteries, ascertain by what laws the uni- verse is governed, and trace the heavenly bodies in their courses, but cannot eradicate one evil passion from the soul. Where then lies the remedy ? The Gospel reveals it. And what is the Gospel I The Gospel is a dispensation of grace and mercy, for the re- covery of fallen man, and the application of this remedy to the heart and conscience effects that conversion of which we are speaking. But by whom or by what applied ? By Him who holds "the keys of heaven and of hell," who " openeth, and no man shutteth,'' and whose prerogative it is to say, "Behold, I make all things new."* And how ? By his word, and by his Spirit. " He sent his word and healed them."f " Being born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of God, which liveth and abideth for- ever."! The word is the appointed instru- ment, the Spirit, the mighty agent which gives the quickening power :§ not by any su- pernatural revelation, but in the ordinary op-- erations of divine grace, and consistently with the freedom and co-operation of man as a moral agent ; speaking pardon and peace to the conscience, and delivering from the tyranny of sense and the slavery of fear, by proclaiming " liberty to the captive, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound." The last subject for reflection suggested by the Diary of Dr. Johnson, is the frequent neglect of the Sabbath, 'and his confession that he had lived a stranger to the greater fart of the contents of his Bible till the sixty-third year of his age. This is an afflicting record, and we notice the fact, from a deep conviction that piety can never retain its power and as- cendancy in the heart, where the Bible is not read, and the ordinances of God are frequent- ly neglected. When will genius learn that its noblest attribute is to light its fires at the lamp of divine truth, and that the union of piety and learning is the highest perfection of our nature % We beg to commend to the earnest attention of the student the following eloquent testimony to the sacred volume from the pen of Sir William Jones. "I have carefully and regularly perused these Holy Scriptures, and am of opinion that the Volume, independently of its divine origin, contains more sublimity, purer moral- ity, more important history, and finer strains of eloquence, than can be collected from all other books, in whatever language they may have been written."|| * Rev. xxi. 5. t Psalm cvii. 20. % 1 Pet. i. 23. See also Heb. iv. 12. % " It is the spirit that quickeneth." John vi. 63. The union of the Word and the Spirit in imparting spiritual Ife to the soul is forcibly expressed in the same verse : * The words tht»i I speak unto you, they are spirit and tfiey are life." It See Lord Teignmouth's Life of Sir William Jones. Having quoted Sir William Jones's testi mony, we conclude by urging his example. " Before thy mystic altar, Heavenly Truth, I kneel in manhood, as I knelt, in youth : Thus let me kneel, till this dull form decay, And life's last shade be brighten'd by thy ray. Then shall my soul, now lost in clouds below, Soar without bound, without consuming glow."* TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. % Olney, August 27, 1785. My dear Friend, — I was low in spirits yes- terday, when your parcel came and raised them. Every proof of attention and regard to a man who lives in a vinegar-bottle is wel- come from his friends on the outside of it ; accordingly your books were welcome (you must not forget, by the way, that I want the original, of which you have sent me the trans- lation only), and the ruffles from Miss Shut- tleworth most welcome. I am covetous, if ever man was, of living in the remembrance of absentees, whom I highly value and es- teem, and consequently felt myself much grat- ified by her very obliging present. I have had more comfort, far more comfort, in the connexions that I have formed within the last twenty years, than in the more numerous ones that I had before. Memorandum. — The latter are almost all Unwins or Unwinisms. You are entitled to my thanks also for the facetious engravings of John Gilpin. A se- rious poem is like a swan : it flies heavily, and never far ; but a jest has the wings of a swal- low that never tire, and that carry it into every nook and corner. I am perfectly a stranger, however, to the reception that my volume meets with, and, I believe, in respect of my nonchalance upon that subject, if au- thors would but copy so fair an example, ara a most exemplary character. I must tell you nevertheless that, although the laurels that I gain at Olney will never minister much to my pride, I have acquired some. The Rev. Mr. Scott is my admirer, and thinks my second volume superior to my first. It ought to be so. If we do not improve by practice, then nothing can mend us; and a man has no more cause to be mortified at being told that he has excelled himself, than the elephant had, whose praise it was that he was the greatest elephant in the world, himself excepted. If it be fair to judge of a-book by an extract, I do not wonder that you were so little edi- fied by Johnson's Journal. It is even more ridiculous than was poor 's, of flatulent memory. The portion of it given to us in this day's paper contains not one sentiment worth one farthing except the last, in which he resolves to bind himself with no more un ♦Ibid. LIFE OF COWPER. 22i biddi n obligations. Poor man ! one would think that to pray for his dead wife, and to pinch himself with ehureh-fasts had been al- most the whole of his religion. I am sorry that he who was so manly an advocate for the cause of virtue in all other places was so childishly employed, and so superstitiously, TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, Sept. 24, 1785. My dear Friend, — I am sorry that an ex cursion, which you would otherwise have found so agreeable, was attended with so great a drawback upon its pleasures as Miss Cunningham's illness must needs have been. too, in his closet. Had he studied his Bible Had she been able to bathe in the sea, it more, to which, by his own confession, he ! might have been of service to her, but I knew was in great part a stranger, he had known better what use to make of his retired hours, and had trifled less. His lucubrations of this sort have rather the appearance of religious dotage than of any vigorous exertion^ to- wards God. It will be well if the publication prove not hurtful in its' effects, by exposing her weakness and delicacy of habit to be such as did not encourage any very sanguine hopes that the regimen would suit her. I remem- ber Southampton well, having spent much time there ; but, though I was young, and had no objections, on the score of conscience, either to dancing- or cards, I never was in the the best cause, already too much despised, to assembly-room in my life. I never was fond ridicule still more profane. On the other of company, and especially disliked it in the side of the same paper, I find a long string I country. A walk to Netley Abbey, or to of aphorisms, and maxims, and rules for the Freemantle, or to Redbridge, or a book by conduct of life, which, though they appear j the rlre-side, had always "more charms for me not with his name, are so much in his man- | than any other amusement that the place af- ner, with the above-mentioned, that I suspect ; forded. I was also a sailor, and, being of them for his. I have not read them all, but several of them I read that were trivial enough : for the sake of one, however, I for- give him the rest — he advises never to banish hope entirely, because it is the cordial of life, although it be the greatest flatterer in the world. Such a measure of hope as may not endanger my peace by a disappointment I would wish to cherish upon every subject in which I am interested : but there lies the dif- ficulty. A cure, however, and the only one, for all the irregularities of Jiope and fear, is found in submission to the will of God. Happy they that have it Sir Thomas Hesketh's party, who was him- self born one, was often pressed into the service. But, though I gave myself an air and wore trowsers, I had no genuine right to that honor, disliking much to be occupied in great waters, unless in the finest weather. How they continue to elude the wearisome- ness that attends a sea life, who take long voyages, you know better than I ; but, for my own part, I seldom have sailed so far as fr'om Hampton river to Portsmouth without feeling the confinement irksome, and some- times to a degree that was almost insupport- able. There is a certain perverseness, of This last sentence puts me in mind of your j which I believe all men have a share, but of reference to Blair in a former letter, whom which no man has a larger share than 1— 1 you there permitted to be your arbiter to ad- mean that temper, or humor, or whatever it just the respective claims of who or that. I i is to be called, that indisposes us to a situa- do not rashly differ from so great a gramma- rian, nor do, at any rate, differ from him al- together — upon solemn occasions, as in pray- er or preaching, for instance, I would be strictly correct, and upon stately ones ; for instance, were I writing an epic poem, I would be so likewise, but not upon familiar occasions. God, who heareth prayer, is right : Hector, who saw Patroclus, is right : and the man, that dresses me every day, is in my mind, right also: because the contrary would give an air of stiffness and pedantry to an ex- pression that, in respect of the matter of it, cannot be too negligently made up. Adieu, my dear William ! I have scribbled with all my might, which, breakfast-time ex- lepted, has been my employment ever since rose, and it is now past one. Yours, W. C. tion, though not unpleasant in itself, merely because we cannot get out of it. I could not endure the room in which I now write, were I conscious that the door were locked. In less than five minutes I should feel myself a prisoner, though I can spend hours in it under an assurance that I may leave it when I please without experiencing any tedium at all. It was for this reason, I suppose, that the yacht was always disagreeable to me. Could I have stepped out of it into a corn- field or a garden, I should have liked it well enough, but, being surrounded with water, \ was as much confined in it as if I had been surrounded by fire/and did not find that it made me any adequate compensation for such an abridgment of my liberty. I make little doubt but Noah was glad when he was en- larged from the ark ; and we are sure that Jonah was, when he came out of the fish ; and so was I to escape from the good sloop the Harriet. * Private correspondence. 230 COWPER'S WORKS. In my last, I wrote you word that Mr. Per- ry was given over by his .friends, and pro- nounced a dead man by his physician. Just when I had reached the end of the foregoing paragraph, he came in. His errand hither was to bring' two letters, which I enclose ; one is to yourself, in which he will give you, 1 doubt not, such an account, both of his body and mind, as will make all that I might say upon those subjects superfluous. The only eonsequences of his illness seem to be that ne looks a little pale, and that, though al- ways a most excellent man, he is still more angelic than he was. Illness sanctified is better than health. But I know a man who has been a sufferer by a worse illness than his, almost these fourteen years, and who, at present, is only the worse for it. Mr. Scott called upon us yesterday ; he is much inclined to set up a Sunday School, if he can raise a fund for the purpose. Mr. Jones has had one some time at Clifton, and Mr. Unwin writes me word, that he has been thinking of nothing else day and night, for a fortnight. It is a wholesome measure, that seems to bid fair to be pretty generally adopt- ed, and, for the good effects that it promises deserves well to be so. I know not, indeed, while the spread of the gospel continues so limited as it is, how a reformation of manners in the lower class of mankind can be brought to pass ; or by what other means the utter abolition of all principle among them, moral as well as religious, can possibly be prevent- ed. Heathenish parents can only bring up heathenish children ; an assertion nowhere oftener or more clearly illustrated than at Olney ; where children, seven years of age, infest the streets every evening with curses and with songs, to which it. would be un- seemly to give their* proper epithet. Such urchins as these coufd not be so diabolically accomplished, unless by the connivance of their parents. It is well indeed if, in some instances, their parents be not themselves their instructors. Judging by their profi- j ciency, one can hardly suppose any other. It is therefore, doubtless, an act of the great- est charity, to snatch them out of such hands before the inveteracy of the evil shall have made it desperate. Mr. Teedon, I should imagine, will be employed as a teacher, should this expedient be carried into effect. I know not at least that we have any other person among us so well qualified for the service. He is indisputably a Christian man, and mis- erably poor, whose revenues need improve- ment, as much as any children in the world tan possibly need instruction. Believe me, my dear friend, "With true affection, yours, W. C. The first establishment of Sunday schools in England, which commenced about thi* time, is too important an era to be passed over in silence. The founder of this system, so beneficial in its consequences to the rising generation, was Robert Raikes, Esq., of Gloucester, and from whose lips the writer once received the history of their first insti- tution. He had observed in going to divine worship on the Sabbath, that the streets were generally filled with groups of idle and rag- ged children, playing and blaspheming in a manner that showed their utter unconscious- ness of the sacred obligations of that day. The thought suggested itself, that, if these children could be collected together, and the time so misapplied be devoted to instruction and attendance at the house of God, a happy change might be effected in their life and con- duct. He consulted the clergyman of the parish, who encouraged the attempt. A re- spectable and pious female was immediately selected, and twelve children, who were short- ly afterwards decently clothed, were placed under her care. Rules and regulations were formed, and the school opened and closed with prayer. The ignorant were taught to read, the word of God was introduced, and the children walked in orderly procession to church. The visible improvement in their moral habits, and their proficiency in learn- ing, led to an extension of the plan. The 1 principal inhabitants of the town became in-' terested in its success, and in a short time the former noisy inmates of the streets were found uniting in the accents of prayer and praise in the temple of Jehovah. The exam- ple manifested by the city of Gloucester soon attracted public attention. The queen of George the Third requested to be furnished with the history and particulars of the un- dertaking, and was so impressed with its im- portance as to distinguish it by her sanction. The result is well known. Sunday schools are now universally established, and have been adopted in Europe, in America, and wherever the traces of civilization are to be discerned. Their sound has gone forth into all lands, and, so long as knowledge isneces- , sary to piety, and both constitute the grace and ornament of the young and the safeguard of society, the venerable name of Raikes will be enrolled with gratitude among the friends and benefactors of mankind.* * The editor, once conversing with the late Rev. An- drew Fuller, the well-known secretary of the Serampore Missionary Society, on the subject of Sunday schools in connexion with that noble institution, the British and Foreign Bible Society, the latter observed, " Yes ; if the BibleSociety had commenced its operations earlier, its usefulness would have been comparatively limited, be- cause the faculty of reading would not havf- been so generally acquired. Each institution is in the order of Providence: — God first raised up Sunday schools, and children were thereby taught to read ; afterwards, when this faculty was obtained, in order that it might not be perverted to wrong ends, God raised up the Bible So- ciety, that the best of all possible books might be put into their hands. Yes, sir," he added in his emphatic LIFE OF COWPER. vn TO JOSEPH Hll.L, ESQ.* Olney, Oct. 11, 1785. M) dear Sir, — You began your letter with an apology for long silence, and it is now in- cumbent upon me to do the same : and the rather, as your kind invitation to Wargrave entitled you to a speedier answer. The truth is that I am -become, if not a man of business, yet a busy man, and have been en- gaged almost this twelvemonth in a work that will allow of no long interruption. On this account it was impossible for me to ac- cept your obliging summons; and, having only to tell you that I could not, it appeared to me as a matter of no great moment whe- ther you received that intelligence soon or late. You do me justice when you ascribe my printed epistle to you to my friendship for you ; though, in fact, it was equally owing to the opinion that I have of yours for. me. f Having, in one part or other of my two vol- umes, distinguished by name the majority of those few for whom I entertain a friendship, it seemed tome that it would be unjustifiable negligence to omit yourself; and, if I took that step without communicating to you my intention, it was only to gratify myself the more with the hope of surp-ising you agree- ably. Poets are dangerous persons to be acquainted with, especially if a man have that in his character that. promises to shine in verse. To that very circumstance it is owing that you are now figuring away in mine. For, notwithstanding what you say on the subject of honesty and friendship, that they are not splendid enough for pub- lic celebration, I must still think of them as I did before, — that there are no qualities of the mind and heart that can deserve it better. I can, at least for my owh part, look round about upon the generality, and, while I see them deficient in those grand requi- sites of a respectable character, am not able to discover that they possess any other of value enough to atone for the want of them. I beg that you will present my respects to Mrs. Hill, and believe me Ever affectionately yours, W. C. The period at which we are now arrived was marked by the renewal of an intimacy, long suspended indeed, but which neither time nor circumstances could efface from the manner, "the wisdom of God is visible In both ; they fit each other like hand and glove." * Private correspondence. t The epistle in which he commemorates his friendship for Mr. Hill begins as follows : — " Dear Joseph— Five-and-twenty years ago— Alas, how time escapes! 'tis even so — " &c. &c. "We add the two concluding lines, as descriptive of his person and character. "An honest man, close button'd to the chin, Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within." ' » See Poems. affectionate heart of Cowper. The person to whom we allude is Lady Hesketh, a neai relative of the poet, and whose name has already appeared in the early part of his his. tory. Their intercourse had been frequent, and endeared by reciprocal esteem in their youth- ful years; but the vicissitudes of life had ! separated them far from each other. During i Cowper's long retirement, his accomplished cousin had passed some years with her hus- j band abroad, and others, after her return, in i a variety of mournful duties. She was at J t&is time a widow, and her indelible regard | for her poetical relation being agreeably stim | ulated by the publication of his recent works ! she wrote to him, on that occasion, a very affectionate letter. It gave rise to many from him, which we shall now introduce to the notice of the reader, because they give a minute account of their amiable author, at a very interesting period of his life ; and because they reflect lustre on his character and genius in various I points of view, and cannot fail to inspire the | conviction that his letters are rivals to his poems, in the rare excellence of representing life and nature with graceful and endearing fidelity. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, Oct. 12, 1785. My dear Cousin, — It is no new thing with you to give pleasure. But I w;ll venture to say that you do not often give more than you gave me this morning. When I came down to breakfast, and found upon the table a let- ter franked by my uncle,* and when opening that frank I found that it contained a letter from you, I said within myself — "This is just as it should be. We are all grown young again, and the days that I thought I should see no more are actually returned." You perceive, therefore, that you judged well, when you conjectured that a line from you would not be disagreeable to me. It could not be otherwise than as in fact it proved — a most agreeable surprise, for I can truly boast of an affection for you, that nei- ther years nor interrupted intercourse have 'at all abated. I need only recollect how much I valued you once, and with how much cause, immediately to feel a revival of the same value; if that can be said to revive, which at the most has only been dormant for want of employment. But I slander it when I say that it has slept. A thousand times have I recollected a thousand scenes, in which our two selves have formed the whole of the drama, with the greatest pleasure ; at timea too when I had no reason to suppose that I should ever hear from you again. I hav* * Ashley Cowper, Esq. 232 COWPER'S WORKS. .aughed with you at the Arabian Nights' En- tertainments, which afforded us, as you well know, a fund of merriment that deserves never to be forgot. I have walked with you to Netley Abbey, and have scrambled with vou over hedges in every direction, and many other feats w 7 e have performed together upon the field of my remembrance, and all within these few years. Should I say within this twelvemonth, I should not transgress the truth. The hours that I have spent with you were among the pleasantest of my for- mer days, and are therefore chronicled in my mind so deeply as to fear no erasure. Nei- ther do I forget my poor friend, Sir Thomas ; I should remember him indeed at any rate, on account of his personal kindness to my- self, but the last testimony that he gave of his regard for you endears him to me still more. With his uncommon understanding (for with many peculiarities he had more sense than any of his acquaintance,) and with his generous sensibilities, it was hardly pos- sible that he should not distinguish you as he has done. As it was the List, so it was the best proof that he could give of a judg- ment that never deceived him, when he would allow himself leisure to consult it. You say that you have often heard of me ; that puzzles me. I cannot imagine from what quarter, but it is no matter. I must tell you, # however, my cousin, that your in- formation has been a little defective. That I am happy in my situation is true ; I live, and have lived these twenty years, with Mrs. Unwin, to whose affectionate care of me, during the far greater part of that time, it is, under Providence, owing that I live at ail. But I do not account myself happy in having oeen, for thirteen of these years, in a state of mind that has made all that care and at- tention necessary; an attention and a care that have injured her health, and which, had she not been uncommonly supported, must have brought her to the grave. But I will pass to another subject; it would be cruel to particularize only to give pain, neither would I by any means give a sable hue to the first letter of a correspondence so unex- pectedly renewed. I am delighted with what you tell me of my uncle's good health. To enjoy any meas- ure of cheerfulness at so late a day is much. But to have that late day enlivened with the vivacity of youth is much more, and in these postdiluvian times a rarity indeed. Happy for the most part are parents who have daughters. Daughters are not apt to out- live their natural affections, which a son has generally survived, even before his boyish years are expired. I rejoice particularly in my uncle's felicity, who has three female de- scendants from his little person, who leave aim nn thing to wisr for upon that head. My dear Cousin, dejection of spirits which (I suppose) may have prevented many a maj from becoming an author, made me one. find constant employment necessary, an«. therefore take care to be constantly em ployed. Manual occupations do not engage the mind sufficiently, as I know by expe- rience, having tried many. But composition, especially of verse, absorbs it wholly. I write therefore generally three hours in a morning, and in an evening I transcribe. 1 rend also, but less than I write, for I must have bodily exercise, and therefore never pass a day without it. You ask me where I Imve been this sum- mer. 1 answer, at Oiney. Should you ask me where I spent the last seventeen sum- mers, I should still answer, at Oiney. Ay, and the winters also. I have seldom left it, except when I attended my brother in his last illness; never I believe a fortnight to- gether. Adieu, my beloved Cousin, I shall not always be thus nimble in reply, but shall always have great pleasure in answering you when I can. Yours, my dear friend and Cousin, W. C. The letters addressed to Mr. Newton 'by Cowper are frequently characterized by a plaintiveness of feeling that powerfully awak- ens the emotions of the heart. The follow- ing contains some incidental allusions of this kind. a TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Oliiey, Oct. 16, 1785. My dear Friend, — To have sent a child to heaven is a great honor and a great blessing, and your feelings on such an occasion may well be such as render you rather an object of congratulation than of condolence. And w T ere it otherwise, yet. having yourself free access to all the sources of genuine consola- tion, I feel that it would be little better than impertinence in me to suggest any. An escape from a life of suffering to a life of happiness and glory is such a deliverance as leaves no room for the sorrow of survivors, unless they sorrow for themselves. We can- not, indeed, lose what we love without re- gretting it; but a Christian is in possession of such alleviations of that regret as the world knows nothing of. Their beloveds, when they die, go they know not whither; and if they suppose them, as they generally do, in a state of happiness, they have yet but an indifferent prospect of joining them in that state hereafter. But it is not so with you. You both know whither your beloved is gone and you know that you shall follow her and * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER 233 you know also that in the meantime she is ncomparably happier than yourself. So far, therefore, as she is concerned, nothing has come to pass but what was most fervently to be wished. I do not know that I am singularly selfish ; but one of the first thoughts that your Account of Miss Cunningham's dying moments and departure suggested to me had self for its object. It struck me that she was not born when I sank into darkness, and that she is gone to heaven before I have emerged again. What a lot, said I to myself, is mine ! whose helmet is fallen from my head, and whose sword from my hand, in the midst of the battle ; who was stricken down to the earth when I least expected it; who had just be- gun to cry victory ! when I was defeated my- self; and who have been trampled upon so long, that others have had time to conquer and to receive their crown, before I have been able to make one successful effort to escape from under the feet of my enemies. It seemed to me, therefore, that if you mourned for Miss Cunningham you gave those tears to her to which I only had a right, and I was almost ready to exclaim, " I am the dead, and not she ; you misplace your sorrows." I have sent you the history of my mind on this subject without any disguise ; if it does not please you, pardon it at least, for it is the truth. The unhappy, I beheve, are always selfish. I have, I confese, my comfortable moments; but they are like the morning dew, so suddenly do they pass away and are gone. It should seem a matter of small moment to me, who never hear him, whether Mr. Scott shall be removed from Olney to the Lock, or no ; yet, in fact, I believe, that few interest themselves more in that event than I. He knows «ay manner of life, and has ceased long since to wonder at it. A new minister would need information, and I am not ambi- tious of having my tale told to a stranger. He would also perhaps think it necessary to assail me with arguments, which would be more profitably disposed of, if he should dis- charge them against the walls of a tower. I wish, therefore, for the continuance of Mr. Scott. He honored me so far as to consult me twice upon the subject. At our first in- terview, he seemed to discern but little in the proposal that entitled it to his approbation. But, when he came the second time, we ob- served that his views of it were considerably altered. He was warm — he was animated; difficulties had disappeared, and allurements had started up in their place. I could not say to him, Sir, you are naturally of a san- guine temper ; and he that is so cannot too much distrust his own judgment; — but I am glad that he will have the benefit of yours. \t seems to me, however, that the minister vho shall re-illumine the faded glories of the Lock must not only practise great fidelity in his preaching, to which task Mr. Scott is per fectly equal, but must do it with much ad- dress; and it is hardly worth while to ob- serve that his excellence does not lie that way, because he is ever ready to acknowledge it himself. But I have nothing to suggest upon this subject that will be new to you, and therefore drop it ; the rather, indeed, be- cause I may reasonably suppose that by this time the point is decided. I have reached that part of my paper which I generally fill with intelligence, if I can find any : but there is a great dearth of it at present ; and Mr. Scott has probably anti- cipated me in all the little that there is. Lord P having dismissed Mr. Jones from his service, the people of Turvey* have burnt him [Mr. Jones] in effigy, w r ith a bundle of quick- thornf under his arm. What consequences are to follow his dismission h uncertain. His lordship threatens him with a lawsuit; and, unless their disputes can be settled by arbitration, it is not unlikely that the profits of poor Jones's stewardship will be melted down at Westminster. He- has labored hard, and no doubt with great integrity, and has been rewarded with hard words and scandal- ous treatment. Mr. Scott (which perhaps he may not have told you, for he did not mention it here) ha? met with similar treatment at a place in this country called Hinksey, or by some such name.f But he suffered in effigy for the Gos- pel's sake ; — a cause in which I presume he would not be unwilling, if need were, to be burnt in propria persona. I have nothing to add, but that we are well, and remember you with much affection ; and that I am, my dear friend, Sincerely yours, W. C. The following letters communicate various interesting particulars respecting Cowper's laborious undertaking, the new version of Homer's Iliad. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. Olney, Oct. 22, 1785. My dear William, — You might w ell sup- pose that your letter had miscarried, though in fact it was duly received. I am not often so long in arrear, and you may assure your- self that when at any time it happens that I * The Peterborough family had formerly a mansion and large estate in the parish of Turvey. It is mentioned in Camden's Britannia, so far back as in the time of Henry VIII. There are some marble monuments in the parish church, executed with great magnificence, and in high preservation, recording the heroes of foreign times belonging to that ancient but now extinct race. t The dispute originated respecting the enclosure of the parish ; and, as this act was unpopular with the poor the bundle of quick-thorn was intended to be expressiv# of their indignant feelings. % The proper name of the placo is TingewAcfc 234 COWPER'S WORKS. am scs neither neglect nor idleness is the cause. I have, as you well know, a daily oc- cupation, forty lines to translate, a task which I never excuse myself, when it is possible to perform it. Equally sedulous I am in the matter of transcribing, so that between both my morning and evening are most part com- pletely engaged. /Add to this that, though my spirits are seldom so bad but I can write verse, they are often at so low an ebb as to make the production of a letter impossible. So much for a trespass, which called for some apology, but for which to apologize further would be a greater trespass still. I am now in the twentieth book of Homer, and shall assuredly proceed, because the fur- ther I go the more I find myself justified in the undertaking ; and in due time, if I live, shall assuredly publish. In the whole I shall have composed about forty thousand verses, about which forty thousand verses I shall have taken great pains, on no occasion suf- fering a slovenly line to escape me. I leave you to guess therefore whether, such a labor once achieved, I shall not determine to turn it to some account, and to gain myself profit if I can, if not at least some credit for my reward. I perfectly approve of your course with John. The most entertaining books are best to begin with, and none in the world, so far as entertainment is concerned, deserves the preference to Homer. Neither do I know that there is anywhere to be found Greek of easier construction — poetical Greek I mean ; and as for prose, I should recommend Xeno- phon's Cyropsedia. That also is a most amus- ing narrative, and ten times easier to under- stand than the crabbed epigrams and scrib- blements of the minor poets that are gener- ally put into the hands of boys. I took par- ticular notice of the neatness of John's Greek character, which (let me tell you) deserves its share of commendation ; for to write the language legibly is not the lot of every man who can read it. Witness myself for one. I like the little ode of Huntingford's that you sent me. In such matters we do not ex- pect much novelty, or much depth of thought. The expression is all in all, which to me at least appears to be faultless. Adieu, my dear William ! We are well, and you and yours are ever the objects of our affection. W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, Nov. 5, 1785. My dear Friend, — Were it with me as in days past, you should have no cause to com- plain of my tardiness in writing. You sup- Dosed that I would have accepted your packet as an answer to my last; and so indeed I * Private correspondence. did, and felt myself overpaid ; but, though a debtor, and deeply indebted too, had not wherewithal to discharge the arrear. You do not know nor suspect what a conquest I sometimes gain, when I only take up the pen with a design to write. Many a time have I resolved to say to all my few correspondents, — I take my leave of you for the present; if I live to see better days, you shall hear from me again. — I have been driven to the verj verge of this measure ; and even upon this occasion was upon the point of desiring Mrs. Unwin to become my substitute. She indeed offered to write in my stead ; but, fearing that you would understand me to be even worse than I am, I rather chose to answer for my- self. — So much for a subject with which I could easily fill the sheet, but with which I have occupied too great a part of it already. It is time that I should thank you, and return you Mrs. Unwin's thanks for your Narrative.* I told you in my last in what manner I felt myself affected by the abridgement of it con- tained in i your letter ; and have therefore only to add, upon that point, that the im- pression made upon me by the relation at large was of a like kind. I envy all that live in the enjoyment of a good hope, and much more all who die to enjoy the fruit of it: but I recollect myself in time ; I resolved not to touch that chord again, and yet was just going to trespass upon my resolution. As to the rest, your history of your happy niece is just what it should be, — clear, affectionate, and plain; worthy of her, and worthy of yourself. How much more beneficial to the world might such a memorial of an unknown, but pious and believing child eventually prove, would the supercillious learned con- descend to read it, than the history of all the kings and heroes that ever lived'; But the world has its objects of admiration, and God has objects of his love. Those make a noise and perish; and these weep silently for a short season, and live forever. I had rather have been your neice, or the writer of her story, than any Caesar that ever thundered. The vanity of human attainments was never so conspicuously exemplified as in the present day. The sagacious moderns make discoveries, which, how useful they may prove to themselves I know not ; certainly they do no honor to the ancients. Homer and Virgil have enjoyed (if the dead have any such enjoyments) an unrivalled reputation af poets, through a long succession of ages-, but it is now shrewdly suspected that Homer did not compose the poems for which he has been so long applauded ;f and it is even as- * The narrative of Miss Eliza Cunningham's last illnesf and happy death. t In the Prolegomena to Villoisson's Iliad it is stated, that Pisistratus, in collecting the works of Homer, wat imposed upon by spurious imitations of the Grecian bard's style ; and that not suspecting the fraud, he waa LIFE OF COWPER. 23„ sei ted by a certain Robert Heron, Esq., that Virgil never wrote a line worth reading. He is a pitiful plagiary; he js a servile imitator, a bungler in his plan, and has not a thought in his whole work that will bear examina- tion. In short, he is anything but what the literati for two thousand years have taken him to be — a man of genius and a fine writer. I fear that Homer's ease is desperate. After the lapse of so many generations, it would be a difficult matter to elucidate a question which time and modern ingenuity together combine to puzzle. And 1 suppose that it were in vain for an honest plain man to in- quire, if Homer did not write the Iliad and Odyssey, who did? The answer would un- doubtedly be — it is no matter ; he did not : which is all that I undertook to prove. For Virgil, however, there still remains some con- solation. The very same Mr. Heron, who finds no beauties in the iEneid, discovers not a single instance of the sublime in Scrip- ture. Particularly he says, speaking of the prophets, that Ezekiel, although the filthiest of all writers, is the best of them. He there- fore, being the first of the learned who has reprobated even the style of the Scriptures, may possibly make the fewer proselytes to his judgment of the Heathen writer. For my own part at least, had I been accustomed to doubt whether the iEneid were a noble composition or not, this gentleman would at once have decided the question for me ; and I should have been immediately assured that a work must necessarily abound in beauties that had the happiness to displease a cen- surer of the Word of God. What enter- prises will not an inordinate passion ibr fame suggest ? It prompted one man to tire the Temple of Ephesus ; another, to fling himself into a volcano; and now has induced this wicked and unfortunate Squire either to deny his own feelings, or to publish to all the world that he has no feelings at all.* Mr. Scott is pestered with anonymous let- ters, but he conducts himself wisely; and the question whether he shall go to the Lock led to incorporate them as the genuine productions of Homer. Cowper justly ridicules so extravagant a supposition. * The playful spirit in which the writer adverts to this Subject appears to have yielded afterwards to a feeling of indignation; the following lines in his own hand- writing having been found by Dr. Johnson amongst his D-ipers : — ON THE AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON LITERATURE. The Genius of th' Angnsmn age His head among Rome's ruins rear d And, bursting with heroic rage, When literary Heron appeared, Thou hast, he cried, like him of old Who set th' Ephesian dome on fire. By being scandalously bold, Attain'd the mark of thy desire. And for traducing Virgil's name Shalt share his merited reward ; A perpetuity of fame. That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd. or not, s'eems hasting to a decision in the af- firmative. We are tolerably well ; and Mrs. Unwin adds to mine her affectionate remembrances of yourself and Mrs. Newton. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. The work of Mr. Heron is entitled, " Let- ters on Literature," in which he spares neither things sacred nor profane. The author seems j to be a man of talent, but it is talent pain- | fully misapplied. After calling Virgil a ser- j vile imitator of Homer, and indulging in ■ various critiques, he thus concludes his an- | imadversions. " Such is the JEneid, which ; the author, with good reason, on his death- | bed, condemned to the flames ; and, had it suffered that fate, real poetry would have lost nothing by it. I have said that, notwith- standing all, Virgil deserves his fame ; for his fame is now confined to schools and academies ; and his style (the pickle that has preserved his mummy from corruption) is pure and exquisite." Wit, employed at the expense of taste and sound judgment, can neither advance the reputation of its author, nor promote the cause of true literature. This supercilious treatment of the noble productions of classic genius too much resembles that period in the literary history of France, when the question was agitated (with Perrault at its head) as to the relative superiority of the ancients or moderns. It was at 'that time fashionable with one of the contending parties to decry the pretensions of the ancients. One of their writers exclaims, " Depouillons ces respects serviles Que nous portons aux temps passes. Les Hotneres et les Virgiles Peuvent encore etre effaces." — La Motte. We trust that this corrupt spirit will neve ■ infect the Lyceums of British literature ; but that they will be reserved ever to be the sanctuaries of high-taught genius, chastened by a refined and discriminating taste, and embellished with the graces of a simple and noble eloquence, formed on the pure models of classic antiquity. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Nov. 7, 1785. My dear Friend, — Your time being so much occupied as to leave you no opportunity for a word more than the needful, I am the more obliged to you that you have found leisure even for that, and thank you for the note above acknowledged. I know not at present what subject 1 could enter upon, by which I should not put you tc an expense of moments that you cao * Private correspondence. 236 COWPER'S WORKS, 11 spare : I have often been displeased when a neighbor of mine, being himself an idle man, has delivered himself from the burden of a vacant hour or two, by coming to repose Vis idleness upon me. Not to incur there- fore, and deservedly, the blame that I have charged upon him, by interrupting you, who are certainly a busy man, whatever may be the case with myself, I shall only add that I am, with my respects to Mrs. Hill, Affectionately yours, W. C. The tried stability of Cowper's friendship, after a long interval of separation, and the delicacy with which he accepts Lady Hes- keth's offer of pecuniary aid, are here de- picted in a manner that reflects honor on both parties. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, Nov. 9, 1785. My dearest Cousin, — Whose last most af- fectionate letter has run in my head ever since I received it, and which I now sit down to answer, two days sooner than the post will serve me. I thank you for it, and with a warmth for which I am sure you will give me credit, though I do not spend many words in describing it. I do not seek new friends, not being altogether sure that I should find them, but have unspeakable pleasure in being still beloved by an old one. I hope that now our correspondence ha& suffered its last in- terruption, and that we shall go down to- gether to the grave, chatting and chirping as merrily as such a scene of things as this will permit. I am happy that my poems have pleased you. My volume has afforded me no such pleasure at any time, either while I was writ- ing it or since its publication, as I have de- rived from yours and my uncle's opinion of it. I make certain allowances for partiality, and for that peculiar quickness of taste with which you both relish what you like, and, after all drawbacks upon those accounts duly made, find myself rich in the measure of your approbation that still remains. But, above all, I honor John Gilpin, since it was he who first encouraged you to write. I made him on purpose to laugh at, and he served his purpose well ; but I am now indebted to him for a more valuable acquisition than all the laughter in the world amounts to, the re- covery of my intercourse with you, which is to me inestimable. My benevolent and gen- erous cousin, when I was once asked if I wanted anything, and given delicately to understand that the inquirer was ready to supply all my occasions, I thankfully and civilly, but positively declined the favor. I neither suffer, nor have suffered, any such in- conveniences as I had not much rather en- dure than corrfe under obligations of that sort to a person comparatively with yourself a stranger to me. But to you I answer otherwise. I know you thoroughly, and the liberality of your disposition, and have that consummate confidence in the sincerity of your wish to serve me, that delivers me from all awkward constraint, and from all fear of trespassing by acceptance. To you, there- fore, I reply, yes. Whensoever and whatso- ever, and in what manner soever you please ; and add moreover that my affection for the giver is such as will increase to me tenfold the satisfaction that I shall have, in receiving. It is necessary, however, I should let you a little into the state of my finances, that you may not suppose them more narrowly cir- cumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Un- win and I have lived at Olney, we have had but one purse, although during the whole time, till lately, her income was nearly dou- ble mine. Her revenues indeed are now in 4 some measure reduced, and not much ex- ceed my own; the worst consequence of this is, that we are forced to deny ourselves some things which hitherto we have been better able to afford, but they are such things as neither life, nor the well-being of life, de- pend upon. My own income has been bet- ter than it is, but when it was best, it would not have enabled me to live as my connex- ions demanded that I should, had it not been combined with a better than itself, at least at this end of the kingdom. Of this I had full proof during three months that I spent in lodgings at Huntingdon, in which time, by the help of good management and a clear notion of economical matters, I contrived to spend the income of a twelvemonth. Now, my beloved cousin, you are in possession of the whole case as it stands. Strain no points to your own inconvenience or hurt, for there is no need of it, but indulge your- self in communicating (no matter what) that you can spare without missing it, since by so doing, you will be sure to add to the com- forts of my life one of the sweetest that I can enjoy — a token and proof of your affec- tion. In the affair of my next publication* to- ward which you also offer me so kindly your assistance, there will be no need that you should help me in the manner that you pro- pose. It will be a large work, consisting I should imagine of six volumes at least. The 12th of this month I shall have spent a year upon it, and it will cost me more than another. I do not love the booksellers well enough to make them a present of such a labor, but intend to publish by subscription Your vote and interest, my dear cousin, upon the occasion, if you please, but nothing more . I will trouble you with some papers of pro* * His translation of Homer's Iliad. LIFE OF COWPER, 23T! posals when the time sha'' come, and am sure that you will circulate as many for me as you can. Now, my dear, I am going to tell you a secret. It is a great secret, that you must not whisper even to your cat. No creature is at this moment apprized of it but Mrs. Unwin and her son. I am making a new translation of Homer, and am on the point of finishing the twentflfirst book of the Iliad. The reasons upon which I undertake this Herculean labor, and by which I justify an enterprise in which I seem so effectually anticipated by Pope, although in fact he has not anticipated me at all, I may possibly give you, if you wish for them, when I can find nothing more interesting to say. A period which I do not conceive to be very near ! I have not answered many things in your letter, nor can do it at present for want of room. I cannot believe but that I should know you, notwithstanding all that time may have done. There is not a feature of your face, could I meet it upon the road by itself, that I should not instantly recollect. I should say, that is my cousin's nose, or those are her lips and her chin, and no woman upon earth can claim them but herself. As for me, I am a very smart youth of my years. 1 am not indeed grown gray so much as I am# grown bald. No matter. There was more hair in the world than ever had the honor to belong to me. Accordingly having found just enough to curl a little at my ears, and to intermix with a little of my own that still hangs be- hind, I appear, if you see me in an afternoon, to have a very decent head-dress, not easily distinguished from my natural growth, which being worn with a small bag, and a black riband about my neck, continues to me the charms of my youth even on / the verge of age. Away with the fear of writing .too often. W. C. P. S. — That the view I give you of myself may be complete I add the two following items — That I am in debt to nobody, and that I grow fat. — ♦ — There is no date to the following letter, but it evidently refers to this period of time. TO LADY HESKETH. My dearest Cousin, — I am glad that T al- ways loved you as I did. It releases me from any occasion to suspect that my pres- ent affection for you is indebted for its ex- istence to any selfish considerations. No, I am sure I love you disinterestedly and for your own sake, because I never tho lght of you with any other' sensations than those of the truest affection, even while I was under the persuasion that I should never hear from /ou ag-ain. But, with my present feelings I superadded to those that 1 always had for | you, I find it no easy matter to do justice to my sensations. I perceive myself in a state of mind similar to that of the traveller de- scribed in Pope's Messiah, who, as he passes through a sandy desert, starts at the sudden and unexpected souud of a waterfall.* You have placed me in a situation new to me. and in which I feel mysalf somewhat puzzled how to behave. At the same time I would not grieve you by putting a check upon your bounty, I would be as careful not to abuse it, as if I were a miser, and the question not about your money but my own. Although I do not suspect that a secret to you, my cousin, is any burden, yet, having maturely considered that point since I wrote my last, I feel myself altogether disposed to release you from the injunction to that effect under which I laid you. I have now made such a progress in my translation that I need neither fear that I shall stop short of the end, nor that any other rider of Pegasus should overtake me. Therefore, if at any time it should fall fairly in your way, or you should feel yourself invited to say I am so occupied, you have my poetship's free permission. Dr. Johnson read and recommended my first volume. W. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT.f Olney, Nov. 9, 1785. My dear Friend, — You desired me to re- turn your good brother the bishop's Charge,| as scon as I conveniently could, and the weather having forbidden us to hope for the pleasure of seeing you and Mrs. Bagot with you this morning, I return it now, lest, as you told me that your stay in this country would be short, you should be gone before it could reach you. I wish as you do, that the Charge in ques- tion could find its way into all the parsonages in the nation. It is so generally applicable, and yet so pointedly enforced, that it de- serves the most extensive spread. I find in it the happiest mixture of spiritual authority, the meekness of a Christian, and the good manners of a gentleman. It has convinced me that the poet who, like myself, shall take the liberty to pay the author of such valu- able admonition a compliment, shall do at least as much honor to himself as to his subject. Yours, W. C. * The following is the passage alluded to : — " The swain in bBrren deserts with surprise Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear New falls of water murrn'ring in his ear." Pope's Messiah, line 67, &c. t Cowperwas at Westminster school with five brothers of this name. He retained through life the friendship o« the estimable character to whom this letter is addressed. t Lewis Bagot, D.D. He was formerly Dean of Chrisl Church, Oxford; afterwards Bishop of Norwich, and finally Bishop of St. Asaph. 238 COWPER'S WORKS TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olncy, Dec. 3, 1785. My dear Friend, — I am glad to hear that there is svzh a demand for your last Narra- tive. If I may judge of their general utility by the effect that they have heretofore had upon me, there are few things more edifying than death-bed memoirs. They interest every reader, because they speak of a period at which all must arrive, and afford a solid ground of encouragement to survivors to expect the same, or similar, support and comfort, when it shall be their turn to die. I also am employed in writing narrative, but not so useful. Employment, however, and with the pen, is through habit become essential to my well-being; and to produce always original poems, especially of consid- erable length, is not so easy. For some weeks after I had finished " The Task," and sent away the last sheet corrected, I was through necessity idle, and suffered not a little in my spirits for being so. One day, being in such distress of mind as was hardly supportable, I took up the Iliad ; and, merely to divert attention, and with no more pre- conception of what I was then entering upon than I have at this moment of what I shall be doing this day twenty years hence, trans- lated the twelve first lines of it. The same necessity pressing me again, I had recourse to the same expedient and translated more. Every day bringing its occasion for employ- ment with it, every day consequently added something to the work ; till at last I began to reflect thus : — The Iliad and the Odyssey together consist of about forty thousand verses. To translate these forty thousand verses will furnish me with occupation for a considerable time. I have already made some progress, and I find it a most agree- able amusement. Homer, in point of purity is a most blameless writer; and though he was not an enlightened man, has inter- spersed many great and valuable truths throughout both his poems. In short, he is in all respects a most venerable old gentle- man, by an acquaintance with whom no man can disgrace himself. The literati are all agreed to a man that, although Pope has given us two pretty poems under Homer's titles, there is not to be found in them the least portion of Homer's spirit, nor the least resemblance of his manner. I will try there- fore whether* I cannot copy him somewhat more happily myself. I have at least the advantage of Pope's faults and failings, which, like so many buoys upon a dangerous coast, will serve me to steer by, and will make my chance for success more probable. These and many other considerations, but especially a mind that abhorred a vacuum as * Private correspondence. its chief bane, impelled me so effectually to the work, that ere long I mean to publish proposals for a subscription to it, having ad- vanced so far as to be warranted in doing so. I jiave connexions, and no few such, by means of which I have the utmost reason to expect that a brisk circulation may be pro- cured; and if it should prove a profitable enterprise, the profit will not accrue to a man who may be said not to want it. It is . a business such as it will not indeed' lie much in your way to promote ; but among your numerous connexions it is possible that you may know some who would suffi- ciently interest themselves in such a work tc be not unwilling to subscribe to it. I do not mean — far be it from me — to put you upon making hazardous applications, where you might possibly incur a refusal, that would give you though but a moment's pain. You know best your own opportunities and pow- ers in such a cause. If you can do but little, I shall esteem it much ; and if you can do nothing, I am 'sure that it will not be for want of a will. I have lately had three visits from my old schoolfellow Mr. Bagot, a brother of Lord Bagot, and of Mr. Chester of Chicheley. At his last visit he brought his wife with him, a most amiable woman, to see Mrs. Unwin. I told him my purpose and my progress. He received the news with great pleasure; immediately subscribed a draft of twenty pounds ; and promised me his whole heart aud his whole interest, which lies principally among people of the first fashion. My correspondence has lately also been renewed with my dear cousin, Lady Hes- keth, whom I ever loved as a sister, (for we were in a manner brought up together,) and who writes to me as affectionately as if she were so. She also enters into my views and interests upon this occasion With a warmth that gives me great encouragement. The circle of her acquaintance is likewise very extensive; and I have no doubt that she will exert her influence to its utmost pos- sibilities among them. I have other strings to my bow, (perhaps, as a translator of Ho- mer, I should say, to my lyre,) which I can- not here enumerate ; but, upon the whole, my prospect seems promising enough. 1 have not yet consulted Johnson upon the occasion, but intend to do it soon. My spirits are somewhat better than they were. In the course of the last month, I have perceived a very sensible amendment. The hope of better days seems again to dawn upon me ; and I have now and then an intimation, though slight and transient, that God has not abandoned me forever. Having been for some years troubled with an inconvenient stomach ; and lately with a stomach that will digest nothing without LIFE OF COWPER 23L nelp ; and we having reached the bottom of our own medical skill into which we have dived to little or no purpose ; I have at length consented to consult Dr. Kerr, and expect to see him in a day s>r two. En- gaged as I am and am likely to be, so long as I am capable of it. in writing for the press, I cannot well afford to entertain a malady that is such an enemy to all mental operations. This morning is beautiful, .and tempts me forth into the garden. It is all the walk that I can have at this season, but not all the exercise. I ring a peal every day upon the dumbbells. I am, my dear friend, most truly, Yours and Mrs. Newton's, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, Dec. 10, 1785. My dear Friend. — What you say of my last volume gives me the sincerest pleasure. I have heard a like favorable report of it from several different quarters, but never any (for obvious reasons) that has gratified me more than yours. I have a relish for moderate praise, because it bids fair to be '"udicjous ; but praise excessive, such as our poor friend 's, (I have an uncle also who celebrates me exactly in the same lan- guage,) — such praise is rather too big for an ordinary swallow. I set down nine-tenths of it to the account of family partiality. J know no more than you what kind of a mar- ket my book has found ; but this I believe, that had not Henderson died,f and had it been worth my while to have given him a hundred pounds to have read it in public, it would have been more popular than it is. I am at least very unwilling to esteem John Gilpin as better worth than all the rest that I have written, and he has been popular enough. Your sentiments of Pope's Homer agree perfectly with those of every competent judge with whom I have at any time conversed about it. I never saw a copy so unlike the origina.1. There is not I believe in all the world to be found an uninspired poem so simple as those of Homer, nor in all the world a poem more bedizened with orna- ments than Pope's translation of them. Ac- cordingly, the sublime of Homer in the hands of Pope becomes bloated and tumid, and his description tawdry. Neither had Pope the faintest conception of those exquisite dis- criminations of character for which Homer is so remarkable. All his persons, and equally upon all occasions, speak in an in- flated and strutting phraseology as Pope has * Private correspondence. t A public reciter, well known in his day, who de- livered his recitations with all the effect of tone, empha- sis, and graceful elocution. managed them ; although in the original the dignity of their utterance, even when they are most majestic, consists principally in the simplicity of their sentiments and of their language. Another censure I must needs pass upon our Anglo-Grecian, out of many that obtrude themselves upon me, but for which I have neither time to spare, nor room, which is, that with all his great abilities he was defective in his feelings to a degree that some passages in his own poems make it dif- ficult to account for. # No writer more pa- thetic than Homer, because none more nat- ural ; and because none less natural than Pope in his version of Homer, therefore than he none less pathetic. But I shall tire you with a theme with which I would not wish to cloy you beforehand. If "the great change in my experience, of which you express so lively an expectation, should take place, and whenever it shall take place, you may securely depend upon receiv- ing the first notice of it. But, whether you come with congratulations, or whether with- out them, I need not say that you and yours will always be most welcome here. Mrs. Unwin's love both to yourself and to Mrs. Newton joins itself as usual, and as warmly as usual, to that of Yours, my dear friend, Affectionately and faithfully, W. C. The following this moment occurs to mo as a possible motto for the Messiah, if you do not think it too sharp : — Nunquam inducunt animumcantare, rogati ; Injussi, nunquam desistunt. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UN WIN. Olney, Dec. 24, 1785. My dear Friend, — You would have'found a letter from me at Mr. 's, according to your assignation, had not the post, setting out two hours sooner than the usual time prevented me. The Odyssey that you sent has but one fault, at least but one that I have discovered, which is that I cannot read it. The very attempt, if persevered in, would soon make me as blind as Homer was him- self. I am now in the last book of the Iliad, shall be obliged to you therefore for a more legible one by the first opportunity. I wrote to Johnson lately, desiring him to give me advice and information on the subject of proposals for a subscription, and he desired me in his answer not to use that mode of publication, but to treat with him, adding that he could make me such offers as (he believed) I should approve. I have replied to his let- ter, but abide by my first purpose. Having occasion to write to Mr. ,* con* * John Thornton, feq. 240 COWPER'S WORKS. cerning his princely benevolence, extended this year also to the poor of Olney, T put in a go'od word for ray poor self likewise, and have received a very obliging and encourag- ing answer. He promises me six names in particular, lhat (he says) will do me no dis- 3redit, and expresses a wish to be served with papers as soon as they shall be printed. I meet with encouragement from all quar- ters, such as T find need of indeed in an en- terprise of such length and moment, but such as at the same time I find effectual. Homer is not a poet to be translated under the dis- advantage of doubts and dejection. Let me sing the praises of the desk which has sent me. In general it is as elegant as possible. In particular it is of cedar beau- tifully lacquered. When put together, it as- sumes the form of a handsome small chest, and contains all sorts of accommodations ; it is inlaid with ivory, and serves the purpose of a reading desk.** Your affectionate W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, Dec. 24, 1785. My dear Friend,— Till I had made such a progress in my present undertaking as to put it out of all doubt that, if I lived, I should proceed in and finish it, I kept the matter to myself. It would have done me little honor to have told my friends that I had an arduous enterprise in hand, if afterwards I must have told them that I had dropped it. Knowing it to have been universally the opinion of the literati, ever since they have allowed them- selves to consider the matter coolly, that a translation, properly so called, of Homer is, notwithstanding what Pope has done, a de- sideratum in the English language ; it struck me that an attempt to supply the deficiency woul 1 be an honorable one, and having made myself, in former years, somewhat critically a master of the original, I was by this double consideration induced to make the attempt myself. I am now translating into blank verse the last book of the Iliajl, and mean to publish by subscription. W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM TJNWIN. Olney, Dec. 31, 1785. My dear William, — You have learned from my laot that I am now conducting myself upon the plan that you recommended to me in the summer. But since I wrote it I have made still farther advances in my negociation with Johnson. The proposals are adjusted. The proof-sheet has been printed off, cor- * This interesting relic was bequeathed to Dr. Johnson, and is now in the possession of his family. It was pre- sented to Cowper by Lady Hesketh. rected, and returned. They will be sent abroad, as soon as I make up a complete list of the personages and persons to whom ] would have them sent, which in a few davs J hope to be able to accomplish. Johnson be- haves very well, at least according to my conception of the matter, and seems sensible that I dealt liberally with him. He wishes me to be a gainer by my labors, in his own words, " to put something handsome into ray pocket," and recommends two large quartos for the whole. He would not, he says, by any means advise an extravagant price, and has fixed it at three guineas, the half, aa usual, to be paid at the time of subscribing, the remainder on delivery. Five hundred names, he adds, at this price will put above a thousand pounds into my purse. I am doing my best to obtain them. Mr. Newton is warm in my service, and can do not a little. I have of course written to Mr. Bagot, who, when he was here, with much earnestness and affection intreated me so to do as soon as 1 could have settled the conditions. If I could get Sir Richard Sutton's address, I would write to him also, though I have been . but once in his company since I left West- minster, where he and I read the Iliad and Odyssey through together. I enclose Lord Dartmouth's answer to my application, which I will get you to show to Lady Hesketh, be- cause it will please her. I shall be glad if you can make an opportunity to call on her during your present stay in town. You ob- serve therefore that I am not wanting to my- se 1 ^ He that is so has no just claim on the assistance of others, neither shall myself have cause to complain of me in other respects. 1 thank you for your friendly hints and pre- cautions, and shall not fail to give them the guidance of my pen. I respect the public and I respect myself, and had rather want bread than expose myself wantonly to the condemnation of either. I hate the affecta- tion, so frequently found in authors, of neg- ligence and slovenly slightness, and in the present case am sensible how necessary it is to shun them, when I undertake the vast and invidious labor of doing better than Pope has done before me. I thank you for all that you have said and done in my cause, and be- forehand for all that you shall do and say hereafter. I am sure that there will be no deficiency on your part. In particular 1 'thank you for taking such jealous care of my honor, and respectability, when the man you mentioned applied for samples of my trans- lation. When I deal in wine, cloth, or cheese, I will give samples, but of verse never. No consideration would have induced me to comply with ^,he gentleman's demand, unless he could have assured me that his wife had longed. I have frequently tho ight with pleasure Oj LIFE OF COWPER. 241 the summer that you have toad in your heart, while you have been employed in softening' the severity of winter in behalf of so many who must otherwise have been exposed to it. f wish that you could make a general gaol- delivery, leaving only those behind who can- not elsewhere be so properly disposed of. You never said a better thing in your life than when you assured Mr. of the ex- pedience of a gift of bedding to the poor of Olney. There is no one article of this world's comforts with which, as Palstaff says, they are so heinously unprovided. When a poor woman, and an honest one, whom we know well, carried home two pair of blankets, a pair for herself and husband, and a pair for her six children ; as soon as the children saw them, they jumped out of their straw, caught them in their arms, kissed them, blessed them, and daaced for joy. An old woman, a very old one, the first ni^ht that she found herself so comfortably covered, could not sleep a wink, being kept awake by the con- trary emotions of transport on the one hand, and the fear of not being thankful enough on the other. It just occurs to me to say that this manu- script of mine will be ready for the press, as I hope, by the end of February. I shall have finished the Iliad, in about ten days, and shall proceed immediately to the revisal of the whole. You must if possible come down to Olney, if it be only that you may take charge- of its safe delivery to Johnson. For, if by any accident it should be lost, I am un- done — the first copy being but a lean coun- terpart of the second. Your mother joins with me in love and good wishes of every kind to you and all yours. Adieu, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, Jan. 10, 1786. It gave me great pleasure that you found my friend Unwin, what I was sure you would find him, a most agreeable man. I did not usher him in with the marrow-bones and cleavers of high-sounding panegyric, both be- cause I was certain that, whatsoever merit he had, your discernment would mark it, and because it is possible to do a man material injury by making his praise his harbinger. It is easy to raise expectation to such a pitch that the reality, be it ever so excellent, must necessarily fall below it. I hold myself much indebted to Mr. , of whom I have the first information from yourself, both for his friendly disposition to- wards me, and for the manner in which he marks the defects in my volume. An author must be tender indeed to wince on being touched so gently. It is undoubtedly as he says, and as you and my uncle say, you can- not be all mistaken, neither is it at all prob- I able that any of you should be so. I take it j for granted, therefore, that there are inequal- | ities in the composition, and I do assure you, j my dear, most faithfully, that, if it should j reach a second edition, I will spare no pains ; to improve it. It may serve me for an agree- able amusement perhaps when Homer shall be gone, and done with. The first edition of poems has generally been susceptible oi improvement. Pope I believe never pub- lished one in his life that did not undergo variations, and his longest pieces many. I ; will only observe that inequalities there must ! be always, and in every work of length. ! There are level parts of every subject, parts j which we cannot with propriety attempt to • elevate. They are by nature humble, and ! can only be made to assume an awkward and j uncouth appearance by being mounted. But again I take it for granted that this remark does not apply to the matter of your objec- tion. You were sufficiently aware of it be- fore, and have no need that I should suggest it as an apology, could it have served that office, but would have made it for me your- self. In truth, my dear, had you known in what anguish of mind I wrote the whole of that poem, and under what perpetual inter raptions from a cause that has since been re- moved, so that sometimes I had not an op- portunity of writing more than three lines at a sitting, you would long since have won- dered as much as I do myself that it turner out anything better than Grub-street. My cousin, give yourself no trouble to find out any of the magi to scrutinize my Homer. I can do without them ; and, if I were not conscious that I have no need of their help, I would be the first to call for it, Assure yourself that I intend to be careful to the ut- most line of all possible caution, both wiih respect to language and versification. I will not send a verse to the press that shall no* have undergone the strictest examination. A subscription is surely on every account the most eligible mode of publication. When I shall have emptied the purses of my friends and of their friends into my own, I am still free to levy contributions upon the world at large, and I shall then have a fund to defray the expenses of a new edition. I have ordered Johnson to print the proposals immediately, and hope that they will kiss your hands be- fore the week is expired. I have had the kindest letter from Josephus that I ever had. He mentioned my purpose to one of the masters of Eton, who replied, that " such a work is much wanted." Affectionately yours, W. C. 16 242 CUWPER S WORKS TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Jan. 14, 1786. My dear William, — I am glad that you nave seen Lady Hesketh. I knew that you would find her everything that is amiable and elegant. Else, being my relation, I would never have shown her to you. She was also delighted with her visitor, and expects the greatest pleasure in seeing you again ; but is under some apprehensions that a tender re- gard for the drum of your ear may keep you from her. Never mind ! You have two drums, and if she should crack both, I will buy you a trumpet. General Cowper having much pressed me to accompany my proposals with a specimen, I have sent him one. It is taken from the twenty-fourth book of the Iliad, and is part of the interview between Priam and Achilles. Tell me, if it be possible for any man to tell me — why' did Homer leave off at the burial of Hector? Is it possible, that he could be determined to it by a conceit so little worthy of him as that, having made the number of nis books completely the alphabetical num- ber, he would not for the joke's sake proceed any further ? Why did he not give us the death of Achilles, with the destruction of Troy % Tell me also if the critics, with Aris- totle at their head, have not found that he left off exactly where he should, and that every epic poem to all generations is bound to conclude with the burial of Hector ? I do not in the least doubt it. Therefore if I live to write a dozen epic poems, I will always take care to bury Hector,, and to bring all matters at that point to an immediate con- clusion. I had a truly kind letter from Mr. , written immediately on his recovery from the fever. I am bound to honor James's powder, not only for the services it has often ren- dered to myself, but still more for having been the means of preserving a life ten times more valuable to society than mine is ever likely to be. You say, "Why should I trouble you with mj troubles V I answer, " Why not ? What is a friend good for, if we may not lay one end of the sack upon his shoulders, while we ourselves carry the other ?" You see your duty to God, and your duty to your neighbor, and you practise both with your best ability. Yet a certain person ac- co unts you blind. I would, that all the world were so blind even as you are. But there are some in it who, like the Chinese, say, " We have two eyes ; and other nations have but one I" I am glad however that in your one eye you have sight enough to discover that such censures are not worth minding. I thank you heartily for every step you take in the advancement of my present pur- pose. Contrive to pay Ladv H. a long visit, fo* she has a thousand things to say. Yours, my dear William, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, Jan. 14, 1786. My dear Friend, — My proposals are al- ready printed. I ought rather to say that they are ready for printing; having near ten days ago returned the correction of the proof. But a cousin of mine, and one who will I dare say be very active in my literary cause, (I mean General Cowper,) having earnestly recommended it to me to annex a specimen, I have accordingly sent him one, extracted from the latter part of the last book of the Iliad, and consisting of a hundred and seven lines. I chose to extract it from that part of the poem, because if the reader should happen to find himself colftent with it, he will natu- rally be encouraged by it to hope well of the part preceding. Every man who can do any- thing in the translating way is pretty sure to set off with spirit ; but in w T orks of such a length, there is always danger of flagging near the close. » My subscription I hope will be more pow erfully promoted than subscriptions generally are. I have a warm and affectionate friend in Lady Hesketh ; and one equally disposed, and even still more able to serve me, in the General above mentioned. The Bagot fam- ily all undertake my cause with ardor ; and I have several others, of whose ability and good will I could not doubt without doing them injustice. It will however be necessary to bestow yet much time on the revisal of this work, for many reasons ; !&nd especially, because he who contends with Pope upon Homer's ground can of all writers least afford to be negligent. Mr. Scott brought me as much as he could remember of a kind message from Lord Dart- mouth : but it was rather imperfectly de- livered. Enough of it however came to hand to convince me that his lordship takes a friendly interest in my success. When his lordship and I sat side by side, on the sixth form at Westminster, we little thought that in process of time one of us was ordained to give a new translation of Homer. Yet at that very time it seems I was laying the foundation of this superstructure. Much love upon all accounts to you and yours. Adieu, my friend, W. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Olney, Jan. 15, 1786. My dear Friend, — I have just time to give * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. 243 rou a hasty line to explain to you the delay that the publication of my proposals has un- expectedly encountered, and at which I sup- pose that you'have been somewhat surprised. I have a near relation in London, and a warm friend in General Cowper; he is also a person as able as willing to render me mate- rial service. I lately made him acquainted with my design of sending into the world a lew Translation of Homeland told him that my papers would soon attend him. He soon after desired that I would annex to them a specimen of the work. To this I at first ob- jected, for reasons that need not be enume- rated here, but at last acceded to his advice ; and accordingly the day before yesterday I sent him a specimen. It consists of one hundred and seven lines, and is taken from the interview between Priam and Achilles in the last book. I chose to extract from the latter end of the poem, and as near to the close of it as possible, that I might encourage a hope in the readers of it, that if they found it in some degree worthy of their approbation, they would find the former parts of The work not less so. For if a writer flags anywhere, it must, be when he is near the end. My subscribers will have an option given them in the proposals respecting- the price. My predecessor in the same business was not quite so moderate. You may say, per- haps (at least if your kindness for me did not prevent it, you would be ready to say.) " It is well — but do you place yourself on a level with Pope ?" I answer, or rather should answer, " By no means — not as a poet; but as a translator of Homer, if I did not expect and believe that I should even surpass him, why have I meddled with this matter at all ? If I confess inferiority, I reprobate my own undertaking." When I can hear of the rest of the bishops 'hat they preach and live as your bi'other does, I will think more respectfully of them than I feel inclined to do at present. They may be learned, and I know that some of them are ; but your brother, learned as he is, has other more powerful recommendations. Persuade him to publish his poetry, and I promise you that he shall find as warm and sincere an ad- mirer in me as in any man that lives. Yours, my dear friend, Very affectionately, W. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Olney, Jan. 23, 1786. My dear and faithful friend, — . The paragraph that I am now beginnin.g m ! contain information of a kind that I am not very fond of communicating, and on a subject that I am not very fond of writing \bout. On to vou T will open my budget without any reserve, because I know that ir. what concerns my authorship you take an in- terest that demands my confidence, and will be pleased with every occurrence that is at all propitious to my endeavors. Lady Hesketh, who, had she as many mouths as Virgil's Fame, with a tongue in each, would employ them all in my service, writes me word that Dr. Maty, of the Museum, has read my " Task." I cannot, even to you, relate what he says of it, though, when I began this story, I thought I had courage enough to tell it boldly. He designs, however, to give his opinion of it in his next Monthly Review; and, being informed that I was about to finish a translation of Homer, asked her ladyship's leave to mention the circumstance on that occasion. This in- cident pleases me the more, because I have authentic intelligence of his being a critical character, in all its forms, acute, sour, and blunt, and so incorruptible withal, and so un- susceptible of bias from undue motives, that, as my correspondent informs me, he would not praise his own mother, did he not think she deserved it. The said " Task" is likewise gone to Ox- ford, conveyed thither by an intimate friend of Dr. , with a purpose of putting it into his hands. My friend, what will they do with me at Oxford ? Will they burn me at Carfax, or will they anthematize me with bell, book, and candle ? I can say with more truth thai: Ovid did — Parve, nee invideo. The said Dr. has been heard to say and I give you his own words, (stop both your ears while I utter them,) " that Homer has never been translated, and that Pope was a fool." Very irreverend language, to be sure, but, in consideration of the subject on which he used them, we will pardon it, even in a dean.* One of the masters of Eton told a friend of mine lately, that a translation of Homer is much wanted. So now you have all my news. Yours, my dear friend, cordially, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, Jan. 31, 178& It is very pleasant, my dearest Cousin, U receive *a present so delicately conveyed as that which I received so lately from Anony- mous-; but it is also very painful to have nobody to thank for it, I find myself, there- fore, driven by stress of necessity to the fol- lowing resolutions, viz., that I will constitute you my thanks-receiver-general, for whatso- ever gift I shall receive hereafter, as well as for those that I have already received from a nameless benefactor. I therefore thank you, * The person here alluded to is Dr. Cyril Jackson, dean of Christ Church, Oxford, a man of profound acquire- ments and of great classical taste. He was formerly pro- ceptor to the Prince of Wales, afterwards Georre TV 244 COWPER'S WORKS. my cousin, for a most elegant present, includ- ing the most elegant compliment that ever poet was honored with; for a snuff-box of tortoise-shell, with a beautiful landscape on the lid of it, glazed with crystal, having the figures of three hares in the fore ground, and inscribed above with these word.-, The Peas- ants Nest — and below with these, Tiney, Puss, and Bess. For all and every of these I thank you, and also for standing proxy on this occasion. Nor must I forget to thank you, that so soon after I had sent you the first letter of Anonymous, I received another in the same hand. — There ! Now I am a little easier. I have almost conceived a design to send up half a dozen stout country fellows, to tie by the leg to their respective bed-posts, the company that so abridges your opportunity of writing to me. Your letters are the joy of my heart, and I cannot endure to be robbed, by I know not whom, of half my treasure. But there is no comfort without a drawback, and therefore it is that I, who have unknown friends, have unknown enemies also. Ever since I wrote last, I find myself in better health, and my nocturnal spasms and fever considerably abated. I intend to write to Dr. Kerr on Thursday, that I may gratify him with an account of my amendment : for to him I know that it will be a gratification. Were he not a physician, I should regret that he lives so distant, for he is a most agreeable man ;f but, being what he is, it would be im- possible to have his company, even if he were a neighbor, unless in time of sickness, at which time, whatever charms he might have himself, my own must necessarily lose much of their effect on him. When I write to you, my dear, what I have already related to the General, I am always fearful lest I should tell you that for news with which you are well acquainted. For once, however, I will venture. On Wednes- day last I received from Johnson the MS. copy of a specimen that I had sent to the General, and inclosed in the same cover Notes upon it by an unknown critic. Johnson, in a short letter, recommended him to me as a man of unquestionable learning and ability. On pe- msal and consideration of his remarks, I found him such, and, having nothing so much •at heart as to give all possible security to yourself and the General that my work shall not come forth unfinished, I answered John- son that I would gladly submit my MS. to his friend. He is in truth a very clever fellow, perfectly a stranger to me, and one who, I promise you, will not spare for severity of animadversion, where he shall find occasion. \t is impossible for you, my dearest cousin, lo express a wish that I do not equally feel a * Dr. Kerr was an eminent physician, in great prac- tice, and resident at Northampton. wish to gratify. You are desirous that Maty should see a book of my Homer, and for thai reason, if Maty will see a book of it. he shall be welcome, although time is likely to be precious, and consequently any delay that ia not absolutely necessary as much as possible to be avoided. I am now revising the " Iliad." It is a business that will cost me four months, perhaps five : for I compare the very words as I go, and, if much alteration should* occur must transcribe the whole. The first book I have almost transcribed already. To these five months Johnson says that nine more must be added for printing, and upon my own ex- perience, I will venture to assure you that the tardiness of printers will make those nine months twelve. There is danger therefore that my subscribers may think that I make them wait too long, and that they who know me not, may suspect a bubble. How glad shall I be to read it over in an evening, book by book, as fast as I settle the copy, to you and to Mrs. Unwin ! She has been my touch- stone always, and without reference to her taste and judgment I have printed nothing. With one of you at each elbow, I should think myself the happiest of all poets. The General and I, having broken the ice, are upon the most comfortable terms of cor- respondence. He writes very affectionately to me, and I say everything that comes up- permost. I could not write frequently to any creature living upon any other terms than those. He tells me of infirmities that he has, which make him less active than he was. I am sorry to hear that he has any such. Alas alas ! he was young when I saw him, only twenty years ago. I have the most affectionate letter imagina- ble from Colman, who writes to me like a brother. The Chancellor is yet dumb. May God have you in his keeping, my be- loved cousin. Farewell, W. C. Lady Hesketh having announced her in- tention of paying a visit to Cowper, the fol- lowing letters abound in all that delightful anticipation which the prospect of renewing so endeared an intercourse naturally sug- gested. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, Feb. 9, 1786. My dearest Cousin, — I have been impa- tient to tell you that I am impatient to see you again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in all my feelings upon this subject, and longs also to see you. I should have told you so by the last post, but have been so completely occupied by this tormenting speci- men, that it was impossible to do it. I sent the General a letter on Monday that would LIFE OF COWPER. 24d 'jstress .and alarm him ; I sent him another yesterday, that will, I hope, quiet him again. Johnson nas apologized very civilly for the multitude of his friend's strictures; and his friend has promised to confine himself in future to a comparison with the original, so chat (I 'doubt not) we shall jog on merrily together. And now, my dear, let me tell 7011 ori£e more that your kindness in prom- ising us a visit has charmed us both. I shall Sie you again. I shall hear your voice. We shall take walks together. I will show you my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse, and its banks, everything that I have aescribed. I anticipate the pleasure of those days not very far distant, and feel a part of it at this moment. Talk not of an inn ! Mention it not for your life ! We have never had so many visitors but we could easily accommodate them all, though we kave received Unwin, and his wife, and his sister, and his son, all at once. My dear, I will not let you come till the end of May, or beginning oi* June, because, before that time my green-house will not be ready to receive us, and it is the only pleasant room belong- ing to us. When the plants go out, we go in. I line it with mats, and spread the floor with mats ; and there you shall sit. with a bed of mignonette at your side, and a hedge of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine ; and I will make you a bouquet of myrtle every day. Sooner than the time 1 mention the country will not be in complete beauty. And I will tell you what you shall find at your first entrance. Imprimis, as soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a look on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box of my making. It is the box in which have been lodged all my hares, and in which lodges Puss at present. But he, poor fellow, is worn out with age, and promises to die before you can see him. On the right hand stands a cupboard, the work of the same author ; it was once a dove-cage, but 1 transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table, which I also made. But, a merciless servant having scrubbed it until it became paralytic, it serves no pur- pose now but of ornament ; and all my clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the farther end of this superb vestibule, you will find the door of the parlor, into which I will conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs. Unwin, unless we should meet her before, and where we will be as happy as the- day is long. Order yourself, my cousin, to the Swan, at Newport, and there you shall find me ready to conduct you to -Olney. My dear, I have told Homer what you say about casks and urns, and have asked him whether he is sure that it is a cask in which T upiter keeps his wine. He swears that it is a cask, and that it will never be anything better than a cask to eternity. So if the god is content with it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be so too. Adieu ! my deare et. dearest Cousin, W. C. TO LA7»Y HESKETH. Olney, Feb. 11, 1786. Jly dearest Cousin, — It must be, I sup- pose, a fortnight or thereabout since I wrote last, I feel myself so alert and so ready to write again. Be that as it may, here I come. We talk of nobody but you, what we will do with you when we get you, where you shall walk, where you shall sleep, in short every- thing that bears the remotest relation to your well-being at Olney occupies all our talking time, which is all that I do not spend at Troy. I have every reason for writing to you as often as I can, but I have a particular reason for doing it now. I want to tell you, that by the diligence on Wednesday next, I mean to send you a quire of my Homer for Maty's perusal. It will contain the first book, and as much of the second as brings us to the catalogue of the ships, and is every morsel of the revised copy that I have transcribed. My dearest cousin, read it yourself, let the General read it, do what you please with it, so that it reach Johnson in due time. But let Maty be the only Critic that has anything to do with it. The vexation, the perplexity, that attends a multiplicity of criticisms by various hands, many of which are sure to be futile, many of them ill-founded, and some of them contradictory to others, is incon- ceivable, except by the author whose ill-fated work happens to be the subject of them. This also appears to me self-evident, that if a work have passed under the review of one man of taste and learning, and have had the good fortune to please him, his approbation gives security for that of all others qualified like himself. I speak thus, my dear, after having just escaped from such a storm of trouble, occasioned by endless remarks, hints, suggestions, and objections, as drove me al- most to despair, and to the very verge of a resolution to drop my undertaking forever. With infinite difficulty I at last sifted the chaff from the wheat, availing myself of what appeared to me to be just, and rejected the rest, but not till the labor and anxiety had nearly undone all that Kerr had been doing for me. My beloved cousin, trust me for it, as you safely may, that temper, vanity and self-importance, had nothing to do in all this distress that I suffered. It was merely the effect of an alarm that I could not help taking, when I compared the great trouble I had with a few lines only, thus handled, with that which I foresaw such handling of the whole must necessarily give me. I felt be- forehand that my constitution would not bear it. I shall send up this second speci- men in a box that I have made on purpose ; ind when Maty has done with the copy, and you have done with it yourself, then you must return it in said box to my translator- ship. Though Johnson's friend has teased me sadly, I verily believe that I shall have no more such cause to complain of hyn. We now understand one another, and I firmly believe that I might have gone the world through before I had found his equal in an accurate and familiar acquaintance with the original. A letter to Mr. Urban in the last Gentle- man's Magazine, of which I's book is the sub- ject, pleases me more than anything I have seen in the way of eulogium yet. I have no guess of the author. I do not wish to remind the Chancellor of his promise. Ask you why, my Cousin? Because I suppose it would be impossible. He has, no doubt, forgotten it entirely, and would be obliged to take my word for the truth of it, which I could not bear. We drank tea together with Mrs. C e, and her sister, in King-street, Bloomsbury, and there was the promise made. I said, " Thur- low, I am nobody, and shall be always no- body, and you will be Chancellor. You shall provide for me when you are.'' He smiled, and replied, " I surely will." " These ladies," said I, " are witnesses." He still smiled, and said, " Let them be so, for I certainly will do it." But alas ! twenty-four years have passed since the day of the date thereof; and to mention it now would be to upbraid him with inattention to his plighted troth. Nei- ther do I suppose that he could easily serve such a creature as I am, if he would. Adieu, whom I love entirely, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, Feb. 18, 1786. My dear Friend, — I feel myself truly obliged to you for the leave that you give me to be less frequent in my writing, and more brief than heretofore. I have a long work upon my hands; and standing engaged to the public (for by this time I suppose my subscription papers to be gone abroad, not only for the performance of it, but for the performance of it in a reasonable time), it seems necessary to me not to intermit it »ften. My correspondence has also lately been renewed with several of my relations, and unavoidably engrosses now and then one of the few opportunities that I can find * I fivate correspondence. for writing. I nevertheless intend, in t*l exchange of letters with you, to be as reg« ular as I can be, and to use, like a friend, the friendly allowance that you have made me. My reason for giving notice of an Odyssey as well as an Iliad, was this ■ I feared that the public being left to doubt whether I should ever translate the former, would be unwilling to treat with me for the latter ; which they would be apt to consider as an odd volume, and unworthy to stand upon their shelves alone. It is hardly probable, however, that I should begin the Odyssty for some months to come, being now closely en- gaged in the revisal of my translation of the Iliad, which I compare as I go most minutely with the original. One of the great defects of Pope's translation is that it is licentious. To publish therefore a translation now, that should be at all chargeable with the same fault, that were not indeed as close and as faithful as possible, would be only actum agere, and had therefore better be left un- done. Whatever be said of mine when it shall appear, it shall never be said that it is not faithful. I thank you heartily, both for your wishes and prayers that, should a disappointment occur, I may not be too much hurt by it. Strange as it may seem to say it, and un- willing as I should be to say it to any person less candid than ycurself, I will nevertheless say that I have not entered on this work, un- connected as it must needs appear with the interests of the cause of God, without the direction of his providence, nor altogether unassisted by him in the performance of it. Time will show to what it ultimately tends. I am inclined to believe that it has a ten- dency to which I myself am at present per- fectly a stranger. Be that as it may, h*: knows my frame, and will consider that I am but dust; dust, into the bargain, that has been so trampled under foot and beaten, that a storm, less violent than an unsuccessfu issue of such a business might occasion, would be sufficient to blow me quite away. But I will tell you honestly, I have no fears upon the subject. My predecessor has given me every advantage. As I know not tc what end this my pres- ent occupation may finally lead, so nei-thei did I know, when I wrote it, or at all suspect one valuable end at least that was to be an- swered by " The Task." It has pleased God to prosper it ; and, being composed in blank verse, it is likely to prove as seasonable an introduction to a blank verse Homer by ths same hand as any that could have been de vised; yet, when I wrote the last line ol "The Task," I as little suspected that 1 should ever engage in a version of the oM Asiatic tale as you do now. LIFE OF COWPER. 24, I should choose for your general motto : — Carmina turn melius, cum venerit ipse, canemus. For Vol. L— Unum pro multis dabitur caput. For Vol. II.— Aspice, venturo 1 etentur ut omnia sseclo. It seems to me that you cannot have bet- ter than these. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, Feb. 19, 1786. My dearest Cousin, — Since so it must be, so it shall be. If you will not sleep under the roof of a friend, may you never sleep under the roof of an enemy! An enemy, however, you will not presently find. Mrs. Unwin bids me mention her affectionately, and tell you that she willingly gives up a part, for the sake of the rest — willingly, at least as far as willingly may consist with some reluctance : I feel my reluctance too. Our design was that you should have slept in the room that serves me for a study, and its having been occupied by you would have been an additional recommendation of it to me. But all reluctances are superseded by the thought of seeing you ; and because we have nothing so much at heart as the wish to see you happy and comfortable, we are desirous therefore to accommodate you to your own mind, and not to ours. Mrs. Un- win has already secured for you an apart- ment, or rather two, just such as we could wish. The house in which you will find them is within thirty yards of our own, and opposite to it. The whole affair is thus commodiously adjusted; and now I have nothing to do but to wish for June; and June, my Cousin, was never so wished for since June was made. I shall have a thou- sand things to hear, and a thousand to say, and they will all rush into my mind together, till it will be so crowded with things im- patient to be said, that for some time I shall say nothing. But no matter — sooner or later they will all come out ; and since we shall have you the'longer for not having you under our own roof (a circumstance that more than anything reconciles us to that measure), they will stand the better chance. After so long a separation, — a separation that of late seemed likely to last for life — we bhall meet each other as alive from the dead ; and for my own part, I can truly say, that I have not a friend in the other world whose resurrection wou.d give me greater pleasure. I am truly happy, my dear, in having pleased you with what you have seen of my Homer I wish that all English readers had your un. sophisticated, or rather unadulterated taste and could relish simplicity like you. But 1 am well aware that in this respect I am undei a disadvantage, and that many, especially many ladies, missing many turns and pretti- nesses of expression, that they have admired in Pope, will account my translation in those particulars defective. But I comfort myself with the thought, that in reality it is no de- fect ; on the contrary, that the want of all such embellishments as do not belong to the original, will be one of its principal merits with persons indeed capable of relishing Ho- mer. He is the best poet that ever lived for many reasons, but for none more than for that majestic plainness that distinguishes him from all others. As an accomplished person moves gracefully without thinking of it, in like manner the dignity of Homer seems to cost him no labor. It was natural to him to say great things, and to say them well and little ornaments were beneath his notice. If Maty, my dearest cousin, should return to you my copy, with any such strictures as may make it necessary for me to see it again, before it goes to Johnson, in that case you shall send it to me, otherwise to John- son immediately ; for he writes me word he wishes his friend to go to work upon it as soon as possible. When you come, my dear, we will hang all these critics together; fo* they have worried me without remorse or conscience. At least one of them has. I had actually murdered more than a few of the best lines in the specimen, in compliance with his requisitions, but plucked up my courage at last, and, in the very last oppor- tunity that I had, recovered them to life again by restoring the original reading. At the same time I readily confess that the spe- cimen is the better for all this discipline its author has undergone, but then it has been more indejbted for its improvement to that pointed accuracy of examination to which I was myself excited, than to any proposed amendments from Mr. Critic ; for, as sure as you are my cousin, whom I long to see at Olney, so surely would he have done me ir- reparable mischief, if I would have given him leave. My friend Bagot writes to me in a most friendly strain, and calls loudly upon me for original poetry. When I shall have done with Homer, probably he will not call in vain. Having found the prime feather of a swan on the banks of the smug and silver Trent^ he keeps ft for me. Adieu, dear Cousin, W. C. I am sorry that the General has such indif- ferent hea.th. He must not die. I can by no means spare a person so kind to me. 248 COWPER'S WORKS. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Olney, Feb. 27, 1786. Alas ! alas ! my dear, dear friend, may God nimself comfort you ! I will not be so ab- surd as to attempt it .* By the close of your letter, it should seem that in this hour of great trial he withholds not his consolations from you. I know, by experience, that they are neither few nor small; and though I feel for you as I never felt for man before, yet do I sincerely rejoice in this, that, where- as there is but one true comforter in the uni- verse, under afflictions such as yours, you both know Him, and know where to seek Him. I thought you a man the most happily mated that I had ever seen, and had great pleasure in your felicity. Pardon me, if now I feel a wish that, short as my ac- quaintance with her was, I had never seen her. I should have mourned with you, but not as I do now. Mrs. Unwin sympathizes with you also most sincerely, and you nei- ther are nor will be soon forgotten in such prayers as we can make at Olney. I will not detain you longer now, my poor afflict- ed friend, than to commit you to the tender mercy of God, and to bid you a sorrowful adieu! Adieu ! Ever yours, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, March 6, 1786. My dearest Cousin, — Your opinion has more weight with me than that of all the critics in the world ; and, to give you a proof of it, I make you a concession that I would hardly have made to them all united. I do not indeed absolutely covenant, promise, and agree, that I will discard all my elisions, but I hereby bind myself to dismiss as many of them as, without sacrificing energy to sound, I can. It is incumbent upon me in the mean- time to say something in justification o*t* the few that I shall retain, that I may not seem a poet mounted rather on a mule than on Pegasus. In the first place, The is a barba- rism. We are indebted for it to the Celts, or the Goths, or to the Saxons, or perhaps to them all. In the two best languages that ever were spoken, the Greek and the Latin, there is no similar incumbrance of expres- sion to be found. Secondly, the perpetual use of it in our language is, to us miserable poets, attended with two great inconve- niences. Our verse consisting only of ten syllables, it not unfrequenly happens that the fifth part of a line is to be engrossed, and necessarily too, unless elision prevents it, by this abominable intruder, and, which is worse on my account, open vowels are con- tinually the consequence — The element — * Mr. Bagot had recently sustained the loss of his wife. The air, &c. Thirdly, the French, who are equally with the English chargeable with barbarism in this particular, dispose of their he and their ha without ceremony, and al ways take care that they shall be absorbed, both in verse and in prose, in the vowel that immediately follows them. Fourthly, a^d I believe lastly, (and for your sake I wish it may prove so,) the practice of cutting short The is warranted by Milton, who of all Eng- lish poets that ever lived, had certainly the finest ear. Dr. Warton indeed has dared to say that he had a bad one, for which he de- serves, as far as critical demerit can deserve it, to lose his own. I thought I had done, but there is still a fifthly behind ; and it is this, that the custom of abbreviating The, belongs to the style in which, in my adver- tisement annexed to the specimen, I profes* to write. The use of that style would have warranted me in the practice of much greater liberty of this sort than I ever intended to take. In perfect consistence with that style, .1 might say, T' th' tempest, I' th' doorway, &c, which, however, I would not allow my- self to do, oecause I was aware that it would be objected to, and with reason. But it seems to me, for the causes above-said, that when I shorten The, before a vowel, or before wh, as in the line you mention, " Than th' whole broad Hellespont in all ita parts," my license is not equally exceptionable, be- cause W, though he rank as a consonant, in the word whole, is not allowed to announce himself to the ear ; and H is an aspirate. But as I said in the beginning, so say I still, I am most willing to conform myself to your very sensible observation, that it is necessary, if we would please, to consult the taste of ou own day ; neither would I have pelted you, my dearest cousin, with any part of this vol- ley of good reasons, had I not designed them as an answer to those objections, which you say you have heard from others. But I only mention them. Though satisfactory to myself, I waive them, and will allow to The his whole dimensions, whensoever it can be done. Thou only critic of my verse that is to be found in all the earth, whom I love, what shall I say in answer to your own objection to that passage ? " Softly he placed his hand On th' old man's hand, and pushed it gently away." I can say neither more nor less than this, that when our dear friend, the General, sent me his opinion on the specimen, quoting those very words from it, he added — " With this part I was particularly pleased : there ia nothing in poetry more descriptive." Such LIFE OF COWPER. 24* tfere his very words. Taste, my dear, is various; there is «iothing so various; and even between persons of the best taste there are diversities of opinion on the same sub- ject, for which it is not possibl-e to account. So much for these matters. You advice me to consult the General and to confide in him. , I follow your advice, and have done both. By the last post I asked his permission to send him the books of my Homer, as fast as I should finish them off. I shall be glad of his remarks, and more glad, than of anything, to do that which I hope may be agreeable to him. They will of course pass into your hands before they are sent to Johnson. The quire that I sent is now in the hands of Johnson's friend. I intended to have told you in my last, but forgot it, that Johnson behaves very hand- somely in the affair of my two volumes. He acts with a liberality not often found in persons of his occupation, and to mention it when occasion calls me to it is a justice due to him. I am very much pleased with Mr. Stanley's letter — several compliments were paid me on the subject of that first volume by my own friends, but I do not recollect that I ever knew the opinion of a stranger about it before, whether favorable or otherwise ; I only heard by a side wind that it was very much read in Scotland, and more than here. Farewell, my dearest cousin, whom we ex- pect, of whom we talk continually, and whom we continually long for. W. C. P. S. Your anxious wishes for my success delight me, and you may rest assured, my dear, that I have all the ambition on the sub- ject that you can wish me to feel. I more than admire my author. I often stand as- tonished at his beauties : I am forever amused with the translation of him, and I have re- ceived a thousand encouragements. These are all so .many happy omens that I hope shall be verified by the event. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, March 13, 1786. My dear Friend, — I seem to be about to write to you, but I foresee that it will not be a letter, but a scrap that I shall send you. I could tell you things, that, knowing how much you interest yourself in my success, I am sure would please you, but every mo- ment of my leisure is necessarily spent at Troy. I am revising my translation, and be- stowing on it more labor than at first. At the repeated solicitation of General Cowper, who had doubtless irrefragable reason on his side, I have put my book into the hands of the most extraordinary critic that I have ever fcetird of. He is a Swiss; has an accurate knowledge of English, and, for his knowledge of Homer, has I verily believe no fellow Johnson recommended him to me. I am to send him the quires as fast as I finish them off, and the first is now in his hands. I have the comfort to be able to tell you that he is very much pleased with what he has seen ■ Johnson wrote to me lately on purpose to tell me so. Things having taken this turn, I fear that I must beg a release from my en- gagement to put the MS. into your hands. I am bound to print as soon as three hundred shall have subscribed, and consequently have not an hour to spare. People generally love to go where they are admired, yet Lady Hesketh complains of not having seen you. Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, April 1, 1786. My dear Friend, — I have made you wait long for an answer, and am now obliged to write in a hurry. But, lest my longer silence should alarm you, hurried as I am, still ] write. I told you, if I mistake not, that the circle of my correspondence has lately been enlarged, and it seems still increasing ; which, together with my poetical business, makes an hour a momentous affair. Pardon an un- intentional pun. You need not fear for my health : it suffers nothing by my employment. We who in general see no company are at present in expectation of a great deal, at least, if three different visits may be called so. Mr. and Mrs. Powley, in the first place, are preparing for a journey southward. She is far from well, but thinks herself well enough to travel, and feels an affectionate impatience for another sight of Olney.f In the next place, we expect, as soon as the season shall turn up bright and warm, General Cowper and his son. I have not seen him these twenty years and upwards, but our intercourse, having been lately revived, is like- ly to become closer, warmer, and more inti mate than ever. Lady Hesketh also comes down in June, and if she can be accommodated with anything in the shape of a dwelling at Olney, talks of making it always, in part, her summer resi- dence. It has pleased God that I should, like Joseph, be put into a well, and, because there are no Midianites in the way to deliver me, therefore my friends are coming down into the well to see me. I wish you, we both wish you, all happi- ness in your new habitation: at least you will be sure to find the situation more com- modious. I thank you for all your hints concerning my work, which shall be riu. v at * Private correspondence, f Mrs. Unwin's daughter. 250 COWPER'S WORKS. tended to. You may assure all whom it may concern, that all offensive elisions will be done away. With Mrs. Unwin's love to yourself and Mrs. Newton, I remain, my dear friend, affectionately yours, W. C. The friends of Cowper were not without alarm at his engaging in so lengthened and perilous an undertaking as a new version of the Iliad, when the popular translation of Pope seemed to render such an attempt su- perfluous. To one of his correspondents, who -urged this objection, he makes the fol- lowing reply. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, April 5, 1786. I did, as you suppose, bestow all possible consideration on the subject of an apology for my Homerican undertaking. I turned the matter about in my mind a hundred dif- ferent ways, and, in every way in which it would present itself, found it an impractica- ble business. It is impossible for me, with what delicacy soever I may manage it, to state the objections that lie against Pope's translation, without incurring odium and the imputation of arrogance ; foreseeing this dan- ger, I choose to say nothing. W. C. P. S. You may well wonder at my cour- age, who have undertaken a work of such enormous length. You would wonder more if you knew that I translated the whole Iliad with no other help than a Clavis. But I .lave since equipped myself better for this immense journey, and am revising the work in company with a good commentator. The motives which induced Cowper to en- gage in a new version of the Iliad originated in the conviction, that, however Pope's trans- lation might be embellished with harmonious numbers, and all the charm and grace of po- etic diction, it failed in being a correct and faithful representation of that immortal pro- duction. Its character is supposed to be just- ly designated by its title of "Pope's Homer." It is not the Homer of the heroic ages ; it does not express his majesty — his unadorned, yet sublime simplicity. It is Homer in modern costume, decked in a court dress, and in the trappings of refined taste aud fashion. His sententious brevity, which possesses the art of conveying much compressed in a short space, is also expanded and dilated, till it re- sembles a paraphrase, and an imitation, rather than a just and accurate version of its ex- pressive and speaking original. We believe this to be the general estimate of the merits *f Pope's translation. Profound scholars, and one especially, whose discriminating taste and judgment conferred *ithority on his de- cision, Dr. Cyril Jackson (formerly the well' known Dean of Christ Church, Oxford), con- cur in this opinion. But notwithstanding this redundance of artificial ornament, and the " labored elegance of polished version," the translation of Pope will perhaps always re- tain its pre-eminence, and be considered what Johnson calls it, " the noblest version of po- etry which the world has ever seen," and " its publication one of the greatest events in the annals of learning."* Of the merits of Cowper's translation, we shall have occasion hereafter to speak. But rt is due to the cause of sound criticism, and to the merited claims of his laborious under- taking, to declare that he who would wish to know and understand Homer must seek for him in the expressive and unadorned version of Cowper. i In the course of the following letters we shall discover many interesting particulars of the progress of this undertaking. Cowper was now looking forward with great anxiety, to the promised visit of Lady Hesketh. The followiug letter adverts to the preparations making at the vicarage at. Olney for her reception ; and to her delicate mode of administering to his personal com- forts and enjoyments. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, April 17, 1786. My dearest Cousin, — If you will not quote Solomon, my dearest cousin, I will. He says, and as beautifully as truly — "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick, but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life !" I feel how much reason he had on his side when he made this observation, and am myself sick of your fort- night's delay. The vicarage was built by Lord Dartmouth, and was not finished till some time after we arrived at Olney, consequently it is new. It is a smart stone building, well sashed, by much too good for the living, but just what 1 would wish for you. It has, as. you justly concluded from my premises, a garden, but rather calcu- lated for use than ornament. It is square, and well walled, but has neither arbor nor alcove nor other shade, except the shadow of the house. But we have two gardens, which are yours. Between your mansion and ours is in- terposed nothing but an orchard, into which a door, opening out of our garden, affb *ds ua the easiest communication imaginable, will save the round about by the town, and make both houses one. Your chamber windows * See Johnson's Life of Pope. The original manu- script copy of Pope's translation is deposited in the British Museum. LIFE OF COWPER. 25i rfook over the river, and over the meadows, to a village called Embert )n, and command the whole length of a long bridge, described by a certain poet, together with a view of the road at a distance.* Should you wish for books at Olney, vja must bring them with you, or you will wish in vain, for I have none but the works of a certain poet. Cowper, of whom, perhaps, you have heard, and they are as yet but two volumes. They may multiply hereafter, but at present they are no more. You are the first person for whom I have heard Mrs. Unwin express such feelings as she does for you. She is not profuse in pro- fessions, nor forward to enter into treaties of friendship with new feces, but when her friendship is once engaged, it may be con- fided in, even unto death. She loves you already, and how much more will she love you before this time twelvemonth! I have indeed endeavored to describe you to her, but, perfectly as I have you by heart. I am sensible that my picture cannot do you jus- tice. I never saw one that did. Be you what you may. you are much beloved, and will be so at Olney. and Mrs. U. expects you with the pleasure that one feels at the return of a long absent, dear relation ; that is to say, with a pleasure such as mine. She sends you her warmest affections. On Friday, I received a letter from dear Anonymous.! apprizing me of a parcel that the coach would bring me on Saturday. Who is there in the world that has, or thinks he has reason to love me to the degree that he does ? But it is no matter. He chooses to oe unknown, and his choice is, and ever shall oe so sacred to me, that, if his name lay on the table before me reversed, I would not turn the paper about, that I might read it. Much as it would gratify me to thank him, I >vould turn my eyes away from the forbidden discovery. I long to assure him that those same eyes, concerning which he expresses such kind apprehensions, lest they should suf- fer by this laborious undertaking, are as well as I could expect them to be, if 1 were never to touch either book or pen. Subject to weakness and occasional slight inflammations t is probable that they will always be, but I cannot remember the time when they enjoyed anything so like an exemption from thr.se in- firmities as at present. One would almost suppose that reading Homer were the best ophthalmic in the world. I should be happy .o remove his solicitude en the subject, but 't is a pleasure that he will not let me enjoy. * Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge That wift its wearisome but needful lenarth Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright The Task, Book IV. + Lady Hesketh adopted this delicate mode of extend- tag her kindness to the Poet. Well then, I will be content without it ; and so content, that though I believe you, my dear, to be in full possession of all this mys- tery, you shall never know me, while you live, either directly or by hints of any sort, attempt to extort or to steal the secret from you : I should think myself as justly punishable aa the Bethshemites, for looking into the ark, which they were not allowed to touch. I have not sent for Kerr* for Kerr can do nothing but send me to Bath, and to Bath ] cannot go for a thousand reasons. The sum- mer will set me up again ; I grow fat every day, and shall be as big as Gog or Magog, op both put together, before you come. I did actually live three years with Mr. Chapman, a solicitor, that is to say, I slept three years in his house, but I lived, that is to say, I spent my days in Southampton Row, as you very well remember. There was I, and the future Lord Chancellor, constantly employed from morning to night in o-iggling and making giggle, instead of studying the law. O fie. cousin ! how could you do so ? I am pleased with Lord Thurlow's inquiries about me. If he takes it int# that inimitable head of his, he may make a man of me yet. I could love him heartily, if he would de- serve it at my hands. That I did so once is certain. The Duchess of , who in the world set her agoing ? But if all the duch- esses in the world were spinning, like so many whirligigs, for my benefit, I would not stop them. It is a noble thing to be a poet, it makes all the world so lively. I might have preached more sermons than even Til- lotson did, and better, and the world would have been still fast asleep, but a volume of verse is a fiddle that puts the universe in motion. Yours, My dear friend and cousin, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, April 24, 1786. Your letters are so much my comfort, that I often tremble lest by Occident I should be disappointed ; and the more because vou have been, more than once, so engaged in company on the writing day, that I have had a narrow escape. Let me give you a piece of good counsel, my cousin : follow my laud- able example, write when you can. take time's forelock in one hand, and a pen in the other, and so make sure of your opportunity. It is well for me that you write faster than any- body, and more in an hour than other people in two, else I know not what would become of me. When I read your letters, I hear you talk, and I love talking letters dearly, es- pecially from you. Well ! the middle of June * Dr. Kerr, of Northampton. 252 COWPER'S WORKS. will not be always a thousand years off, and when it comes I shall hear you, and see you too, and shall not care a farthing then if you do not touch a pen in a month. By 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 hear*-,) you must not forget, that I boast my- self a Cowper too, and have my humors, 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 |o see the letter you promise me, for, though I met with a morsel of praise last week, I do not know that the week cur- rent 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 ar- rive. It will therefore be very opportune. The morsel above alluded to came from — whom 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 hither 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 of 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! W. C. P. S. 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 bottk but a few more weeks, and then ! TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, May 8, 1786. I did not at all doubt that your tenderness for my feelings had inclined you to suppress in your letters to me the intelligence con- cerning Maty's critique, that yet reached me from another quarter. When 1 wrote to you, I had not learned it from the General, but from my friend Bull, who only knew it by- hearsay. The next post brought me the news of it from the first mentioned, and tht critique itself inclosed. Together with it came also a squib discharged against me in the " Public Advertiser." The General's let ter found me in one of my most melancholy moods, and my spirits did not rise on the re- ceipt of it. The letter indeed that he had cut from the newspaper gave me little pain, both because it contained nothir formida- ble, though written with malevolence enough, and because a nameless author can have no more weight with his readers than the reason which he has on his side can give him. But Maty's animadversions hurt me more. In part they appeared to me unjust, and in part ill-natured, and yet, the man himself being an oracle in everybody's account, I appre- hended that he had done me much mischief Why he says that the translation is far from exact is best known to himself. For I know it to be as exact as is compatible with poetry ; and prose translations of Homer are not wanted, the world has one already. But I will not fill my letter to you with hypercriti- cisms, I will only add an extract from a letter of Colman's, that I received last Friday, and will then dismiss the subject. It came ac- companied by a copy of the specimen which he himself had amended, and with so much taste and candor that it charmed me. He says as follows : — " One copy I have returned, with some re- marks prompted by my zeal for your success, not, Heaven knows, by arrogance or imperti- nence. I know no other way, at once so plain and so short, of delivering my thoughts on the specimen of your translation, w T hich on the whole, I admire exceedingly, thinking it breathes the spirit and conveys the manner of the original; though having here neither Homer, nor Pope's Homer, I cannot speak precisely of particular lines or expressions, or compare your blank verse with his rhyme, except by declaring that I think blank verse infinitely more congenial to the magnificent simplicity of Homer's hexameters, than the confined couplets and the jingle of rhyme." His amendments are chiefly bestowed on the lines encumbered with elisions, and I LIFE OF COWPER. 25* vill just take this opportunity to tell you, tny dear, because I know you to be as much interested n what I write as myself, that some of tlie most offensive of these elisions were occasioned by mere criticism. I was fairly hunted into them, by vexatious objec- tions made without end, by and his friend, and altered, and altered, till at last I did not care how I altered. Many thanks for — 's verses, which deserve just the character you give of them. They are neat and easy — but I would mumble her well, if T could get at her, for allowing herself to suppose for a moment that I praised the chan- cellor with a view to emolument.* I wrote those stanzas merely for my own amuse- ment, and they slept in a dark closet years after I composed them ; not in the least de- signed for publication. But when Johnson had printed off the longer pieces, of which the first volume principally consists, he wrote me word that he wanted yet two thousand lines to swell it to a proper size. On that occasion it was that I collected every scrap of verse that I could find, and that among the rest. None of the smaller poems had Deen introduced, or had been published at all with my name, but for this necessity. Just as I wrote the last word, I was called down to Dr. Kerr, who came to pay me a voluntary visit. Were I sick, his cheerful and friendly manner would almost restore me. Air and exercise are his theme ; them he recommends as the best physic for me, and in all weathers. Come, therefore, my dear, and take a little of this good physic with me, for you will find it beneficial as well as I; come and assist Mrs. Unwin in the re-establishment of your cousin's health. Air and exercise, and she and you together, will make me a perfect Samson. You will have a good house over your head, comforta- ble apartments, obliging neighbors, good roads, a pleasant country, and in us, your constant companions, two who will love you, and do already love you dearly, and with all our hearts. If you are in any danger of trouble, it is from myself, if any fits of de- ection seize me ; and, as often as they do, /ou.will be grieved for me ; but perhaps by your assistance I shall be able to resist them better. If there is a creature under heaven. from whose co-operations with Mrs. Unwin I can reasonably expect such a blessing, that creature is yourself. I was not without such attacks when I lived in London, though at that time, they were less oppressive, but in your company I was never unhappy a whole day in all my life. Of hovv much importance is an author to Himself! I return to that abominable speci- men again, just to notice Maty's impatient * Sfce the verses on Lord Thurlow— ' Round Thu flow's head in early youth," &c. &c. censure of the repetition that you mention. I mean of the word hand. In the original there is not a rer/etition of it. But to repeat a word in that manner, and on such an occa- sion, is by no means (what he calls it) a modern invention. In Homer I could show him many such, and in Virgil they abound. Colman, who in his judgment of classical matters is inferior to none, says, " J know not why Maty objects to this expression.'''' I could easily change it. But, the case standing thus, I know not whether my proud stomach will condescend so low. I rather feel myself dis- inclined to it. One evening last week, Mrs. Unwin and I took our walk to Weston, and, as we were returning through the grove opposite the house, the Throckmortons presented them- selves -at the door. They are owners of a house at Weston, at present empty. It is a very good one, infinitely superior to ours. When we drank chocolate with them, they both expressed their ardent desire that we would take it, wishing to have us for nearer neighbors. If you, my cousin, were not so well provided for as you are, and at our very elbow, I verily believe I should have mus- tered all my rhetoric to recommend it to you. You might have it forever without danger of ejectment, whereas your posses- sion of the vicarage depends on the life of the vicar, who is eighty-six.* The environs are most beautiful, and the village itself one of the prettiest I ever saw. Add to this, you would step immediately into Mr. Throck- morton's pleasure-ground, where you would not soil your slipper even in winter. A most unfortunate mistake was made by that gen- tleman's bailiff in his absence. Just before he left Weston last year for the winter, he gave him orders to cut short the tops of the flowering shrubs, that lined a serpentine walk in a delightful grove, celebrated by my poet- ship in a little piece, that (you remember) was called " The Shrubbery."! The dunce, misapprehending the order, cut down and fagoted up the whole grove, leaving neither tree, bush, nor twig; nothing but stumps about as high as my ancle. Mrs. T. told us that she never saw her husband so angry in his life. I judge indeed by his physiognomy. which has great sweetness in it, that he is very little addicted to that infernal passion, but had he cudgelled the man for his cruel blunder and the havoc made in consequence of it, I could have excused him. I felt myself really concerned for the chan- cellors illness, and, from what I learned of it, both from the papers and from General Cowper, concluded that he must die. I am accordingly delighted in the same proportion with the news of his recovery. May he live, * The Rev. Moses Brown. t " O happy shades, &c. &c. 254 COWPER'S WORKS. and live to be still the support of government ! If it shall be his good pleasure to render me personally any material service, I have no ob- jection to it. But Heaven knows that it is impossible for any living wight to bestow less thought on that subject than myself. May God be ever with you, my beloved eousm W. C. The mingled feelings with which we meet a long absent friend, and the alternate sensa- tions of delight and nervous anxiety experi- enced as the long wished for moment ap- proaches, are expressed with singular feli- city in the following letter. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, May 15, 1786. My dearest Cousin, — From this very morn- ing I begin to date the last month of our long separation, and confidently and most comfort- ably hope, that before the 15th of June shall present itself we shall have seen each other. Is it not so ? And will it not be one of the most extraordinary eras of my extraordinary life ? A year ago, we neither corresponded nor expected to meet in this world. But this world is a scene of marvellous events, many of them more marvellous than fiction itself would dare to hazard ;* and, blessed be God ! they are not all of the distressing kind. Now and then, in the course of an existence whose hue is for the most part sable, a day turns up that makes amends for many sighs and many subjects of complaint. Such a day shall I account the day of your arrival at Olney. Wherefore is it (canst thou tell me ?) that, together with all those delightful sensations, to which the sight of a long absent dear friend gives birth, there is a mixture of some- thing painful, flutterings, and tumults, and I Know not what accompaniments of our pleas- ure, that are in fact perfectly foreign from the occasion ? Such I feel, when I think of our meeting, and such, I suppose feel you : and the nearer the crisis approaches, the more I am sensible of them. I know, beforehand, that they will increase with every turn of the wheels that shall convey me to Newport, when I shall set out to meet you, and that, when we shall actually meet, the pleasure, and this unaccountable pain together, will be as much as I shall be able to support. I am utterly at a loss for the cause, and can only resolve it into that appointment by which it has been foreordained that all human delights shall be qualified and mingled with their con- traries. For there is nothing formidable in you. To me at least there is nothing such, uo, not even in your menaces, unless when vc u threaten me to write no more. Nay, I * " Truth is strange, stranger than fiction." verily believe, did I not know you to be what yo.u are, and had less affection for you than I have, I should have fewer of these emotions, of which I would have none, if I could help it. But a fig for them all ! Let us resolve to combat with and to conquer them. They are dreams. They are illusions of the judg- ment. Some enemy, that hates the happi- ness of human kind, and is ever industrious to dash it, works them in us ; and their being so perfectly unreasonable as they are is a proof of it. Nothing that is such can be the work of a good agent. This I know too by experience, that, like all other illusions, they exist only by force of imagination, are in- debted for their prevalence to the absence of their object, and in a few moments after its appearance cease. So then this is a set- tled point, and the case stands thus. You will tremble as you draw near to Newport, and so shall I. But we will both recollect that there is no reason why we should ; and this recollection will at least have some little effect in our favor. We will likewise both taKe the comfort of what we know to be true, that the tumult will soon cease, and the pleasure long survive the pain, even as long, I trust, as we ourselves shall survive it. What you said of Maty gives me all the consolation that you intended. We both think it highly probable that you suggest the true cause'of his displeasure, when you suppose him mortified at not having had a part of the translation laid before him, ere the specimen was published. The General was very much hurt, and calls his censures harsh and unreasonable. He likewise sent me a consolatory letter on the occasion, in which he took the kindest pains to heal the wound that (he supposed) I might have suf- fered. I am not naturally insensible, and the sensibilities that I had by nature have been wonderfully enhanced by a long series of shocks given to a frame of nerves that was never very athletic. I feel accordingly, whe- ther painful or pleasant, in the extreme, am easily elevated, and easily cast down. The frown of the critic freezes my poetical pow- ers, and discourages me to a degree that makes me ashamed of my own weakness. Yet I presently recover my confidence again. The half of what you so kindly say in your last would, at any time, restore my spirits ; and, being said by you, is infallible. I am not ashamed to confess, that, having com- menced an author, I am most abundantly de- sirous to succeed as such. I have {what per- haps you Utile suspect me of) in my nature an infinite share of ambition. But- with it I rave, at the same time, as you well know, an equal share of diffidence. To this combination of opposite qualities it has been owing that, till lately, I stole through life without undertak- ing anything, yet always wishing to distin. guish myself. At last I ventured, ventured too in the only path that, at so late a period, was yet open to me ; and am determined, if God have not determined otherwise, to work my way, through the obscurity that has been so long my portion, into notice. Everything, therefore, that seems to threaten this my fa- vorite purpose with disappointment affects me nearly. I suppose that all ambitious minds are in the same predicament. He who seeks distinction must be sensible of disapprobation, exactly in the same propor- tion as he desires applause. And now, my precious cousin, I have unfolded my heart to you in this particular, without a speck of dissimulation. Some people, and good peo- ple too, would blame me. But you will not; and they (I think) would blame without just cause. We certainly do not honor God, when we bury, or when we neglect to im- prove, as far as we may, whatever talent he may have bestowed on us, whether it be lit- tle or much. In natural things, as well as in spiritual, it is a never-failing truth, that to him who hath (that is, to him who occupies what he hath diligently and so as to increase it) more shall be given. Set me down, there- fore, my dear, for an industrious rhymer, so long as I shall have the ability. For in this only way is it possible for me, so far as I can see, either to honor God, or to serve man, or even to serve myself. I rejoice to hear that Mr. Throckmorton wishes to be on a more intimate footing. I am shy, and suspect that he is not very much otherwise, and the consequence has been, that we have mutually wished an acquaint- ance without being able to accomplish it. Blessings on you for the hint that you dropped on the subject of the house at Wes- ton ! For the burthen of my song is — " Since we have met once again, let us never be separated, as we have been, more." W. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Olney, May 20, 1786. My dear Friend, — About three weeks since I met your sister Chester* at Mr. Throck- morton's, and from her learned that you are at Blithfield,f and in health. Upon the en- couragement of this information it is that I write now; I should not otherwise have known with certainty where to find you, or have been equally free from the fear of un- seasonable intrusion. May God be with you, my friend, and give you a just measure of submission to his will, the most effectual of all remedies for the evils of this changing * Charles Ba^ot, the brother of Walter, took the name of Chester on the death of Sir Charles Bagot Chester, and rived at Ch icheley, not far from Weston, the seat of Mr. Throckmorton. t He was rector of Blithfleld Staffordshire. scene. I doubt not that he has granted you this blessing already, and may he still con- tinue it! Now I will talk a little about myself; for except myself, living in this terrarum angulo, what can I have to talk about? In a scene of perfect tranquillity and the profoundest silence, I am kicking up the dust of heroic narrative and besieging Troy again. I told you that I had almost finished the translation of the Iliad, and I verily thought so. But I was never more mistaken. By the time when I had reached the end of the poem, the first book of my version was a twelve- month old. When I came to consider it after having laid it by so long, it did not satisfy me. I set myself to mend it, and I did so ; but still it appeared to me improve- able, and that nothing would so effectually secure that point as to give to the whole book a new translation. With the exception of a very few lines I have so done, and was never in my life so convinced of the sound- ness of Horace's advice^ to publish nothing in haste ; so much advantage have I derived from doing that twice which I thought I had accomplished notably at once. He indeed recommends nine years' imprisonment of your verses before you send them abroad ; but the ninth part of that time is, I believe, as much as there is need of to open a man's eyes upon his own defects, and to secure him from the danger of premature self-ap- probation. Neither ought it to be forgotten, that nine years make so wide an interval be- tween the cup and the lip, that a thousand things may fall out between. New engage- ments may occur, which may make the fin- ishing of that which a poet has begun im- possible. In nine years he may rise into a situation, or he may sink into one, utterly incompatible with his purpose. His consti- tution may break in nine years, and sick- ness may disqualify him for improving what he enterprised in the days of health. His inclination may change, and he may find some other employment more agreeable, 01 another poet may enter upon the same work, and get the start of him. Therefore, my friend Horace, though I acknowledge your principle to be good, I must confess that I think the practice you would ground upon it carried to an extreme. The rigor that I ex- ercised upon the first book I intend to exer- cise upon all that follow, and have now ac- tually advanced into the middle of the seventh, nowhere admitting more than one line in fifty of the first translation. You must not imagine that I had been careless and hasty in the first instance. In truth I had not; but, in rendering so excellent a poet as Homer into our ( language, there are so many points to be attended to, both in respect of language and r umbers, that a first 256 COWPER'S WORKS attempt must be fortunate indeed if it does not call loud for a second. You saw the specimen, and you saw (I am sure) one great fault in it ; I mean the harshness of some of the elisions. I do not altogether take the blame of these to myself; for into some of them I was actually driven and hunted by a series of reiterated objections made by a critical friend, whose scruples and delicacies teazed me out of all my patience. But no such monsters will be found in the volume. Your brother Chester has furnished me with Barnes's Homer, from whose notes I collect here and there some useful informa- tion, and whose .fair and legible type pre- serves from the danger of being as blind as was my author. I saw a sister of yours at Mr. Throckmorton's, but I am not good at making myself heard across a large room, and therefore nothing passed between us. I however felt that she was my friend's sister, and much esteemed her for your sake. Ever yours, W. C. P. S. — The swan is called argutus (I sup- pose) a non arguendo and canorus a non ca- nendo. But whether he be dumb or vocal, more poetical than the eagle or less, it is no matter. A feather of either, in token of your approbation and esteem, will never, you may rest assured, be an offence to me. Cowper seems to have reserved for the tried friendship of Newton the disclosure of those secret sorrows which he so seldom in- truded on others. The communications which he makes on these occasions are pain- fully affecting. The mind labors, and the language responds to the intensity of the in- ward emotion. Sorrow is often sublime and eloquent, because the source of eloquence is not so much to be found in the powers of the intellect as in the acute feelings of an ardent and sensitive heart. It is the heart that unlocks the intellect. These remarks will prepare the reader for the following letter. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, May 20, 1786. My dear Friend, — Within this hour arrived three sets of your new publication,! for which we sincerely thank you. We have breakfasted since they came, and conse- quently, as you may suppose, have neither of us had yet an opportunity to make ourselves acquainted with the contents. I shall be happy (and when I say that, I mean to be understood in the fullest and most emphatical sense of the word) if ray frame of mind shall be such as may permit me to study them. But Adam's' approach to the tree of * Private correspondence. t Messiah. life, after he had sinned, was not more effect* ually prohibited by the flaming sword that turned every way, than mine to its great Antitype has been now almost these thirteen years, a short interval of three or four days, which passed about this time twelvemonth, alone excepted. For what reason it is that 1 am thus long excluded, if I am ever again to be admitted, is known to God only. 1 can say but this ; that if he is still my Father, this paternal severity has toward me been such as that I have reason to account it unexampled. For though others have suffered desertion, yet few, I believe, for so long a time, and perhaps none a desertion accompanied with such experiences. But they have this be- longing to them, that, as they are not fit for recital, being made up merely of infernal in- gredients, so neither are they susceptible oi it; for I know no language in which they could be expressed. They are as truly things which it is not possible for man to utter as those were which Paul heard and saw in the third heaven. If the ladder oi Christian experience reaches, as I suppose it does, to the very presence of God, it has nevertheless its foot in the abyss. And ii Paul stood, as no doubt he did, in that expe- rience of his to which I have just alluded, on the topmost round of it, I have been stand- ing, and still stand, or the lowest, in this thirteenth year that has passed since I de- scended. In such a situation of mind, en- compassed by the midnight of absolute de- i spair, and a thousand times filled with un- speakable horror, I first commenced as an author. Distress drove me to it, and the im- possibility of subsisting without some em- ployment still recommends it. I am not, in- deed, so perfectly hopeless as I was ; but I am equally in need of an occupation, being often as much, and sometimes even more, | worried than ever. I cannot amuse myself as I once could, with carpenters' or with gardeners' tools, or with squirrels and guinea- pigs. At that time I was a child. But since it has pleased God, whatever else he with- holds, to restore to me .a man's mind, I have put away childish things. Thus far, there- fore, it is plain that I have not chosen or pre- scribed to myself my own way, but have been providentially led to it; perhaps I might say with equal propriety, compelled and scourged into it ; for certainly, could I have made my choice, or were I permitted to make it even now, those hours which I spend in poetry I w y ould spend with God. But it is evidently his • will that I should spend them as I do, be- cause every other way of employing them ho himself continues to make impossible. If in the course of such an occupation, or by in- evitable consequence of it, either my for- mer connexions are revived or new ones oc cur, these things are as much a part of th« L.IFE OF COWPER. 257 dispensation as the leading- points of it them- selves; the effect as much as the cause. If lis purposes in thus directing me are gracious, he will take care to prove them such in the issue, and in the meantime will preserve me v for he is able to do that in o_ne condition of life as in another) from all mistakes in con- duct that might prove pernicious to myself, or give reasonable offence to others. I can say it as truly as it was ever spoken — Here I am : let him do with me as seemeth him good. At present, however, I have no connexions it which either you, 1 trust, or any who love me, and wish me well, have occasion to con- ceive alarm. Much kindness indeed I have experienced at the hands of several, some of them near relations, others not related to me at all ; but I do not know that there is among them a single person from Avhom I am likely to catch contamination. I can say of them all witfi more truth than Jacob uttered when he called kid venison, " The Lord thy God brought them unto me." I could show you among them two men whose lives, though they have but little of what we call evangeli- cal light, are ornaments to a Christian coun- try; men who fear God more than some who even profess to love him. But I will not particularize farther on such a subject. Be they what they may, our situations are so dis- tant, and we are likely to meet so seldom, that, were they, as they are not, persons of even exceptionable manners, their manners would have little to do with me. We cor- respond at present only on the subject of what passed at Troy three thousand years ago ; and they are matters that, if they can do no good, will at least hurt nobody. Your friendship for me, and the proof that I see of it in your friendly concern for my welfare on this occasion, demanded that I should be explicit. Assure yourself that I love and honor you, as upon all accounts, so especially for the interest that you take and have ever taken in my welfare, most sincerely. I wish you all happiness in your new abode, all possible success in your ministry, and much fruit of your newly published labors, and am, with Mrs. Unwin's love to yourself and Mrs. Newton, Most affectionately vours, My dear friend, W. C. Of all the letters, addressed by Cowper to Newton, that we have yet laid before the reader, we consider the last to be the fullest development of the afflicting and mysterious dispensation under which he labored. These are indeed the deep waters, the sound of the terrible storm and tempest. We contem- plate this state of mind with emotions of sol- emn awe, deep interest, and merited admira- tion, when we observe the spirit of patient resignation by which it is accompanied. — " Here I am," exclaims Cowper, " let him do with me as seemeth him good." To acqui- esce in submissive silence, under circumstan- ces the most opposed to natural feeling, to bear an oppressive load daily, continuously, and with little hope of intermission, anu amidst this pressure and anguish of ttoe soul to have produced writing characterised by sound judgment, exalted morality, and a train of lucid and elevated thought, is a phenome- non that must ever remain a mystery ; but the poet's submission is the faith of a suffer- ing martyr, and will finally meet with a martyr's triumphant crown. But, after ail, who does not see, in the case of Cowper, the evident marks of an aberra- tion of mind on one particular subject, found- ed on the delusion of supposing himself ex eluded from the mercy ot God, when his fear of offending him, the blameless tenor of his life, and his anxiety to render his works sub- servient to the amelioration of the age, prove the fallacy of the persuasion ? How can a tree be corrupt which produces good fruits'? How can a gracious Lord cast off those who delight in fearing and serving him ? The supposition is repugnant to every just and sound view of the equity of the Divine gov- ernment : God cannot act inconsistently with his own character and attributes. The Bible is the record of what He is, of his declarations to man, of his moral government, and of his dealings with his people. And what does the Bible proclaim ? It tells us " God is love ;" " he delighteth in mercy ;" " he does not willingly afflict the children of men;" "in all their affliction he was afflicted, and the angel of his presence saved them." " Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee." " Fear not, thou worm Jacob ; I will help thee, saith the Lord, and thy Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel."* His moral gov- ernment and the history of his dealings to- wards the most eminent saints is a powerful illustration of these truths. He may indeed infuse hitter ingrediems in the cup of his children: all of them, in due time, taste the wormwood and the gall. It is a part of the covenant; the token of his love, and essential to the trial of their faith and to their purifi- cotion. But that he ever administers what Cowper i;ere painfully calls infernal ingre- dients is impossible. These elements of evil spring not from above but from below. They may occur, as in the case of Job, by a per- missive Providence, but sooner or later a di- vine power interposes, and vindicates his own wisdom and equity. We know from various sources of information, that Cowpei fully ad- mitted the force of this reasoning, and the * Isaiah lxiii 9. 17 258 COWPER'S WORKS. justness of its application in every other pos- sible instance, himself alone excepted. The answer to this objection is that the equity of God's moral dealings admits of no exception. Men may change; they may act in opposition to their own principles, falsify their judgment, violate their most solemn engagements, and be influenced by the variation of time- and circumstances. But this can never be true of the Divine nature. " I, the Lord, change not." " The same yesterday, to-day, and for- ever." " With him is no variableness, nor shadow of turning." " Have I ever been a wilderness unto Zion ?" We have indulged in this mode of reason- ing, because it has been our lot to meet with some examples of this kind, and to have ap- plied the argument with success. If the con- solations of the Gospel, administered by an enlightened, tender, and judicious minister, formed a more prominent part in the treat- ment of cases of disordered intellect and de- pressed spirit, we feel persuaded that the in- stances of recovery would be for more nu- merous than they are found to be under existing circumstances — that suicides would be diminished, and the ills of life be borne with more submissive resignation. We con- sider the ambassador of" Christ to be as es- sential as the medical practitioner. The afflicted father, recorded in the Gospel,* as having a lunatic son, " sore vexed," tried all means for his re Dvery, but without success. It is emphatically said, " they could not cure Mm;" everything failed. What followed? Jesus said, " Bring him hither to me." The same command is still addressed to us, and there is still the same Lord, the same healing balm and antidote, and the same Almighty power and will to administer it. What was the final result? "And the child was cured from that very hour" or, as the narrative adds in another account of the same event,f "Je- sus took him by the hand, and lifted him up, and he arose." The miracles of Christ, recorded in the New Testament, are but so many emblems of the spiritual power and mercy that heals the infirmities of a wounded spirit. Other opportunities will occur in the course of the ensuing history to resume the consid- eration of this important subject. The strain of affectionate feeling which pervades the following letters to Lady Hes- ko.th, is strongly characteristic of the stability r»f Cowper's friendships. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, May 25, 1786. I have at length, my cousin, found my way Inio rr.v summer abode. I believe that I de- ■cr bor ,t t«; }ou some time since, and will Vatt xvii 14- 1; t Mark ix. 27. therefore now leave it undescribed. I wil. only say that I am writing in a band-box, situated, at least in my account, delightfully because it has a window on one side that opens into that orchard through which, as I am sitting here, I shall see you often pass, and which therefore I already prefer to all the orchards in the world. You do well to prepare me for all possible delays, because in this life all sorts of disappointments are possible, and I shall do well, if any such de- lay of your journey should happen, to prac- tise that lesson of patience which you incul- cate. But it is a lesson which, even with you as my teacher, I shall be slow to learn. Being sure however that you will not pro- crastinate without cause, I will make myself as easy as I can about it, and hope the best. To convince you how much I am under dis- cipline and good advice, I will lay aside a favorite measure, influenced in doing so by nothing but the good sense of your contrary opinion. I had set my heart on meeting yon at Newport; in -my haste to see you once again, I was willing to overlook many awk- wardnesses I could not but foresee would attend it. I put them aside so long as I only foresaw them myself, but since I find that you foresee them too, I can no longer deal so slightly with them : it is therefore determined that we meet at Olney. Much I shall feel, but I will not die if I can help it, and I beg that you will take al possible care to outlive it likewise, for I know what it is to be balked in the moment of acquisition, and should be loath to know it again. Last Monday, in the evening, we walked to Weston, according to our usual custom. It happened, owing to a mistake of time, that we set out half an hour sooner than usual. This mistake we discovered while we were in the Wilderness : so finding that we had time be- fore us, as they say, Mrs. Unwin proposed that we should go into the village, and take a view of the house that 1 had just mentioned to you. We did so, and found it such a one as in most respects would suit you well.* But Moses Brown, our vicar, who, as I told you, is in his eighty-sixth year, is not bound to die for that reason. He said himself, when he was here last summer, that he should live ten years longer, and for aught that appears so he may. In which case, for the sake of its near neighborhood to us, the vicarage has charms for me that no other place can rival But this, and a thousand things more, shall be talked over when you come. We have been industriously cultivating our acquaintance with out Weston neighbors since I wrote last, and they on their part have been equally diligent in the same cause. I have a notion that we shall all suit well * The lodge at Weston to which Cowper removed ir the November followiue. LIFE OF COWPER. 25. I see much in them both that I admire. You know perhaps that they are Catholics. It is a delightful bundle of praise, my uousin, that you have sent me : all jasmine and lavender. Whoever the lady is, she has evidently an admirable pen and a cultivated mind. If a person reads, it is no matter in what language, and if the mind be informed, I it is no matter whether that mind belongs to ' a man or a woman : the taste and the judg- ment will receive the benefit alike in both. Long before the Task was published, I made an experiment one day, being in a frolicsome mood, upon my friend : we were walking in the garden, and conversing on a subject sim- ilar to these lines. The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss. And. seeking gmce t' improve the present good, Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. I repeated them, and said to him with an air of nonchalance, " Do you recollect those lines ? I have seen them somewhere, where are they ?" He put on a considering face, and after some deliberation replied, " Oh, I will tell you where they must be — in the Night Thoughts." I was glad my trial turned out so well, and did not undeceive him. I mention this occurrence only in con- firmation of the letter-writer's opinion, but at the same time I do assure you, on the faith of an honest man, that I never in my life designed an imitation of Young or of any other writer; for mimicry is my abhor- rence, at least in poetry. Assure yourself, my dearest cousin, that, ooth for your sake, since you make a point of it, and for my own, I will be as philo- sophically careful as possible that these fine nerves of mine shall not be beyond measure agitated when you arrive. In truth, there is much greater probability that they will be benefited, and greatly too. Joy of heart, from whatever occasion it may arise, is the best of all nervous medicines, and I should not wonder if such a turn given to my spir- its should have even a lasting effect, of the most advantageous kind, upon them. You mast not imagine, either, that I am on the whole in any great degree subject to nervous affections ; occasionally I am, and have been these many years, much liable to dejection. But, at intervals, and sometimes for an in- terval of weeks, no creature would suspect it ; for I have not that which commonly is a symptom of such a case belonging to me : I mean extraordinary elevation in the absence of Mr. Bluedevil. When I am in the best aealth, my tide of animal sprightlincss flows with great equality, so that I am never at any time exalted in proportion as I am .ometimes depressed. My depression has a pause, and if that cause were to cease, I *hou d be as cheerful thenceforth, and per- haps forever, as any man need be. But, aa I have often said, Mrs. Unwin shall be my expositor. Adieu, my beloved cousin. God grant that our friendship, which, while we could see each other, never suffered a moment's interruption, and which so long a separation has not in the least abated, may glow in us to our last hour, and be renewed in a better world, there to be perpetuated forever. For you must know, that I should not love you half so well, if I did not believe you would be my friend to eternity. There is not room enough for friendship to unfold itself in full bloom in such a nook of life as this. Therefore I am, and must and will be, Yours forever, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, May 29, 1786. Thou dear, comfortable cousin, whose let- ters, among all that I receive, have this property peculiarly their own — that I expect them without trembling, and never find any- thing in them that does not give me pleas- ure — for which, therefore, I would take noth- ing in exchange that the world could give me, save and except that for which I inusi exchange them soon — (and happy shall I be to do so) — your own company. That in- deed is delayed a little too long; to my im- patience, at lenst, it seems so, who find the spring, backward as it is, too forward, be- cause many of its beauties will have faded before you will have an opportunity to see them. We took our customary walk yes- terday in the Wilderness at Weston, and saw, with regret, the laburnums, syringas, and guelder-roses, some of them blown, and others just upon the point of blowing, and could not help observing — all these will be gone before Lady Hesketh comes. Still, however, there will be roses, and jasmine, and honeysuckle, and shady walks, and cool alcoves, and you will partake them with us. But I want you to have a share of every- thing that is delightful here, and canno" bear that the advance of the season should ste!tl away a single pleasure before you can come to enjoy it. Every day I think of you, and almost all day long; I will venture to say, that even you were never so expected in your life. I called last week at the Quaker's, to see the furniture of your bed, the fame of which had reached me. It is, I assure you, superb, of printed cotton, and the subject classical Every morning you will open your eyes on Phaeton kneeling to Apollo, and imploring his father to grant him the conduct of his chariot fos. a day. May your sleep be a* sound as your bed will be sumptuous, and vour nights, at least, will be well pr nided for 260 COWPER'S WORKS 1 shall send you up the sixth and seventh oook* of the IlFad shortly, and shall address them to you. You will forward them to the General. I long to show you my workshop, and to see you sitting on the opposite side of my table. We shall be as close packed as two wax figures in an old-fashioned pic- ture-frame. T am writing in it now. It is the place in which I fabricate all my verse in summer time. I rose an hour sooner than usual, this morning, that I might finish my sheet before breakfast, for I must write this day to the General. The grass under my windows is all be- spangled with dew-drops, and the birds are singing in the applet rees, among the blos- soms. Never poet had a more commodious oratory, in which to invoke his muse. I have made your heart ache too often, my poor dear cousin, about my fits of dejec- tion. Something has happened that has led me to the subject, or I would have^ men- tioned them more sparingly. Do not sup- pose, or suspect, that I treat you with re- serve; there is nothing in which I am con- cerned that you shall not be made acquainted with; but the tale is too long for a letter. I will only add, for your present satisfaction, that the cause is not exterior, that it is not within the reach of human aid, and that yet I have a hope myself, and Mrs. Unwin a strong persuasion, of its removal. I am in- deed even now, and have been for a consid- able time, sensible of a change for the bet- ter, and expect, with good reason, a comfort- able lift from you. Guess, then, my beloved cousin, with what wishes I look forward to the time of your arrival, from whose coming I promise myself not only pleasure but peace of mind, at least an additional share of it. At present it is an uncertain and transient guest with me, but the joy with which I shall see and converse with you at Olnev may perhaps make it an abiding one. W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Olney, June 4 and 5, 1786. Ah ! my cousin, you begin already to fear and quake. What a hero am I, compared with you ! I have no fears of you, on the contrary, am as bold as a lion. I wish that your carriage were even now at the door. You should see with how much courage I would face you. But what cause have you for fear? Am I not your cousin, with whom you have wandered in the fields of Free- mantle and at Bevis's Mount? — who used to read to you, laugh with you, till our sides bave ached at anything or nothing? And nm I in these respects at all altered ? You ivill not find me so, but just as ready to .augh and to wander as you ever knew me. A cloud, perhaps, may come over me nont and then, for a few hours, but i'rom clouds ] was never exempted. And are not you the identical cousin with whom I have performed all these feats? the very Harriet whom 1 saw, for the first time, at De Grey's, in Nor- folk-street ?* (It was on a Sunday, when you came with my uncle and auntf to drink tea there, and I had dined there, and waa just going back to Westminster.) If these things are so, and I am sure that you cannot gainsay a syllable of them all, then this con- sequence follows, that I do not promise my- self more pleasure from your company than I shall be sure to find. Then you are my cousin, in whom I always delighted, and in whom I doubt not that I shall delight, even to my latest hour. But this^ wicked coach- maker" has sunk my spirits. What a miser- able thing it is to depend, in any degree^ for the accomplishment of a wish, and that wish so fervent, on the punctuality of a creature, who, I suppose, was never punctual in his life ! Do tell him, my dear, in order to quicken him, that if he performs his promise, he shall make my coach, when I want one, and that if he performs it not, I will most assuredly employ some other man. The Throckmortons sent us a note to invite us to dinner : we went, and a very agreeable day we had. They made no fuss with us, which I was heartily glad to see, for where I give trouble I am sure that I cannot be wel- come. Themselves, and their chaplain, and we, were all the party. After dinner we had much cheerful and pleasant talk, the particu- lars of which might not perhaps be so enter- taining upon paper, therefore, all but one I will omit, and that I will mention only be- cause it will of itself be sufficient to give you an insight into their opinion on a very im- portant subject — their own religion. I hap- pened to say that in all professions and trades mankind affected an air of mystery. Physi- cians, I observed, in particular, were objects of that remark, who persist in preserving in Latin, many times, no doubt, to the hazard of a patient's life through" the ignorance of an apothecary. Mr. Throckmorton assented to what I said, and, turning to his chaplain, to my infinite surprise observed to him, " That is just as absurd as our praying in hatin" I could have hugged him for his liberality and freedom from bigotry, but thought it rather more decent to let the matter pass without any visible notice. I therefore heard it with pleasure, and kept my pleasure to myself. The two ladies in the meantime were tete-a- tete in the drawing-room. Their conversation turned principally (as I afterwards learned * This Mr. De Grey has been already mentioned. Ha rose to the dignity of Lord Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, and was finally created Lord Walsingham. t Ashley Cowper and hia wife, Lady Hesketh's fathe* and mother. LIFE OF COWPER. 261 from Mrs. Unwin) on a most delightful topic, viz., myself. In the first place, Mrs. Throck- morton admired my book, from which she quoted by heart more than I could repeat though 1 so lately wrote it. In short, my iear, I cannot proceed to relate what she said of the book and the book's author, for that abominable modesty that I cannot even yet ge* if i of. Let it suffice to say, that yon, who »* . disposed to love everybody who speaks kindly of your cousin, will certainly love Mrs. Throckmorton, when you shall be 'told what she said of him, and that you icill be told is equally certain, because it depends on Mrs. Unwin. It is a very convenient thing to have i Mrs. Unwin, who will tell you many a good ong story for me, that I am not able to tell for myself. I am however not at all in ar- rears to our neighbors in matter of admira- tion and esteem, but the more I know the more I like them, and have nearly an affec- tion for them both. I am delighted that '' The Task" has so large a share of the ap- pro bution of your sensible Suffolk friend. I received yesterday from the General another letter of T. S. An unknown auxil- iary having started up in my behalf, I believe I shall leave the business of answering to him, having no leisure myself for contro- versy. He lies very open to a very effectual reply. My dearest cousin, adieu ! I hope to write to you once more before we meet. But oh ! this coach-maker ! and oh ! this holiday week ! Yours, with impatient desire to see you, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, June 9, 1786. My dear Friend,— The little time that I can devote to any other purpose than that of poetry, is, as you may suppose, stolen. Homer is urgent. Much is done, but much remains undone, and no school-boy is more attentive to the performance of his daily task than I am. You will therefore excuse me, if, at present, I am both unfrequent and short. The paper tells me that the Chancellor has relapsed, and I am truly sorry to hear it. The first attack was dangerous, but a second must be more formidable still. It is not probable that I should ever hear from him again if he survive; yet of the much that I should have felt for him, had our connexion never been interrupted, I still feel much. Everybody will feel the loss of a man, whose abilities have made him of such general im- portance. I correspond again with Colman, and upon tie most friendly footing, and find in his in- stance, and in some others, that an intimate -ntercourse, wlicr. has been only casually suspended, not forfeited on either side by out. rage, is capable not only of revival but im provement. I had a letter some time since from yout sister Fanny, that gave me great pleasure. Such notices from old friends are always pleasant, and of such pleasures I have re ceived many lately. They refresh the re- membrance of early days, and malce me young again. The noble institution of the Nonsense Club* will be forgotten when we are gone who composed it, but I often think of your most heroic line, written at one of our meetings, and especially think of it when I am translating Homer, " To whom replied the Devil yard-long-tail'd." There never was anything more truly Grecian than that triple epithet, and, were it possible to introduce it into either Iliad or Odyssey, I should certainly steal it. I am now flushed with expectation of Lady Hesketh, who spends the summer with us. We hope to see her next week. We have found admira- ble lodgings both for her and her suite, and a Quaker in this town, still more admirable than they, who, as if he loved her as much as I do, furnishes them for her with real elegance. W. C. The period so long and so fervently ex- pected at length approached. Lady Hesketh arrived at Olney in the middle of June, 1786. These two relatives and friends met together, after a separation of twenty-three years, anxious to testify to each other that time, " that great innovator," had left inviolate the claims of a friendship, which absence could not impair, because it was founded on esteem, and strengthened by the most endearing rec- ollections. It does not always happen, when the mind has indulged in the anticipation of promised joy, that the result corresponds with the expectation. But in the present case the cherished hope was amply realized, though its first emotions were trying to the sensitive frame of Cowper. He was truly delighted in welcoming his endeared relative ; and, as his own house was inadequate for her reception, Lady Hesketh was comforta- bly lodged in the vicarage of Olney; a situ- tion so near to his own residence, and so eligible from the private communication between their two houses, as to admit of all the facilities of frequent intercourse and union. The influence of this event proved bene- ficial to the health and spirits of Cowper. The highly cultivated mind of Lady Hes- keth, the charm of her manners, and her en- * The club designated by this humorous title, was com posed of Westminster men, and included among its mem bers, Bonnell Thornton, Colman, Lloyd, Hill, Benslev, and Cowper. They were accustomed to meet togetb«t for the purpose of literary relaxation and amusement 262 COWPER'S WORKS clearing qualities, called forth the develop- ment of kindred feelings in his own charac- ter. As she was- furnished with a carriage and horses, he was- gradually induced to avail himself of this opportunity of explor- ing the neighborhood, and of multiplying his innocent enjoyments. His life had been so retired .at Olney, that he. had not even ex- tended his excursions to the neighboring town of Newport-Pagnell in the course of many years ; but the convenience of a car- nage led him, in August, to visit Mr. Bull, who resided there — the friend from whose as- siduous attention he derived so much benefit in a season of mental depression. It was at his suggestion, as we have already stated, that Cowper engaged in the translation of Madame Guion's Poems. As it is some time since we have had occasion to refer to this ju&tly esteemed character, we think the fol- lowing snort letter, addressed to him by Cow- per, will exhibit an amusing portrait of his character and habits. " Mon aimable and tres cher Ami, — It is not in the power of chaises, or chariots, to carry you where my affections will not follow you ; if I heard that you were gone to finish your days in the moon, I should not love you the less; but should contemplate the place of your abode, as often as it appeared in the heavens, and say — Farewell, my friend, forever ! Lost ! but not forgotten ! Live happy in thy lantern, and smoke the remain- der of thy pipes in peace ! Thou art rid of earth, at least of all its cares, and so far can I rejoice in thy removal ; and as to the cares that are to be found in the moon, I am re- solved to suppose them lighter than those below — heavier they can hardly be." We also add the following beautifnl de- scription of a thunder-storm, in a letter to the same person, expressed with the feel- ings of a poet, that knew how to embody the sublime in language of corresponding gran- deur. "I was always an admirer of thunder- storms, even before I knew whose voice I heard in them ; but especially an admirer of thunder rolling over the great waters. There is something singularly majestic in the sound of it at sea, where the eye and the ear have uninterrupted opportunity of observation, and the concavity above being made spacious re- flects it with more advantage. I have conse- juently envied you your situation, and the enjoyment of those refreshing breezes that oelong to it. We have indeed been regaled with some of these bursts of ethereal music. The peals have been as loud, by the report of a gentleman who lived many years in the West Indies, as were ever heard in those islands, and the flashes as splendid. But wher the thunder preaches, an horizon bounded by the ocean is the only sounding-board."* The visit of Lady Hesketh to Olney led to a very favorable change in the residence of Cowper. He had now passed nineteen years in a scene that was far from being adapted to his taste and feelings. The house which he inhabited looked on a market-place, and once, in a season of illness, he was so appre- hensive of being incommoded by the bustle of a fair, that he requested to lodge for a single night under the roof of his friend Mr. Newton, where he was induced, by the more comfortable situation of the vicarage, to re- main fourteen months. His intimacy with this excellent and highly esteemed character was so great that Mr. Newton has described it in the following remarkable terms, in me- moirs of the poet, which affection induced him to begin, but which the troubles and in- firmities of very advanced life obliged him to relinquish. " For nearly twelve years we were seldom separated for seven hours at a time, when we were awake, and at home : the first six I passed in daily admiring, and aiming to imitate him : during the second six, I walked pensively with him in the valley of the shadow of death." Mr. Newton also bears the following hon- orable testimony to the pious and benevolent habits of Cowper. " He loved the poor. He often visited them in their cottages, con- versed with them in the most condescending manner, sympathized with them, counselled and comforted them in their distresses ; and those who were seriously disposed were often cheered and animated by his prayers !" These are pleasing memorials, for we believe that the cottages of the poor will ever be found to be the best school for the improvement of the heart. After the removal of Mr. New- ton to London, and the departure of Lady Austen, Olney had no particular attractions for Cowper; and Lady Hesketh was happy in promoting the project, which had occurred to him, of removing with Mrs. Unwin to the near and picturesque village of Weston — a scene highly favorable to his health and amusement. For, with a very comfortable * There are few countries where a thunder-storm pre- sents so sublime and terrific a spectacle as in Switzer- land. The writer remembers once witnessing a scene of this kind in the Castle of Chillon, on the banks of the Lake of Geneva. The whole atmosphere seemed to be overcharged with the electric fluid. A stillness, like that of death, prevailed, forming a striking contrast with the tumult of the elements that shortly succeeded. The lightning at length burst forth, in vivid coruscations, like a flame of fire, darting upon the agitated waters ; while the rain descended in torrents. Peals of thunder fol- lowed, rolling over the wide expanse of the lake, and re- echoing along the whole range of the Alps to the left and then taking a complete circuit, finally passed over to the Jura, on the opposite side, impressing the mind witfc indescribable awe and aumiration. LIFE OF COWPER. 26> nouse, it afforded him a garden, and a field of considerable extent, which he delighted to cultivate and embellish. With these he had advantages still more desirable — easy, and constant access to the spacious and tranquil pleasure-grounds of his accomplished and be- nevolent landlord, Mr. Throckmorton, whose neighboring house supplied him with an in- tercourse peculiarly suited to his gentle and delicate spirit. Cowper removed from Olney to Weston in November, 1786. The course of his life, in his new situation, (the scene so happily embellished by his Muse.) will be best de- scribed by the subsequent series of his let- ters to that amiable relative, to whom he considered himself chiefly indebted for this improvement in his domestic scenery and comforts. With these will be connected a selection of his letters to other friends, and particularly the letters addressed to one of his most intimate correspondents, Samuel Rose, Esq., who commenced his acquaint- ance in the beginning of the year 1787. Another endeared character will also be in- troduced to the notice of the reader, whose affectionate and unremitting attention to the poet, when he most needed these kind and ten- der offices, will ever give him a just title to the gratitude and love of the admirers of Cowper : we allude to the late Rev. Dr. Johnson. We now resume the correspondence. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, June 19, 1786. My dear cousin's arrival has, as it could not fail to do, made us happier than we ever were at Olney. Her great kindness in giving us her company is a cordial that I shall feel the effect of not only while she is here, but while I live. Onley will not be much longer the place of our habitation. At a village two miles distant we have hired a house of Mr. Throck- morton, a much better than we occupy at present, and yet not more expensive. It is situated very near to our most agreeable landlord and his agreeable pleasure-grounds. In him, and in his wife, we shall find such companions, as will always make the time pass pleasantly while they are in the country, and his grounds will afford us good air and good walking-room in the winter ; two ad- vantages which we have not enjoyed at Ol- ney, where I have no neighbor with whom I can converse, and where, seven mouths in the year, I have been imprisoned by dirty and impassable ways, till both my health and Mrs. Unwin's have suffered materially. Homer is ever importunate, and will not Buffer mo to spend half the time with my dis- tant trie ids that I would gladly give them. W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, June 22, 1786. My dear Friend, — I am not glad that I am obliged to apologize for an interval of three weeks that have elapsed since the receipt of yours; but, not having it in my power to write oftener than I do, I am glad that my reason is such a one as you admit. In truth. my time is very much occupied ; and the more because I not only have a long and la- borious w.ork in hand, for such it would prove at any rate, but because I make it a point to bestow my utmost attention upon it, and to give it all the finishing that the most scrupulous accuracy can command. Aa soon as breakfast is over, I retire to my nut- shell of a summer-house, which is my verse- rnanufactory, and here I abide seldom les* than three hours, and not often more. In the afternoon I return to it again ; and all the daylight that follows, except what is devoted to a walk, is given to Homer. It is well for me that a course which is now become ne-' cessary is so much my choice. The regu- larity of it indeed has been, in the course of this last week, a little interrupted by the ar- rival of my dear cousin, Lady Hesketh ; but with the new week I shall, as they say, turn over a new leaf, and put myself under the same rigorous discipline as before. Some- thing, and not a little, is due to the feelings that the sight of the kindest relation that ever man was blessed with must needs give birth to, after so long a separation. But she, whose anxiety for my success is I believe even greater than my own, will take care that I shall not play truant and neglect my proper business. It was an observation of a sensi ble man, whom I knew- well in ancient days, (I mean when I was very young,) that people are never in reality hap"py when they boast much of being so. I feel myself accordingly well content to say, without any enlarge- ment on the subject, that an inquirer aftei happiness might travel far, and not find a happier trio than meet every day either in our parlor, or in the parlor at the vicarage I will not say that mine is not occasionally somewhat dashed with the sable hue of those notions concerning myself and my situation, that have occupied or rather possessed me so long: but, on the other hand, I can also affirm that my cousin's affectionate behavio. to us both, the sweetness of her temper, and the sprightliness of her conversation, relieve me in no small degree from the presence of- them. Mrs. Unwin is greatly pleased with yout Sermons; and has told me so repeatedly; and the pleasure that they have given hei awaits me also in due time, as I am well and confidently assured: both because the sub- ject of them is the greatest and the most in * Private correspondence. 364 COWPER'S WORKS, teresting that can fall under the pen of any writer, and because no writer can be better qualified to discuss it judiciously and feel- ingly than yourself. The third set with A'hich you favored us we destined to Lady Hesketh ; and, in so disposing of them, are inclined to believe that we shall not err far from the mark at which you yourself directed them. Our affectionate remembrances attend yourself and Mrs. Newton, to which you ac- quired an everlasting right while you dwelt under the roof where we dined yesterday. It is impossible that we should set our foot over the threshold of the vicarage without recollecting all your kindness. Yours, my dear Friend, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, July 3, 1786. My dear William, — After a long silence I begin again. A day given to my friends is a day taken from Homer ; but to such an in- terruption now and then occurring I have no objection. Lady Hesketh is, as you observe, arrived, and has been with us near a fort- night. She pleases everybody, and is pleased, in her turn, with everything she finds at Ol- ney, is always cheerful and sweet-tempered, and knows no pleasure equal to that of com- municating pleasure to us and to all around her. This disposition in her is the more comfortable, because it is not the humor of the day, a sudden flash of benevolence and good spirits occasioned merely by a change of scene, but it is her natural turn, and has governed all her conduct ever since I knew her first. We are consequently happy in her society, and shall be happier still to have you partake with us in ourjoy. I am fond of the sound of bells, but was never more pleased with those of Olney than when they rang her into her new habitation. It is a compli- ment that our performers upon those instru- ments have never paid to any other person- age (Lord Dartmouth excepted) since we knew the town. In short, she is, as she ever was, my pride and my joy, and I am delighted with everything that means to do her honor. Her first appearance was too much for me ; my spirits, instead of being gently raised, as I had inadvertently supposed they would be, broke down with me under the pressure of too much joy, and left me flat, or rather mel- ancholy, throughout the day, to a degree that was mortifying to myself and alarming to her. But I have made amends for this failure since, and in point of cheerfulness have far exceeded her expectations, for she knew that sable had been my suit for many years. And now I shall communicate news that *"ill give you pleasure. When you first con- «mplated the front of our abode, you were shocked. In your eyes it had the appearance of a prison, and you sighed at the thought that your mother lived in it. Your view of it was not only just, but prophetic. It had not only the aspect of a place built for the pur- poses of incarceration, but has actually served that purpose through a long, long pe- riod, and we have been the prisoners. But a jail-delivery is at hand. The bolts and bars are to be loosed, and we shall escape. A very different mansion, both in point of ap- pearance and accommodation, expects us, and the expense of living in it not greater than we are subjected to in this. It is situated at Weston, one of the prettiest villages in Eng- land, and belongs to Mr. Throckmorton. We all three dine with him 1 to-day by invitation, and shall survey it in the afternoon, point out the necessary repairs, and finally adjust the treaty. I have my cousin's promise that she will never let another year pass without a visit to us, and the house is large enough to take us and our suite, and her also, with as many of hers as she shall choose to bring. The change will, I hope, prove advantageous both to your mother and me in all respects. Here we have no neighborhood; there we shall have most agreeable neighbors in the Throckmortons. Here we have a bad air in winter, impregnated with the fishy-smel- ling fumes of the marsh miasma; there we shall breathe in an atmosphere untainted. Here we are confined from September to March, and sometimes longer; there we shall be upon the very verge of pleasure-grounds in which we can always ramble, and shall not wade through almost impassable dirt to get at them. Both your mother's constitu- tion and mine have suffered materially, by such close and long confinement, and it is' high time, unless we intend to retreat into the grave, that we should seek out a more wholesome residence. So far is well, the rest is left to Heaven. I have hardly left myself room for an an swer to your queries concerning my frieno John and his studies. I shou.d recommend the Civil War of Caesar, because he wrote it who ranks, I believe, as the best writer, as well as soldier, of his day. There are books (I know not what they are, but you do, and can easily find them) that will inform him clearly of both the civil and military manage- ment of the Romans, the several officers, J mean, in both departments, and what was the peculiar province of each. The study of some such book would, I should think, prove a good introduction to that of Livy, unlesa you have a Livy with notes to that effect A want of intelligence in those points har heretofore made the Roman history very dark and difficult to me; therefore I thu§ advise. Yours ever, W. C. LIFE OF COWPER. 259 The following letter contains some particu- lars relative to his version of Homer. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Olney, July 4, 1786. 1 rejoice, my dear friend, that you have at .ast received my proposals, and most cordially thank you for all your labors in my service. I have friends in the world, who, knowing that I am apt to be careless when left to my- self, are determined to watch over me with a jealous eye upon this occasion. The conse- quence will be, that the work will be better executed, but more tardy in the production. To them I owe it, that my translation, as fast as it proceeds, passes under the revisal of a most accurate discerner of all blemishes. I know not whether I told you before, or now tell you for the first time, that I am in the hands of a very extraordinary person. He is intimate with my bookseller, and voluntarily offered his service. I was at first doubtful whether to accept it or not, but, finding that my friends abovesaid were. not to be satisfied on any other terms, though myself a perfect stranger to the man and his qualifications, ex- cept as he was recommended by Johnson, I at length consented, and have since found great reason to rejoice that I did. I called him an extraordinary person, and such he is. For he is not only versed in Homer, and accurate in his knowledge of the Greek to a degree that entitles him to that appellation ; but, though a foreigner, is a perfect master of our lan- guage, and has exquisite taste in English poetry. By his assistance I have improved many passages, supplied many oversights, and corrected many mistakes, such as will of course escape the most diligent and attentive laborer in such a work. I ought to add, be- cause it affords the best assurance of his zeal and fidelity, that he does not toil for hire, nor will accept of any premium, but has entered on this business merely for his amusement. In the last instance, my sheets will pass through the hands of our old schoolfellow Colman, who has engaged to correct the press, and make any little alterations that he may see expedient. With all this precaution, little as I intended it once, I am now well satisfied. Experience has convinced me that other eyes than my own are necessary, in order that so long and arduous a task may be finished as it ought, and may neither discredit me nor mortify and disappoint my friends. You, who I know interest yourself much and deeply in my success, will, I dare say, be satisfied with it too. Pope had many aids, and he who follows Pope ought not to walk alone. Though I announce myself by my very un- dertaking to be one of Homer's most enrapt- ured admirers, I am not a blind one. Per- aaps the speech . f Achil <&, given in my specimen, is, as you hint, rather too much in the moralizing strain to suit so young a man and of so much fire. But, whether it be or not, in the course of the close application that I am forced to give my author 1 discover inadvertences not a few ; some perhaps that have escaped even the commentators them- selves, or perhaps, in the enthusiasm of their idolatry, they resolved that they should pass for beauties. Homer, however, say what they will, was man ; and in all the works of man, especially in a work of such lengtn and variety, many things will of necessity occur that might have been better. Pope and Ad- dison had a Dennis, and Dennis, if I mistake not, held up as he has been to scorn and de- testation, was a sensible fellow, and passed some censures upon both those writers, that, had they been less just, would have hurt them less. Homer had his Zoilus, and perhaps, \i we knew all that Zoilus said, we should be forced to acknowledge that, sometimes at least, he had reason on his side. But it is dangerous to find any fault at all with what the world is determined to esteem faultless. I rejoice, my dear friend, that you enjoy some composure* and cheerfulness of spirits may God preserve and increase to you so great a blessing ! I am affectionately and truly vours, " W. C. Cowper again resumes the subject of his painful dispensation, in the following lettei to Newton. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Olney, Aug. 5, 1786. My dear Friend, — You have heard of oui intended removal. The house that is to re- ceive us is in a state of preparation, and, when finished, will be both smarter and more commodious than our present abode. But the circumstance that recommends it chiefly is its situation. Long confinement in the win ter, and, indeed, for the most part in the au tumn too, has hurt us both. A gravel-walk, thirty yards long, affords but indifferent scope to the locomotive faculty : yet it is all that we have had to move in for eight months in the year, during thirteen years that I have been a prisoner. Had I been confined in the Tower, the battlements of it would have fur- nished me with a larger space. You say well, that there was a time when I was happy at Olney ; and I am now as happy at Olney as I expect to be anywhere without the pres- ence of God. Change of situation is with me no otherwise an object than as both Mrs, Unwin's health and mine may happen to be concerned in it. A fever of the slow and spirit-oppressing kind seems to belong to all, * Private correspond ?nce. i66 COWPER'S WORKS except the natives, who have dwelt in Olney •aany years ; and the natives have putrid fe- vers. Both they and we, I believe, are im- mediately indebted for our respective mala- dies to an atmosphere encumbered with raw vapors, issuing from flooded meadows ; and ,ve in particular, perhaps, have fared the worse for sitting so often, and -sometimes for months, over a cellar filled with water. — These ills we shall escape in the uplands; and, as we may reasonably hope, of course, theiv consequences. But, as for happiness, he that has once had communion with his Maker, must be more frantic than ever I was yet, if he can dream of finding it at a distance from Him. I no more expect happiness at Weston than here, or than I should expect it in company with felons and outlaws in the hold of a ballast-lighter. Animal spirits, however, have their value, and are especially desirable to him who is condemned to carry a burthen, which, at any rate, will tire him, but which, without their aid, cannot fail to crush him. The doalings of God with me are to myself utterly unintelligible. I have never met, either in books or .in conversation, with an experience at all similar to my own. More than a twelvemonth has passed since I began to dope that, having walked the whole breadth of the bottom of this Red Sea, I was beginning to climb the opposite shore, and I prepared to sing the song of Moses.' But I have been disappointed; those hopes have been blasted : those comforts have been wrested from me. I could not be so duped, even by the arch-enemy himself, as to be made to question the divine nature of them ; but I have been made to believe, (which, you will say, is being duped still more) that God gave them to me in derision and took them away in vengeance. Such, however, is, and has been, my persuasion many a long day, and when I shall think on that subject more '.•omfortably, or, as you will be inclined to tell me, more rationally and scripturally, I Vnow not. In the meantime, I embrace with ilacrity every alleviation of my case, and with the more alacrity, because whatsoever proves a relief of my distress is a cordial to Mrs. Unwin, whose sympathy with me 4 through the whole of it, has been such that, despair excepted, her burthen has been as heavy as mine. Lady Hesketh, by her affectionate be- havior, the cheerfulness of her conversation, and the constant sweetness of her temper, has cheered us both, and Mrs. Unwin not less than me. By her help we get change of air and of scene, though still resident at Ol- ney, and by her means have intercourse with some families in this country with whom, but for her, we could never have been acquainted. tier presence here would, at any time, even in my happiest days, have been a comfort to me, but in the present day I am doubly sensi- ble of its value. She leaves nothing unsaid nothing undone, that she thinks will be con ducive to our well-being ; and, so far as she is concerned, I have nothing to wish but that I could believe her sent hither in mercy to myself, — then I should be thankful. I am, my dear friend, with Mrs. Unwin's love to Mrs. N. and yourself, hers and yours, as ever, W. C. Having so recently considered the peculiar circumstances of Cowper's depression, we shall not further advert to it than to state, on the authority of John Higgins, Esq., of Tur- vey, who, at that time, enjoyed frequent oppor- tunities of observing his manner and habits, that there was no perceptible appearance of his laboring under so oppressive a malady. On the contrary, his spirits, as far as outward appearances testified, were remarkably cheer- ful, and sometimes even gay and sportive. In a letter to Mrs. King, which will subse- quently appear, will be found a remark to the same effect. . TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, Aug. 24, 1786. My dear Friend, — I catch a minute by the tail and hold it fast while I write to you. The moment it is fled I must go to breakfast. I am still occupied in refining and polishing, and shall this morning give the finishing hand to the seventh book. F does me the honor to say that the most difficult and most inter- esting parts of the poem are admirably ren- dered. But, because he did not express him- self equally pleased with the more pedestrian parts of it, my labor therefore has been prin- cipally given to the dignification of them; not but that I have retouched considerably, and made better still the best. In short, I hope to make it all of a piece, and shall exert myself to the utmost to secure that desirable point. A story-teller, so very circumstantial as Homer, must of necessity present us often with much matter in itself capable of no other embellishment than purity of diction and har- mony of versification can give to it. Hie labor, hoc opus est. For our language, unless it be very severely chastised, has not the terse- ness, nor our measure the music, of the Greek. But I shall not fail through want of industry. We are'likely to be very happy in our con- nexion with the Throckmortons. His reserve and mine wear off; and he talks with great pleasure of the comfort that he proposes to himself from our winter evening conversa- tions. His purpose seems to be that we should spend them alternately with each oth- er. Lady Hesketh transcribes for me at present. When she is gone, Mrs. Throck- morton takes up that business, and will be LIFE OF COWPER. 267 my lady of the ink-bottle for the rest of the winter. She solicited herself that office. Believe me, my dear William, Truly yours, W. C. Mr. Throckmorton will (I doubt not) pro- cure Lord Petre's name, if he can, without any hint from me. He could not interest ftimself more in my success than he seems to do. Could he get the Pope to subscribe, I should have him, and should be glad of him and the whole conclave. The following letters are without a date; nor do we know to what period they refer. We insert them in the order in which we find them. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. My dear Friend, — You are my mahogany box, with a slip in the lid of it, to which I commit my productions of the lyric kind, in perfect confidence that they are safe, and will go no farther. All who are attached to the jingling art have this peculiarity, that they would find no pleasure in the exercise, had they not one friend at least to whom they might publish what they have composed. If > ou approve my Latin, and your wife and sister my English, this, together with the ap- probation of your mother, is fame enough for me. He who cannot look forward with comfort must find what comfort he can in looking backward. Upon this principle I the other day sent my imagination upon a trip thirty years behind me. She was very obedient and very swift of foot, presently performed her journey, and at last set me down in the yixth form at Westminster. I fancied my- self once more a school-boy, a period of life in which, if I had never tasted true hap- piness, I was at least equally unaequ^nted with its contrary. No manufacturer of waking dreams ever succeeded better ii» his employment than I do. I can wyave ^uch a piece of tapestry, in a few minute?, a<; rot only ha? aU the charms of reality, bv'j is embel- lished also with a variety of beauties, which, though they never existed, are more captivat- ing than any that e^er did : — accordingly, I was a school-boy, in high favor with the mas- ter, received a silver groat for my exercise, and had the pleasure of seeing it sent from form to form, for the admiration of all who were able to understand it. Do you wish to see this highly applauded performance ? It "ollows on the other side. [Tarn of.]* By way ot compensation, we subjoin some * This jeu d'esprit has never been found, notwithstand- ing the most diligent inquiy. - verses addressed to a young lady, at the re* quest of Mr. Unwin, to whom he thus writes : — " I have endeavored to comply with youi request, though I am not good at writing upon a given subject. Your mother however comforts me by her approbation, and I steer myself in all that I produce by her judgment If she does not understand me at the first reading, I am sure the lines are obscure and always alter them ; if she laughs, I know it is not without reason ; and if she says, " That's well, it will do," I have no fear lest anybody else should fine fault with it. She is my lord chamberlain, who licenses all I write. to miss c- ON HER BIRTH-DAY. How many between east and west Disgrace their parent earth, Whose deeds constrain us to detest The day that gave them birth ! Not so when Stella's natal morn Revolving months restore, We can rejoice that she was born, And wish her born once more ! If you like it, use it : if not, you know the remedy. It is serious, yet epigrammatic — like a bishop at a ball ! W. C. It is remarkable, that the laudable efforts which are now making to enforce the bettei observance of the Lord's day, to diminish the temptations to perjury by the unnecessary multiplication of oaths, and to arrest the prog- ress of the vice of drunkenness, appear from the following letter to have been anti- cipated nearly fifty years since, by the Rev. William Unwin. Deeply impressed with a eense of the extent and enormity of these national sins, his conscientious mind (always seeking opportunities for doing good) led him to urge the employment of Cowper's pen in the correction of these evils. What he suggested, as we believe, was as follows, viz., to draw up a memorial or representation on this subject to the bench of bishops, as the constituted guardians of public morals, and thus to call forth their united exertions ; secondly, to awaken the public mind to the magnitude of these crimes, and, finally, to obtain some legislative enactment for their prevention. We now insert Cowper's reply to the pro- position of his friend Mr. Unwin. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. My dear Friend, — I am sensibly mortified at finding myself obliged to disappoint you but, though I have had many thoughts upon the subjects you propose to my considera- tion, I have had none that have been favora- ble to the undertaking. I applaud your pur- 268 COWPER'S WORKS pose, for the sake of the principle from which it springs, but I look upon the evils you mean to animadvert upon as too obstinate and inveterate ever to be expelled by the means you mention. The very persons to whom you would address your remonstrance are themselves sufficiently aware of their enormity ; years ago, to my knowledge, they were frequently the topics of conversations at polite tables ; they have been frequently mentioned in both nouses of parliament ; and, I suppose, there is hardly a member of either who would not immediately assent to the necessity of a reformation, were it pro- posed to him in a reasonable way. But there it stops ; and there it will forever stop, till the majority are animated with a zeal in which they are at present deplorably defect- ive. A religious man is unfeignedly shocked when he reflects upon the prevalence of such crimes ; a moral man must needs be so in a degree, and will affect to be much more so than he is. But how many do you sup- pose there are among our worthy represent- atives that come under either of these de- scriptions? If all were such, yet to new model the police of the country, which must be done in order to make even unavoidable perjury less frequent, were a task they would hardly undertake, on account of the great difficulty that would attend it. Government is too much interested in the consumption of malt liquor toreducathe number of vend- ers. Such plausible pleas may be offered in defence of travelling on Sundays, espe- cially by the trading part of the world, as the whole bench of bishops would- find it difficult to overrule. And with respect to the violation of oaths, till a certain name is more generally respected than it is at present, however such persons as yourself may be grieved at it, the legislature are never likely to lay it to heart. I do not mean, nor would by any means attempt, to discourage you in so laudable an enterprise, but such is the light .n which it appears to me, that I do not feel the least spark of ' courage qualifying or prompting me to embark in it myself. An exhortaticn therefore written by me, by hope- less, desponding me, would be flat, insipid, and uninteresting ; and disgrace the cause instead of serving it. If, after what I have said, however, you still retain the same sen- timents, Matte esto virtute tua, there is no- body better qualiiied than yourself, and may your success prove that I despaired of it with- out a reason. Adieu, My dear friend. W. C. Cowper, it seems, declined his friend's pro- Dosal, and was by no means sanguine in his 'jopes of a remedy. The reasons he assigns are sufficient to deter the generality of man. kind. Still there are men always raised up by the providence of God, in his own ap- pointed time — endowed from above with qualifications necessary for great enterprises — distinguished too by a perseverance that no toil can weary, and which no opposition can divert from its purpose, because they are inwardly supported by the integrity of their motives, and by a deep conviction of the importance of their object. To men of this ethereal stamp, trials are but an in- centive to exertion, because they never fail to see through those besetting difficulties, which obstruct the progress of all good un- dertakings, the final "accomplishment of aL their labors. Let no man despair of success in a right- eous cause. Let him well conceive his plan and mature it : let him gain all the aid thai; can be derived from the counsel of wise and reflecting minds ; and, above all, let him im- plore the illuminating influences of that Holy Spirit, which can alone impart what all want, " the wisdom that is from above," which is " pure, peaceable, gentle, and full of good fruits ;" let him be simple in his view, holy in his purpose, zealous, prudert, and perse- vering in his pursuit; and we fee* no hesita- tion in saying, that man will be " blessed in his deedr There are no difficulties, if his object be practicable, and prosecuted in a right spirit, that he may not hope to conquer; no corrupt passions of men over which he may not finally triumph, because there is a Divine Power that can level tne highest mountains and exalt the lowest valleys, and because it is recorded for our consolation and instruction : " And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead them the way ; and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light, to go by day and night. He took not away the pillar of the cloud by day, nor the pillar of fire by night, from before the people."* With respect to the more immediate sub- ject of Cowper's letter, so far as it is applica- ble to modern times, we. must confess that we are sanguine in our hopes of improve- ment, founded on the increasing moral spirit of the times, and the Divine agency, now so visibly interposing in the affairs of men. Every abuse will progressively receive its appropriate and counteracting remedy. The Lord's day will be rescued from gross pro- fanation, and the claims of the revenue be compelled to yield to the weight and author- ity of public feeling. How just and forcible is the following portrait drawn by the Muse of Cowper ! " The excise is fattened with the rich result Of all this riot ; and ten thousand casks, For ever dribbling out their base contents, * Exodus, Kiii. 21, 22. LIFE OF COWPER, 261 Toucn'd by the Midas finger of the state, Bleed gold tor ministers to sport away. Drink, and be mad then ; 'tis your country bids ! Gloriously drunk obey the important call ! Her cause demands the assistance of your throats ; Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more." The Task, Book IV. We know not to what event the following letter refers, as it is without any date to guide us. It may probably relate to the pe- riod of Lord George Gordon's riots. We insert it as we find it.* TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. Though we live in a nook, and the world is quite unconscious that there are any such beings in it as ourselves, yet we are not un- concerned about what passes in it. The pres- ent awful crisis, big with the fate of Eng- land, engages much of our attention. The action is probably over by this time, and though we know it not, the grand question is decided, whether the war shall roar in our once peaceful fields, or whether we shall still only hear of it at a distance. I can compare the nation to no similitude more apt than that of an ancient castle, that had been for days assaulted by the battering-ram. It was long before the stroke of that engine made any sensible impression, but the continual repetition at length communicated a slight tremor to the wall ; the next, and the next, and the next blow increased it. Another shock puts the whole mass in motion, from the top to the foundation : it bends forward, and is every moment driven farther from the perpendicular; till at last the decisive blow is given, and down it comes. Every million that^has been raised within the last century, has had an effect upon the constitution like that of a blow from the aforesaid mm upon the aforesaid wall. The impulse becomes more and more important, and the impres- sion it makes is continually augmented ; un- less therefore something extraordinary inter- venes to prevent it — you will find the conse- quence at the end of my simile. Yours, W. C. The letter which we next insert, is curious and interesting, as it contains a critique on the works of Churchill, whose style Cow- per's is supposed to resemble, in it« nervous strength aud pungency. He calls him, " the great Churchill."f One of his productions, * Men who are of sufficient celebrity to entitle their letters to the honor of future publication would do well in never omitting to attach a date to them. The neglect uf this precaution, on the part of the Rev. Legh Rich- mond, led to much perplexity. t Cowper was an admirer of Churchill, and is thought to have formed his style on the model of that writer. But he r 5 now no longer " the great Churchill." The not here mentioned, was entitled the Ros- ciad, containing strictures on the theat-ical performers of that day, who trembled at his censures, or were elated by his praise. He has passed along the stream, and has ceased to be read, though once a popular writer. It is much to be lamented that his habits were irregular, his domestic duties violated, and his life at length shortened by intem- perance. The reader may form an estimate of his poetical pretensions from the judg> ment here passed upon them by Cowper. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. My dear William, — How apt we are to deceive ourselves where self is in question ! You say I am in your debt, and I accounted you in mine : a mistake to which you must attribute my arrears, if indeed I owe you any, for I am not backward to write where the uppermost thought is welcome. I am obliged to you for all the books you have occasionally furnished me with : I did not indeed read many of Johnson's Clas- sics — those of established reputation are so fresh in my memory, though many years have intervened since I made them my com- panions, that it was like reading what I read yesterday over again ; and, as to the minor Classics, I did not think them worth reading at all. I tasted most of them, and did not like them : it is a great thing to be indeed a poet, and does not happen to more than one man in a century. Churchill, the great Churchill, deserved the name of poet — I have read him twice, and some of his pieces three times ove^, and the last time with more pleasure than the first. The pitiful scribbler of his life seems to have undertaken that task, for which he was entirely unqualified, merely because it afforded him an opportu- nity to traduce him. He has inserted in it but one anecdote of consequence, for which he refers you to a novel, and introduces the story with doubts about the truth of it But his barrenness as a biographer I could forgive, if the simpleton had not thought himself a judge of his writings, and, under the erroneous influence of that thought in- forms his reader that Gotham, Independence, causes of his reputation have been the occasion of it 3 decline. His productions are founded on the popular yet evanescent topics of the time, which have ceased to create interest. He who wishes to survive in the mem- ory of future ages must possess, not only the attribute of commanding genius, but be careful to employ it on sub- jects of abiding importance His life was characterised by singular imprudence, aitd by habits of gross vice and intemperance. A preacher by profession, and a rake in practice, he abandoned the church, or rather was com- pelled to resign its functions. Gifted with a vigorous fancy, and superior powers, he prostituted them to the purposes of political faction, and became the associate and frien I of Wilkes. A bankrupt, at length, both in fortune and constitution, he was seized with a fever while paying a visit to Mr. Wilkes, at Boulogne : and terminated his brilliant but guilty career at the early age of thirty-four. 270 COWPER'S WORKS, and the Times, were catchpennies. Gotham, unless I am a greater blockhead than he, which I am far from believing, is a noble and beautiful poem, and a poem with which I make no doubt the author took as much pains as with any he ever wrote. Making allow- ance (and Dryden, perhaps, in his Absalom and Achitophel stands in need of the same indulgence) for an unwarrantable use of scripture, it appears to me to be a masterly performance. Independence is a most ani- mated piece, full of strength and spirit, and marked with that bold masculine character which I think is the great peculiarity of this writer. And the Times (except that the sub- ject is disgusting to the last degree) stands equally high in my opinion. He is indeed a careless writer for the most part, but where shall we find, in any of those authors who finish their works with the exactness of a Flemish pencil, those bold and daring strokes of fancy, those numbers so hazardously ven- tured upon and so happily finished, the mat- ter so compressed and yet so clear, and the coloring so sparingly laid on and yet with such a beautiful effect ? In short, it is not his least praise that he is never guilty of those faults as a writer which he lays to the charge of others: a proof that he did not judge by a'borrowed standard, or from rules laid down by critics, but that he was quali- fied to do it by his own native powers and his great superiority of genius : for he, that wrote so much and so fast, would, through inadvertence and hurry, unavoidably have departed from rules which he might have found in books, but his own truly poetical talent was a guide which could not suffer him to err. A race-horse is graceful in his swiftest pace, and never makes an awkward motion, though he is pushed to his utmost speed. A cart-horse might perhaps be taught to play tricks in the riding-school, and might prance and curvet like his betters, but at some unlucky time would be sure to betray 'the baseness of his original. It is an affair of very little consequence perhaps to the well-being of mankind, but I cannot help re- gretting that he died so soon. Those words of Virgil, upon the immature death of Mar- ceilua, might serve for his epitaph. " Csrendent terris hunc tantum fata ; neque ultra Esse sinent." Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWTN. My dear Friend, — I find the Register in afl respects an entertaining medley, but espe- cially in this, that it has brought to my view V>me long forgotten pieces of my own pro- duction. I mean by the way two or three. Those I hav^< marked with my own initials, and you may be sure I found them peculiarly agreeable, as they had not only the grace of being mine, but that of novelty likewise to recommend them. It is at least twenty years since I saw them. You, I think, was never a dabbler in rhyme. I have been one ever since I was fourteen years of age, when I began with translatisg an elegy of Tibul- lus. I have no more right to the name of a poet than a maker of mouse-traps has to that of an engineer; but my little exploits in this way have at times amused me so much, that I have often wished myself a good one. Such a talent in verse as mine is like a child's rattle, very entertaining to the trifier that uses it and very disagreeable to all be- sides. But it has served to rid me of some melancholy moments, for I only take it up as a gentleman-performer does his fiddle. I have this peculiarity belonging to me as a rhymist, that though I am charmed to a great degree with my own work while it is on the anvil, I can seldom bear to look at it when it is once finished. The more I con- template it the more it loses its value, till I am at last disgusted with it. I then throw it by, take it up again, perhaps ten years after, and am as much delighted with it as at the first. Few people have the art of being agree- able when they talk of themselves ; if you are not weary therefore, you pay me* a high compliment. I dare say Miss S * was much diverted with the conjecture of her friends. The true key to the pleasure she found at Olney was plain enough to be seen, but they chose to overlook it. She brought with her a dis- position to be pleased, which, whoever does, is sure to find a visit agreeable, because the) make it so Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Olney, August 31, 1786. My dear Friend, — I began to fear for your health, and every day said to myself — I must write to Bagot soon, if it be only to ask him how he does — a measure that I should cer- tainly have pursued long since, had I been less absorbed in Homer than I am. But such are my engagements in that quarter, that they make me, I think, good for little else. Many thanks, my friend, for the names that you have sent me. The Bagots will make a most conspicuous figure among my subscribers, and I shall not, I hop** soon for* get my obligations to them. The unacquaintedness of modern ears witt. the divine harmony of Milton's numbers,T * Miss Shuttleworth. t Addison was the first, by his excellent critiques in the Spectator, to excite public attention to a more just sense LIFIi OF COWPER. 27 and the principles upon which he constructed them, is the cause of the quarrel that they have with elisions in blank verse. But where is the remedy? In vain should you or I, and a few hundreds more perhaps who have studied his versification, tell them of the superior majesty of it, and that for that majesty it is greatly indebted to those elis- ions. In their ears they are discord and dissonance, they lengthen the line beyond its due limits, and are therefore not to be en- dured. There is a whimsical inconsistence in the judgment of modern readers in this particular. Ask them all round, Whom do you account the best writer of blank verse? and they will reply, almost to a man, Milton, to be sure : Milton against the field ! Yet if a writer of the present day should con- struct his numbers exactly upon Milton's plan, not one in fifty of these professed ad- mirers of Milton would endure him. The case standing thus, what is to be done ? An author must either be contented to give of the immortal poem of the Paradise Lost. But it was reserved for Johnson (Rambler, Ros. B6, B& 90, 94.) lo point out the beauty of Milton's versification. He showed that it was formed, as far as our language admits, upon the best models of Greece aud Rome, united to the soft- ness of the Italian, the most meiliiiuous of all modern poetry. To these examples we may add the name of Spens-r. who is distinguished for a most melodious flow of versirication. Johnson emphatically remarks, that Milton's -skill in harmony was not less than his inven- tion or his learning." Dr. J. Wharton also observes, that his verses vary, and resound as much, and display as much majesty and energy, as any that can be found in Dry den. We subjoin the following passages as illustrating the melody of his numbers, the grace and dignity of his style, the correspondence of sound with the sentiment, the easy flow of his verses into one another, and the beauty of his cadences. THE DESCENT OF THE ANGEL RAPHAEL INTO PARADISE. A seraph wing'd : six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments divine ; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o'er his breast With regal ornament ; the middle pair Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold, And odors dipt in Heaven ; the third his feet Shadowed from either heel with feathered mail, Sky tinctured grain. Like Maia's son he stood, And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance fill'd The circuit wide. Book V. How sweetly did they float upon the wings 3f silence, through the empty vaulted night; At every fall, smoothing the "raven down Of darkness, till it smiled. THE BIRTH OF DEATH. I fled, and cried out Death : Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd From all her caves, and back resounded Death) EVE EATING THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT. So saying, her rash hand in evil hour Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate. Earth felt the wound, and Nature, from her seat Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe, That ad was Lost. Book IX. IDAM PARTICIPATING IN THE GREAT TRANSGRESSION. He scrupled not to eat Against his better knowledge- Earth trembled from her entrails, as as:ain In pang ? ; and Nature gave a second groan ; Sky lour 1 d ; and, muttering thunder, some sad drops Wept at ii| mpleting of the mortal sin — Original. Book IX. disgust to the generality, or he must humor them by sinning against his own judgment. This latter cou*se, so far as elisions are con- cerned, I have adopted as essential to my success. Tn every other respect, I give aa much variety in my measure as I can, I be- lieve I may say as in ten syllables it is pos- sible to give, shifting perpetually the pause and cadence, and accounting myself happy that modern refinement has not yet enacted laws against this also. If it had, I protest to you I would have dropped my design of translating Homer entirely : and with what an indignant stateliness of reluctance I make them the concession that I have mentioned, Mrs. Unwin can witness, who hears all my complaints upon the subject. After having lived twenty years at Olney, we are on the point of leaving it, but shall not migrate far. We have taken a house in the village of Weston. Lady Hesketh is our good angel, by whose aid we are enabled to pass into a better air and a more walkable country. The imprisonment that we have suffered here for so many winters, has hurt us both. That we may suffer it no longer, she stoops to Olney, lifts us from our swamp, and sets us down on the elevated grounds of Weston Underwood. There, my dearfriend, I shall be happy to see you, and to thank you in person for all your kindness. I do not wonder at the judgment that you form of — a foreigner; but you may assure yourself that, foreigner as he is, he has an exquisite taste in English verse. The man is all fire, and an enthusiast in the highest degree on the subject of Homer, and has given me more than once a jog, when I have been inclined to nap with my author. No cold water is to be feared from him that might abate my own fire, rather perhaps too much combustible. Adieu ! mon ami, Yours faithfully, W. C. We reserve our remarks on the next letter till its close. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, Sept. 30, 1786. My dear Friend, — No length of separation will ever make us indifferent either to your pleasures or your pains. We rejoice that you have had so agreeable a jaunt and (ex- cepting Mrs. Newton's terrible fall, from which, however, we are happy to find that she received so little injury) a safe return We, who live encompassed by rural scenery can afford to be stationary ; though we our- selves, were I not too closely engaged with Homer, should perhaps follow your ex ample, and seek a little refreshment from * Private correspondence 272 COWPER'S WORKS. variety and change of place — a course that we might find not only agreeable, but, after a sameness of thirteen years,*perhaps useful. You must, undoubtedly, have found your ex- cursion beneficial, who at all other times en- dure, if not so close a confinement as we, yet a more unhealthy one, in city air and in the centre of continual engagements. Your letter to Mrs. Unwin, concerning our conduct, and the offence taken at it in our neighborhood, gave us both a great deal of concern; and she is still deeply affected by it. Of this you may assure yourself, that, if our friends in London have been grieved, they have been misinformed; which is the more probable, because the bearers of intel- ligence hence to London are not always very scrupulous concerning the truth of their re- ports ; and that, if any of our serious neigh- bors have been astonished, they have been so without the smallest real occasion. Poor ">eo^)le are never well employed even when .hey judge one another ; but when they un- iertake to scan the motives and estimate the Dehavior of those whom Providence has ex- alted a little above them, they are utterly out of their province and their depth. They often see us get into Lady Hesketh's car- riage, and rather uncharitably suppose that it always carries us into a scene of dissipation, which, in fact, it never does. We visit, in- deed, at Mr. Throckmorton's, and at Gay- hurst ; rarely, however, at Gayhurst, on ac- count of the greater distance : more fre- quently, though not very frequently, at Weston, both because it is nearer, and be- cause our business in the house that is mak- ing ready for us often calls us that way. The rest of our journeys are to Bozeat turn- pike and back again, or perhaps to the cabi- net-maker's at Newport. As Othello says, The very head /ind front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. What good we can get or can do in these visits, is another question ; which they, I am sure, are not at all qualified to solve. Of this we are both sure, that under the guid- ance of Providence we have formed these connexions; that we should have hurt the Christian cause, rather than have served it, by a prudish abstinence from them ; and that St. Paul himself, conducted to them as we have been, would have found it expedient to nave done as we have done. It is always impossible to conjecture, to much purpose, from the beginnings of a providence in what it will terminate. If. we have neither re- ceived nor communicated any spiritual good at present, while conversant with our new acquaintance, at least no harm has befallen on either side ; and it were too hazardous an assertion even for our censorious neighbors to make, that, because the cause of the Gos- pel does not appear to have been served at present, therefore it never can be in any fiv ture intercourse that we may have with them. In the meantime, I speak a strict truth, and as in the sight of God, when I say that we are neither of us at all more addicted to gad- ding than heretofore. We both naturally love seclusion from company, and never go into it without putting a force upon our dis- position; at the same time I will confess, and you will easily conceive that the melan- choly incident to such close confinement as we have so long endured finds itself a Utile relieved by such amusements as a society so innocent affords. You may look round the Christian world, and find few, I believe, of our station, who have so little intercourse as we with the world that is not Christian. We place all the uneasiness that you have felt for us upon this subject to the account of that cordial friendship of which you have long given us proof. But you may be as- sured, that, notwithstanding all rumors to the contrary, we are exactly what we were when you saw us last : — I, m ; serable on ac- count of God's departure from me, which I believe to be final ; and she seeking his return to me in the path of duty and by continua. prayer. Yours, my dear friend, W. C. That the above letter may be fully under- stood, it is necessary to state that Mr. New ton had received an intimation from Olney that the habits of Cowper, since the arrival of Lady Ilesketh, had experienced a change ; and that an admonitory letter from himself might not be without its use. Under these circumstances, Newton addressed such a let- ter to his friend as the occasion seemed to require. The answer of Cowper is already before the reader, and in our opinion amounts to a full justification of the poet's conduct. We know, from various testimonies of un- questionable authority, that no change tend- ing to impeach the consistency of Mrs. Un- win or of Cowper can justly be alleged. If Newton should be considered as giving too easy a credence to these reports, or too rigid and ascetic in his spirit, we conceive that he could not, consistently with his own views as a faithful minister, and his deep interest in the welfare of Cowper, have acted other- wise, though he may possibly have expressed himself too strongly. As to Newton's own spirit and temper, no man was more amiable and sociable in his feelings, nor the object of more affectionate esteem and regard in the circles where he was known. His character has been already described by Cowper, as that of a man that lived in an atmosphere of Chiistian peace and love. "It is therefore," observes the poet, " you were beloved at Olney, ana if you preached to the Chicksawa LIFE OF COWPER. 273 and Chactaws t would be equally beloved by *heni."* TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Olney, Oct. 6, 1786. You have not heard, I suppose, that the ninth book of my translation is at the bot- tom of the Thames. But it is even so. A storm overtook it in its way to Kingston, and it sunk, together with the whole cargo of the boat in which it was a passenger. Not figu- ratively foreshowing, I hope, by its submer- sion, the fate of. all the rest. My kind and generous cousin, who leaves nothing undone that she thinks can conduce to my comfort, encouragement, or convenience, is my tran- scriber also. She wrote the copy, and she will have to write it again — hers, tkerefore, is the damage. I have a thousand reasons to lament that the time approaches when we must lose her. She has made a winterly summer a most delightful one, but the win- ter itself we must spend without her. W.C. We are at le~ngth arrived at the period when Covvper removed to Weston. He fixed his residence there Nov. 15th, 1786. The first letters addressed from that place are to his friends Mr. Bagot and Mr. Newton. JL'O THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston Underwood, Nov. 17, 1786. My dear Friend, — There are some things that do not actually shorten the life of man, yet seem to do so, and frequent removals from place to place are of that number. For my own part, at least, I am apt to think if I had been more stationary, I should seem to myself to have lived longer. My many changes of habitation have divided my time into many short periods, and when I look back upon them they appear only as the stages in a day's journey, the first of which is at no very great distance from the last. I lived longer at Olney than anywhere. There indeed I lived till mouldering walls and a tottering house warnecf me to depart. I have accordingly taken the hint, and two days since arrived, or rather took up ray abode, at Weston. You perhaps have never made the experiment, but I can assure you that the confusion which attends a transmi- gration of this kind is infinite, and has a ter- rible effect in deranging the intellects. I have been obliged to renounce my Homer on the occasion, and, though not for many days, I yet feel as if study and meditation, so long my confirmed habits, were on a sudden be- come impracticable, and that I shall certainly find them so when I attempt them again. * See page 135. But, in a scene so much quieter and pleas- anter than that which I have just escaped from, in a house so much more commodious, and with furniture about me so much more to my taste, I shall hope to recover my lit- erary tendency again, when once the bustle of the occasion shall have subsided. How glad I should be to receive you under a roof where you would find me so much more comfortably accommodated than at Olney ! I know your warmth of heart toward me, and am sure that you would rejoice in my joy. At present indeed I have not had time for much self-gratulation, but have every reason to hope nevertheless that in due time I shall derive considerable advantage, both in health and spirits, from the alteration made in my whereabout. I have now the twelfth book of the Iliad in hand, having settled the eleven first books finally, as I think, or nearly so. The winter is the time when I make the greatest rid- dance. Adieu, my friend Walter ! Let me hear from you, and Believe me, ever yours, W. C TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Weston Underwood, Nov. 17, 1786. My dear Friend, — My usual time of an swering your letters having been unavoida- bly engrossed by occasions that would not be thrust aside, I have been obliged to post- pone the payment of my debt for a whole week. Even now it is not without some dif- ficulty that I discharge it: which you will easily believe, when I tell you that this is only the second day that has seen us inhabi- tants of our new abode. When God speaks to a chaos, it becomes a scene of ord?r and harmony in a moment; but when his crea- tures have thrown one house into confusion by leaving it, and another by tumbling them- selves and their goods into it, not less than many days' hbor and contrivance is neces- sary to give them their proper places. And it belongs to furniture of all kinds, however convenient it may be in its place, to be a nui- sance out of it. We find ourselves here in a comfortable dwelling. Such it is in itself; and my cousin, who has spared no expense in dressing it up for us, has made it a gen- teel one. Such, at least, it will be when its contents are a little harmonized. She left us on Tuesday, and on Wednesday in the evening Mrs. Unwin and I took possession. I could not help giving a last look to my old prison and its precincts ; and, though I cannot easily account for it, having been miserable there so many years, felt something like a heart-ache when I took my last leave of a * Private correspondence. 18 274 COWPER'S WORKS. scene that certainly in itse.f had nothing to engage affection. But I recollected that I had once been happy these, and coiild not, without tears in my eyes, bid adieu to a place in which God had so often found me. The human mind is a great mystery; mine, at least, appeared to me to be such upon this occasion. I found that I had not only had a tenderness for that ruinous abode, because it had once known me happy in the presence of God; but that even the distress I had suffered for so long a time, on account of his absence, had endeared it to me as much. I was weary of every object, had long wished for a change, yet could not take leave without a pang at parting. What consequences are to attend our removal, God only knows. I know well that it is not in situation to effect a cure of melancholy like mine. The change, however, has been entirely a providential one ; for, much as I wished it, I never uttered that wish, except to Mrs. Unwin. When I learned that the house was to be let, and had seen it, I had a strong desire that Lady Hes- keth should take it for herself, if she should happen to like the country. That desire, in- deed, is not exactly fulfilled ; and yet, upon the whole, is exceeded. We are the tenants ; but she assures us that we shall often have her for a guest ; and here is room enough for us all. You, I hope, my dear friend, and Mrs. Newton, will want no assurances to convince you that you will always be received here with the sincerest welcome. More wel- come than you have been you cannot be ; but better accommodated you may and will be. Adieu, my dear friend. Mrs. Unwin's af- fectionate remembrances and mine conclude me ever yours, W. C. 9 TO LADY HESKETH. Weston Lodge, Nov. 26, 1786. It is my birth-day, my beloved cousin, and I determine to employ a part of it, that it may not be destitute of festivity, in writing to you. The dark, thick fog that has obscured it would have been a burden to me at Olney, but here I have hardly attended to it. The neatness and snugness of our abode com- pensates all the dreariness of the season, and, whether the ways are wet or dry, our house at least is always warm and commodious. Oh! for you, my cousin, to partake these comforts wifli us! I will not begin already to tease you upon that subject, but Mrs. Un- win remembers to have heard from your own lips that you hate London in the spring. Perhaps, therefore, by that time, you may be glad to escape from a scene which will be every day growing more disagreeable, that you may enjoy the comforts of the Lodge. You well know that the best house has a desol ite appearance unfurnished. This house accordingly, since it has been occupied by is and our meubles, is as much superior to what it was when you saw it as you can imagine. The parlor is even elegant. When I say that the parlor is elegant, I do not mean to in- sinuate that the study is not so. It is neat, warm, and silent, and a much better study than I deserve, if I do not produce in it an incomparable translation of Homer. I think every day of those lines of Milton, and con- gratulate myself on having obtained, before I am quite superannuated, what he seerm not to have hoped for sooner : • " And may at length my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage !" For if it is not a hermitage, at least it is a much better thing, and you must always un- derstand* my dear, that when poets talk of cottages, hermitages, and such like things, they mean a house with six sashes in front, two comfortable parlors, a smart staircase, and three bed-chambers, of convenient di- mensions ; in short, exactly such a house as this. The Throckmortons continue the most obliging neighbors in the world. One morn- >ug last week, they both went with me to the cliffs — a scene, my dear, in which you would delight beyond measure, but which you can- not visit, except in the spring or autumn. The heat of summer, and clinging dirt of winter, would destroy you. What is called the cliff, is no cliff, nOr at all like one, but a beautiful terrace, gently sloping down to the Ouse, and from the brow of which, though not lofty, you have a view of such a valley as makes that which you see from the hills near Olney, and which I have had the honor to celebrate, an affair of no consideration.* Wintry as the weather is, do not suspect that it confines me. I ramble daily, and every day change my ramble. Wherever I go, 1 find short grass finder my feet, and, when I have travelled perhaps five miles, come home with shoes not at all too dirty for a drawing- Toom. I was pacing yesterday under the elms that surround the field in which stands the great alcove, when lifting my eyes I saw two black genteel figures bolt through a hedge into the ■path where I was walking You guess already who they were, and that they could be nobody but our neighbors. They had seen me from a hill at a distance ; * " How oft, upon yon eminence, our pace Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, While Admiration, feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene : Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned The distant plough slow moving, and, beside His laboring team, that swerved not from the track, The sturdy swain, diminished to a boy ! Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, Conducts the eye along his sin ions course, Delighted," &c. &c. The Task; Book 1 LIFE OF COWPER. 71 »nd had traversed a great turnip field to get at me. You see, therefore, my dear, that I am in some request. Alas ! in too much re- quest with some people. The verses of Cadwallader have found me at last. I am charmed with your account of our little cousin* at Kensington. If the world does not spoil him hereafter, he will be a valuable man. ^ood night, and may God bless thee ' W. C. In the midst of the brightening prospects that seemed to await Covvper, by a change of residence so conducive to his health and spirits, his tender and affectionate feelings received a severe shock by the unexpected intelligence of the death of Mr. Unwin. Few events could have made a more sensible inroad on his happiness, and on that of Mrs. Unwin. This zealous and truly excellent •nan had been taking a tour with Mr. Henry Thornton, when, on his return, he was seized with an attack at Winch ester, which in a few days terminated his valuable life. How pre- carious are our enjoyments! By what a slender tenure do we hold every sublunary blessing, and how mysterious are the dispen- sations of Providence ! The Rev. William Unwin, the endeared friend and correspond- ent of Cowper; the possessor of virtues that give a charm to domestic life, while di- vine grace hallowed their character and ten- dency; the devoted minister of Christ, turn- ing many to righteousness, by the purity of his doctrine and the eminence of his example, was cut off in the midst of his career, when his continuance was most needed by his family, and the influence of his principles had begun to be felt beyond the precincts of his parish. Happily for himself and his sur- viving friends, he died as he lived, supported by the hopes and consolations of the gospel, and with the assured prospect of a blessed immortality. u And, behold, I come quickly, and my re- ward is with me, to give every man according as his work shall be." " He that overcomelh' shall inherit all things, and I will be his God, and he shall be my son."f Cowper thus imparts the painful tidings to Lady Hesketh. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Dec. 4, 1786. I sent you, my dear, a melancholy letter, and I do not know that I shall now send you ane very unlike it. Not that anything occurs n consequence of our late loss more afflictive ,han was to be expected, but the mind does *ot perfectly recover its tone after a shock ike that which has been felt so lately. This * Lord Cowper. t Rev. xxi. 7 ; xxii. 12. I observe, that, though my experience haf long since taught me that this world is a world of shadows, and that it is the more prudent as well as the more Christian course to possess the comforts that we find in it as if/we possessed them not, it is no easy mat- ter to reduce this doctrine into practice. We forget that that God who gave them may, when he pleases, take them away ; and that perhaps it may please him to take them at a time when we least expect, or are least dis- posed to part from them. Thus it has hap- pened in the present case. There never was a moment in Unwin's life when there seemed to be more urgent want of him than the mo- ment in which he died. He had attained to an age, when, if they are at any time useful, men become more useful to their families, their friends, and the world. His parish be- gan to feel and to be sensible of the advan- tages of his ministry. The clergy around him were many of them awed by his example. His children were thriving under his own tuition and management, and his eldest boy is likely to feel his loss severely, being by his years, in some respect qualified, to understand the value of such a parent; by his literary proficiency too clever for a school-boy, and too young at the same time for the university. The removal of a man in the prime of life, of such a character, and with such connexions, seems to make a void in society that can ne- ver be filled. God seemed to have made him just what he was, that he might be a blessing to others, and, when the influence of his character and abilities began to be felt, re- moved him. These are mysteries, my dear, that we cannot contemplate without astonish- ment, but which will nevertheless be ex- plained hereafter, and must in the meantime be revered in silence. It is well for his mother that she has spent her life in the practice of an habitual acquiescence in the dispensations of Providence, else I know that this stroke would have been heavier, after all that she has suffered upon another ac- count, than she could have borne. She de- rives, as she well may, great consolatioD from the thought that he lived the life r;d died the death of a Christian. The conse- quence is, if possible, more unavoidable than the most mathematical conclusion that, there- fore, he is happy. So farewell, my fr'end Unwin ! the first man for whom I .conceived a friendship after my removal from St. Alban's, and for whom I cannot but still con. tinue to feel a friendship, though I shall see thee with these eyes no more ! W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Weston, Dec. 9, 178&. I am perfectly sure that you are mistaken 276 COWPER'S WORKS. though I do not wonder at it, considering the singular nature of the event, in the judgment that you form of poor Unwin's death, as it affects the interest of his intended pupil. When a tutor was wante*d for him, you sought out the wisest and best man for the office within the circle of your connexions. It pleased God to take him home to himself. Men eminently wise and good are very apt to die, because they are fit to do so. You found in Unwin a man worthy to succeed him, and he in whose hands are the issues of life and death, seeing no doubt that Unwin was ripe for a removal into a better state, removed him also. The matter viewed in this light seems not so wonderful as to refuse all explanation, except such as in a melancholy moment you have given to it. And I am so convinced that the little boy's destiny had no influence at all in hastening the death of his tutors elect, that, were it not impossible on more accounts than one that I should be able to serve him in that capacity, I would without the least fear of dying a moment sooner, offer myself to that office; I would even do it, were I conscious of the same fitness for another and a better state that I believe them to have been both endowed with. In that case, I perhaps might die too, but, if I should, it would not be on account of that connexion. Neither, my dear, had your interference in the business anything to do with the catas- trophe. Your whole conduct in it must have been acceptable in the sight of God, as it was directed by principles of the purest bene- volence.* I have not touched Homer to-day. Yester- day was one of my terrible seasons, and when I arose this morning I found that I had not sufficiently recovered myself to engage in such an occupation. Having letters to write, I the more willingly gave myself a dis- pensation. Good night. Yours ever, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Weston, Dec. 9, 1786. My dear Friend, — We had just begun to enjoy the pleasantness of our new situation, to find at least as much comfort in it as the season of the year would permit, when afflic- tion found- us out in our retreat, and the news reached us of the death of Mr. Unwin. He had taken a western tour with Mr. Henry Thornton, and in his return, at Winchester, was seized with a putrid fever whick sent him to his grave. He is gone to it, however, though young, as fit for it as age itself could * Lady Hesketh had placed a young friend of hers ander a tutor, who died. She then consigned him to the care of Mr. Unwin, who also departed. Her mind was much afflicted by the singularity of this event, and the above letter is Cowper's reasoning upon it. have made him. Regretted, indeed, and al. ways to be regretted, by those who knew him, for he had everything that makes a man valuable both in his principles and in hisi manners, but leavhfg still this consolation to his surviving friends, that he was de'sirable in this world chiefly because he was so well prepared for a better. I find myself here situated exactly to my mind. Weston is one of the prettiest vil- lages in England, and the walks about it at all seasons of the year delightful. I know that you will rejoice with me in the change that we have made, and for which I am al- together indebted to Lady Hesketh. It is a change as great, as (to compare metropolitan things with rural) from St. Giles's to Gros- venor Square. Our house is in all respects commodious, and in some degree elegant; and I cannot give you a better idea of that which we have left than by telling you the present candidates for it are a publican and a shoemaker. W. C TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Weston, Dec. 16, 1786. My dear Friend, — The death of one whom I valued as I did Mr. Unwin is a subject on which could say much, and with much feel- ing. But habituated as my mind has been these many years to melancholy themes, 1 am glad to excuse myself the contemplation of them as much as possible. I will only ob- serve, that the death of so young a man, whom I so lately saw in good health, and whose life was so desirable on every account, has something in it peculiarly distressing. I cannot think of the widow and the children that he has left, without a heart-ache that I remember not to have felt before. We may well sa^y, that the ways of God are myste- rious : in truth they are so, and to a degree that only such events can give us any con- ception of. Mrs. Unwin begs me to give her love to you, with thanks for your kind letter. Hers has been so much a life of affliction, that whatever occurs to her in that shape has not, at least, the terrors of novelty to embitter it, She is supported under this, as she has been under a thousand others, with a sub- mission of which I never saw her deprived for a moment. Once, since we left Olney, I had occasion to call at our old dwelling; and never did I see so forlorn and woeful a spectacle. De serted of its inhabitants, it seemed as if it could never be dwelt in forever. The cold- ness of it, the dreariness, and the dirt, made me think it no unapt resemblance of a soul that God has forsaken. While ho dwelt in it and manifested himself there, he could ci sate his own accommodations, and give it * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. 27* occasionally the appearance of a palace ; but the moment he withdraws and takes with him all the furniture and embellishment of his graces, it becomes what it was before he entered it — the habitation of vermin and the image of desolation. Sometimes I envy the living, but not much or not long ; for, while they live, as we call it, they too are liable to desertion. But the dead who have died in the Lord I envy always ; for they, I take it for granted, can be no more forsaken. This Babylon, however, that we have left behind us, ruinous as it is, the ceilings cracked and the wails crumbling, still finds some who covet it. A shoemaker and an alemonger have proposed themselves as joint candidates to succeed us. Some small dif- ference between them and the landlord, on the subject of rent, has hitherto kept them out ; but at last they will probably agree. In the meantime Mr. R prophesies its fall, and tells them that they will occupy it at the hazard of their lives unless it be well propped before they enter it. We have not, there- fore, left it much too soon ; and this we knew before we migrated, though the same prophet would never speak out so long as only our heads were in danger. I wish yon well through your laborious task of transcribing. I hope the good lady's meditatiens are such as amuse you rather more, while you copy them, than meditations in general would ; which, for the most part, have appeared to me the most labored, insipid, and unnatural of all productions. Adieu, my dear friend. Our love attends vou both. Ever yours, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Weston, Dec. 21, 1786. Your welcome letter, my beloved cousin, which ought by the date to have arrived on Sunday, being by some untoward accident delayed, came not till yesterday. It came, however, and has relieved me from a thou- sand distressing apprehensions on your ac- count. The dew of your intelligence has refreshed my poetical laurels. A little praise now and then is very good for your hard-working poet, who is apt to grow languid, and perhaps care- less, without it. Praise I find affects us as money does. . The more a man gets of it, ivith the more vigilance he watches over and preserves it. Such at least is its effect on me, and you may assure yourself that I ivill never lose a mite of it for want of care. I have already invited the good Padre* in general terms, and he shall positively dine here next week, whether he will or not. I do ot at all suspect that his kindness to Pro- * Tht chaplain of John Throckmorton, Esq. testants has anything insidious in it, any more than I suspect that he transcribes Homer for me with a view for my conversion. He would find me a tough piece of business, I can tell him, for, when 'I had no religion at all, I had yet a terrible dread of the Pope. How much more now ! I should have sent you a longer letter, but was obliged to devote my last evening to the melancholy employment of composing a Latin inscription for the tombstone of poor William, two copies of which I wrote out and enclosed, one to Henry Thornton, and one to Mr. Newton. W. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, Jan. 3, 1787. My dear Friend, — You wish to hear from me at any calm interval of epic frenzy. An interval presents itself, but whether calm or not is perhaps* doubtful. Is it possible for a man to be calm who for three weeks past has been perpetually occupied in slaughter ; let- ting out one man's bowels, smiting another through the gullet, transfixing the liver of another, and lodging an arrow in a fourth ? Read the thirteenth book of the Iliad, and you will find such amusing incidents as these the subject of it, the sole subject. In order to interest myself in it and to catch the spirit of it, I had need discard all humanity. It ia woeful work ; and were the best poet in the world to give us at this day such a list of killed and wounded, he would not escape universal censure, to the praise of»a more en- lightened age be it spoken. I have waded through much blood, and through much more I must wade before I shall have finished. I determine in the mean time to account it all very sublime, and for two reasons ; — first, be- cause all the learned think so, and secondly, because I am to translate it. But were I an indifferent by-stander, perhaps I should ven- ture to wish that Homer had applied his wonderful powers to a less disgusting sub- ject : he has in the Odyssey, and I long to get at it. I have not the good fortune to meet with any of these fine things that you say are printed in my praise. But I learn from cer- tain advertisements in the Morning Herald, that I make a conspicuous figure in the en- tertainments of Freemasons' Hall. I learn also that my volumes are out of print, and that a third edition is soon to be published. But, if I am not gratified with the sight of odes composed to my honor and glory, I have at least been tickled with some douceurs of a very flattering nature by the post. A lady unknown addresses the best of men — an un- known gentleman has read my inimitable poems, and invites me to his seat in Hamp- shire — another incognito gives me hopes of a 278 COWPER'S WORKS. memorial in his garden, and a Welsh attorney sends me his verses to revise, and obligingly asks ' Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale 1" If you find me a little vain hereafter, my friend, you must excuse it in consideration of these powerful incentives, especially the latter ; for surely the poet who can charm an attorney, especially a Welsh one, must be at least an Orpheus, if not something greater. Mrs. Unwin is as much delighted as myself with our present situation. But it is a sort of April weather life that we lead in this world. A little sunshine is generally the pre- lude to a storm. Hardly had we begun to enjoy the change, when the death of her son cast a gloom upon everything. He was a most exemplary man ; of your order; learned, polite, and aimable ; the father of lovely children, and the husband of. a wife (very much like dear Mrs. Bagot) who adored him. Adieu, my friend ! Your affectionate, W. C. The correspondence of Cowper was very limited this year, owing to a severe attack of nervous fever, which continued during a pe- riod of eight months, and greatly affected his health and spirits. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 8, 1787. I have had a little nervous fever lately, my dear, that has somewhat abridged my sleep ; and though I find myself better to-day than I have been since it seized me, yet I feel my head lightish, and not in the best order for writing. You will find me therefore perhaps not only less alert in my manner than I usually am when my spirits are good, but rather shorter. I will however proceed to scribble till I find that it fatigues me, and then will do as I know you would bid me do were you here, shut up my desk and take a walk. The good General tells me that in the eight first books which I have sent him he still finds alterations and amendments necessary, of which I myself am equally persuaded ; and he asks my leave to lay them before an inti- mate friend of his, of whom he gives a char- acter that bespeaks him highly deserving such a trust. To this I have no objection, desiring only to make the translation as perfect as I can make it. If God grant me life and health, I would spare no labor to secure that point. The General's letter is extremely kind, and both for matter and manner like all the rest of his dealings with his cousin, the poet. I had a letter also yesterday from Mr. Smith, member for Nottingham. Though we never saw each other, he writes to me in the most friendly terms, and interests himself much in my Homer, and in the success of mj subscription. Speaking on this latter subject, he says, that my poems are read by hundreds who know nothing of my proposals, and makes no doubt that they would subscribe if they did. I have myself always thought them imperfectly or rather insufficiently an- nounced. I could pity the poor woman who has been weak enough to claim my song ; such pilfer- ings are sure to be detected. I wrote it, I know not how long, but 1 suppose four yeara ago. The "Rose" in question was a rose given to Lady Austen by Mrs. Unwin, and the incident that suggested the subject oc- curred in the room in which you slept at the vicarage, which Lady Austen made her dining- room. Some time since, Mr. Bull going to London, I gave him a copy of it, which he undertook to convey to Nichols, the printer of the Gentleman's Magazine. He showed it to a Mrs. C , who begged to copy it, and promised to send it to the printer's by her servant. Three or four months afterwards, and when I had concluded it was lost, I saw it in the Gentleman's Magazine, with my sig- nature, " W. C." Poor simpleton ! She will find now perhaps that the rose had a thorn, and that she has pricked her fingers with it. Adieu ! my beloved cousin. W. C. Though these verses, of which another claimed the authorship, will appear in the collection of poems, yet as they are so char- acterized by taste and beauty, and the inci- dent which gave rise to them is mentioned in the above letter, we think the reader will be pleased with their insertion. The rose had been wash'd, just washed hi a shower, Which Mary* to Annaf convey'd ; The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower And weigh'd down its beautiful head. The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were al: wet, And it seemed to a fanciful view To weep for the buds it had left with regret On the flourishing bush where it grew. I h astily seized it. unfit as it was, For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd-, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground. And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind ; Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd. This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile, And The tear that is wip'd with a little address May be followed perhaps by a smile. * Mrs. Unwin. f Lady Austen, LIFE OF COWPER. -2*7% TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Weston, Jan. 13, 1787. My dear Friend, — It gave me pleasure, such as it was, to learn by a letter from Mr. H. Thornton, that the inscription for the tomb of poor Unwin has been approved of. The dead have nothing to do with human praises, but if they died in the Lord, they have abun- dant praises to render to Him, which is far better. The dead, whatever they leave be- hind them, have nothing to regret. Good Christians are the only creatures in the world that are truly good, and them they will see again, and see them improved ; therefore them they regret not. Regret is for the living: what we get, we soon lose, and what we lose, we regret. The most obvious consolation in this case seems to be, that we who regret others shall quickly become objects of regret ourselves ; for mankind are continually pass- ing off in rapid succession. I have many kind friends, who, like your- self, wish that, instead of turning my en- deavors to a translation of Homer, I had proceeded in the way of original poetry. But I can truly say that it was ordered otherwise, not by me, but by the Providence that gov- erns all my thoughts and directs my inten- tions as he pleases. It may seem strange, but it is true, that after having written a vol- ume, in general with great ease to myself, I found it impossible to write another page. The mind of man is not a fountain, but a cistern ; and mine, God knows, a broken one. It is my creed, that the intellect depends as much, both for the energy and the multitude of its exertions, upon the operations of God's agency upon it, as the heart, for the exercise of its graces, upon the influence of the Holy Spirit. According to this persuasion, I may rery reasonably affirm, that it was not God's pleasure that I should proceed in the same track, because he did not enable me to do it. A whole year I waited, and waited in circum- stances of mind that made a state of non- employment peculiarly irksome to me. I longed for the pen, as the only remedy, but I could find no subject : extreme distress of spirit at last drove me, as, if I mistake not, I told you some time since, to lay Homer be- fore me and translate for amusement. Why it pleased God that I should be hunted into such a business, of such enormous length and labor, by miseries for which He did not see good to afford me any other remedy, I know not. But so it was: and jejune as the consolation may be, and unsuited to the ex- igencies of a mind that once was spiritual, yet a thousand times have I been glad of it; for a thousand times it has served at least to JiveH my attention, in some degree, frcm •uch terrible tempests as I believe have sel- * Private correspondence. dom been permitted to beat upon a human mind. Let my friends, therefore, who wish me some little measure of tranquillity in the performance of the most turbulent voyage that ever Christian mariner made, be con- tented, that, having Homer's- mountains and forests to windward, I escape, under their shelter, from the force of many a gust that would almost overset me ; especially when they consider that, not by choice, but by ne- cessity, I make them my refuge. As to fame, and honor, and glory, that may be acquired by poetical feats of any sort : God knows, that if I could lay me down in my grave with hope at my side, or sit with hope at my side in a dungeon all the residue of my days, I would cheerfully waive them all. For the little fame that I have already earned has never saved me from one distressing night, or from one despairing day, since I first acquired it. For what I am reserved, or to what, is a mystery ; I would fain hope, not merely that I may amuse others, or only to be a transla- tor of Homer. Sally Perry's case has given us much con- cern. I have no doubt that it is distemper But distresses of mind, that are occasioned by distemper, are the most difficult o*f all to deal with. They refuse all consolation ; they will hear no reason. God only, by his own immediate impressions, can remove them ; as, after an experience of thirteen years' misery I can abundantly testify. Yours, W C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 18, 1787. I have been so much indisposed with the fever that I told you had seized me, my nights during the whole week may be said to have been almost sleepless. The consequence has been, that, except the translation of about thirty lines at the conclusion of the thirteenth book, I have been forced to abandon Homer entirely. This was a sensible mortification to me, as you may suppose, and felt the more, because, my spirits of course failing with my strength, I seemed to have peculiar need of my old amusement. It seemed hard therefore to be forced to resign it just when I wanted it most. But Homer's battles can- not be fought by a man who does not sleep well, and who has not some little degree of animation in the daytime. Last night, how- ever, quite contrary to my expectations, the fever left me entirely, and I slept quietlj soundly, and long. If it please God that it return not, I shall soon find myself in a con- dition to proceed. I walk constantly, that is to say, Mrs. Unwin and I together; for at these times I keep her continually employed, and never suffer her to be absent from me many minutes. She gives me all her tiin* and all her attention, and forgets that there ;s another object in the world. Mrs. Carter thinks on the subject of dreams as everybody else does, that is to say, accord- ing to her own experience. She has had no extraordinary ones, and therefore accounts them only the ordinary operations of the fancy. Mine are of a texture that will not suffer me to ascribe them to so inadequate a cause, or to any cause but the operation of an exterior agency. I have a mind, my dear, (and to" you I will venture to boast of it) as free from superstition as any man living, nei- ther do I give heed to dreams in general as predictive, though particular dreams I believe to be so. Some very sensible persons, and, I suppose, Mrs. Carter among them, will ac- knowledge that in old times God spoke by dreams, but affirm with much boldness that he has since ceased to do so. If you ask them why, they answer, because he has now revealed his will in the Scripture, and there is no longer any need that he should instruct or admonish us by dreams. I grant that with respect to doctrines and precepts he has left us in want of nothing, but has he thereby precluded himself in any of the operations of his Providence ? Surely not. It is per- fectly a different consideration ; and the same need that there ever was of his interference in this way there is still, and ever must be, while man continues blind and fallible, and a creature beset with dangers, which he can neither foresee nor obviate. His operations however of this kind are, I allow, very rare ; and, as to the generality of dreams, they are made of such stuff, and are in themselves so insignificant, that, though I believe them all to be the manufacture of others, not our own, I account it not a farthing-matter who manu- factures them. So much for dreams ! My fever is not yet gone, but sometimes seems to leave me. It is altogether of the nervous kind, and attended now and then with much dejection. A young gentleman called here yesterday who came six miles out of his way to see me. He was on a journey to London from Glas- gow, having just left the University there. He came, I suppose, partly to satisfy his own curiosity, but chiefly, as it seemed, to bring me the thanks of some of the Scotch profes- sors for my two volumes. His name is Rose, an Englishman. Your spirits being good, you will derive more pleasure from this inci- dent than I can at present, therefore I send it.* Adieu, very affectionately, W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, July 24, 1787. Dear Sir, — This is the first time I have Written these six months, and nothing but * Mr. Rose was the son of Dr. Rose, of Chiswick, who the constraint of obligation could induce me to write now. I cannot be so wanting to myself as not to endeavor, at least, to thank you both for the visits with which you have favored me, and the poems that you sent rae : in my present state of mind I taste nothing, nevertheless I read, partly from habit, and partly because it is the only thing I am capa- ble of. • I have therefore read Burns's poems, and have read them twice ; and, though they be written in a language that is new to me, and many of them on subjects much inferior to the author's ability, I think them on the whole a very extraordinary production. He is, I believe, the only poet these kingdoms have produced in the lower rank of life since Shakspeare (I should rather say since Prior) who need not be indebted for any part of his praise to a charitable consideration of his origin and the disadvantages under which he has labored. It will be a pity if he should not hereafter divest himself of barbarism, and content himself with writing pure English, in which he appears perfectly qualified to excel. He who can command admiration dishonors himself if he aims no higher than to raise a laugh. I am, dear sir, with my best wishes for your prosperity, and with Mrs. Unwin's re- spects, Your obliged and affectionate humble ser vant, W. C. Burns is one of those instances which the annals of literature occasionally furnish of genius surmounting every obstacle by its own natural powers, and rising to command ing eminence. He was a Scottish peasant, born in Ayrshire, a native of that land where Fingal lived and Ossian sung.* He rose from the plough, to take his part in the pol- ished and intellectual society of Edinburgh, where he was admitted to the intercourse of Robertson, Blair, Lord Monboddo, Stewart, Alison, and Mackenzie, and found a patron in the Earl of Glencairn. formerly kept a seminary there. He was at this time a young man, distinguished by talent and great amiable- ness of character, and won" the regard and esteem of Cowper. He soon became one of his favorite correspon- dents. * The peasantry of Scotland do not resemble the same class of men in England, owing to a legal provision made by the Parliament of Scotland, in 1C46, whereby a school is established in every parish, for the express purpose of educating the poor. This statute was re- pealed, on the accession of Charles the Second, in 1660, but was finally re-established by the Scottish Parliament, after the Revolution, in 1696. The consequence of this enactment is, that every one, even in the humblest con- dition of life, is able to read ; and most persons are more or less skilled in writing and arithmetic. The moral effects are such, that it has been said, one quarter ses- sions for the town of Manchester has sent more felona for transportation than all the judges of Scotland consign during a whole year. Why is not a similar enactment, made for Ireland, where there is more ignorance and consequently more demoralization, than in any countr* 1 of equal extent in Europe ? LIFE OF COWPER, 28, His poetry is distinguished by the powers of a vivid imagination, a deep acquaintance with the recesses of the human heart, and an ardent and generous sensibility of feeling. It contains beautiful delineations of the scen- ery and manners of his country. "Many of her rivers and mountains," observes his bio- grapher,* " formerly unknown to the muse, are now consecrated by his immortal verse; the Doon, the Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluden, will in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the Tay, be considered as classic streams, and their borders will be trod with new and superior emotions." It is to be lamented that, owing to the dia- lect in which his poems are for the most part written, they are not sufficiently intelligible to English readers. His popular songs have given him much celebrity in his own coun- try.! Unhappily the fame of his genius attracted around him the gay and social, and his fine powers were wasted in midnight orgies ; till he ultimately fell a victim to intemperance, in the thirty-eighth year of his age ;t_ furnishing one more melancholy instance of genius not advancing the moral welfare and dignity of its possessor, because he rejected the guid- ance of prudence, and forgot that it is religion alone that can rmxke men truly great or hap- py. How often is genius like a comet, ec- centric in its course, whieh, after astonishing the world by its splendor, suddenly expires and vanishes ! We think that if a selection could be made from his works, excluding what is of- fensive, and retaining beauties which all must appreciate, an acceptable service might be rendered to the British public. Who can withhold their admiration from passages like these ? " Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care ; Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear." Speaking of religion, he observes : — 1 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night, [few ; When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue ; Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, Disarms affliction, or repels his dart ; Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." We would also quote the following beau- tiful line? from his Cotter's (or Cottager's) Saturday Night, which represents the habits *f domestic piety in humble life. * Dr. Carrie. t The national air of "Sects wha hae wi' Wallace Wed," is lamiliar to every one, ± He died in 1796. " Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed , How He who bore in heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : How his first followers and servants sped : The precepts sage they wrote to many a land How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw h» the sun a mighty angel stand ; And heard great Babylon doom'd by Heaven's command." " Then kneeling, unto Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays:* Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,' That thus they all shall meet in future days; There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear; Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear, While time moves round in an eternal sphere." TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, Aug. 27, 1787. Dear Sir, — I have not yet taken up the pen again, except to write to you. The little taste that I have had of your company, and your kindness in finding me out, make me wish that we were nearer neighbors, and that there were not so great a disparity in our years — that is to say, not that you were old- er, but that I were younger. Could we have met in early life, I flatter myself that we might have been more intimate than now we are likely to be. But you shall not find me slow to cultivate such a measure of your re- gard as your friends of your own age can spare me. When your route shall lie through this country, I shall hope that the same kind- ness which has prompted you twice to call on me, will prompt you again, and I shall be happy if, on a future occasion, I may be able to give you a more cheerful reception than can be expected from an invalid. My health and spirits are considerably improved, and I once more associate with my neighbors. My head, however, has been the worst part of me, and still continues so ; is subject to gid- diness and. pain, maladies very unfavorable to poetical employment; but a preparation of the bark, which I take regularly, has so lar been of service to me in those respects, as to encourage in me a hope that, by persever- ance in the use of it, I may possibly find myself qualified to resume the translation of Homer. When I cannot walk, I read, and perhaps more than is good for me. But I cannot be idle. The only mercy that I show myself in this respect, is, that I read nothing that re- quires much closeness of application. I late- ly finished the perusal of a book, whicn rij former years I have more than once attacked, but never till now conquered; some other. * This is said to be a portrait of his own father's do- mestic piety. 282 COWPER'S WORKS, book always interfered before I could finish it. The work I mean is Barclay's "Argenis;"* and, if ever you allow yourself to read for mere amusement, I can recommend it to you (provided you have not already perused it) as the most amusing romance that ever was written. It is the only one, indeed, of an old date, that I ever had the patience to go through with. It is interesting in a high de- gree; richer in incident than can be ima- gined; full of surprises, which the reader never forestalls; and yet free from all en- tanglement and confusion. The style, too, appears to be such as would not dishonor Tacitus himself. Poor Burns loses much of his deserved praise in this country, through our ignorance of his language. I despair of meeting with any Englishman who will take the pains that I have taken to understand him. His candle is bright, but shut up in a dark lantern. I lent him to a very sensible neighbor of mine. But his uncouth dialect spoiled all, and, be- fore he had half read him through he was. quite bamboozled. W. C. TO LADY HESKET1I. The Lodge, Aug. 30, 1787. My dearest Cousin, — Though it costs me something to write, it would cost me more to be silent. My intercourse with my neighbors being renewed, I can no longer seem to forget how many reasons there are why you, espe- cially, should not be neglected ; no neighbor, indeed, but the kindest of my friends, and ere long, I hope, an inmate. My health and spirits seem to .be mending daily. To what end I know not, neither will conjecture, but endeavor, as far as I can, to be content that they do so. I use exercise, and take the air in the park and wilderness. I read much, but as yet write not. Our friends at the Hall make themselves more and more amiable in our account, by treating us rather as old friends than as friends newly acquired. There are few days in which we do not meet, and I am now almost as much at home in their house as in our own. Mr. Throckmorton, having long since put le in possession of all his ground, has no\? given me possession of his library. An acquisition of great value to me, who never have been able to live without books, since I first knew my letters, and who have no books of my own. By his means I have been so well sup- plied, th » 1 1 have not even yet looked at the * A LaKtx romance, once celebrated. Barclay was the author of two celebrated Latin romances ; the first en- titled Euphonnio, a political, satirical work, chiefly levelled against the Jesuits, and dedicated to James I. His Argenis is a political allegory, descriptive of the state of Europe, and especially of France, during the League. Sir Walter Scott alludes to the Euphormio in bis notes on Marmion, canto 3rd. " Lounger," for which, however, I do not for get that. I am obliged to you. His tun; comes next, and I shall probably begin him to-morrow. Mr. George Throckmorton is at the Hall, I thought I had known these brothers long enough to have found out all their talents and accomplishments. But I was mistaken. The day before yesterday, after having walked with us, they carried us up to the library (a more accurate writer would have said con. ducted xls), and then they showed me the con- tents of an immense portfolio, the work of their own hands. It was furnished with drawings of the architectural kind, executed in a most masterly manner, and, among oth- ers, contained outside and inside views of the Pantheon, I mean the Roman one. They were all, I believe, made at Rome. Some men may be estimated at a first interview, but the Throckmortons must be seen often and known long before one can understand all their value.* They often inquire after you, and ask me whether you visit Weston this autumn. I an swer, yes ; and I charge you, my dearest cous- in, to authenticate my information. Write to me, and tell us when we may expect to sec you. We were disappointed that we had no letter from you this morning. You will find me coated and buttoned according to you* recommendation. I write but little, because writing has be- come new to me ; but I shall come on by de- grees. Mrs.Unwin begs to be affectionately remembered to you. She is in tolerable health, which is the chief comfort here that I have to boast of. Yours, my dearest cousin, as ever, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Sept. 4, 1787. My dearest Coz., — Come, when thou canst come, secure of being always welcome ! All that is here is thine, together with the hearts of those who dwell here. I am only sorry that your journey hither is necessarily post- poned beyond the time when I did hope to have seen you; sorry, too, that my uncle's infirmities are the occasion of it. But years will have their course and their effect ; they are happiest, so far as this life is concerned who like him escape those effects the longest, * With Mr., afterwards Sir John Throckmorton, the Editor had not the opportunity of being acquainted ; but he would fail in rendering what is due to departed worth, if he did not record the high sense which he en- tertained of the virtues of his brother, Sir Gecwge Throck- morton. To the polished manners of the gentleman ho united the accomplishments of the scholar and the man of taste and refinement ; while the attention paid to the wants, the comforts, and instruction of the poor, in which another participated with equal promptness and delight, has left behind a memorial that will not soon be for gotten. LIFE OF COWPER. 28a and who do not grow old before their time. Trouble and anguish do that for some, which only longevity does for others. A few- months since I was older than your father is now, and, though I have lately recovered, as Falstaff says, some smatch of my youth,! have but little confidence, in truth none, in so flat- tering a change, but expect, when I least ex- pect it, to wither again. The past is a pledge for the future. # Mr. G. is here, Mrs. Throckmorton's un- cle. He is lately arrived from Italy, where he has resided several years, and is so much the gentleman that it is impossible to be mere so. Sensible. rclite, obliging; slender in Ms figure, and in manners most engaging — every way worthy to be related to the Tb'-ockinortons.* I have read Savary's Travels into Egypt ;f Memoires du Baron de Tott ; Fenn's Origi- nal Letters ; the letters of Frederick of Bohe- mia ; and am now reading Memoires d'Henri de Lorraine, Due de Guise. I have also read Barclay's Argenis, a Latin romance, and the best romance that ever was written — all these, together with Madan's Letters to Priestly, and several pamphlets, within these two months. So I am a great reader. W. C. ±0 LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Sept. 15, 1787. My dearest Cousin, — on Monday last I was invited to meet your friend, Miss J , at the Hall, and there we found her. Her good nature, her humorous manner, and her good sense, are charming, insomuch that even I, who was never much addicted to speech- making, and who at present find myself par- ticularly indisposed to it, could not help saying at .parting, I am glad that I have seen you, and sorry that I have seen so little of you. We were sometimes many in company ; on Thurs- day we were fifteen, but we had not alto- gether so much vivacity and cleverness as Miss J , whose talent at mirth-making * T. Giffard, Esq., is the person here intended, for whom the verses were composed, inserted in a separate part of this volume. t Savary's travels in Egypt and the Levant, from 1776 to 1780. — They have acquired sufficient popularity to be translated into most of the European language's. He died in 1788. Baron de Tott's memoirs. — The severe reflections in which this writer indulged against the Turkish govern- ment, and his imprudent expi>s:ire of its political weak- ness, subjected him to a series of hardships and im- prisonment, which seem almost to exceed the bounds of credibility. Sir John Fenn's Letters. — Written by various members of the Paston family, during the historical period of the wars, bet ween the two houses of York and Lancaster. He died in 1794. Henri de Lorraine, Due de Guise. — This celebrated character was the great opponent of the Huguenots, and founder of the League in the time of Henry IH., of France. He was assassinated at Blois, at the instigation, it is sa : d, of his sovereign, to whom his influence had become formidable. has this rare property to recommend it, that nobody suffers by it. I am making a gravel-walk for winter use. under a warm hedge in the orchard. It shall be furnished with a low seat for your accom- modation, and if you do but like it I shall be sa„sfied. In wet weather, or rather after wet weather, when the street is dirty, it will suit you well, for, lying on an easy declivity through its whole length, it must of course be immediately dry. ■ You are very much 'wished for by our friends at the Hall — how much by me I will not tell you till the second week in October. Yours, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Sept. 29, 1787. My dear Coz., — I thank you for your politi cal intelligence : retired as we are, and seem- ingly excluded from the world, we are not indifferent to what passes in it ; on the con- trary, the arrival of a newspaper, at the pres- ent juncture, never fails to furnish us with a theme for discussion, short indeed, but satis- factory, for we seldom differ in opinion. I have received such an impression of the Turks, from the Memoirs of Baron de Tott, which I read lately, that I can hardly help presaging the conquest of that empire "by the Russians. The disciples of Mahomet are such babies in modern tactics, and so ener vated by the use of their favorite drug, so fatally secure in their predestinarian dream, and so prone to a spirit of mutiny against their leaders, that nothing less can be ex pected. In fact, they had not been their own masters at this day, had but the Russians known the weakness of their enemies half so well as they undoubtedly know it now. Add to this, that there is a popular prophecy current in both countries, that Turkey is one day to fall under the Russian sceptre. A prophecy which, from whatever authority it be derived, as it will naturally encourage the Russians, and dispirit the Turks, in exact proportion to the degree of credit it has obtained on both sides, has a direct tendency to effect its own ac- complishment* In the meantime, if I wish them conquered, it is only because I think it will be a blessing to them to be governed by any other hand than their own. For under heaven has there never been a throne so ex- ecrably tyrannical as theirs. The heads of the. innocent that have been cut off to gratify the humor or caprice of their tyrants, could they be all collected and' discharged against the walls of their city, would not leave one stone on another. O that you were here this beautiful day' It is too fine by half to be spent in London I have a perpetual din in my head, and 284 COWPER'S WORKb. though I am not deaf, hear nothing aright, neither my own voice, nor that of others. I am under a tub, from which tub accept my best love. Yours, W. C. The following letter discovers an afflicting instance of the delusion under which the in- teresting mind of Cowper labored in some particular instances. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Weston Underwood, Oct. 2, 1787. My dear Friend, — After a long but neces- sary interruption of our correspondence, I re- turn to it again, in one respect at least better qualified for it than before ; I mean by a be- lief of your identity, which for thirteen years I did not believe. The acquisition of this light, if light it may be called which leaves me as much in the dark as ever on the most interesting subjects, releases me however from the disagreeable suspicion that I am ad- dressing myself to you as the friend whom I loved and valued so highly in my better days, while in fact you are not that friend, but a stranger. I can now write to you without seeming to act a part, and without having any need to charge myself with dissimula- tion ; — a charge from which, in that state of inind and under such an uncomfortable per- suasion, I knew not how to exculpate myself, and which, as you will easily conceive, not seldom made my correspondence with you a burden. Still, indeed, it wants, and is likely to want, that best ingredient which can alone make it truly pleasant either to myself or you — that spirituality which once enlivened all our intercourse. You will tell me, no doubt, that the knowledge I have gained is an earnest of more and more valuable infor- mation, and that the dispersion of the clouds, in part, promises, in due time, their complete dispersion. I should be happy to believe it ; but the power to do so is at present far from me. Never was the mind of man benighted to the degree that mine has been. The Btorms that have assailed me would have overset the faith Of every man that ever had any; and the very remembrance of them, even after they have been long passed by, makes hope impossible. Mrs. Unwin, whose poor bark is still h'M together, though shattered by being, tossed and agitated so long at the side of mine, does not forget yours and Mrs. Newton's kindness on this last occasion. Mrs. Newton's offer to come to her assistance, and your readiness to have rendered us the same service, could fou have hoped for any salutary effect of rour presence, neither Mrs. Unwin nor my- * Private correspondence. self undervalue, nor shall presently forget But you judged right when you supposed, that even your company would have been no relief to me ; the company of my father or my brother, could they have returned from the dead to visit me, would have been none to me. We are busied in preparing for the recep- tion of Lady Hesketh, whom we expect here shortly. We have beds to put up, and fur- niture for beds to make; workmen, and scouring, and bustle. Mrs. Unwin's time has of course been lately occupied to a degree that made writing to her impracticable ; and she excused herself the rather, knowing my intentions to take her office. It does not, however, suit me to write much at a time. This last tempest has left my nerves in a worse condition than it found them ; my head especially, though better informed, is more infirm than ever. .1 will therefore only add our joint love to yourself and Mrs. New ton, and that I am, my dear friend, Your affectionate W. C* TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, Oct. 19, 1787. Dear Sir, — A summons from Johnston which I received yesterday, calls my attention once more to the business of translation. Before I begin, I am willing to catch though but a short opportunity to acknowledge your last favor. The necessity of applying my- self with all diligence to a long work, that has been but too long interrupted, will make my opportunities of writing rare in future. Air and exercise are necessary to all men but particularly so to the man whose mind labors, and to him who has been all his lift accustomed to much of both they are neces- sary in the extreme. My time, rjnee we parted, has been devoted entirely to the re- covery of health and strength for this service and I am willing to hope with g'ood effect. Ten months have passed since I discontinued my poetical efforts; I do not fxpect to find the same readiness as before, till exercise of the neglected faculty, such as it is, shall have restored it to me. You find yourself, I hope, by this time as comfortably situated in your new abode as. in a new abode one can be. I enter perfectly into all your feelings on occasion of the change. A sensible mind cannot do violence even to a local attachment without much pain. When my father died, I was young, too young to have reflected much. He was Rector of Berkham stead, and there I was born. It had never occured to me that a parson has no fee-simple in the house and glebe he occupies. There was neither tree, * This letter was addressed to Mr. Ne^rtou, on the writer's recovery from an attack of his gric^u a-nstittt tional malady, which lasted eight mouths. LIFE OF COWPER. 281 nor gate, nor sti.e, in all that country, to which I did net feel a relation, and the house itself I preferred to a palace. I was sent for from London to attend him in his last illness, and he died just before I arrived. Then, and not till then, J felt for the first time that I and my native place were disunited forever. I sighed a long adieu to fields and woods, from which I once thought I should never be parted, and was at no time so sensible of their beauties as just when I left them all behind me, to return no more. W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Oct. 20, 1737. My dear Friend, — My indisposition could not be of a worse kind. Had I been afflicted with a fever, or confined by a broken bone, neither of these cases would have made it impossible that we should meet. I am truly sorry that the impediment was insurmounta- ble while it lasted, for such in fact it was. The sight of any face, except Mrs. Un win's, was to me an insupportable grievance ; and when it has happened that, by forcing him- self into my hiding place, some friend has found me out, he has had no great cause to exult in his success, as Mr. Bull can tell you. From this dreadful condition of mind I emerged suddenly; so suddenly, that Mrs. Unwin, having no notice of such a change herself, could give none to anybody ; and when it obtained, how long it might last, or how far it was to be depended on, was a mat- ter of the greatest uncertainty. It affects me on the recollection with the more concern, oecause I learn from your last, that I have not only lost an interview with you myself, but have stood in the way of visits that you would have gladly paid to others, r.nd who would have been happy to have seen you. You should have forgotten (but you are not good at forgetting your friends) that such a creature as myself existed. I rejoice that Mrs. Cowper has been so comfortably supported. She must have se- verely felt the loss of her son. She has an affectionate heart toward her children, and could but be sensible of the bitterness of such a cup. -But God's presence sweetens every bitter. Desertion is the only evil that a Christian cannot bear. I have done a deed for which I find some people thank me little. Perhaps I have only burned my fingers, and had better not have meddled. Last Sunday se'nnight I drew up i petition to Lord Dartmouth, in behalf of Mr. Postlecnwaite. We signed it and all the principal inhabitants of vVeston followed jur examp^e.f What we had done was soon * Private correspondence. t The living of Olney had become vacant by the death of the Rev. Moses Brown, and an attempt was made to known in Olney, and an evening or two ago Mr. R called here to inform me (for that seemed to be his errand) how little the meas- ure that I had taken was relished by some of his neighbors. I vindicated my proceed- ing on the principles of justice and mercy to a laborious and well-deserving minister, to whom I had the satisfaction to find that none could allege one serious objection, and that all, except one, who objected at all, are per- sons who in reality ought to have no vote upon such a question. The affair seems still to remain undecided. If lis lordship waits, which I a little suspect, till his steward shall have taken the sense of those with whom he is likely to converse upon the sub- ject, and means to be determined by his re- port, Mr. Postlethwaite's case is desperate. I beg that you will remember me affection- ately to Mr. Bacon. We rejoice in Mrs Newton's amended health, and when we can hear that she is restored, shall rejoice still more. The next summer may prove mora propitious to us than the past : if it should, we shall be happy to receive you and yours Mrs. Unwin unites with me in love to you all three. She is tolerably welf, and her writing was prevented by nothing but her expectation that 1 should soon do it myself Ever yours, W. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Nov. 10, 17b , The parliament, my dearest cousin, plro rogued continually, is a meteor dancing be- fore my eyes, promising me my wish only to disappoint me, and none but the king and his ministers can tell when you and I shall come together. I hope, however, that the period, though so often postponed, is not far distant,- and that once more I shall behold you, and experience your power to make winter gay and sprightly. I have a kitten the drollest of all creaturea that ever wore a cat's skin. Her gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could. In point of size she is likely to be a kitten always, being extremely small of her age, but time, I suppose, that spoils everything, will make her also a cat. You will see her, I hope, before that melancholy period shall arrive, for no wisdom that she may gain by experience and reflection here- after will compensate the loss of her pres- ent hilarity. She is dressed in a tortoise- shell suit, and I know that you will delight in her. Mrs. Throckmorton carries us to-morrow in her chaise to Ohieheley. The event, how- ever, must be supposed to depend on ele- ments, at least on the state of the atmos. secure it for the Rev. Mr. Postlethwaite, the curate. Mi Bean was ultimately appointed. 2b6 COWPER'S WORKS. phere, which is turbulent beyond measure. Yesterday it thundered, last night it light- ened, and at three this morning I saw the sky as red as a city in flames could have made it. I have a leech in a bottle that fore- tells all these prodigies and convulsions of nature. No, not as you will naturally con- jecture, by articulate utterance of oracular notices, but by a variety of gesticulations, which here I have not room to give an ac- count of. Suffice it to say, that no change of weather surprises him, and that, in point of the earliest and most accurate intelligence \e is worth all the barometers in the world. None of them, all, fortable abode where you have paired him and because, after so long an imprisonmem in London, you, who love the country, and have a taste for it, would, of course, b^ glad to return to it. For my own part, to me ii is ever new, and though I have now bee" a«3 inhabitant of this village a twelf env •■•■nth, and have, during the half of that time, bet.: U liberty to expatiate and to make discoveries, I am daily finding out fresh scenes and walks which you would never be satisfied with en- joying — some of them are unapproachable by you, either on foot or in your carriage. Had you twenty toes (whereas I suppose indeed, can make the_ you have but ten) you could not reach them least pretence to foretell thunder — a species of capacity of which he has given the most, unequivocal evidence. I gave but six-pence for him, which is a groat more than the mar- ket price, though he is in fact, or rather would be, if leeches were not found in every ditch, an invaluable acquisition. W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Nov. 16, 1787. I thank you for the solicitude that you ex- press on the subject of my present studies. The work is undoubtedly long and laborious, but it has an end, and, proceeding leisurely, with a due attention to the use of air and ex- ercise, it is possible that I may live to finish it. Assure yourself of one thing, that, though to a by-stander it may seem an occupation surpassing the powers of a constitution never very athletic, and at present not a little the worse for wear, I can invent for myself no employment that does not exhaust my spir- its more. I will not pretend to account for this ; I will only say, that it is not the lan- guage of predilection for a favorite amuse- ment, but that the fact is really so. I have even found that those plaything-avocations which one may execute almost without any attention, fatigue me, and wear me away, while such as engage me much and attach me.closely, are rather serviceable to me than otherwise. W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Nov. 27, 1787. It is the part of wisdom, my dearest cous- in, to sit down contented under the demands of necessity, because they are such. I am sensible that you cannot, in my uncle's pres- ent infirm state, and of which it is not possi- ble to expect any considerable amendment, indulge either us or yourself with a journey to Weston. Yourself, I say, both because I know it will give you pleasure to see Causi- dice mi* once more, especially in the com- * The appellation which Sir Thomas Hesketh used to jive him la jest, when he was tiypothva '= LIFE OF COWPER 287 witr my effusions in the mortuary style. A fv for poets who write epitaphs upon indi- •-iduals ! I have written one that serves two lundrtd persons.* A few days since I received a second very obliging letter from Mr. M .f He tells me that his own papers, which are by far (he is sorry to say it) the most numerous, are marked V. I. Z.| Accordingly, my dear, I am happy to find that I am engaged in a cor- respondence with Mr. Viz, a gentleman for whom I have always entertained the profound- est veneration. But the serious fact is, that the papers distinguished by those signatures have ever pleased me "most, and struck me as the work of a sensible man, who knows the world well, and has more of Addison's deli- cate, humor than anybody. A poor man begged food at the hall lately. The cook gave him some vermicelli soup. He ladled it about some time with the spoon, and then returned it to her, " I am a poor man it is true, and I am very hungry, but yet I cannot eat br«th with maggots in it." Once more, my dear, a thousand thanks for your box full of good things, useful things, and beautiful things. Yours ever, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Dec. 4, 1787. I am glad, my dearest coz, that my last letter proved so diverting. You may assure yourself of the literal truth of the whole narration, and that, however droll, it was not n the least indebted to any embellishments 3f mine. You say well, my dear, that in Mr. Throck- morton we have a peerless neighbor; we have so. In point of information upon all important subjects, in respect too of expres- sion and address, and, in short, everything that enters into the idea of a gentleman, I have not found his equal (not often) any- where. Were I asked, who in my judgment approaches nearest to him in all his amiable qualities and qualifications, I should certainly answer, his brother George, who, if he be not his exact counterpart, endued with pre- cisely the same measure of the same accom- plishments, is nevertheless deficient in none * We introduce one stanza from these verses :— " Like crowded forest trees we stand, And some are marked to fall ; The axe will smite at God's command, And soon shall smite us^all." j" (Henry Mackenzie.) This popular writer first be- came know as the author of "The Man of Feeling," which was published in 1771, and of other work3 of a similar character. He afterwards became a member of a literary society, established at Edinburgh, in 1778, under the title of the Mirror Club. Here originated the Mirror and Lounger, periodical essays written after the manner of the Spectator, of which he was the editor and principal contributor. He died in 1831. 4 In a periodical called <•' The Lounger." of ihem, and is of a character singula! ly agreeable, in respect of a certain manly, I had almost said heroic, frankness, with which his air strikes one almost immediately. ' So far as his Opportunities have gone, lie has ever been as friendly and obliging to us as we could wish him, and, were he lord of the hall to-morrow, would, I dare say, conduct him- self towards us in such a manner as to leave us as little sensible as possible of the re- moval of its present owners. But all this I say, my dear, merely for the sake of stating the matter as it is ; not in order to obviate or to prove the inexpedience of any future plan of yours concerning the place of our resi- dence. Providence and time shape every- thing — I should rather say Providence alone, for time has often no hand in the wonderful changes that we experience ; they take place in a moment. It is not therefore worth while perhaps to consider much what we will or will not do in years to come, concerning which all that I can say with certainty at present is, that those years will be the most welcome in which I can see the most of you. W. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. W T eston, Dec. 6, 1787. My dear Friend, — A short time since, by the help of Mrs. Throckmorton's chaise, Mrs. Unwin and I reached Chichely. " Now," said 1 to Mrs. Chester, " I shall "write boldly to your brother Walter, and will do it imme- diately. I have passed the gulf that parted us, and he will be glad to hear it." But let not the man who translates Homer be so presumptuous as to have a will of his own, or to promise anything. A fortnight has, I suppose, elapsed since I paid this visit, and I am only now beginning to fulfil what I then undertook to accomplish without delay. The old Grecian must answer for it. I spent my morning there so agreeably that I have ever since regretted more sensibly that there are five miles of a dirty country inter- posed between us. For the increase of my pleasure, I had the good fortune to find your brother, the Bishop, there. We had much talk about many things, but most, I believe about Homer; and great satisfaction it gave me to find that on the most important points of that subject his Lordship and I were ex- actly of one mind. In the course of our con- versation, he produced from his pocket-book a translation of the first ten or twelve lines of the Iliad, and, in order to leave my judg- ment free, informed me kindly at the same time '.hat they were not his own. I read them, and, according to the best of my rec- ollection of the original, found them well executed. The Bishop indeed acknowledged that they were not faultless, neither did I find 288 COWPER'S WORKS. them so. Had they been such, I should have felt their perfection as a discouragement hardly to be surmounted ; for at that passage I have labored more abundantly than a^t any other, and hitherto with the least success. I am convinced that Homer placed it at the threshold of his work as a scarecrow to all translators. Now, Walter, if thou knowest the author of this version, and it be not trea- son against thy brother's confidence in thy secrecy, declare him to me. Had I been so happy as to have seen the Bishop again be- fore he left this country, I should certainly have asked him the question, having a curi- osity upon the matter that is extremely trou- blesome.* The awkward situation in which you found yourself on receiving a visit from an author- ess, whose works, though presented to you long before, you had never read, made me 4 laugh, and it was no sin against my friend- ship for you to do so. It was a ridiculous distress, and I can laugh at it even now. I hope she catechized you well. How did you extricate yourself? — Now laugh at me. The clerk of the parish of All Saints, in the town o£ Northampton, having occasion for a poet, has appointed me to the office-. I found my- self obliged to comply. The bell-man comes next, and then, I think, though even borne upon your swan's quill^I can soar no higher ! I am, my dear friend, faithfully vours, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Dec. 10, 1786. I thank you for the snip of cloth, com- monly called a pattern. At present I have two coats, and but one back. If at any time, hereafter, I should find myself possessed of fewer coats, or more backs, it will be of use to me. Though I have thought proper never to take any notice of the arrival of my MSS. together with the other good tilings in the box, yet certain it is that I received them. I have furbished up the tenth book till it is as bright as silver, and am now occupied in be- sfowing the same labor upon the eleventh. The twelfth and thirteenth are in the hands of , and the fourteenth and fifteenth are ready to succeed them. This notable job is the delight of my heart, and how sorry shall I be when it is ended ! The smith and the carpenter, my dear, ar^ both in the room hanging a bell; if I there- fore make a thousand blunders let the- said intruders answer for them all. I thank you, my dear, for your history of the G — — s. What changes in that family! And how many thousand families have in the same time experienced changes as violent as * The author was Lord Bagot. theirs! The course of a rapid river is th€ justest of all emblems to express the varia- bleness of our scene below. Shakspeare says, none ever bathed himself twice in the same stream, and it is equally true that the world upon which we close our eyes at night is never the same with that on which we open them in the morning. I do not always say, give my love to ray uncle,* because he knows that I always love him. I do not always present Sirs. Un win's love to you, partly for the same reason, (deuce take the smith and the carpenter,) and partly because I forget it. But to pre- sent my own, I forget never, for I always have to finish my letter, which I know not how to do, my dearest Coz, without telling you, that 1 am Ever yours, W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, Dec. 13, 1787. Dear Sir, — Unless my memory deceives me, I forewarned you that I should prove a very unpunctual correspondent. The work that lies before me engages unavoidably my whole attention. The length of it, the spirit of it, and the exactness that is requisite to its due performance, are so many most inter- esting subjects of consideration to me, who find that my best attempts are only intro- ductory to others, and that what to-day I suppose finished to mOrrow I must begin again. Thus it fares with a translator of Homer. To exhibit the majesty of such a poet in a modern language is a task that no man can estimate the difficulty of till he at- tempts it. To paraphrase him loosely, to hang him with trappings that do not belong to him, all this is comparatively easy. But to represent him with only his own orna- ments, and still to preserve his dignity, is a labor that, if I hope in any measure to achieve it, I am sensible can only be achieved by the most assiduous and most unremitting atten- tion. Our studies, however different in them- selves, in respect of the.means by which they are to be successfully carried on, bear some resemblance to each other. A perseverance that nothing can discourage, a minuteness of observation that suffers nothing to escape* and a determination not to be seduced from the straight line that lies before us by any images with which fancy may present us, are essentials that .should be common to us both. There are, perha>\ few arduous undertak- ings that are not in fact more arduous than we at first supposed them. As we proceed, difficulties increase upon us, but our hoped gather strength also, and we conquer diffi- culties which, could we have foreseen thet.-., we should never have had the*boldnes« to * Ashley Cowper, Esq. LIFE OF COWPER 289 encounter. May this be your experience, as I doubt not that it will. You possess by na- ture all that is necessary to success in the profession that you have chosen. What re- mains is in your own power. They say of poets that they must be born sucli : so must mathematicians, so must great generals, and so must lawyers, and so indeed must men of all de lomi nations, or it is not possible that they should excel. But, with whatever fac- ulties we are born, and to whatever studies our genius may direct us, studies they must still be. I am persuaded that Milton did not write his "Paradise Lost," nor Homer his ''Iliad," nor Newton his " Principia," without immense labor. Nature gave them a bias to their respective pursuits, and that strong pro- pensity, I suppose, is what we mean by genius. The rest they gave themselves. " Macte esto," therefore have no fears for the issue ! I have had a second kind letter from your friend, Mr. , which I have just answered. I must not, I find, hope to see him here, at least, I must not much expect it. He has a family that does not permit him to rly south- ward. I have also a notion that we three could spend a few days comfortably toge- ther, especially in a country like this, abound- ing in scenes with which I am sure you would both be delighted. Having lived till lately at some distance from the spot that I now inhabit, and having never been master of any sort of vehicle whatever, it is but just now that I begin myself to be acquainted with the beauties of our situation. To you 1 may hope one time or other to show them, and shall be happy to do it when an opportunity offers. Yours, most affectionately, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 1, 1788. Now for another story almost incredible ! A story that would be quite such, if it was not certain that you give me credit for any- thing. I have read the poem for the sake of which you sent the paper, and was much en- tertained by it. You think it perhaps, as very well you may, the only piece of that kind that was ever produced. It is indeed original, for I dare say Mr. Merry* never saw mine ; but certainly it is not unique. For most true it is, my dear, that ten years since, having a letter to write to a friend of mine to whom I could write anything, I filled a * He belonged to what was formerly known by the name of the Delia Crusca School, at Florence, whose writings were characterised by an affectation of style and sentiment, which obtained Us admirers in this coun- tiy. The indignant muse of Gifford, in his well-known Baviad and Maeviad, at length vindicated the cause of *ound taste and judgment ; and such was the effect of ►lis caustic satire, that this spuri<, ns and corrupt style ?pivei, r\ 6 airo\riyci.* Excuse this piece of pedantry in a man whose Homer is always before him ! What would I give that he were living now, and within my reach ! I, of all men living, have the best excuse for indulging such a wish, unreasonable as it may seem : for I have no doubt that the fire of his ey^ and the smile of hi* lips would put me now and then in possession of his full meaning more effectu- ally than any commentator. I return you many thanks for the elegies which you sent me, both which I think deserving of much commendation. I should requite you but ill by. sending you my mortuary verses, neither at present can I prevail on myself to do it, having no frank, and being conscious that they are not worth carriage without one. 1 have one copy left, and that copy I will keep for you. W. C. ♦ The public mind was, at this time, greatiy excited by the slave trade — that nefarious system, which was once characterized in the House of Lords, by Bishop Horsley, as " the greatest moral pestilence that ever withered the happiness of mankind." The honor of in- troducing this momentous question, in which the interest of humanity and justice were so deeply involved, was reserved for William Wilberforce, Esq. How he executed that task, is too well known to require either detail or panegyric. The final abolition of the slave trade was an era in the history of Great Britain, never to be forgotten; and the subsequent legislative enactments for abolishing slavery itself completed what was wanting, in this noble triumph of national benevolence. The following letter alludes to this inter esting subject. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Feb. 16, 1788. I have now three letters of ycurs, my deal- est cousin, before me, all written in the spac« of a week; and must be indeed insensible of kindness did I not feel yours on this occasion I cannot describe to you, neither could you comprehend it if I should, the manner in which * We insert Pope's translation, as being ;he rr os' familiar to the reader. " Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, Now green in youth, now withering on the ground ; Another race the following spring supplies, * They fall successive, and successive rise : So generations in their course decay, So nourish these, when those have-pass'd away." Pope's Version, LIFE OF COWPER. 29i my mind is some-times impressed with mel- ancholy on particular subjects. Your late silence was such a subject. I heard, saw. and felt, a thousand terrible things, which had no real existence, and was haunted by them night and day, till they at last extorted from me the doleful epistle which I have since wished had been burned before I sent it. But the cloud has passed, and, as far as you are concerned, my heart is once more at rest. Before you gave me the hint, I had once 3r twice, as I lay on my bed, watching the oreak of day, ruminated on the subject which, in your last but one, you recommend to me. Slavery, or a release from slavery, such as the poor negroes have endured, or perhaps both these topics together, appeared to me a theme so important at the present juncture, and at the same time so susceptible of poetical management, that I more than once perceived myself ready to start in that career, could I have allowed myself to desert Homer for so long a time as it would have cost me to do them justice. While I was pondering these things, the public prints informed me that Miss More was on the point of publication, having actually finished what I had not yet begun.* The sight of her advertisement convinced me that my best course would be that to which I felt myself most inclined, to perse- vere without turning aside to attend to any other call, however alluring, in the business I have in hand. It occurred to me likewise, that I have already borne my testimony in favor of my black brethren, and that I was one of the earliest, if not the first, of those, who have in the present day expressed their detestation of the diabolical traffic in question.f * For the gratification of those who are not in posses- faion of this poem, we insert the following extract : — M Whene'er to Afric's shores I turn my eyes, Horrors of deepest-, deadliest guilt arise ; I see, by more than Fancy's mirror shown, The burning village and the blazing town: See the dire victim torn from social life, The shrieking babe, the agonizing wife ; By felon hands, by one relentless stroke, • See the fond links of feeling nature broke ! The fibres twisting round a parent's heart Torn from their grasp, and bleeding as they part." We add one more passage, as it contains an animated ippeal against the injustice of this nefarious traffic. • ; What wrongs, what injuries does Oppression plead, To smooth the crime, and sanctify the deed? What strange offence, what aggravated sin? They stand "convicted — of a darker skin! Barbarians, ho.d! the opprobrious commerce spare, Respect His sacred image which they bear. Though dark and savage, ignorant and blind, They claim the common privilege of kind ; Let malice strip them of each other plea, They still are men, and, men should still be free." See Miss More'a Poem, entitled The Slave Trade. t With respect to the claim of priority, or who first de- nounced the injustice and horrors of slavery, we believe the following is a correct historical narrative on this im- portant subject. The celebrated De T.as CasaK (born at Seville in 1474, -ind who accompanied Columt us in his voyage in 1493) On all these accounts I judged it best to be silent, and especially because I cannot doubt that some effectual measure will now be taken to alleviate the miseries of their condition, the whole nation being in possession of the case, and it being impossible also to allege an argument in behalf of man-merchandise that can deserve a hearing. I should be glad to see Hannah More's poem ; she is a favorite writer with me, and has more nerve and energy both in her thoughts and language than half the he-rhymers in the kingdom. The " Thoughts on the Manners of the Great'" will likewise be most acceptable. I want to learn as much of the world as I can, but tc acquire that learning at a distance ; and a book with such a title promises fair to serve the purpose effectually. I recommend it to you, my dear, by all means to embrace the fair occasion, and to put yourself in the way of being squeezed and incommoded a few hours, for the sake of hearing and seeing what you will never have an opportunity to see and hear hereafter, the trial of a man who has been greater and more feared than the great Mogul himself. Whatever we are at home, we have certainly been tyrants in the East, and if these men have, as they are charged, rioted in the miseries of the Innocent, and dealt death to the guiltless, with an unsparing hand, may they receive a retribution that shall in future make all governors and judges of ours, in those distant regions, tremble. While I speak thus, I equally wish them acquitted. They were both my school-fellows, and for Hast ings I had a particular value. Farewell.* W. C. was so deeply impressed- with the cruelties and oppres- sions of slavery, that he returned to Europe, and pleaded the cause of humanity before the Emperor Charles V. This prince was so far moved by his representations as to pass royal ordinances to mitigate the evil ; but his intentions were unhappily defeated. The Rev. Morgan Godwyn, a Welshman, is "the next, in order. About the middle of the last century, John Woolman and Anthony Benezet. belonging to the society of Friends, endeavored to rouse the public attention. In 1754, the Society itself took up the cause with so much zeal and success, that there is not at this day a single slave in the possession of any acknowledged Quaker in Pennsylvania. In 1776, Granville Sharp addressed to the British public his "Just Limitation of Slavery." his -Essay on Slavery," ahd his " Law of Retribution, or a Serious Warning to Great Britain and her Colonies." The poet Shenstone also wrote an elegy on the subject, beginning: — >w See the poor native quit the Lybian shores," &c. &c. Ramsey and Clarksou bring down the list to the time of Cowper, whose indignant muse in 1782 poured forth his detestation of this traffic in his poem on Charity, an ex- tract of which we shall shortly lay before the reader. The distinguished honor was," however, reserved for Thomas Clarksou, to be the instrument of first engaging the zeal and eloquence of Mr. Wilberforce in the greal cause of the abolition of the Slave Trade. The per- severing exertions of Mr. Fowell Buxton and those of the Anti-slavery Society achieved the final triumph, and led to the great legislative enactment which abolished sla- very itself in the British colonies ; and nothing now re- mains but to associate France, the Brazils, and America, in the noble enterprise of proclaiming the blessings oi liberty to five remaining millions of this degraded race. * -The trial of Warren Hastings excited universal inter t^t, from the official rank o& the accused, as Governor 296 COWPER'S WORKS. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Feb. 22, 1788. I do n( t wonder that your ears and feel- ings were hurt by Mr. Burke's severe invec- tive. But you are to know, my dear,'or prob- ably you know it already, that the prosecution of public delinquents has always, and in all countries, been thus conducted. The style of a criminal charge of this kind has been an affair settled among orators from the days of Tully to the present, and, like all other prac- tices that have obtained for ages, this in par- ticular seems to have been founded originally in reason and in the necessity of the case. He who accuses another to the state must not appear himself unmoved by the view of crimes with which he charges him, lest he should be suspected of fiction, or of pre- cipitancy, or of a consciousness that, after all he shall not be able to prove his allegations. On the contrary, in order to impress the minds of his hearers with a persuasion that he him- self at least is convinced of the criminality of the prisoner, he must be vehement, energetic, rapid ; must call him tyrant, and traitor, and everything else that is odious, and all this to his face, because all this, bad as it is, is no more than he undertakes to prove in the sequel, and if he cannot prove it he must him- self appear in a light very little more desirable, and at the best to have trifled with the tribunal to which he has summoned him. Thus Tully, in the very first sentence of his oration against Catiline, calls him a monster ; a manner of address in which he persisted till said monster, unable to support the fury of his accuser's eloquence any longer, rose from his seat, elbowed for himself a pas- sage through the crowd, and at last burst from the senate house in an agony, as if the Furies themselves had followed him. And now, my dear, though I have thus spoken, and have seemed to plead the cause of that species of eloquence which you, and every creature who has your sentiments, must necessarily dislike, perhaps lam not alto- gether convinced of its propriety. Perhaps, at the bottom, I am much more of opinion, that if the charge, unaccompanied by any in- General of India, the number and magnitude of the ar- ticles of impeachment, the splendor of the scene, (which was in Westminster Hall,) and the impassioned elo- quence of Mr. Burke, who conducted the prosecution. The proceedings were protracted for nine successive years, when Mr. Hastings was finally acquitted. He is said to have incurred an expense of .£30,000 on this occa- sion, a painful proof of the costly character and delays of British jurisprudence. Some of the highest specimens of eloquence that ever adorned any age or country were delivered during this trial ; among which ought to be specified the address of the celebrated Mr. Sheridan, who captivated the attention of the assembly in a speech of three hours and a half, distinguished hy all the graces and powers of the most finished oratory. At the close of this speech, Mr. Pitt rose and proposed an adjourn- ment, observing that they were then too much under the Influence of the wand of the enchanter to be capable of >xercising the functions of a sound and deliberate judg- ment. flammatory matter, and simply detailed, being once delivered into the court, and read aloud, the witnesses were immediately examined, and sentence pronounced according to the evidence, not only the process would be shortened, much time and much expense saved, but justice would have at least as fair play as now she has. Prejudice is of no use in weigh- ing the question, guilty or not guilty, and the principal aim, end, and effect of such intro- ductory harangues is to create as much pre- judice as possible. When you and I, therefore, shall have the sole management of such a business entrusted to us, we will order it otherwise. I was glad to learn from the papers that our cousin Henry shone as he did in reading the charge. This must have given much pleasure to the General.* Thy ever affectionate W. C TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f Weston, March 1, 1788. My dear Friend, — That my letters may not be exactly an echo to those which I receive, 1 seldom read a letter immediately before I answer it ; trusting to my memory to suggest to me such of its contents as may call foi particular notice. Thus I dealt with your last, which lay in my desk, while I was writing to you. But my memory, or rather my recollec- tion failed me, in that instance. I had not forgotten Mr. Bean's letter, nor my obligations to you for the communication of it ; but they did not happen to present themsel res to me in the proper moment, nor till seme hours after my own had been despatche I. I now return it, with many thanks for so favorable a specimen of its author? That he is a good man, and a wise man, its testimony proves sufficiently; and I doubt not, that ,**' Lords. t Private correspondence. t The date having been probably wriuen on t '- *•< LIFE OF COWPER. 29* .magine, read more than two or three lines of the enclosed, before I perceived that I had accidentally come to the possession of another man's property ; who, by the same misadven- ture, has doubtless occupied mine. I accord- ingly folded it again the moment after having opened it, and now return it. The bells of Olney, both last night and this morning, have announced the arrival of Mr. Bean. I under- stand that he is now come with his family. It will not be long therefore, before we shall be acquainted. I rather wish than hope that he may find himself comfortably situated ; but the parishoners' admiration of Mr. C , whatever the bells may say, is no good omen. It is hardly to be expected that the same people should admire both. I have lately been engaged in a corre- spondence with a lady whom I never saw. She lives at Perten-hall, near Kimbolton, and is the wife of a Dr. King, who has the living. She is evidently a Christian, and a very gra- cious one. 1 would that she had you for a correspondent rather than me. One letter from you would do her more good than a ream of mine. But so it is; and since I cannot depute my office to you, and am bound by all sorts of considerations to answer her this evening, I must necessarily quit you that I may have time to do it. W. C. TO MRS. KING.* Weston Lodge, March 3, 1788. I owe you many acknowledgments, dear madam, for that unreserved communication, both of your history and of your sentiments, with which you favored me in your last. It gives me great pleasure to learn that you are so happily circumstanced, both in respect of situation and frame of mind. With your view of religious subjects, you could not, in- deed, speaking properly, be pronounced un- happy in any circumstances ; but to have received from above, not only that faith which reconciles the heart to affliction, but many outward comforts also, and especially that gieatest of all earthly comforts, a comforta- ble home, is happiness indeed. May you ong enjoy it ! As to health or sickness, you have learned already their true value, and know well that the former is no blessing, unless it be sanctified, and that the latter is one of the greatest we can receive, when we are enabled to make a proper use of it. There is nothing in my story that can pos- sibly be worth your knowledge ; yet, lest I should seem to treat you with a reserve which at your hands I have not experienced, such as it is, I will relate it. — I was bred to the »alf of this letter, which is torn off, the editor has en- leavored to supply it from the following to Mrs. King. * Private corrsspondence. law ; a profession to which I was never much inclined, and in which I engaged rathe* because I was desirous to gratify a most in- dulgent father, than because I had any hope of success in it myself. I spent twelve years in the Temple, where I made no progress in that science, to cultivate which I was sent thither. During this time my father died ; not long after him died my mother-in-law : and at the expiration of it a melancholy seized me, which obliged me to quit London, and consequently, to renounce the bar. I lived some time at St. Alban's. After hav ing suffered in that place long and extreme affliction, the storm was suddenly dispelled, and the same day-spring from on high which has arisen upon you, arose on me also. I spent eight years in the enjoyment of it and have, ever since the expiration of those eight years, been occasionally the prey of the same melancholy as at first. In the depths of it I wrote " The Task," and the volume which preceded it ; and in the same deeps I am now translating Homer. But to return to St. Alban's. I abode there a year and half. Thence I went to Cambridge where I spent a short, time with my brother, in whose neighborhood I determined, if possi- ble, to pass the remainder of my days. He soon found a lodging for me at Huntingdon. At that place I had not resided long, when I was led to an intimate connexion with a family of the name of Unwin. I soon quit- ted my lodging and took up my abode with them. I had not lived long under their roof, when Mr. Unwin, as he was riding one Sun- day morning to his cure at Gravely, was thrown from his horse; of which fall he died. Mrs. Unwin, having the same views of the gospel as myself, and being desirous of attending a purer ministration of it than was to be found at Huntingdon, removed to Olney, where Mr. Newton was at that time the preacher, and I with her. There we continued till Mr. Newton, whose family was the only one in the place with which we could have a connexion, and with whom we lived always on the most intimate terms, left it. After his departure, finding the situation no longer desirable, and our house threatening to fall upon our heads, we removed hither. Here we have a good house in a most beautiful village, and for the greatest part of the year, a most agreeable neighborhood. Like you, madam, I stay much at home, and have not travelled twenty miles from this place and its environs more than once these twenty years All this I have written, not for the singu larity of the matter, as you will perceive, but partly for the reason which I gave at the out set, and partly that, seeing we are become cor respondents, we may know as much of each other as we can, and that as soon as possible. I beg, madam, that you will present mv evening assemblies, where the fair sex might particii^to in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. These societies were dc.ip»miiated Blue-stocking Clubs, the origin of which title being little known, it may be worth while to relate it. One of Lhe most eminent mem- bers of these societies, when they first commenced, was Mr. Benjamin Stillingfteet, (author of tracts relating to natural history, &c.) whose dress was remarkably grave, and in particular it w;ts observed that he wore blue stock- ings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that his absence was felt as so great a loss, that it used to be 9aid. 'We can do nothing without the blue stockings? and thus by degrees the title was established. Miss Hannah More has admirably described a Blue-stocking Club, in her ' Bas Bleu,'' a poem in which many of the persons who were most conspicuous there are men- tioned." T A large mansion near Newport Paguel, formerly be- Ongisig to ?»!iss Wright. 1 The Re--* Mr. Powley married Mrs Unwin's daugh >r. I cannot s,ay that poor Kate resembles mucb the original, who was neither so young not so handsome as the pencil has represented her ; but she has a figure well suited to the account given of her in " The Task," and has a face exceedingly expressive of despair- ing melancholy. The Lace-maker is acci- dentally a good likeness of a young woman once our neighbor, who was hardly less hand some than the picture twenty years ago ; but the loss of one husband, and the acqui- sition of another, have, since that time, im- ' paired her much ; yet she might still be sup- 1 posed to have sat to the artist.* We dined yesterday with your friend and mine, the most companionable and domestic Mr. C .f The whole kingdom can hardly furnish a spectacle more pleasing to a man who has a taste for true happiness, than him- self, Mrs. C , and their multitudinous family. Seven long miles are interposed between us, or perhaps I should oftener have an opportunity of declaiming on this subject. I am now in the nineteenth book of the Iliad, and on the point of displaying such feats of heroism performed by Achilles as make all other achievements trivial. I may well exclaim, " O for a Muse of fire !" es- pecially having not only a great host to cope with, but a great river also ; much, however, may be done when Homer leads the way. I should not have chosen to have been the original author of such a business even though all the Nine had stood at my elbow. Time has wonderful effects. We admire that in an ancient, for which we should send a modern bard to Bedlam. I saw at Mr. C — ; — 's a great curiosity — an antique bust of Paris, in Parian marble. You will conclude that it interested me ex- ceedingly. I pleased myself with supposing that it once stood in Helen's chamber. It was in fact brought from the Levant, and, though not well mended, (for it had suffered much by time,) is an admirable performance. W. C. Mr. Bull had urged Cowper once more to employ the powers of his pen, in what he so eminently excelled, the composition of hymns expressive of resignation to the will of God. It is much to be lamented that he here de- clines what would so essentially have pro- moted the interests of true religion. TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULLf. Weston, May 25, 1788. My dear Friend, — Ask possibilities and they shall be performed ; but ask not hymns * Poor Kate and the Lace-maker were portraits draw* from real life. t Mr. Chester, of Chicheley, near Newport P(«neL i Private correspondence. 510 COWPER'S WORKS. from a man suffering by despair as I do. I could not sing the Lord's song were it to save my life, banished as I am, not to a strange "land, but to a remoteness from his presence, in comparison with which the dis- tance fiom east to west is no distance, is vicinity and cohesion. I dare not, either in prose or verse, allow myself to express a frame of mind which I am conscious does not belong to me * least of all can I venture to use the language of absolute resignation, lest, only counterfeiting, I should for that very reason be taken strictly at my word, and lose all my remaining comfort. Can there not be found among those translations of Madame Guion somewhat that might serve the purpose? I should think there might. Submission to the will of Christ, my memory tells me, is a theme that pervades rhem all. If so, your request is performed already ; and if any alteration in them should be necessary, I will with all my heart make it. I have no objection to giving the graces of the foreigner an English dress, but insu- perable ones to all false pretences and affected exhibitions of what I do not feel. Hoping that you will have the grace to be resigned most perfectly to this disappoint- ment, which you should not have suffered had it been in my power to prevent it, I remain, with our best remembrances to Mr. Thornton, Ever affectionately yours, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, May 27, 1788. My dear Coz., — The General, in a letter which came yesterday, sent me inclosed a copy of my sonnet ; thus introducing it. "I send a copy of verses somebody has written for the Gentleman's Magazine for April last. Independent of my partiality towards the subject. I think the lines them- selves are good." Thus it appears that my poetical adven- ture has succeeded to my wish, and I write to him by this post, on purpose to inform him that the somebody in question is my- self.* I no longer wonder that Mrs. Montagu stands at the head of all that is called learned, and that every critic vails his bonnet to her * Mr. Henry Cowper, who was reading-clerk in the House of Lords, was remarkable for the clearness and melody of his voice. This qualification is happily al- luded to by the poet, in the following lines :— "Thou art not voice alone, but hast besides Both heart and head, and couldst with music sweet Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers,* far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised, not for utterance meet Of others' speech, but magic' of thy own." * Lord-( Chancellor Ccw >er, and Spencer Cowper, Chief- of Chester. superior judgment; I am now reading, aneath and Sin M t Mr. Hill. LIFE OF COWPER. 311 owing so closely such a sultry season, un- commonly noxious. To speak in the seaman's ohrase, not entirelj' strr nge to you, I xoas taken all aback ; and the humors which would have escaped, if old Eurus would have given them leave, finding every door shut, have fallen into my eyes. But, in a country like this, poor miserable mortals must be content to suffer all that sudden and violent changes nan inllict ; and if they are quit for about half the plagues that Caliban calls down on Pros- pero, they may say, " We are well off," and dance for joy, if the rheumatism or cramp will let them. Did you ever see an advertisement by one Fowle, a dancing-master of Newport-Pagnel ? If not, I will contrive to send it to you for your amusement. It is the most extravagantly ludicrous affair of the kind I ever saw. The author of it had the good hap to be crazed, or he had never produced anything half so clever ; for you will ever observe, that they who are said to have lost their wits have more than other people. It is therefore only a slander, with which envy prompts the malig- nity of persons in their senses to asperse those wittier'than themselves. But there are coun- tries in the world where the mad have justice done them, where they are revered as the sub- jects of inspiration, and consulted as oracles. Poor Fowle would have made a figure there. W. C. In the next letter Cowper declines writing further on the subject of the slave trade : the horrors connected with it are the reasons as- signed. for this refusal. His past efforts in that cause are the best evidence of his ability to write upon it with powerful effect. The sensitive mind of Cowper shrunk with terror from these appalling atrocities. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Weston Lodge, June 5, 1783. My dear Friend, — It is a comfort to me that you are so kind as to make allowance for me, in consideration of my being so busy a man. The truth is that, could I write with both hands, and with both at the same time, verse with one and prose with the other, I should not even so be able to despatch both my poetry and my arrears of correspondence- faster than I have need. The only opportu- nities that I can find for conversing with distant friends are in the early hour (and that sometimes reduced to half a one) before breakfast. Neither am I exempt from hind- rances, which, while they last, are insurmount- able ; especially one, by which I have been occasionally a sufferer all my life. I mean a.\\ inflammation of the eyes ; a malady under v/hich I have 'lately labored, and from which i am at this moment only in a small degree * Private correspondence. relieved. The last sudden change of the weather, from heat almost insupportable to a cold as severe as is commonly felt in midwin- ter, would have disabled me entirely for all sorts of scribbling, had I not favoreo. Hit, *,*;ak part a little, and given my eyes a respite. It is certain that we do not live far from Olney, but small as the distance is, it has too often the effect of a separation between the Beans and us. He is a man with whom, when I can converse at all, I can converse on terms perfectly agreeable to myself; who does not distress me with forms, nor yet dis- gust me by the neglect of them; whose manners are easy and natural, and his obser- vations always sensible. I often, therefore. wish them nearer neighbors. We have heard nothing of the Powleys since they left us, a fortnight ago, and should be uneasy at their silence on such an occasion, did we not know that she cannot write, and that he, on his first return to his parish after a long absence, may possibly find it difficult. Her we found much improved in her health and spirits, and him, as always, affectionate and obliging. It was an agreeable visit, and, as it was ordered for me, I happened to have better spirits than I have enjoyed at any time since. I shall rejoice if your friend Mr. Philips, influenced by what you told him of my present engagements, shall waive his applicatoin to me for a poem on the slave-trade. I account myself honored by his intention to solicit me on the subject, and it would give me pain to refuse him, which inevitably I shall be con- strained to do. The more I have considered it, the more I have convinced myself that it is not a promising theme for verse. General censure on the iniquity of the practice will avail nothing. The world has been over- whelmed with such remarks already, and to particularize all the horrors of it were an em- ployment for the mind both of the poet and his readers, of which they would necessarily soon grow weary. For my own part, I cannot contemplate the subject very nearly, without a degree of abhorrence that affects my spirits, and sinks them below the pitch requisite for success in verse. Lady Hesketh recom- mended it to me some months since, and then I declined it for these reasons, and for others which need not be mentioned here. I return you many thanks for all your in- telligence concerning the success of the gospel in far countries, and shall rejoice in a sight of Mr. Van Lier's letter* which, being so vo- luminous, I think you should bring with you, when you take your flight to Weston, rather than commit to any other conveyance. Remember that it is now summer, and that * Mr. Van Lier was a Dutch minister, to whom the perusal of Mr. Newton's works had been made eminently useful. We shall have occasion to allude to this subjecl in its proper place. the summer flies fast, and that we shall be happy to see you and yours as speedily and for as long a time as you can afford. We are sorry, truly so, that Mrs. Newton is so fre- quently and so much indisposed. Accept our best love to you both, and believe me, my dear friend, Affectionately yours, W. C. After what I have said on the subject of my writing engagements, I doubt not but you will excuse my transcribing the verses to Mrs. Montagu,* especially considering that my eyes are weary with what I have written this morning already. I feel somewhat like an impropriety in referring you to the next " Gentleman's Magazine," but at the present juncture I know not how to do better. The death of Ashley Cowper, the father of Lady Hesketh and of Miss Theodora Cowper, the object of the poet's fond and early attach- ment, occurred at this period, and is the sub- ject of the following letters. His reflections on this occasion are interesting and edifying. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Weston, June 8, 1788. My dear Friend, — Your letter brought me the very first intelligence of the event it men- tions. My last letter from Lady Hesketh gave me reason enough to expect it, but the certainty of it was unknown to me till I learned it by your information. If gradual decline, the consequence of great age, be a sufficient preparation of the mind to encounter such a loss, our minds were certainly prepared to meet it ; yet to you I need not say, that no preparation can supersede the feelings of the heart on such occasions. While our friends yet live inhabitants of the same world with * These verses, " On Mrs. Montagu's Feather Hang- *ngs," are characterized by elegant taste and a delicate turn of compliment. We insert an extract from them, is descriptive of her evening parties in Port man-square, the resort of cultivated wit and fashion, and so frequently fclluded to in the interesting Memoirs of Mrs. More. To the same patroness resort, Secure of favor at her court, Strong genius, from whose forge of thought Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, Which, though new-born, with vigor move. Like Pallas, springing armed from Jove — Imagination, scattering round Wild roses over furrow'd ground, Which Labor of his frowns beguile, And teach Philosophy a smile — Wit, flashing on Religion's side, Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied, The gem, though luminous before, Obtrude on huma/i notice more, Like sun-beams, on the golden height Of some tall temple playing bright— Well-tutored Learning, from his books Dismiss'd with grave, not haughty, looks, Their order, on his shelves exact, Not more harmonious or compact Than that, to which he keeps confined The various treasures of his mind — All these to Montagu's repair, Ambitious ri a shelter there. ourselves, they seem still to live to us ; Wv are sure that they sometimes think of us ; and, however improbable it may seem, it is nevel impossible that we may see each other once again. But the grave, like a great gulf, swal lows all such expectations, and, in the moment when a beloved friend sinks into it, a thou- sand tender recollections awaken a regret thai will be felt in spite of all reasonings, and let our warnings have been what they may. Thus it is I take my last leave of poor Ashley whose heart towards me was ever truly paren- tal, and to whose memory I owe a tenderness and respect that will never leave me. W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, June 10, 1788. My dear Coz., — Your kind letter of pre- caution to Mr. Gregson, sent him hither as soon as chapel service was ended in the j evening. But he found me already apprized I df the event that occasioned it, by a line from j'Sephus, received a few hours before. My dear uncle's death awakened in me many re- flections, which for a time sunk my spirits. | A man like him would have been . mourned I had he doubled the age he reached. At any j age his death would have been felt as a loss, I that no survivor could repair. And though it ! was not probable that, for my own part, I j should ever see him more, yet the conscious- j ness that he still lived was a comfort to me. J Let it comfort us now, that we have lost him i only at a time when nature could afford him | to us no longer; that, as his life was blame- i less, so was his death without anguish, and ! that he is gone to heaven. 1 know not that ! human life, in its most prosperous state, can | present anything to our wishes half so desir- ; able as such a close of it. Not to mingle this subject with others that ! would ill suit with it, I will add no more at present than a warm hope, that you and your sister* will be able effectually to avail your- selves of all the consolatory matter with which il abounds. You gave yourselves, while he lived, to a father, whose life was doubtless prolonged by your attentions, and whose ten- derness of disposition made him always deeply sensible of your kindness in this re- spect, as well as in many others. His old age was the happiest that I have ever known, and I give you both joy of having had so fair an opportunity, and of having so well used it, U approve yourselves equal to the calls of such a duty in the sight of God and man. W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, June 15, 1788 Although 1 know that you must be vem * Miss Theodora Cowper. LIFE OF COWPER. 31d touch occupied on the present most affecting occasion, yet, not hearing from you, I began to be very uneasy on your account, and to fear that your health might have suffered by the fatigue both of body and spirits that you must have undergone, till a letter that reached me yesterday from the General* set my heart at rest, so far as that cause of anxiety was in question. He speaks of my uncle in the ten- derest terms, such as show how truly sensi- ble he was of the amiableness and excellence of his character, and how deeply he regrets his loss. We have indeed lost one who has not left his lika in the present generation of our family, and whose equal, in all respects, no future of it will probably produce. My memory retains so perfect an impression of him, that, had I been painter instead of poet, I could from those faithful traces have per- petuated his face and form with the most minute exactness ; and this I the rather won- der at, because some with whom I was equal- ly conversant five-and-twenty-years ago have almost faded out of all recollection with me. But he made impressions not soon to be effaced, and was in figure, in temper, in man- nerj and in numerous other respects, such as I shall never behold again. I often think what a joyful interview there has been be- tween him and some of his contemporaries who went before him. The truth of the matter is, my dear, that they are the happy ones, and that we shall never be such our- selves till we have joined the party. Can there be anything so worthy of our warmest wishes as to enter on an eternal, unchange- able state, in blessed fellowship and com- munion with those whose society we valued most, and for the best reasons, while they continued with us? A few steps more through a vain, foolish world, and this hap- piness will be yours. But be not hasty, my dear, to accomplish thy journey ! For of all that live thou art one whom I can least spare ; for thou also art one, who shalt not leave thy equal behind thee. W. C. The contrast between the awful scenes in nature, and those produced by the passions of men, is finely drawn in the following letter. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, June 17, 1788. My dear Walter, — You think me, no doubt, a tardy correspondent, and such I am, but not willingly. Many hindrances have intervened, and the most difficult to surmount have been those which the east and north-east winds nave occasioned, breathing winter upon the »oses of June, and inflaming my eyes, ten times more sensible of the inconvenience than they. The vegetables of England seem, * General Cowper was nephew to Ashley Cowper. like our animals, of a hardier and bolder na- ture than those of other countries. In France and Italy flowers blow because it is warm, but here in spite of the cold. The season however is somewhat mended at present, and my eyes with it. Finding myself this morn- ing in perfect ease of body, I seize the wel- come opportunity to do something at least towards the discharge of my arrears to you. I am glad that you liked my song, and, if I liked the others myself so well as that I sent you, I would transcribe for you them also. But I sent that, because I accounted it the best. Slavery, and especially negro slavery, because the cruellest, is an odious and disgusting subject. Twice or thrice I have been assailed with entreaties to write a poem on that theme. But, besides that it would be in some sort treason against Homer to abandon him for any other matter, I felt myself so much hurt in my spirits the mo- ment I entered on the contemplation of it, that I have at last determined absolutely to have nothing more to do with it. There are some scenes of horror on which my imagina tion can dwell not without 'some compla- cence. But, then, they are such scenes as» God, not man, produces. In earthquakes, high winds, tempestuous seas, there is the grand as well as the terrible. But, when man is active to disturb, there is such mean- ness in the design and such cruelty* in the execution, that I both hate and despise the whole operation, and feel it a degradation of Poetry to employ her in the description of it. I hope also that the generality of my countrymen have more generosity in their nature than to want the fiddle of verse to go before them in the performance of an act to which they are invited by the loudest calls of humanity. Breakfast calls, and then Homer. Ever yours, W. C. Erratum. — Instead of Mr. Wilberforce as author of "Manners of the Great," read Hannah More. My paper mourns, and my seal. It is for the death of a venerable uncle, Ashley Cow per, at the age of eighty-seven. Cowper's description of the variations of climate, and their influence on the nervea and constitution, is what most of his readers probably know from frequent experience of their effects. TO MRS. KING.* The Lodg >, June 19, 1788. My dear Madam, — You must think me a tardy correspondent, unless you have had * Private corr'^ondeuc* 814 COV/PER'S WORKS. jjharity enough for me to suppose that I have met with other hindrances than those of in- dolence and inattention. With these I can- not charge myself, for I am never idle by choice; and inattentive to you I certainly have not been, but, on the contrary, can safely affirm that every day I have thought on you. My silence has been occasioned by a malady to which I have all my life been subject — an inflammation of the eyes. The Jast sudden change of weather from exces- sive heat to a wintry degree of cold occa- sioned it, and at the same time gave me a pinch of the rheumatic kind ; from both which disorders I have but just recovered. I do not suppose that our climate has been much al- tered since the days of our forefathers, the Picts;* but certainly the human constitution in this country has been altered much. Inured as we are from our cradles to every vicissi- tude in a climate more various than any other, and in possession of all that modern refinement has been able to contrive for our security, we are yet as subject to blights as the tenderest blossoms of spring; and are so well admonished of every change in the atmosphere by our bodily feelings as hardly to have any need of a weather-glass to mark them. For this we are, no doubt, indebted to the multitude of our accommodations ; for it was not possible to retain the hardiness that originally belonged to our race, under the delicate management to which for many years we have now been accustomed. I can hardly doubt that a bull-dog or a game-cock might be made just as susceptible of injuries from weather as myself, were he dieted and in all respects accommodated as I am. Or, if the project did not succeed in the first in- stance, (for we ourselves did not become what we are at once,) in process of time, however, and in a course of many genera- tions, it would certainly take effect. Let such a dog be fed in his infancy with pap, Naples biscuit, and boiled chicken; let him be wrapt in flannel at night, sleep on a good feather-bed, and ride out in a coach for an airing; and if his posterity do not become slight-limbed, puny, and valetudinarian, it will be a wonder. Thus our parents, and their parents, and the parents of both were managed ; and thus ourselves ; and the con- sequence is, that instead of being weather- proof, even without clothing, furs and flan- nels are not warm enough to defend us. It is observable, however, that though we have by these means lost much of our pristine rigor, our days are not fewer. We live as long as those whom, on account of the sturdi- ness of their frame, the poets supposed to aave been the progeny of oaks. Perhaps too they had little feelihg, and for that rea- son also might be imagined to be so de- * The Picts were not our ancestors. scended. For a very robust athletic habil seems inconsistent with much sensibility But sensibility is the sine qua non of rea happiness. If, therefore, our lives have not been shortened, and if our feelings have been rendered more exquisite as our habit of body has become more delicate, on the whole per- haps we have no cause to complain, but are rather gainers by our degeneracy. . Do you consider what you do when you. ask one poet his opinion of another ? Yet ] think I can give you an honest answer to your question, and without the least wish to nibble. Thomson w T as admirable in descrip- tion : but it always seemed to me that there was somewhat of affectation in his style, and that his numbers are sometimes not well har- monized. I could wish too, with Dr. John- son, that he had confined himself to this country; for, when he describes what he never saw, one is forced to read him with some allowance for possible misrepresenta- tion. He was, however, a true poet, and his lasting fame has proved it. Believe me, my dear madam, with my best respects to Mr. King, most truly yours, W. C. P. S. — I am extremely sorry that you have been so much indisposed, and hope that your next will bring me a more favorable account of your health. I know not why, but I rath- er suspect that you do not allow yourself sufficient air and exercise. The physicians call them non-naturals, I suppose to deter their patients from the use of them. The providence of God and the brevity of human life are subjects of profitable remark in the following letter. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, June 23, 1788. When I tell you that an unanswered letter troubles my conscience in some degree like a crime, you will think me endued with a most heroic patience, who have so long sub- mitted to that trouble on account of yours not answered yet. But the truth is, that I have been much engaged. Homer (you know) affords me constant employment; besides which, I have rather what may be called, considering the privacy with which I have long lived, a numerous correspondence : to one of my friends, in particular, a near and much loved relation, I write weekly, and sometimes twice in a week ; nor are these my only excuses: the sudden changes of the weather have much affected me, and especial ly with a disorder most unfavorable to let- ter-writing, an inflammation in my eyes With all these apologies, I approach you once more, not altogether despairing of for. giveness. LIFE OF COWPER, 31> It has pleased God to give us rain, with- out which this part of the country at least must soon have become a desert. The mea- dows have been parched to a January brown, and we have foddered our cattle for some time, as in the winter. The goodness and power of God are never (I believe) so uni- versally acknowledged as at the end of a long drought. Man is naturally a self-sufficient animal, and, in all concerns that seem to lie within the sphere of his own ability, thinks little or not at all of the need he always has of protection and furtherance from above. But he is sensible that the clouds will not assemble at his bidding, and that, though the clouds assemble, they will not fall down in showers, because he commands them. When therefore at last the blessing descends, you shall hear even in the streets the most irre- ligious and thoughtless with one voice ex- claim, "Thank God!" — confessing themselves indebted to his favor, and willing, at least so far as words go, to give him the glory. I can hardly doubt, therefore, that the earth is sometimes parched, and the crops endangered in order that the multitude may not want a memento to whom they owe them, nor abso- lutely forget the power on which all depend for all things. Our solitary part of the year is over. Mrs. Unwin's daughter and son-in-law have lately spent some time with us. We shall shortly receive from London our old friends the New- tons (he was once minister of Olney), and when they leave us, we expect that Lady Hesketh will succeed them, perhaps to spend the summer here, and possibly the winter also. The summer indeed is leaving us at a rapid rate, as do all the seasons ; and though I have marked their flight so often, I know not which is the swiftest. Man is never so deluded as when he dreams of his own du- ration. The answer of the old patriarch to Pharaoh may be adopted by every man at the close of the longest life : " Few and evil have been the days of the years of my pil- grimage." Whether we look back from fifty, or from twice fifty, the past appears equally a dream : and we can only be said truly to have lived, while we have been profitably employed. Alas! then, making the neces- sary deductions, how short is life ! Were men in general to save themselves all the steps they take to no purpose, or to a bad one, what numbers, who are now active, would become sedentary ! Thus I have sermonized through my pa- per. Living where you live, you can bear with me the better. I always follow the leading of my unconstrained thoughts, when ( write to a friend, be they grave or other- wise. Homer remindstne of you every day. am now in the twenty-first Iliad. Adieu. W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* June 24, 1788. My dear Friend,— I rejoice that my lettei found you at all points so well prepared to answer it according to our wishes. I have written to Lady Hesketh to apprise her of your intended journey hither, and she, hav- ing as yet made no assignation with us her- self, will easily adjust her measures to the occasion. I have not lately had an opportunity of seeing Mr. Bean. The late rains, which have revived the hopes of the farmers, have inter- cepted our communication. I hear, how ever, that he meets with not a little trouble in his progress towards a reformation of Ol- ney manners ; and that the Sabbath, which he wishes to have hallowed by a stricter and more general observation of it, is, through the brutality of the lowest order, a day of more turbulence and riot than any other. At the latter end of last week he found him- self obliged to make another trip to the jus- tice, in company with two or three of the principal inhabitants. What passed I have not learned ; but I understand their errand to have been, partly at least, to efface the evil impressions made on his worship's mind, by a man who had applied a day or two be- fore for a warrant against the constable ; which, however, he did not obtain. I rather fear that the constables are not altogether judicious in the exercise either of their jus- tice or their mercy. Some, who may havti seemed proper objects of punishment, they have released, on a promise of better beha- vior ; and others, whose offence has been personal against themselves, though in other respects less guilty, they have set in the stocks. The ladies, however, and of course the ladies of Silver-End in particular, give them most trouble, being always' active on these occasions, as well as clamorous, and both with impunity. For the sex are priv- ileged in the free use of their tongues and of their nails, the parliament having never yet laid them under any penal restrictions ; and they employ them accordingly. Johnson, the constable, lost much of his skin, and still more of his coat, in one of those Sun- day battles; and had not Ashburner hast- ened to his aid, had probably been complete- ly stripped of both. With such a zeal are these fair ones animated, though, unfortu nately for all parties, rather erroneously. What you tell me of the effect that the limitation of numbers to tonnage is likely to have on the slave trade, gives me the great- est pleasure.! Should it amount, in the issue, to an abolition of the traffic, I shall * Private correspondence. t The credit of having introduced this regulation ii due to the late much respected Sir William Dolben, 816 COWPER'S WORKS. account it indeed an argument of great wis- dom in our youthful minister. A silent and indirect way of doing it, is, I suppose the only safe one. At the same, time, in how horrid a light does it place the trade itself, when it comes to be proved by consequences that the mere article of a little elbow-room for the poor creatures in their passage to the islands could not be secured by an order of parliament, without the utter annihilation of it ! If so it prove, no man deserving to be called a man, can say that it ought to subsist a moment longer. My writing time is ex- pended, and breakfast is at hand. With our joint love to the trio, and our best wishes for your good journey to Weston, I remain, my dear friend, Affectionately yours, W. C. The next letter contains an interesting in- cident, recorded of his dog Beau, and the verses composed on the occasion. TO LADY IIESKETH. The Lodge, June 27, 1788. For the sake of a longer visit, my dearest Coz, I can be well content to wait. The country, this country at least, is pleasant at all times, a«d when winter is come, or near at hand, we shall have the better chance for being snug. I know your passion for retire- ment indeed, or for what we call deedy re- tirement, and, the F s intending to return to Bath with their mother, when her visit at the Hall is over, you will then find here exactly the retirement in question. I have made in the orchard the best winter-walk in all the parish, sheltered from the east and from the north-east, and open to the sun, ex- cept at his rising, all the day. Then we will have Homer and Don Quixote ; and then we will have saunter and chat and one laugh more before we die. Our orchard is alive with creatures of all kinds ; poultry of every denomination swarms in it, and pigs, the drollest in the world ! I rejoice that we have a cousin Charles also, as well as a cousin Henry, who has had tne address to win the good likings of the Chancellor. May he fare the better for it. As to myself, I have long since ceased to have any expectations from that quarter. Yet, if he were indeed mortified as you say (and no doubt you have particular reasons for thinking so), and repented to that degreei of his hasty exertions in favor of the present occupant, who can tell % He wants neither means nor management, but can easily at Borne future period redress the evil, if he chooses to do it. But in the meantime life Iteals away, and shortly neither he will be jo. circuni stances to do m e a kindness, nor I to receive one at his hands. Let him make haste, therefore, or he will die a promise in my debt, which he will never be able to per- form.* Your; communications on this sub- ject are as safe as you can wish them. We divulge nothing but what might appear ir the magazine, nor that without great consid- eration. I must tell you a feat of my dog Beau. Walking by the river-side, I observed some water-lilies floating at a little distance from the bank. They are a large white flower, with an orange-colored eye, very beautiful. I had a desire to gather one, and, having your long cane in my hand, by the help of it endeavored to bring one of them within my reach. But the attempt proved vain, and I walked forward. Beau had all the while ob- served me very attentively. ' Returning soon after toward the same place, I observed him plunge into the river, while I was about forty yards distant from him; and, when I had nearly reached the spot, he swam to land with a lily in his mouth, which he came and laid at my foot. , Mr. Rose, whom I have mentioned to you as a visitor of mine for the first time soon after you left us, writes me word that he has seen my ballads against the slave-mongers, but not in print.f Where he met with them I know not. Mr. Bull begged hard for leave to print them at Newport-Pagnel, and I re- fused, thinking that it would be wrong to anticipate the nobility, gentry, and others, at whose pressing instance I composed them, in their designs to print them. But perhaps I need not have been so squeamish : for the opportunity to publish them in London seems now not only ripe, but rotten. I am well content. There is but one of them with v/hich I am myself satisfied, though I have heard them all well spoken of. But there are very few things of my own com- position that I can endure to read, when they have been written a month, though at first they seem to me to be all perfection. Mrs. Unwin, who has been much the hap- pier since the time of your return hither h:is been in some sort settled, begs me to make her kindest remembrance. Yours, my dear, most truly, W. C. The following verses are so singularly beautiful, and interesting from the incident which gave rise to them, that, though they are inserted in the Poems, we cannot refrain from introducing them, in connexion with the letter which records the occasion of their being written. * Lord Thurlow, it will be remembered, pledged him self to make some provision for Cowper, if he became Lord Chancellor. f We have elsewhere observed that they never were printed ib ballads, but were inserted in his works. ItFE OF COWPER. 3^ THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY. No Fable. The noon was shady, and soft airs Swept Ouse's silent tide. When, 'scaped from literary cares, I wandered on his side. My spaniel, prettiest of his race, And high in pedigree, — Two nymphs* adorned with every grace That spaniel found for me, — Now wantoned, lost in flags and reeds. Now starting into sight, Pursued the swallow o'er the meads With scarce a slower flight. It was the time when Ouse displayed His lilies newly blown ; Their beauties I intent surveyed, And one I wished my own. With cane extended far I sought To steer it close to land ; But still the prize, though nearly caught Escaped my eager hand. Beau marked my unsuccessful pains With fixed considerate face, And. puzzling, set his puppy brains To comprehend the case. But, with a chirrup clear and strong, Dispersing all his dream, [ thence withdrew, and followed lcng The windings of the stream. My ramble ended, I returned, Beau, trotting far before, The floating wreath again discerned, And plunging left the shore. I saw him, with that lily cropped, Impatient swim, to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropped The treasure at my feet. Charmed with the sight, " The world," I cried, <: Shall hear of this thy deed; My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed. ' But chief myself I will enjoin — Awake at duty's call, To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all." TC JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* July 6, 1788. My dear Iriend, — "Bitter constraint and sad occasion de< r T " have compelled me to iraw on you for the sum of twenty pounds, payable to John Higgins, Esq.. or order. The draft bears date July 5th. You will excuse my giving you this trouble, in con- sideration that I am a poet, and can conse- quently draw for money much easier than '. can earn it. I heard of you a few days since, from * The Miss Gunnings, the daughters of Sir Robert Gun- ning, Bart. < Private correspondence. Walter Bagot, who called here and told me that you were gone, I think, into Rutland- shire, to settle the accounts of a large estate unliquidated many years. Intricacies that would turn my brains are play to you. But 1 give you joy of a long vacation at hand, when I suppose that even you will find it pleasant, if not to be idle, at least not to be hemmed around by business. Yours ever, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, July 28, 1788. It is in vain that you tell me that you have no talent at description, while in fact you describe better than anybody. You have given me a most complete idea of your mansion and its situation; and I doubt not that, with your letter in my hand by way of map, could I be set down on the spot in a moment, I should find myself qualified to take my walks and my pastime in whatever quarter of your paradise it should please me the most to visit. We also, as you know, have scenes at Weston worthy of descrip- tion; but, because you know them well, I will only say, that one of them has, within these few days been much improved ; I mean the lime-walk. By the help of the axe and the wood-bill, which have of late been con- stantly employed in cutting out all strag- gling branches that intercepted the arch, Mr. Throckmorton has now defined it with such exactness that no cathedral in the world can show one of more magnificence or beauty. I bless myself that I live so near it ; for, were it distant several miles, it would be well worth while to visit it, merely as an ob- ject of taste; not to mention the refresh- ment of such a gloom both to the eyes and spirits. And these are the things which our modern improvers of parks and pleasure- grounds have displaced without mercy ; be- cause, forsooth, they are rectilinear. It is a wonder that they do not quarrel with the ^sunbeams for the same reason. Have you seen the account of five hundred celebrated authors now living?* I am one of them ; but stand charged with the high crime and misdemeanor of totally neglecting method ; an accusation, which, if the gentle- man would take the pains to read me, he would find sufficiently refuted. I am con- scious at least myself of having labored much in the arrangement of my matter, and of having given to the several parts of every book of " The Task," as well as to each poem in the first volume, that sort of slight connexion which poetiy demands; for in poetry (except professedly of the didactk kind) a logical precision would be stiff, pe- * A book full of blunders and scandal, and destitute both of information and interest. 318 COWPER'S WORKS. dantie, and ridiculous. But there is no pleas- ing some critics ; the comfort is, that I am contented whether they be pleased or not. At the same time, to my honor be it spoken the chronicler of us five hundred prodigies bestows on me, for aught I know, more commendations than on any other of my confraternity. May he live to write the his- tories of as many thousand poets, and find me the very best among them ! Amen ! I join with you, my dearest coz, in wish- ing that I owned the fee simple of all the beautiful scenes around you, but such emol- uments were never designed for poets. Am I not happier than ever poet was in having thee for my cousin, and in the expectation of thy arrival here whenever Strawberry-hill* shall lose thee. Ever thine, W C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Aug. 9, 1788. The Newtons are still here, and continue with us, I believe, until the 15th of the month. Here is also my friend, Mr. Rose, a valuable young man, who, attracted by the effluvia of my. genius, found me out in my retirement last January twelvemonth. I have not permitted him to be idle, but have made him transcribe for me the twelfth book of the Iliad. He brings me the compliments of several of the literati, with whom he is acquainted in town, and tells me, that from Dr. Maclain,f whom he saw lately, he learns that my book is in the hands of sixty different persons at the Hague, who are all enchanted with it; not forget- ting the said Dr. Maclain himself, who tells him that he reads it every day, and is always the better for it. O rare we ! I have been employed this morning in composing a Latin motto for the king's clock, the embellishments of which are by Mr. Bacon. That gentleman breakfasted with us on Wednesday, having come thirty- seven miles out of his way on purpose to see your cousin. At his request I have done it, and have made two, he will choose that which liketh him best. Mr. Bacon is a most excellent man, and a most agreeable com- panion ; I would that he lived not so remote, or that he had more opportunity of travelling. There is not, so far as I know, a syllable of the rhyming correspondence between me and my poor brother left, save and except the six l^nes of it quoted in yours. I had the whole of it, but it perished in the wreck of a thousand other things when I left the Temple. Breakfast calls. Adieu ! W. C. * The celebrated seat of Lord Orford, near Richmond, Vhere Lady Hesketh was then visiting. The WPil-known translator of Mosheim's Ecclesias- tical Histor f, TO SAMUEL EOSE, ESQ. Weston, Aug. 18, 1788. My dear Friend, — I left you with a sensi ble regret, alleviated only by the consider ation, that I shall see you again in October, I was under some concern also, lest, not being able to give you any certain direc- tions myself, nor knowing where you might find a guide, should you wander and fatigue yourself, good walker as you are, before you could reach Northampton. Perhaps you heard me whistle just after our separation ; it was to call back Beau, who was running after you with all speed to entreat you tc return with me. For my part, I took my own time to return, and did not reach home till after one, and then so weary that I was glad of my great chair ; to the comforts of which I added a crust, and a glass of rum and water, not without great occasion. Such a foot-traveller am I. I am writing on Monday, but whether I shall finish ray letter this morning depends on Mrs. Un win's coming* sooner or later down to breakfast. Something tells me that you set off to-day for Birmingham ; and though it be a sort of Irishism to say here, I beseech you take care of yourself, for the day threatens great heat, I cannot help it ; the weather may be cold enough at the time when that good advice shall reach you, but, be it hot or be it cold, to a man who travels as you travel, take care of yourself can never be an unseasonable caution. I am some- times distressed on this account, for though you are young, and well made' for such ex- ploits, those very circumstances are more likely than anything to betray you into dan- ger. Consule quid valeant plants, quid ferre re- cuse nt. The Newtons left us on Friday. We fre quently talked about you after your depart- ure, and everything that was spoken was to your advantage. I know they will be glad to see you in London, and perhaps, when your summer and autumn rambles are over, you will afford them that pleasure. The Throck- mortons are equally well disposed to you, and them also I recommend to you as a valu- able connexion, the rather because you can only cultivate it at Weston. I have not been idle since you went, having not only labored as usual at the Iliad, but composed a spick and span new piece, called " The Dog. and the Water-Lily ," which you shall see when we meet again. I believe 1 related to 'you the incident which is the sub- ject of it. I have also read most of Lavater's Aphorisms: they appear to me some of them wise, many of them whimsical, a few of them false, and not a few of them extravagant Nil illi medium. If he fir q s in a mar fch« LIFE OF COWPER. 319 feature or quality that he approves, he deifies him ; if the contrary, lie is a devil. His ver- dict is in neither case, I suppose, a just one.* W. C. TO MRS. KING.* August 28, 1788. My dear Madam, — Should you discard me from the number of your correspondents, you would treat me as I seem to deserve, though I do not actually deserve it. I have lately been engaged with company at our house, who resided with us five weeks, and have had much of the rheumatism into the bargain. Not in my fingers, you will say — True. But you know as well as I, that pain, be it where it may, indisposes us to writing. • You express some degree of wonder that I found you out to be sedentary, at least much a stayer within doors, without any suf- ficient data for my direction. Now, if I should guess your figure and stature with equal success, you will deem me not only a poet but a conjurer. Yet in fact I have no pretensions of that sort. I have only formed a picture of you in my own imagination, as ,ve ever do of a person of whom we think much, though we have never seen that person. Your height I conceive to be about rive feet five inches, which, though it would make a short man, is yet height enough for a woman. If you insist on an inch or two more, I have no objection. You are not very fat, but * Cowper's strictures on Lavater are rather severe ; in a subsequent letter we shall find that he expresses him- self almost in the language of a disciple. We believe all men to be physiognomists, that is, they are guided iu their estimate of one another by external impressions, until they are furnished with better data to determine their judgment. The countenance is often the faithful mirror of the inward emotions of the soul, in jhe same manner as the light and shade on the mountain's side exhibit the variations of the atmosphere. In the curious and valuable cabinet of Denon, in Paris, which was sold in 18'27, two casts taken from Robespierre and Marat were singularly expressive of the atrocity of their charac- ter. The cast of an idiot, in the same collection, denoted the total absence of intellect. But, whatever may be our sentiments on this subject, there is one noble act of bene- volence which has justly endeared the name of Lavater to his country. We allude to the celebrated Orphan In- stitution at Zurich, of which he was the founder. It is a handsome and commodious establishment, where these interesting objects of humanity receive a suitable educa- tion, and are fitted for future usefulness. The church is shown where John Gaspar Lavater officiated, surrounded by his youthful auditory ; and an humble stone in the churchyard briefly records his name and virtues. His own Orphan-house is the most honorable monument of his fame. It is in visiting scenes like these that we feel the moral dignity of our nature, that the heart becomes expanded with generous emotions, and that we learn to imitate that Divine Master, who went about doing sood. The Editor could not avoid regretting that, in his own country, where charity assumes almost every possible form, the Orphan-house is of rare occurrence, though abounding in most of the cities of Switzerland. Where are the philanthropists of Bristol, Birmingham, Liver- pool, Manchester, Norwich, and of our other great towns"? Surely, to wipe away the tear from the cheek of the orphan, to rescue want from destitution and un- protected innocence from exposure to vice and ruin, must ever b< - considered to be one of the noblest efforts »f ("hristiaL benevolence. t Privale correspondence. somewhat inclined to be fat, and unless you allow yourself a little more air and exercise will incur some danger of exceeding in your dimensions before you die. Let me, there- fore, once more recommend to you to walk a little more, at least in. your garden, and to amuse yourself occasionally with pulling up here and there a weed, for it will be an incon- venience to you to be much fatter than you are, at a time of life when your strength will be naturally on the decline. I have given you a fair complexion, a slight tinge of the rose in your cheeks, dark brown hair, and, if the fashion would give you leave to show it, an open and well-formed forehead. To all this I add a pair of eyes not quite black, but nearly approaching to that hue, and very an- imated. I have not absolutely determined on the shape of your nose, or the form of your mouth ; but should you tell me that I have in other respects drawn a tolerable like- ness, have no doubt but I can describe them too. I assure you that though I have a great desire to read him, I have never seen Lava- ter, nor have availed myself in the least of any of his rules on this occasion. Ah, madam ! if with all that sensibility of yours, which exposes you to^so much sorrow, and necessarily must expose you to it, i» a world like this, I have had the good fortune to make you smile, I have then painted you, whether with a strong resemblance, or with none at all, to very good purpose.* I had intended to have sent you a little poem, which I have lately finished, but have no room to transcribe it.f You shall have it by another opportunity. Breakfast is on the table, and my time also fails, as well as my paper. I rejoice that a cousin of yours found my volumes agreeable to him, for, being your cousin, I will be answerable for his good taste and judgment. When I wrote last, I was in mourning for a dear and much-valued uncle, Ashley Cow- per. He died at the age of eighty-six. My' best respects attend Mr. King: and I am, dear madam, Most truly yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.J Weston Lodge, Sept. 2, 1781. My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you and yours reached London safe, especially when I reflect that you performed the journey on a day so fatal, as I understand, to others trav- elling the same road. I found those com. forts in your visit which have formerly sweet ened all our interviews, in part restored. ] knew you ; knew you for the same shepherd * Cowper's fancy was never more erroneously em ployed. The portrait he here draws of Mrs. King- poa sessed no resemblance to the original. t The Dog and the Water-Lilv, j Private correspondence. 320 COWPER'S WORKS, who was sent to lead me out of the wilder- ness into the pasture where the chief Shep- herd feeds his flock, and felt my sentiments of affectionate friendship for you the same as ever.* But one thing was still wanting, and that thing the crown of all. I shall find it in God's time, if it be not lost forever. When I say this, I say it trembling ; for at what time soever comfort shall come, it will not come without its attendant evil; and, whatever good thing may occur in the inter- val, I have sad forebodings of the event, having learned by experience that I was born to be persecuted with peculiar fury, and as- suredly believing, that, such as my lot has been, it will be so to the end. This belief is connected in my mind wLh an observation I have often made, and is pt rhaps founded in great part upon it : that there is a certain style of dispensations maintained by Provi- dence in the dealings of God with every man, which, however the incidents of his life may t/ary, and though he may be thrown into many different situations, is never exchanged for another. The style of dispensation peculiar to myself has hitherto been that of sudden, violent, unlooked-for change. When I have thought myself falling into ^he abyss, I have been caught up again ; when I have thought myself on the threshold of a happy eternity, I have been thrust down to hell. The rough and the smooth of such a lot, taken together, should perhaps have taught me never to de- spair ; but, through an unhappy propensity in my nature to forebode the worst, they have on the contrary operated as an admonition to me never to hope. A firm persuasion that I can never durably enjoy a comfortable state of mind, but must be depressed in proportion as I have been elevated, withers my joys in the bud, and, in a manner, entombs them be- fore they are born ; for I have no expectation but of sad vicissitude, and ever believe that the last shock of all will be fatal. Mr. Bean has still some trouble with his parishioners. The suppression of five public- houses is the occasion.f He called on me yesterday morning for advice : though, dis- creet as he is himself, he has little need of such council as I can give him. , who is subtle as a dozen foxes, met him on Sun- day, exactly at his descent from the pulpit, and proposed to him a general meeting of the * It was a singular delusion under which Cowper labored, and seems to be inexplicable ; but it is not less true that for many years, he doubtei the identity of Mr. Newton. When we see the powers of a great mind liable to such instances of delusion, and occasionally suffering an entire eclipse, how irresistibly are we led to ex- claim, " Lord, what is man !" t The late Rev. H. Colbourne Ridley, the excellent vicar of Hambleden, near Henley-on-Thames, distin- guished for his parochial plan? and general devotedness to his professional duties, once observed that the fruit of all his labors, during a residence of five-and-twenty years, was destroyed in one single year by the introduction of beer-houses, and their demoralizing effects. parish in vestry on the subject. Mr. Bean 'attacked so suddenly, consented, but after- wards repented that he had done so, assured ■as he was that he should be out-voted. There seemed no remedy but to apprise them beforehand that he would meet them indeed, but not with a view to have the question de- cided by a majority : that he would take that opportunity to make his allegations against each of the houses in question, which if they could refute, well : if not, they could no longer reasonably oppose his measures. — This was what he came to submit to my opinion. I could do no less than approve it; and he left me with a purpose to declare his mind to them immediately. I beg that you will give m'y affectionate respects to Mr. Bacon, and assure him of my sincere desire that he should think himself perfectly at liberty respecting the mottoes, to choose one or to reject both, as likes him best. I wish also to be remembered with much affection to Mrs. Cowper, and always rejoice to hear of her well-being. Believe me, as I truly am, my dear friend, most affectionately yours, W. C TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, Sept. 11, 178b. My dear Friend, — Since your departure 1 have twice visited the oak, and with an inten- tion to push my inquiries a mile beyond it, where it seems I should have found another oak, much larger and much more respectable than the former : but once I was hindered b) the rain, and once by the sultriness of the day. This latter oak has been known by the name of Judith many ages, and is said to have been an oak at the time of the Con- quest.* If I have not an opportunity to reach it before your arrival here, we will at- tempt that exploit together, and even if I should have been able to visit it ere you come, I shall yet be glad to do so, for the pleasure of extraordinary sights, like all other pleas- ures, is doubled by the participation of a friend. You wish for a copy of my little dog's eulo- * This celebrated oak, which is situated in Yardley Chase, near Lord Northampton's residence at Castle Ashby, has furnished the muse of Cowper with an occa- sion for displaying all the graces of his rich poetica. fancy. The poem will be inserted in a subsequent part of the work. In the meantime we extract the following lines from "The Task," to show how the descriptive powers of Cowper were awakened by this favorite and inspiring subject. « The oak Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm : He seems indeed indignant, and to feel The impression of the blast with proud disdain. Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm He held the thunder ; but the monarch owes His firm stability to what he scorns, More fixed below, the more disturb'd above." The Soft LIFE OF COWPER. 321 gium, which I will therefore transcribe, but by so doing I shall leave myself but scanty room for prose. I shall be sorry if our neighbors at the Hall should have left it, when we have the pleasure of seeing you. I want you to see them soon again, that a little consueludo may wear off restraint ; and you may be able to improve the advantage you have already gained in that quarter. I pitied you for the fears which de- prived you of your uncle's company, and the more having suffered so much by those fears myself. Fight against that vicious fear, for such it is, as strenuously as you can. It is the worst enemy that can attack a man de- stined to the forum — it ruined me. To asso- ciate as much as possible with the most re- spectable company, for good sense and good breeding is, I believe the only, at least T am sure it is the best remedy. The society of men of pleasure will not cure it, but rather leaves us more exposed to its influence in company of better persons. Now for the " Dog and the Water-Lily."* W. C. TO MRS. KING.f Weston Lodge, Sept. 25, 1788. My dearest Madam, — How surprised was I this moment to meet a servant at the gate, who told me that he came from you. He 2ould not have been more welcome unless he had announced yourself. I am charmed with your kindness, and with all your elegant presents ; so is Mrs. Unwin, who begs me in particular to thank you warmly for the house- wife, the very thing she had just begun to want. In the firescreen you have sent me an enigma which at present I have not the inge- nuity to expound ; but some muse will help me, or I shall meet with somebody able to instruct me. In all that I have seen besides, for that I have not yet seen, I admire both the taste and the execution. A toothpick case I had ; but one so large, that no modern waistcoat pocket could possibly contain it. It was some years since the Dean of Dur- ham's, for whose sake I valued it, though to me useless. Yours is come opportunely to supply the deficiency, and shall be my con- stant companion to its last thread. The cakes and apples ve will eat, remembering who sent them, anil when I say this, I will add also, that when we have neither apples nor cakes to eat, w«- will still remember yon. What the MS. poem can be, that you sup- pose to have been written by me, I am not able to guess ; and since you will not allow that I have guessed your person well, am be- come shy of exercising conjecture on any meaner subject. Perhaps they may be some * This has already been inserted. t Private correspondence. mortuary verses, which I wrote last year, at the request of a certain parish-clerk. If not, and you have never seen them, I will send you them hereafter. You have been at Bedford. Bedford lei but twelve miles from Weston. When you are at home, we are but eighteen miles asunder. Is it possible that such a paltry interval can separate us always ? I will never believe it. Our house is going to be filled by a cousin of mine and her train, who will, I hope, spend the winter with us. I cannot, therefore, re- peat my invitation at present, but expect me to be very troublesome on that theme nexf summer. I could almost scold you for no making Weston in your way home from Bed- ford. Though I am neither a relation, nor quite eighty-six years of age,* believe me, I should as much rejoice to see you and Mr. King, as if I were both. I send you, my dear madam, the poem I promised you, and shall be g^d to send you anything and everything I write, as fast as it flows. Behold my two volumes ! which, though your old acquaintance, I thought might receive an additional recommendation in the shape of a present from myself. What I have written I know not, for all has been scribbled in haste. I will not tempt your servant's honesty, who seems by his countenance to have a great deal, being equal- ly watchful to preserve uncorrupted the hon- esty of my own. I am, my dearest madam, with a thousand thanks for this stroke of friendship, which I feel at my heart, and with Mrs. Unwin's verv best respects, most sincerely yours, W. C. P. S. My two hares died little more than two years since, one of them aged ten years, the other eleven years and eleven months.f Our compliments attend Mr. King TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, Sept. 25, 17,88. My near Friend, — Say what is the thing, by my nddle design'd. Which you carried to London, and vet left behind. I expect your answer, and without a fee. — The half hour next before breakfast I devote to yod. The moment Mrs. Unwin arrives in the study, be what I have written much or little, I shall make my bow, and take leave. If you live to be a judge, as, if I augur right, you will, I shall expect to hear of a walking circuit. 1 was shocked at what you tell me of • * Mrs. Battison, a relative of Mrs. King's, and at tbia advanced age, was in a very declining state of health. t There is a little memoir of Cowper's hares, written by himself, which will be inserted in his works. 21 &22 COWPER'S WORKS superior talents, it seems, give no security for propriety of conduct ; on the contrary, having- a natural tendency" to nourish pride, they often betray the possessor into such mistakes as men more moderately gifted nev- er commit. Ability, therefore, is not wis- dom, and an ounce of grace is a better guard against gross absurdity than the brightest talents in the world. I rejoice that you are prepared for tran- script work: here will be plenty for you. The day on which you shall receive this, I beg you will remember to drink one glass at least to the success of the Iliad, which I fin- ished the day before yesterday, and yesterday began the Odyssey. It will be some time before I shall perceive myself travelling in anotKrtrroad; the objects around me are at present so much the same ; Olympus, and a council of gods, meet me at my first entrance. To tell you the truth, I am weary of heroes and deities, and, with reverence be it spoken, shall be glad for variety's sake, to exchange their company tor that of a Cyclops. Weston has not been without its tragedies since you left us ; Mrs. Throckmorton's piping bullfinch has been eaten by a rat, and the villain left nothing but poor Bully's beak be- hind him. It will be a wonder if this event does not at some convenient time employ my versifying passion. Did ever fair lady, from the Lesbia of Catullus to the present day, lose her bird, and find no poet to commem- orate the loss? W. C. Cowper here gives an amusing account of the manner in which he employed his nours of recreation, at different periods of his life. TO MRS. KING * Weston Lodge, Oct. 11, 1788. My dear Madam, — You are perfectly secure from all danger of being overwhelmed with presents from me. It is not much that a poet can possibly have it in his power to give. When he has presented his own works, he may be supposed to have exhaust- ed all means of donation. They are his only superfluity. There was a time, but that time was before ] commenced writer for the press, when I amused myself in a way somewhat similar to yours ; allowing, I mean, for the difference between masculine and female op- erations. The scissors and the needle are your chief implements ; mine were the chisel and the saw. In those days you might have been in some danger of too plentiful a return for your favors. Tables, such as they were, and joint-stools, such as never were, might have travelled to Perten-hall in most incon- venient abundance. But I have long since * Private correspondence. discontinued this practice, and many other* which I found it necessary to adopt that I might escape the worst of all evils, both" in itself and in its consequences — an idle life. Many arts I have exercised with this view, for which nature never designed me; though among them were some in which I arrived at considerable proficiency, by mere dint of the most heroic perseverance. There is not a 'squire. in all this country who can boast of having made better squirrel-houses, hutches for rabbits, or bird-cages, than myself; and in the article of cabbage-nets I had no superior. I even had the hardiness to take in hand the pencil, and studied a whole year the art of drawing. Many figures were the fruit of my labors, which had, at least, the merit of being unparalleled by any production either of art or nature. But, before the year was ended, I had occasion to wonder at the progress that may be made, in despite of natural deficiency, by dint alone of practice ; for I actually pro- duced three landscapes, which a lady thought worthy to be framed and glazed. I then judged it high time to exchange this occupa- tion for another, lest, by any subsequent pro- ductions of inferior merit, I should forfeit the honor I had so' fortunately acquired. But gardening was, of all employments, that in which I succeeded best; though even in this I did not suddenly attain perfection. I began with lettuces and cauliflowers : from them I proceded to cucumbers ; next to melons. I then purchased an orange tree, to which, in due time, I added two or three myrtles. These served me day and night with employ- ment during a whole severe winter. To de- fend them from the frost, in a situation that exposed them to its severity, cost me much ingenuity and much attendance. I contrived to give them a fire heat; and have waded night after night through the snow, with the bellows under my arm, just before go- ing to bed, to give the latest possible puff* to the embers, lest the frost should seize them before the morning. Very minute be- ginnings have sometimes important conse- quences. From nursing two or three little evergreens, I became ambitious of a green- house, and accordingly built one ; which, verse excepted, afforded me amusement for a longer time than any expedient of all the many to which I have "fled for i efuge from the misery of having nothing to (Jo. When I left Olney for Weston, I could no longer have a greenhouse of my own ; but in a neighbor's garden I find a better, of which the sole man- agement is confined to me. I had need take care, when I begin a letter that the subject with which I set off be of some importance; for before I can exhaust it, be it what it may, I have generally filled my piper. But self is a subject inexhaustible, which is the reason that though I have said LIFE OF COWPER. 32ft »fttle, and nothing, I am afraid, worth your hearing, I have only room to add that I am, my dear madam, Most truly yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* The Lodge, Nov. 29, 1788. My dear Friend, — Not to fill my paper with apologies, I will only say that you know my occupation, and how little time it leaves me for other employments ; in which, had I leis- ure for them, I could take much pleasure. Letter- writing could be one of the most agreeable, and especially writing to you. Poor Jenny Raban is declining fast to- wards the grave, and as fast aspiring to the skies. I expected to have heard yesterday of her death ; but learned, on inquiry, that she was better. Dr. Kerr has seen her, and, by virtue I suppose of his prescriptions, her fits, with which she was frequently troubled, are become less frequent. But there is no reason, I believe, to look for her recovery. Her case is a consumption, into which I saw her sliding swiftly in the spring. There is not much to be lamented, or that ought to be so, in the death of those that go to glory. If you find many blots, and my writing illegible, you must pardon them, in consider- ation of the cause. Lady Hesketh and Mrs. (Jnwin are both talking as if they designed to make themselves amends for the silence they are enjoined while I sit translating Homer. Mrs. Unwin is preparing the break- fast, and, not having seen each other since they parted to go to bed, they have conse- quently a deal to communicate. I have seen Mr. Greatheed, both in his own house and here.f Prosperity sits well on him, and 1 cannot find that this advan- tageous change in his condition has made anv alteration either in his view T s or his be- havior. The winter is gliding merrily away, while my cousin is with us. She annihilates the difference between cold and heat, gloomy skies and cloudless. I have written I know not what, and with the despatch of legerde- main ; but with the utmost truth and con- sciousness of what I say, assure you, my dear friend, that I am Ever yours, W. C. 10 SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, Nov. 30, 1788. My dear Friend, — Your letter accompany- ing the books with which you have favored me, and for which I return you a thousand thanks, did not arrive till yesterday. I shall have great pleasure in taking now and then * Private correspondence. , Mr. Greatheed was now residing at Newport-Pagnel, ind exercising his ministry there. a peep at my old friend Vincent Bourne ; th« neatest of all men in his versification, though, when I was under his ushership at West- minster, the most slovenly in his person He was so inattentive to his boys, and so in different whether they brought him good or bad exercises, or none at all, that he seemed determined, as he was the best, so to be the last Latin poet of the Westminster line ; a plot which, I believe, he executed very suc- cessfully, for I have not heard of any who has deserved to be compared with him*. We Have had hardly any rain or snow since you left us ; the roads are accordingly as dry as in the middle of summer, and the opportu- nity of walking much more favorable. We have no season, in my mind, so pleasant as such a winter ; and I account it particularly fortunate, that such it proves, my cousin be- ing with us. She is in good health, and cheerful, so are we all ; and this I say, know- ing you will be glad to hear it, for you have seen the time when this could not be said of all your friends at Weston. We shall re- joice to see you here at Christmas; but I recollect, when I hinted such an excursion by word of mouth, you gave me no great en- couragement to expect you. Minds alter, and yours may be of the number of those that do so ; and, if it should, you will be en- tirely welcome to us all. Were there no other reason for your coming than merely the pleasure it will afford to us, that reason alone would be sufficient : but, after so many toils, and with so many more in prospect, it seems essential to your well-being that you should allow yourself a respite, which perhaps you can take as comfortably (I am sure as quietly) here as anywhere. The ladies beg to be remembered to you with all ' possible esteem and regard ; they are just come down to breakfast, and. being at this moment extremely talkative, oblige me to put an end to my letter. Adieu. W. C. TO MRS. KING.* The Lodge, Dec. 6, 1788. My dear Madam, — It must, if you please. be a point agreed between us, that we will not make punctuality in writing the test of our regard for each other, lest we should incur the danger of pronouncing and suffeiing by an unjust sentence, and this mutually. I have told you, I believe, that the half hour before breakfast is my only letter- writing opportunity. In summer I rise rather early and consequently at that season can fine more time for scribbling than at present. If I enter my study now before nine, I find al, at sixes and sevens ; for servants will take, in part at least, the liberty claimed by thei * Private con espondence. 324 COWPER'S WORKS. toasters. That you may not suppose us all sluggard alike, it is necessary, however, that I should add a word or two on this subject, in justification of Mrs. Unwin, who, because the days are too short for the important con- cerns of knitting stockings and mending them, rises generally by candle-light; a prac- tice so much in the. style of all the ladies of antiquity who were good for anything, that it is impossible not to applaud it. Mrs. Battison being dead, I began to fear that you would have no more calls to Bedford; but the marriage so near at hand, of the young lady you mention with a gentleman of that place, gives me hope again that you may occasionally approach us as heretofore, and that on some of those occasions you will perhaps find your way to Weston. The deaths of some and the marriages of others make a new world of it every thirty years. Within that space of time, the majority are displaced, and a new generation has suc- ceeded. Here and there one is permitted to stay a little longer, that there may not be wanting a few grave Dons like myself, to make the observation. This thought struck me very forcibly, the other day, on reading a paper called the County Chronicle, which came hither in the package of some books from London. It contained news from Hertfordshire, and informed me, among other things, that at Great Berkhamstead, the place of my birth, there is hardly a family left of all those with whom, in my early days, I was so familiar. The houses, no doubt, remain, but the inhabitants are only to be found now by their grave-stones ; and it is certain that I might pass through a town, in which I was once a sort of principal figure^, unknowing and unknown. They are happy who have not taken up their rest in a world fluctuat- ing as the sea, and passing away with the rapidity of a river. I wish to my heart that yourself and Mr. King may long continue, as you have already long continued, exceptions from the general truth of this remark. You doubtless married early, and the thirty-six years elapsed may have yet other years to succeed them. I do not forget that your re- lation Mrs. Battison lived to the age of eighty-six. I am glad of her longevity, be- cause it seems to afford some assurance of yours ; and I hope to know you better yet before you die. I have never seen the Observer, but am pleased with being handsomely spoken of by an old school-fellow. Cumberland* and I boarded together in the same house at West- minster. He was at that time clever, and I suppose has given proof sufficient to the world that he is still clever : but of all that he has written, it has never fallen in my way * Autbor cf the "Observer," "the West Indian," and •£ beveral dramatic pieces. to read a syllable, except perhaps in a ma^a. zine or review, the sole sources, at present, of all my intelligence. Addison speaks of persons who grow dumb in the study of elo- quence, and I have actually studied Homer till I am become a mere ignoramus in every other province of literature. My letter-writing time is spent, and I must now to Homer. With my best respects to Mr. King, I remain, dear madam, Most affectionately yours, W. C. P. S. When I wrote last, I told you, 1 believe, that Lady Hesketh was with us. She is with us now, making a cheerful winter for us at Weston. The acquisition of a new friend, and, at a late day, the recovery of the friend of our youth, are two of the chief comforts of which this life is susceptible. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.^ The Lodge, Dec. 9, 1783. My dear Friend, — That I may return you the Latin manuscript as soon as possible,! I take a short opportunity to scratch a few hasty lines, that it may not arrive alone. J have made here and there an alteration, which appeared to me for the better ; but on the whole, I cannot but wonder at your adroitness in a business to which you have been probably at no time much accustomed, and which, for many years, you have not at all practised. If, when you shall have writ- ten the whole, you shall wish for a corrector of the rest, so far as my own skill in the matter goes, it is entirely at your service. Lady Hesketh is obliged to you for the part of your letter in which she is mentioned, and returns her compliments. She loves all my friends, and consequently cannot be in- different to you. The Throckmortons are gone into Norfolk, on a visit to Lord Petre. They will probably return this day fortnight, Mr. F is now preacher at Ravenstone. Mr. C still preaches here. The latter is warmly attended. The former has heard him, having, I suppose, a curiosity to know by what charm he held his popularity ; but whether he has heard him to his own edifi- cation, or not, is more than I can say. Prob- ably he wonders, for I have heard that he is a sensible man. His successful competitor * Private correspondence. t We have already alluded to Mr. Van Lier, a Dutch minister of the Reformed Church, to whom the perusal of Mr. Newton's writings was made instrumental in lead- ing his mind to clear and saving impressions of divine truth. He communicated to Mr. Newton an interesting account of this spiritual change of mind, in the Latin manuscript here mentioned, which was transmitted to Cowper, and afterward translated by him, and published by Mr. Newton. It is entitled " The Power of Grace Illus- trated," and will be more particularly adverted tc in a subsequent part of this book. LIFE OF COWPER. 321 is wise in nothing but his knowledge of the gospel. I am summoned to breakfast, and am, my dear friend, with our best love to Mrs. New- ton, Miss Catlett, and yourself, Most affectionately yours, W. C. I have not the assurance to call this an answer to your letter, in which were many things deserving much notice ; but it is the best that, in the present moment, I am able to send you. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, Jan. 13, 1789. Dear Sir, — I have taken since you went away many of the walks which we have taken together, and. none of them, I believe, with- out thoughts of you. I have, though not a good memory in general, yet a good local memory, and can recollect, by the help of a tree or stile, what you said on that particular spot. For this reason I purpose, when the summer is come, to walk with a book in my pockets : what I read at my fireside I forget, but what I read under a hedge, or at the side of a pond, that pond and that hedge will al- ways bring to my remembrance ; and this is a sort of memoria technica, which I would recommend to you, if I did not know that you have no occasion for it. I am reading Sir John Hawkins, and still hold the same opinion of his book as when you were here.* There are in it undoubt- edly some awkwardnesses of phrase, and which is worse, here and there, some unequi- vocal indications of a vanity not easily par- donable in a man of his years ; but on the whole I find it amusing, and to me at least, to whom everything that has passed in the literary world, within these five-and-twenty years, is new, sufficiently replete with infor- mation. Mr. Throckmorton told me, about three days since, that it was lately recom- mended to him by a sensible man, as a book that would give him great insight into the history of modern literature, and modern men of letters, a commendation which I really think it merits. Fifty years hence, perhaps, the world will feel itself obliged to him. W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, Jan. 24, 1789. My dear Sir, — We have heard from my cousin in Norfolk-street ; she reached home safely, and in good time. An observation suggests itself, which, though I have but little time for observation making, I must al- * Sir John Hawkins is known as the author of four quarto volumes on the general History of Music, and by t Life of Johnson. The former is now superseded by Burney's, and the latter by Boswell's. low myself time to mention. Accidents, as we call them, generally occur when ther# seems least reason to expect them; if I friend of ours travels far in different roads and at an unfavorable season, we are reason- ably alarmed for the safety of one in whom we take so much interest, yet how seldom do we hear a tragical account of such a jour- ney ! " It is, on the contrary, at home, in our yard, or garden, perhaps in our parlor, that disaster finds us; in any place, in short, where we seem perfectly out of the reach of danger. The lesson inculcated by such a procedure on the part of Providence towards us seems to be that of perpetual dependence. Having preached this sermon, I must hasten to a close ; you know that I am not idle, nor can I afford to be so; I would gladly spend more time with you, but, by some means or other, this day has hitherto proved a day of hindrance and confusion. W. C TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, Jan. 29, 1789. My dear Friend, — I shall be a better, at least a more frequent correspondent, when I have done with Homer. I am not forgetful of any letters that I owe, and least of all forgetful of my debts m that way to you; on the contrary, I live in a continual state ot self-reproach for not writing more punctually ; but the old Grecian, whom I charge my sell never to neglect, lest I should never finish him, has, at present, a voice that seems to drown all other demands, and many to which I could listen with more pleasure than even to his Os rotundum. I am ' now in the eleventh book of the Odyssey, conversing with the dead. Invoke the muse in my be- half, that I may roll the stone of Sisyphus with some success. To do it as Homer has done it is, I suppose, in our verse and lan- guage, impossible ; but I will hope not to labor altogether to as little purpose as Sisy- phus himself did. Though I meddle little with politics, and can find but little leisure to do so, the pres- ent state of things unavoidably engages a share of my attention. But, as they say, Archimides, when Syracuse was taken, was found busy in the solution of a problem, so, come what may, I shall be found translating Homer. Sincerely yours, W. C. # TO MRS. KING.* The Lodge, Jan. 29, 1789. My dear Madam, — This morning I saH U Mrs. Unwin, "I must write to Mrs. King her long silence alarms me — something ha * Private correspc ndence. 326 COWPER'S WORKS. nappened." These words of mine proved only a prelude to the arrival of your mes- senger with his most welcome charge, for which I return you my sincerest thanks. You have sent me the very things I wanted, and which I should have continued to want, had not you sent them. As often as the wine is set on the table, I have said to my- self, " This is all very well ; but I have no bottle-stands ;" and myself as often replied, "No matter; you can make shift without them." Thus I and myself have conferred together many a day ; and you, as if you had been .privy to the conference, have kindly supplied the deficiency, and put an end to the debate forever. When your messenger arrived, I was be- ginning to dress for dinner, being engaged to dine with my neighbor, Mr. Throckmorton, from whose house I am just returned, and snatch a few moments before supper to tell you how much I am obliged to you. You will not, therefore, find me very prolix at present; but it shall not be long before you shall hear further from me. Your honest old neighbor sleeps under our roof, and will be gone in the morning before I shall have seen him. I have more items than one by which to vemember the late frost: it has cost me the bitterest uneasiness. Mrs. Unwin got a fall on the gravel-walk covered with ice, which has confined, her to an upper chamber ever since. She neither broke nor dislocated any bones ; but received such a contusion below the hip, as crippled her completely. She now begins to recover, after having been helpless as a child for a whole fortnight, but so slowly at present, that her amendment is even now almost imperceptible. Engaged, however, as 1 am with my own private anxieties, I yet find leisure to interest myself not a little in the distresses of the royal family, especially in those of the Queen* The Lord-Chancellor called the other morning on Lord Stafford: entering the room, he threw his hat into a sofa at the fireside, and, clasping his hands, said, " I have heard of distress, and I have read of it; but [ never saw distress equal to that of the * The unfortunate malady of George III. is here alluded (O, which first occurred after a previous indisposition, October 22nd, 1788. The nation was plunged in grief by -his calamitous event, and a regency appointed, to the axclusion of the Prince of Wales, which occasioned much discussion in Parliament at that time. Happily the King's illness was only of a few month's duration : his ^covery was announced to be complete, Feb. 27, 1789. Few monarchs have been more justly venerated than George the Third, or have left behind them more un- questionable evidences of real personal piety. The fol- lowing lines written to commemorate his recovery, merit > be recorded. Not with more arrief did Adam first survey, With doubts perplext, the setting orb of day ; Nor more his joy, th' ensuing morn, to view fhat splendid orb its glorious course renew ; "•"nan was. thy joy, Britannia, and thy pain, AT hen set thy sun, and when he rose again. Queen." This I know from particular and certain authority. My dear madam, I have not time to en- large at present on this subject, or to touch any other. Once more, therefore, thanking you for your kindness, of which I am truly sensible ; and thanking, too, Mr. King for the f-ivor he has done me in subscribing to my Homer, and at the same time begging you to make my best compliments to him, I con- clude myself, with Mrs. Unwin's acknowledge ments of your most acceptable present tc her, Your obliged and affectionate W. C. TO MRS. KING* March 12, 17€9 My dear Madam, — I feel myself in n< small degree unworthy of the kind solicitude which you express concerning me and my welfare, after. a silence so much longer than I gave you reason to expect. I should in- deed account myself inexcusable, had I not to allege, in my defence, perpetual engage- ments of such a kind as would by no means be dispensed with. Had Homer alone been in question, Homer should have made room for you: but I have had other work in hand at the same time, equally pressing and more laborious. Let it suffice to say, that I have not wilfully neglected you for a moment, and that you have never been out of my thoughts a day together. But I begin to perceive that, if a man will be an author, he must live nei- ther to himself nor to his friends ( so much as to others, whom he never saw, nor shall see. My promise to follow my last letter with another speedily, which promise I kept so ill, is not the only one which I am conscious of having made to you, and but very indif- ferently performed. I promised you all the smaller pieces that I should produce, as fast as occasion called them forth, and leisure occurred to write them. Now the fact is, that I have produced several since I made that fair profession, of which I have sent you hardly any- The reason i.s that, transcribed into the body of a letter, they would leave me no room for prose ; and that other con- veyance than by the post I cannot find, even after inquiry made among all my neighbors for a traveller to Kimbolton. Well, we shall see you, I hope, in the summer; and then I will show you all. I will transcribe one for you every morning before breakfast, as long as they last ; and when you come down, you shall' find it laid on your n: pkin. I sent one last week to London, whii h by some kind body or another, I know not whom, is to be presented to the Queen. The subject, as you may guess, is the King's * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. a2T recovery; a theme that might make a bad f oet a good one, and a good one excel him- self. This, too, you shall see when we meet, unless it should bounce upon you before, from some periodical register of all such matters. T shall commission my cousin, who lately left us, to procure for me the book you men- tion. Being, and having long been, so deep in the business of translation, it was natural that I should have many thoughts on that subject. I have accordingly had as many as would of themselves, perhaps, make a vol- ume, and shall be glad to compare them with those of any other writer recommended by Mr. Martyn. When you write next to that gentleman, I beg you, madam, to present my compliments to him, with thanks both for the mention of Mr. Twining's* book, and for the honor of his name among my sub- scribers. I remain always, n\v dear madam, Your affectionate W. C. TO MRS. KING.f The Lodge, April 22, 1789. My dear Madam, — Having waited hitherto m expectation of the messenger whom, in your last, you mentioned a design to send, I have at length sagaciously surmised that you delay to send him, in expectation of hearing first from me. I would that his errand hither were better worthy the journey. I shall have no very voluminous packet to charge him with when he comes. Such, however, as it is, it is ready ; and has received an ad- dition in the interim of one copy, which would not have made a part of it, had your Mercury arrived here sooner. It is on the subject of the Queen's visit to London on the night of the illuminations. Mrs. Unwin, knowing the burden that lies on my back too heavy for any but Atlantean shoulders, has kindly performed the copyist's part, and transcribed all that I had to send you. Ob- serve, madam, I do not write this to hasten your messenger hither, but merely to account for my own silence. It is probable that the 'ater he arrives, the more he will receive when he comes; for I never fail to write tvhen I think I have found a favorable sub- ject. { * The author of the translation of Aristotle, t Private correspondence. t We insert *these verses, as expressive of the loyal feel jigs of Cowper. ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON. The Night of the Tenth of March, 17S9. When, long sequester'd from his throne, George took his seat again, By right of worth, not blood alone, Entitled here to reign ! Then Loyalty, with all her lamps, New trimm'd, a gallant show, We mourn that we must give up the hope of seeing you and Mr. King at Weston. Had our correspondence commenced sooner, we had certainly found the means of meet, ing ; but it seems that we were doomed tc Chasing the darkness and the damps, Set London in a glow. 'Twas hard to tell, of streets, of squares, Which form'd the chief display, These most resembling cluster'd stars, Those the long milky way. Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, And rockets flew, self-driven, To hang their momentary fires Amid the vault of heaven. So, fire with water to compare, The ocean serves on high, Up-sponted by a whale in air, To express unwieldy joy. Had all the pageants of the world In one procession join'd, And all the banners been unfurl'd That heralds e'er design'd, For no such sight had England's Queen Forsaken her retreat, Where George recover'd made a scene Sweet always, doubly sweet. Yet glad she came that night to prove, A witness undescried, How much the object of her love Was lov'd by all beside. Darkness the skies had mantled o'er In aid of her design — Darkness, O Queen ! ne'er call'd before To veil a deed of thine ! On borrow'd wheels away she flies, Resolved to be unknown, And gratify no curious eyes That night except her "own. Arriv'd, a night like noon she sees, And hears the million hum ; As all by instinct like the bees, Had known their sov'reign come. Pleas'd she beheld aloft portray'd, On many a splendid wall, Emblems of health and heav'nly aid, And George the theme of all. Unlike the enigmatic line, So difficult to spell, Which shook Belshazzar at his wine, The night his city fell. Soon- watery grew her eyes, and dim, But with a joyful tear ! None else, except in prayer for him, George ever drew from her. It was a scene in every part Like that in fable feign'd, And seem'd by some magician's art Created and* sustain'd. ' But other magic there she knew Had been exerted none, To raise such wonders to her view, Save love to George alone. That cordial thought her spirit cheer'6 And, through the cumb'rous throng Not else unworthy to be fear'd, Convey'd her calm along. So, ancient poets say, serene The sea-maid rides the waves, And, fearless of the billowy scene, Her peaceful bosom laves. With more than astronomic eyes She viewed the sparkling show; One Georgian star adorns the skies, She myriads found below. Yet let the glories of a night Like that, onoe seen, suffice ! Heaven grant us no such fumre sighv- Such precious woe the price '. 328 COWPJER'S WORKS, know each other too late for a meeting in this world. May a better world make us amends, as it certainly will, if I ever reach a better! Our interviews here are but imper- fect pleasures at the best; and generally from such as promise us most gratification we receive the most disappointment. But disappointment is, I suppose, confined to the planet on which we dwell, the only one in the universe, probably, that is inhabited by sinners. I did not know, or even suspect, that when I received your last messenger, I received so eminent a disciple of Hippocrates ; a physi- cian of such absolute control over disease and the human constitution, as to be able to put a pestilence into his pocket, confine it there, and let it loose at his pleasure. We are much indebted to him that he did not give us here a stroke of his ability. I must not forget to mention that I have received (probably not without your privity) Mr. Twining's valuable volume.* For a long time I supposed it to have come from my bookseller , who now and then sends me a new publication ; but I find, on inquiry, that it came not from him. I beg, madam, if you are aware that Mr. Twining himself sent it, or your friend Mr. Martyn, that you will negotiate for me on the occasion, and contrive to convey to the obliging donor my very warmest thanks. I am impatient till he receives them. I have not yet had time to do justice to a writer so sensible, elegant, and entertaining, by a complete perusal of his work; but I have with pleasure sought out all those passages to which Mr. Martyn was so good as to refer me, and am delighted to observe the exact agreement in opinion on the subject of translation in general, and on that of Mr. Pope's in particular, that subsists between Mr. Twining and myself With Mrs. Unwin's best compliments, I remain, my dear madam, Your obliged and affectionate, W. C. TO MRS. KING.f April 30, 1789. My dear Madam, — I thought to have sent you, by the return of your messenger, a let- ter; at least, something like one: but in- stead of sleeping here, as I supposed he would, he purposes to pass the night at La- vendon, a village three miles off. This de- sign of his is but just made known to me, and it is now near seven in the evening. Therefore, lest he should be obliged to feel out his way, in an unknown country, in the dark, I am forced to scribble a hasty word or two, instead cf devoting, as I intended, bbe whole evening to your service. * The translation of Aristotle. t Pi : \ ate correspondence. A thousand thanks for your basket, and all the good things that it contained ; par- ticularly . for my brother's Poems,* whose hand-writing struck me the moment I saw it. They gave me some feelings of a me]. ancholy kind, but not painful. I will return them to you by the next opportunity. I wish that mine, which I send you, may prove half as pleasant to you as your excellent cakes and apples have proved to us. You will then think yourselves sufficiently recompensed for your obliging present. If a crab-stock can transform a pippin into a nonpareil, what may not I effect in a translation of Homer ? Alas ! I fear nothing half so valuable. I have learned, at length, that I am indebt- ed for' Twining's Aristotle to a relation of mine, General Cowper. Pardon me that I quit you so soon. It is not willingly ; but I have compassion on your poor messenger. Adieu, my dear madam, and believe me, Affectionately yours, W. C TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, May 20, 1789. My dear Sir, — Finding myself, between twelve and one, at the end of the seventeenth book of the Odyssey, I give the interval be- tween the present moment and the time of walking, to you. If I write letters before I sit down to Homer, I feel my spirits too flat for poetry, and too flat for letter-writing if I address myself to Homer first ; but the last I choose as the least evil, because my friends will pardon my dullness, but the public will not. I had been some days uneasy on your ac- count when yours arrived. We should have rejoiced to have seen you, would your engage- ments have permitted ; but in the autumn, I hope, if not before, we shall have the pleasure to receive you. At what time we may expect Lady Hesketh, at present, I know not ; but imagine that at any time after the month of June you will be sure to find her with us, which I mention, knowing that to meet you would add a relish to all the pleasures she caiv find at Weston. When I wrote these lines on the Queen's visit, I thought I had performed well ; but it belongs to me, as I have told you before, to dislike whatever I write when it has been written a month. The performance was there- fore sinking in my esteem, when your appro- bation of it, arriving in good time, buoyed it up again. It will now keep possession of the place it holds in my good opinion, because it has been favored with yours ; and a copy will certainly be at your service whenever you choose to have one. * We regret that we have not succeeded in procuring any traces of these poems of Cowper's brother LIFE OF COWPER. 32? Nothing is more certain than that when I wrote the line, God made the country, and man made the town, * had not the least recollection of that very similar one, which you quote from Hawkins Brown. It convinces me that critics (and none more than Warton, in his notes on Milton's minor poems) have often charged authors with borrowing what they drew from their own fund. Brown was an entertaining companion when he had drunk his bottle, but not before : this proved a snare to him, and he would sometimes drink too much ; but I know not that he was chargeable with any other irregularities. He had those among his inti- mates, who would not have been such had he been otherwise viciously inclined ; the Dun- combs, in particular, father and son, who were of unblemished morals. W. C. TO MRS. KING.* The Lodge, May 30, 1789. Dearest Madam, — Many thanks for your kind and valuable despatches, none of which, except your letter, I have yet had time to read ; for true it is, and a sad truth too, that I was in bed when your messenger arrived. He waits only for my answer, for which reason I answer as speedily as I can. ■ I am glad *if my poetical packet pleased you. Those stanzas on the Queen's visit were presented some time since, by Miss Goldsworthy,f to the princess Augusta, who has probably given them to the Queen; but of their reception I have heard nothing. I gratified myself by complimenting two sover- eigns whom I love and honor ; and that grati- fication will be my reward. It would, indeed, be unreasonable to expect that persons who keep a Laureat in constant pay, should have either praise or emolument to spare for every volunteer who may choose to make them his subject. I will take the greatest care of the papers with which you have entrusted me, and will return them by the next opportunity. It is very unfortunate that the people of Bedford should choose to have the small-pox, just at the season when it would be sure to prevent our meeting. God only knows, madam, when we shall meet, or whether at all in this world ; awt certain it is, that whether we meet or not, I am most truly yours, W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, June 5, 1789. My dear Friend, — I am going to give you a teal of trouble, but London folks must be * Private correspondence. The daughte* of General Goldsworthy. content to be troubled by country folks ; for in London only can our strange necessities ba supplied. You must buy for me, if you please, a cuckoo clock ; and now I will tell you where they are sold, which, Londoner as you are, it is possible you may not know. They are sold, I am informed, at more houses than one in that narrow part of Holborn which leads into Broad St. Giles'. It seems they are well-going clocks and cheap, which are the two best recommendations of any clock. They are made in Germany, and such num- bers of them are annually imported, that they are become even a considerable article of commerce. I return you many thanks for Bosweli's Tour * I read it to Mrs. Unwin after supper and we find it amusing. There is much trash in it, as there must always be in every nar- rative that relates indiscriminately all that passed. But now and then the Doctor speaks like an oracle, and that makes amends for all. Sir John was a coxcomb, and Boswell is not less a coxcomb, though of another kind. 1 fancy Johnson made coxcombs of all his friends, and they in return made him a cox- comb ; for, with reverence be it spoken, such he certainly was, and flattered as he was he was sure to be so. Thanks for your invitation to London, bat unless London can come to me, I fear we shall never meet. I was sure that you would love my friend when you should once be well ac- quainted with him,f and equally sure that ho would take kindly to you. Now for Homer. W. C TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, June 16, 1789. My dear Friend, — You will naturally sup- pose that the letter in which you announced your marriage occasioned me some concern, though in my answer I had the wisdom to conceal it. The account you gave me of the object of your choice was such as left me at liberty to form conjectures not very comfort- able to myself, if my friendship for you were indeed sincere. I have since, however, been sufficiently consoled. Your brother Chester has informed me that you have married not only one of the most agreeable, but One of the most accomplished, women in the king- dom. It is an old maxim, that it is better to exceed expectation than to disappoint it ; and with this maxim in your view it was, no doubt, that you dwelt only on circumstances of dis- advantage, and would not treat me with a re- cital of others which abundantly overweigh them. I now congratulate not you only but myself, and truly rejoice that my friend haa chosen for hi? fellow-traveller, through the re- * Tour to the Hebrides, t Rev. John Newton. 330 COWPER'S WORKS. maining stages of his journey, a companion who will do honor to his discernment, and make his way, so far as it can depend on a wife to do so, pleasant to the last. My verses on the Queen's visit to London either have been printed, or soon will be, in .'he " World." The finishing to which you objected I have altered, and have substituted two new stanzas instead of it. Two others also I have struck out, another critic having objected to them. I think I am a very tract- able sort of a poet. Most of my fraternity would as soon shorten the noses of their children because they were said to be too long, as thus dock their compositions in compliance with the opinions of others. I beg that when my life shall be written hereafter, my author- ship's ductibility of temper may not be for- gotten. « I am, my dear friend, Ever yours, W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, June 20, 1789. Amico Mio, — I am truly sorry that it must be so long before we can have an opportunity to meet. My cousin in her last letter but one inspired me with other expectations, express- ing a purpose, if the matter could be so con- trived, of bringing you with her : I was willing to believe that you had consulted together on the subject, and found it feasible. A month was formerly a trifle in my account, but at my present age I give it all its importance, and grudge that so many months should yet pass in which I have not even a glimpse of those I love, and of whom, the course of nature con- sidered, I must ere long take leave forever — but I shall live till August. Many thanks for the cuckoo which arrived perfectly safe and goes well, to the amusement and amazement of all who hear it. Hannah lies awake to hear it, and I am not sure that we have not others in the house that admire his music as much as she. Having read both Hawkins and Boswell, I now think myself as much a master of John- son's character as if I had known him per- sonally, and cannot but regret that our bards of other times found no such biographers as these. They have both been ridiculed, and the wits have had their laugh ; but such a his- tory of Milton or Shakspeare as they have given of Johnson — O how desirable !* W. C. * The distinguished merit of Boswell's Life of Dr. Johnson is precisely what Cowper here states. In pe- rusing it we become intimately acquainted with his manner, habits of life, and sentiments on eveiy subject. We are introduced to the great wits of the age, and see a lively portraiture of the literary characters of those times. However minute and even frivolous some of the remarks may be, yet Boswell's Life' will never fail to awaken interest, and no library can be considered to be eompletc without it. TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. July 18, 1789. Many thanks, my dear madam, for youi extract from George's letter. I retain but little Italian, yet that little was so forcibly mustered by the consciousness that I was myself the subject, that I presently became master of it. I have always said that George is a poet, and I am never in his company but I discover proofs of it, and the delicate address by which he has managed his complimentary mention of me convinces me of it still more than ever. Here are a thousand poets of us who have impudence enough to write for the public; but amongst the modest men who are by diffidence restrained from such an en- terprise are those who would eclipse us all. I wish that George would make the experi- ment, I would bind on his laurels with' my own hand.* Your gardener has gone after his wife, but, having neglected to take his lyre, alias fiddle, with him, has not brought home his Eury- dice. Your clock in the hall has stopped, and (strange to tell !) it stopped at sight of the watchmaker : for he only looked at it, and it has been motionless ever since. Mr. Greg- son is gone, and the Hall is a desolation. Pray don't think any place pleasant that you may find in your rambles, that we may see you the sooner. ' Your aviary is all in good health ; I pass it every day, and 'often inquire at the lattice ; the inhabitants of it send their duty, and wish for your return. I took no- tice of the inscription on your seal, and had we an artist here capable of furnishing me with another, you should read on mine, " En- core une lettre." Adieu ! W. C. The importance of improving the early hours of life, which, once lost, are never re- covered, is profitably enforced in the succeed- ing letter. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, July 23, 1789. You do Well, my dear sir, to improve your opportunity; to speak in the rural phrase, this is your sowing time, and the sheaves you look for can never be yours unless you make that use of it. .The color of our whole "Homer," says a popular critic, "is not more de- cidedly the first of heroic poets— Shakspeare is not more decidedly the first of dramatists— Demosthenes is not more decidedly the first of orators, than Boswell is the first of biographers." " A book," observes Mr. Croker, " to which the world refers as a manual of amusement, a repository pf wit, wisdom, and morals, and a lively and faithful history of the manners and literature of England, during a period hardly second in brilliancy, and superior in importance even to the Augustan age of Anne. * This truly amiable and •iccomplished person after wards became Sir George Throckmurton, Bart LIFE OF COWPER. 331 jfe is generally such as the three or four first years in which vvj are our own masters make it. Then it is that we may be said to shape our own destiny, and to treasure up "or ourselves a series of future successes or lisappointments. Had I employed my time as wisely as you, in a situation very similar to yours, I had never been a poet perhaps ; but I might by this time have acquired a character of more importance in society, and a situation in which my friends would have been better pleased to see me. But three years misspent in an attorney's office, were almost of course followed by several more equally misspent in the Temple, and the con- sequence has been, as the Italian epitaph says, " Sto qui." The only use I can make of myself now, at least the best, is to serve in terrorem to others, when occasion may happen to offer, that they may escape (so far as my admonitions can have any weight with them) my folly and my fate. When you feel yourself tempted to relax a little of the strictness of your present discipline, and to indulge in amusement incompatible with your future interests, think on your friend at Weston. Having said this, I shall next, with my whole heart, invite you hither, and assure you that I look forward to approaching Au- gust with great pleasure, because it prom- ises me your company. After a little time (which we shall wish longer) spent with us, you will return invigorated to your studies, and pursue them with more advantage. In the meantime, you have lost little, in point of season, by being confined to London. In- cessant rains and meadows under water have given to the summer the air of winter, and the country has been deprived of half its beauties. It is time to tell you that we are all well, and often make you our subject. This is the third meeting that my cousin and we have had in this country, and a great instance of good fortune I account it in such a. world as this to have expected such a pleasure thrice, without being once disappointed. Add to this wonder as soon as you can by making rourself of the party. W.C. TO MRS. KING* August 1, 1789. My dear Madam, — The post brings me no letters that do not grumble at my silence. Had not you, therefore, taken me to task as roundly as others, I should have concluded vou perhaps more indifferent to my epistles jhan the rest of my correspondents ; of whom one say % — " I shall be glad when you have Inished Homer ; then possibly you will find * Private correspondence. a little leisure for an old friend." Anothei says — " I don't choose to be neglected, unless you equally neglect every one e.se." Thus I hear of it with both ears, and shall, till J appear in the shape of two gi eat quarto vol- umes, the composition of which, I confess, engrosses me to a degree that gives my friends, to whom I feel myself much obliged for their anxiety to hear from me, but too much reason to complain. Johnson told Mr. Martyn the truth, but your inference from | that truth is not altogether so just as most of your conclusions are. Instead of finding myself the -more at leisure because my long labor draws to a close, I find myself the more occupied. As when a horse approaches the goal, he does not, unless he be jaded, slacken his pace, but quickens it; even so it fares with me, The end is in view ; I seem almost to have reached the mark, and the nearness of it inspires me with fresh alacrity. But, be it known to you, that I have still two books of the Odyssey before me, and when they are finished, shall have almost the whole eight-and-forty to revise. Judge then, my dear madam, if it is yet time for me to play, or to gratify myself with scribbling to those 1 love. No : it is still necessary that waking I should be all absorbed in Homer, and that sleeping I should dream of nothing else. I am a great lover of good paintings, but no connoisseur, having never had an oppor- tunity to become one. In the last forty years of my life, I have hardly seen six pic- tures that were worth looking at ; for I was never a frequenter of auctions, having never had any spare money in my pocket, and the public exhibitions of them in London had hardly taken place when I left it. My cousin, who is with us, saw the gentleman whose pieces you mention, on the top of a scaffold, copying a famous picture in the Vatican She has seen some of his performances, and much admires them. You have had a great loss, and a loss that admits of no consolation, except such as will naturally suggest itself to you, such, I mean, as the Scripture furnishes. We must all leave, or be left ; and it is the circumstance of all others that makes a long life the least desirable, that others go while we stay, till at last we find ourselves alone, like a tree on a hill-top. Accept, my dear madam, mine and Mrs. Unwin's best compliments to yourself and Mr. King, and believe me, however unfre- quent in telling you that I am so, Affectionately yours, W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, August 8, 17e9. My dear Friend, — Come when you will, oi when you can, you cannot come at a, /r\ n£ 332 COWPER'S WORKS time ; but we shall expect you on the day mentioned. # If you have any book that you think will make pleasant evening reading, bring it with you. I now read Mrs. Piozzi's* Travels to the, ladie c after supper, and shall probably have finished them before we shall have the pleasure of seeing you. It is the fashion, I understand, to condemn them. Bat we, who make books ourselves, are more merciful to book-makers. I would that every fastidious judge of authors were himself obliged to write : there goes more to the composition of a volume than many critics imagine.f I have often wondered that the same poet who wrote the " Dunciad," should have written these lines, The mercy J to others show, That mercy show to me. Alas ! for Pope, if the mercy he showed to others, was the measure of mercy he re- ceived! He was the less pardonable, too, because experienced in all the difficulties of composition. I scratch this between dinner and tea : a time when I cannot write much without dis- ordering my noddle and bringing a flush into my face. You- will excuse me therefore, if, through respect for the two important con- siderations of health and beauty, I conclude myself, Ever yours, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.J August 12, 178&. My dear Friend, — I rejoice that you and Mrs. Hill are so agreeably occupied in your retreat.^ August, I hope, will make us amends for the gloom of its many wintry predecessors. We are now gathering from our meadows, not hay, but muck ; such stuff as deserves not the carriage, which yet it must have, that the after-crop may have leave to grow. The Ouse has hardly deigned to run in his channel since the summer began. * Formerly Mrs. Thrale, the well-known friend of Dr- Johnson, and resident at Streatham. Her second mar- riage was considered to be imprudent. She wrote Anec- dotes of Dr. Johnson, and was also the authoress of the oeautiful tale entitled, "The Three Warnings," begin- ning, "The tree of deepest root is found Unwilling most to leave the ground," &c. &c. t It cost Lord Lyttleton twenty years to write the Life and History of Henry II. The historian Gibbon was twelve years in completing his " Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," and Adam Smith occupied ten years in producing his " Wealth of Nations." A stronger instance can scarcely be quoted of the men- tal labor employed in the composition of a work, than What is recorded of Boileau, who occupied eleven months in writing his " Equivoque," consisting only of 346 lines, %nd afterwards spent three years in revising it. Ccwper sometimes wrote only five or six lines in a day. J Private correspondence. i At Wargrave, near Henley-on-Thames. My Muse were a vixen if she were not ai ways ready to fly in obedience to your com. mands. But what can be a one ? I can write nothing in the few hours that remain to me of this day that will be fit for your purpose, and unless I could dispatch what I write by to-morrow's post, it would not reach you in time. I must add, too, that my friend, the vicar of the next parish,* engaged me, the day before yesterday, to furnish him by next Sunday with a hymn, to be sung on the occasion of his preaching to the children of the Sunday-school :f of which hymn I have not yet produce.! a syllable. I am somewhat in the case of lawyer Dowling, in " Tom Jones ;" and could I split myself into as many poets as there are muses, could find employment for them all. Adieu, my dear friend. I am ever yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.| August 16, 1789. My dear Friend, — Mrs. Newton and you are both kind and just in believing that I d not love you less when I am long silent. Perhaps a friend of mine, who wishes me to have him always in my thoughts, is never so effectually possessed of the accomplishment of that wish as when I have been long his debtor; for then I think of him not only every day, but day and night, and all day long. But I confess at the same time that my thoughts of you will be more pleasant to myself when I shall have exonerated my conscience by giving you the letter so long your due. Therefore, here it comes : little worth your having, but payment, such as it is, that you have a right to expect, and that is essential to my own tranquillity. That the Iliad and the Odyssey shculd have proved the occasion of my suspending my correspondence with you, is a proof how little we foresee the consequences of what we publish. Homer, I dare say, hardly at all suspected that at the fag-end of time two personages would appear, the one ycleped Sir Newton and the other Sir Cowper, who loving each other heartily, would nevertheless suffer the pains of an interrupted intercourse. * Olney. t We subjoin an extract from this Sunday-s;-roci hymn, for the benefit of our younger readers. " Hear, Lord, the song of praise and -prayer, In heaven, thy dwelling-place, From infants, made the public care, And taught to seek thy face ! " Thanks for thy word, and for thy day ; And grant us, we implore, Never to waste in sinful play Thy holy Sabbaths more. "Thanks that we hear — but, oh ! impart To each desires sincere, That we may listen with ou - heart, And learn, as well as hear." t Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. 33* nis poems the cause. So, however, it has happened ; and though it would not, I sup- pose, extort from the old bard a single sigh, if he knew it, yet to me it suggests the seri- ous reflecti >n above-mentioned. An author by profession had need narrowly to watch his •pen, lest a line should escape it which by possi- bility may do mischief, when he has been long dead and buried. What we have done, when we have written a book, will never be known till the day of judgment : then the account will be liquidated, and all the good that it has occasioned, and all the evil, will witness either for or against us. I am now in the last book of the Odyssey, yet have still, I suppose, half a year's work before me. The accurate revisal of two such voluminous poems can hardly cost me less. I rejoice, however, that the goal is in pros- pect ; for, though it has cost me years to run this race, it is only now that I begin to have a glimpse of it. That I shall never re- ceive any proportionable pecuniary recom- pense for my long labors is pretty certain ; and as to any fame that I may possibly gain by it, that is a commodity that daily sinks in value, in measure as the consummation of all things approaches. In the day when the lion shall dandle the kid, and a little child shall lead them, the world will have lost all relish for the fabulous legends of antiquity, and Homer and his translator may budge off the stage together. Ever yours, W. C. Cowper's remarks on the subject of au- thors, in the above letter, are truly impressive and demand attention. If it indeed be true, that authors are responsible for their writ- ings, as well as for their personal conduct, (of which we presume there can be no reason- able doubt,) how would the tone of literature be raised, and the pen often be arrested in its course, if this conviction were fully re- alized to the conscience ! Their writings are, in fact, the record of the operations of their minds,' and are destined to survive, so far as metallic types and literary talent can ensure durability and success. Nor is it less true that the character of a nation will gen- erally be moulded by the spirit of its authors'. Allowing, therefore, the extent of this power- ful influence, we can conceive the possibility of authors, at the last great day, undergoing the ordeal of a solemn judicial inquiry, when the subject for investigation will be, how far their writings have enlarged the bounds of useful knowledge, or subserved the cause of piety and truth. If, instead of those great ends being answered, it shall appear that the foundations of religion have been under- mined, the cause of virtue weakened, and the heart made more accessible to error ; if, too, a dread array of witnesses shall stand forth, tracing the guilt of their lives and the ruir of their hopes to the fatal influence of th* books which they had read, what image of horror can equal the sensation of such a mo- ment, save the despair of hearing the irrevo- cable sentence, " Depart from me, ye workers of iniquity ; I never knew you !" TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, Sept. 24, 1789. My dear Friend, — You left us exactly at the wrong time ; had you stayed till now, you would have had the pleasure of hearing even my cousin say — " I am cold," — and the still greater pleasure of being warm yourself; for I have had a fire in the study ever since you went. It is the fault of our summers that they are hardly ever warm or cold enough. Were they warmer we should not want a fire, and were they colder we should have one. I have twice seen and conversed with Mr. J ; he is witty, intelligent, and agreeable beyond the common measure of men whi are so. But it is the constant effect of a spirit of party to make those hateful to each other who are truly amiable in themselves. Beau sends his love ; he was melancholy the whole day after your departure. W. C The power of poetry to embellish the most simple incident is pleasingly evinced in the following letter, by the Homeric muse of Cowper. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ, Weston, Oct. 4, 1789. My dear Friend, — The hamper is come, an* come safe ; and the contents I can affirm, on my own knowledge, are excellent. It chanced that another hamper and box came by the same conveyance, all which I un- packed and expounded in the hall, my cousin sitting meantime on the stairs, spectatress of the business. We diverted ourselves with imagining the manner in which Homer would have described the scene. Detailed in his circumstantial way, it would have furnished materials for a paragraph of considerable length in an Odyssey. The straw-stuff'd hamper with his ruthless steel He operrd cutting sheer th' inserted cords. Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth came The rustling package first bright straw of wheat Or oats or barley ; next a bottle green Throat-full clear spirits the contents,, distilld Drop after drop odoious. by the art Of the fair mother of his friend— the Rose And so on. I should rejoice to be the hero of suW» a ts « in the hands of Homer. 534 COWPER'S' WORKS. V ou will remember. I trust, that, when the state of your healtl; or spirits calls for rural #alks and fresh air, you have always a re- treat at Weston. We are all wp.U; all love you, down to the very dog : and shall be glad to hear that you have exchanged languor for alacrity, and the debility that you mention for indefatiga- ble vigor. Mr. Throckmorton has made me a hand- some present ; Villoison's edition of the Iliad, elegantly bound by Edwards.* If I live long enough, by the contributions of my friends I shall once more be possessed of a library. Adieu ! W. C. TO THE REV, WALTER BAGOT. My dear Walter, — I know that you are too reasonable a man to expect anything like punctuality of correspondence from a trans- later of Homer, especially from one who is a doer also of many other things at the same time ; for I labor hard not only to acquire a little fame for myself, but to win it also for others, men of whom I know nothing, not even their names, who send me their poetry, that by translating it out of prose into verse, I may make it more like poetry than it was. Having heard all this, you will feel yourself not only inclined to pardon my long silence, but to pity me also for the cause of it. You may if you please believe likewise, for it is true, that I have a faculty of remembering my friends even when I do not write to them, and of loving them not one jot the less, though I leave them to starve for want of a letter from me. And now I think you have an apology both as to style, matter, and manner, alto- gether unexceptionable. Why is the winter like a backbiter? Be- cause Solomon says that a backbiter separ- ates between chief friends, and so does the winter; to this dirty season it is owing that I see nothing of the valuable Chesters, whom indeed I see less at all times than serves at all to content me. I hear of them indeed occasionally from my neighbors at the Hall, but even of that comfort I have lately en- joyed less than usual, Mr. Throckmorton having been hindered by his first fit of the gout from his usual visits to Chicheley. The gout however has not prevented his making me a handsome present of a folio edition of the Iliad, published about a year since at Venice, by a literato, who calls himself Vil- loison. It is possible that you have seen it, and that if you have it not yourself, it has at least found its way to Lord Bagot's library. If neither should be the case, when I write next (for sooner or later I shall certainly * The character of this work is given by Cowper him- IPlf in & subsequent letter tr hib friend Walter Bagot. write to you again if I live) I will send yow some pretty stories out of his Prolegomena which will make your hair stand on end, as mine has stood on end already, they so hor- ribly affect, in point of authenticity, the credit of the works of the immortal Homer. Wishing you and Mrs. Bagot all the haj piness that a new year can possibly bring with it, I remain, with Mrs. Unwin's best re- spects, yours, my dear friend, with all sin- cerity, , W. C. My paper mourns for the death of Lord Cowper, my valuable cousin, and much my benefactor. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. My dear Friend, — I am a terrible creature for not writing sooner, but the old excuse must serve ; at least I will not occupy paper with the addition of others unless you should insist on it, in which case I can assure you that I have them ready. Now to business. From Villoison I learn that it was the avowed opinion and persuasion of Callima- chus (whose hymns we both studied at West- minster) that Homer was very imperfectly understood even in his day ; that his admir- ers, deceived by the perspicuity of his style, fancied themselves masters of his meaning, when in truth they knew little about it. Now we know that Callimachus, as I have hinted, was himself a poet, and a good one ; he was also esteemed a good critic ; he almost, if not actually, adored Homer, and imitated him as nearly as he could. What shall we say to this? I will tell you what I say to it. Callimachus meant, and he could mean nothing more by this assertion, than that the poems of Homer were in fact an allegory; that under the obviotis import of his stories lay concealed a mystic sense, sometimes philosophical, sometimes religious, sometimes moral : and that the generality either wanted penetration or industry, or had not been properly qualified by 'their studies to discover it. This I can readily believe, for I am myself an ignoramus in these points, and, except here and there, discern nothing more than the letter. But if Callimachus will tell me that even of that I am ignorant, I hope soon by two great volumes to con- vince him of the contrary. I learn also from the same Villoison, that Pisistratus, who was a sort of Maecenas in Athens, where he gave great encouragement to literature, and built and furnished a public library, regretting that there was no complete copy of Homer's works in the world, resolved to make one. For this.purpose, he advertised rewards in all the newspapers to those, who j being possessed memoriter of any part or par- | eel of the poems of that bard, would resort LIFE OF COWPER. 335 to his house, and repeat them to his secre- taries, that they might write them. Now, it happened that more were desirous of the re- ward than qualified to deserve it. The con- sequence was, that the non-qualified persons, having many of them a pretty knack at versi- fication, imposed on the generous Athenian most egregiously, giving him, instead of Homer's verses, which they had not to give, verses of their own invention. He, good creature, suspecting no such fraud, took them all for gospel, and entered them into his volume accordingly. Now. let him believe the story who can. That Homer's works were in this manner corrected, I can believe ; but, that a learned Athenian could be so imposed upon, with sufficient means of detection at hand, I can- not. Would he not be on his guard ? Would not a difference of style and manner have oc- curred ? Would not that difference have ex- cited a suspicion ? Would not that suspicion have led to inquiry, and would not that in- quiry have issued in detection? For how easy was it in the multitude of Homer-con- ners to find two, ten, twenty, possessed of the questionable passage, and, by confronting him with the impudent impostor, to convict him. Abeas ergo in malam rem. cum istis tuis hallucinationibuSi Yillolsone !* Yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON, f Weston, Dec. 1, 1789. My dear Friend, — On this fine first of De- cember, under an unclouded sky, and in a room full of sunshine, I address myself to the payment of a debt long in arrear, but never forgotten by me, however I may have seemed to forget it. I will not waste time in apolo- gies. I have but one, and that one will sug- gest itself unmentioned. I will only add, that you are the first to whom I write, of several to whom I have not written many months, who all have claims upon me ; and who, I flatter myself, are all grumbling at my silence. In your case, perhaps, I have been less anxious than in the case of some others ; because, if you have not heard from myself, you have heard from Mrs. Unwin. From her you have learned that I live, that I am as well as usual, and that I translate Homer : — three short items, but in which is * The reveries of learned men are amusing, but inju- rious to true taste and sound 'literature. Bishop War- burton's labored attempt to prove that the descent of JEneas into hell in the 6th book of the iEneid, is in- tended to convey a representation of the Eleusinian mys- teries, is of this description ; when it is obviously an imitation of a similar event, recorded of Ulysses. Genius should guard against a fondness for speculative discur- 8ion, which often leads from the simplicity of truth to the establishment of dangerous errors. We consider specu- lative inquiries to form one of the features of the present times, against which we have need to be vigilantly on l/ur guar,L t Private correspondence. comprised the whole detail of my present history. Thus I fired when you were here thus 1 have fared ever since you were here; and thus, if it please God, I shall continue to fare for some time longer: for, though the work is done, it is not finished: a riddle which you, who are a brother of the press, will solve easily.* I have also been the less anxious, because I have had frequent oppor- tunities to hear of you ; and have always heard'that you are in good health and happy. Of Mrs. Newton, too, I have heard more fa- vorable accounts of late, which have given us both the sincerest pleasure. Mrs. Unwin's case is. at present, my only subject of uneasi- ness, that is not immediately personal, and properly my own. She has almost constant headaches; almost a constant pain in her side, which nobody understands; and her lameness, within the last half year, is very little amended. But her spirits are good, because supported by comforts which depend not on the state of the body ; and I do not know that, with all these pains her looks are at all altered since we had the happiness to see you here, unless, perhaps, they are al- tered a little for the better. I have thus given you as circumstantial an account of ourselves as I could; the most interesting matter, I verily believe, with which I could have tilled my paper, unless I could have made spiritual mercies to myself the subject In my next, perhaps, I shall find leisure to bestow, a few lines on what is doing in France, and in the Austrian Netherlands;! though, to say the truth, I am much better qualified to write an essay on the siege of Troy than to descant on any of these modern revolutions. I question if, in either of the countries just mentioned, full of bustle and tumult as they are, there be a single charac- ter whom Homer, were he living, would deign to make his hero. The populace are the heroes now, and the stuff of winch gen- tlemen heroes are made seems to be all ex- pended. I will endeavor that my next letter shall not follow this so tardily as this has followed the last; and, with our joint affectionate re- membrances to yourself and Mrs. Newton, remain as ever, Sincerely yours, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Weston, Dec. 18, 1789. My dear Friend, — The present appears to * Revision is no small part of the literary labors of an author. t The French revolution, that great event which exer- cised so powerful an influence not only on European governments but on the world at large, and the effects cf which are experienced at the present moment, had just commenced. The Austrian Netherlands had also re- volted, and Brussels and most of the principal town* and cities were in the bands of the insurgents. 336 COWPER'S WORKS. me a wonderful period in the history of man- kind. That nations so long contentedly slaves should on a sudden become enamored of liberty, and understand as suddenly their own natural right to it, feeling themselves at the same time inspired with resolution to as- sert it, seems difficult to account for from natural causes. With respect to the final is- sue of all this, I can only say that if, having discovered the value of liberty, they should next discover the value of peace, and lastly the value of the word of God, they will be happier than they ever were since the rebel- lion of the first pair, and as happy as it is possible they should be in the present life. Most sincerely yours, W. C. The French revolution, to which we have now been led by the correspondence of Cow- per, whether we consider its immediate or ultimate consequences, was one of the most extraordinary events recorded in the history of modern Europe. It fixed the contempla- tion of the politician, the philosopher, and the moralist. By the first, it was viewed ac- cording to the political bias which marks the two great divisions of party established in this country. Mr. Fox designated it as one of the noblest fabrics ever erected by human liberty for the happiness of mankind. Mr. Burke asserted that it was a system of de- molition, and not of reparation. The French revolution might possibly have merited the eulogium of Mr. Fox, if its promoters had known when to pause, or how to regulate its progress. But unhappily the spirit of dem- ocracy was let loose, and those who first en- gaged in the work (influenced no doubt by the purest motives) were obliged to give way to men of more turbulent passions ; demagogues, who were willing to go all lengths ; who had nothing -to lose, and every- thing to gain; and in whose eyes modera- tion was a crime, and the fear of spoliation and carnage an act of ignoble timidity. Con- tending factions succeeded each other like the waves of the sea, and were borne along with the same irresistible power, till their fury was spent and exhausted. The sequel is well known. Property was confiscated. Whatever was venerable in vir- tue, splendid in rank, or sacred in religion, became the object of popular violence. The throne and the altar were overturned; and an amiable and inoffensive monarch, whose „nly crime was the title that he sustained, was led in triumph to the scaffold, amidst the acclamations of his people ; and, as if to make death more terrible, the place selected f^r his execution was in view of the very palace which had been the scene of his for- mer greatness* Haec finis Priami fatorura ; hie exitus ilium Sorte tulit, Trojam incensam et prolapsa videntem The features which distinguished the revo- lution in France from that of England in 1688 are thus finely drawn by Mr. Burke. " In truth, the circumstances of our revolu- tion (as it is called) and that of France are just the reverse of each other in almost every particular, and in the whole spirit of the trans- action. With us it was the case of a legal monarch attempting arbitrary power. In France it is the case of an arbitrary mon- arch, beginning, from whatever cause, to le galize his authority. The one was to be re sisted, the other was to be managed and directed ; but in neither case was the order of the state to be changed, lest government might be ruined, which ought only to be corrected and legalized. "What we did was, in truth and substance, and in a constitutional light, a revolution, not made, but 'prevented. We took solid securi- ties; we settled doubtful questions; we cor- rected anomalies in our law. In the stable, fundamental parts of our constitution we made no revolution ; no, nor any alteration at all. We did not impair the monarchy. " The nation kept the same ranks, the same orders, the same privileges, the same franchi- ses, the same rules for property, the same subordinations, the same order in the law, in the revenue, and in the magistracy: the same lords, the same commons, the same cor- porations, the same electors."* That we should have been so graciously preserved in such a period of political con- vulsions, will ever demand our gratitude and praise. We owe it not to our arms, or to our councils, but to the goodness and mercy of God. We heard the loud echo of the thun- der, and the howlings of the storm. We even felt some portion of the heavings of the earthquake ; but we were spared from foil ing into the abyss; we survived the ruir. and desolations. We trust we shall s f ill be preserved, by the same superintending Prov-r idence, and that we may say, in the language of Burke, — " We are not the converts of Rousseau ; we are not the disciples of Voltaire ; Helvetius has made no progress amongst us. Atheists are not our preachers ; madmen are not our lawgivers." But, if history be philosophy teaching by example, what, we may ask, were the politi- cal and moral causes of that extraordinary convulsion in France, of which we are speak- ing ? They are to be traced to that spirit of ambition and conquest, which, however splen- did in military prowess, ultimately exhausted the resources of the state, and oppressed the people with imposts and taxation. They are Fergama; tot quondam populis, terrisque, superbum Regnatorem Asiae. Jacet ingeps littore truncus, Avulsumque humoris caput, et sine nomine corpus. * Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in France. LIFE OF COWPER. 331 to be found in the system of peculation and extravagance that pervaded every departmei t of the government; in the profligacy of the court; in ihe luxurious pomp and pride of the noblesse ; and in the universal corruption that infected the whoie mass of society. To the above may be added, the zeal with which infidel principles were propagated, and the systematic attempts to undermine the whole fabric of. civil society through the agency of the press. The press became impious to- wards God, and disloyal towards kings ; and unfortunately the church and the state, being enfeebled by corruption, opposed an ineffect- ual resistance. Religion had lost its hold on the public mind. Men were required to be- lieve too much, and believed nothing. The consequences were inevitable. When men have once cast orT the fear of God, it is an easy transition to forget reverence to the au- thority of kings, and obedience to the majes- >ty of law. It is eurious to observe how the effects of this antisocial conspiracy w T ere dis- tinctly foreseen ana predicted. " I hold it impossible," said Rousseau, " that the great monarchies of Europe can subsist much lon- ger." " The high may be reduced low, and the rich become poor, and even the monarch Iwindle into a subject."* The train was laid, the match alone was wanting to produce the explosion. The occasion was at length presented. The immediate cause of the French revolu- tion! must be sought in the plains of Ameri- ca. When Great Britain was involved with her American colonies, France ungraciously interposed in the quarrel. She paid the price of her interference in a manner that she little anticipated. The Marquis de la Fayette there first acquired his ardor for the cause of liber- * In his " Emilie." The memorable remark of Madame Je Pompadour will not soon be forgotten ; " Apres nous le- Deluge," " After us, the Deluge." t Rousseau's prophecy of this great catastrophe has Deen already inserted ; but the most remarkable predic- tion, specifying even the precise period of its fulfilment, is to be found in Fleming's "Apocalyptic Key," pub- lished so far back as the year 1701. In this work is the following passage. w Perhaps the French monarchy may begin to be considerably humbled about that time : that whereas the present French King (Lewis XIV.) takes the Sun for his emblem, and this for his motto, ' nee plu- ribus impar,' he may at length, or rather his successors, and the monarchy itself, at least before the year 1794, be forced to acknowledge that in respect to neighboring potentates, he is even singulis impar."* We add one more very curious prediction. " Yes ; that Versailles, which thou hast made for the glory of thy names, I will throw to the ground, and ail your insolent inscriptions, figures, abominable pictures. And Paris; Paris, that imperial city, I will afflict it dreadfully. Yes, I will afilict the Royal Family. Yes, I will avenge the iniquity of the King upon his grand- children." — Laafs Prophetic Warnings, London, 1707, p. 42. * By referring to Revelation xvi. 8, it will be seen that the fourth vial is poured out on the San, which is inter- preted as denoting the humiliation of some eminent po- tentates of the Romish communion, and therefore prin- cipally to be understood of the House of Bourbon, which takes precedence of them all. ty ; and, crossing the Atlantic, carried back with him the spirit into France, and in a short time lighted up aflame which has since spread so great a conflagration. But whence sprung the revolution in Amer- ica? To solve this momentous question, we must overlook the more immediate causes, and extend our inquiry to the political and re- ligious discussions of the times of James I. and Charles T. and II. It is in that unfortu- nate period <:>! polomical controversy and ex- citement, that the foundation of events was laid v\hich have not even yet spent their strength : and that the philosophical inquirer, whose sole object is the attainment of truth, will find it. The Puritans proposed to carry forth the principle of the Reft r ^ation to a still further extent. The propo dtion was ±cy cted, their views were impugned, and the freedom of re- ligious inquiry was impeded by vexatious ob- structions. They found no asylum at home; they sought it abioad, and on the American continent planted the standard of civil and religious liberty. The times of Charles I. followed. There was the same spirit, and the same results. The Star Chamber and the- High Commission Court supplied new victims to swell the tide of angry feeling be- yond the Atlantic. It was persecution that first peopled America. Time alone was want- ing to mature the fruits. The reign of Charlea II. completed the eventful crisis. The Act of Uniformity excluded, in one day, two thou- sand ministers (many of whom were distin- guished for profound piety and learning) from the bosom of the Church of England ; and thus, by the acts of three successive reigns, the spirit of independence was established in America, and dissent in England, from which such mighty, results have since fol- lowed. We have indulged in these remarks, be- cause we wish to show the tendency of that high feeling, which, originating, as we sin- cerely believe, in a cordial attachment to our Church, endangers, by mistaking the means the stability of the edifice which it seeks to support. We think this feeling, though abated in its intenseness, still exists; and, cast as we now are into perilous times, when Churches and States are undergoing a most scrutinizing inquiry, we are deeply solicitous that the past should operate as a beacon for the future. If the Church of England is to be preserved as a component part of our in- stitutions, and in its ascendancy over the pub- lic mind, the members of that Church must not too incautiously resist the spirit of the age, but seek to guide what they cannot ar- rest. Let the value .and necessity of an Es- tablished Church be recognized by the evi- dence of its usefulness ; let the pure doctrines 22 338 COWPER'S WORKS. of the Gospel be proclaimed in our pulpits ; and a noble ardor and co-operation be mani- fested in the prosperity of our great Institu- tions. — our Bible, Missionary, and Jewish so- cieties. She will then attract the favor, the love and the veneration of the poor, and dif- fuse a holy and purifying influence among all classes in the community. Her priests will thus be clothed with righteousness, and her saints shout for joy. To her worshippers we may then exclaim with humble confidence and joy, " Walk about Zior., and go round about her; tell the towers thereof. Mark /e well her bulwarks, con; ' the manner in which Achilles prepared pork mutton, and goat's flesh, for the entertain- meirt of his friends, in the night when the, came deputed by Agamemnon to negotiate a reconciliation. A passage of which no body in the world is perfectly master, my- self only, and Slaukenbergius excepted, nor ever was, excep: when Greek was a live an- guage. I do not know whether my cousin ha.° told you ( r not how I brag in my letters to her concerning my Translation ; perhaps her modesty feels more for me than mine for myself, and she would Mush to let even you know the degree of my self-conceit on that subject. I will tell you, however, expressing myself as decently as my vanity will permit, that it has undergone such a change for the better in this last revisal, that J have much warmer hopes of success than formerly. Yours, . W. C. TO MRS KING.* The Lodge, Jan. 4, 1790. My dear Madam, — Your long silence has occasioned me to have a thousand anxious thoughts about you. So long it has been, that, whether I now write to a Mrs. King at present on earth, or already in heaven, I know not. I have friends whose silence troubles me less, though I have known them longer; because, if I hear not from them- selves, I yet hear from others that they are still living, and likely to live. But if your letters cease to bring me news of your wel- fare, from whom can I gain the desired in- telligence? The birds of the air will not bring it, and third person there is none be- tween us by whom it might be conveyed. Nothing is plain to me on this subject, but that either you are dead, or very much indis- posed; or, which would affect me with per- haps as deep a concern, though of a different kind, very much offended. The latter of these suppositions I think the least probable conscious as I am of an habitual desire to offend nobody, 'especially a lady, and es- pecially a lady to whom I have many obliga tions. But all the three solutions above mentioned are very uncomfortable ; and if you live, and can send me one that wil" cause me less pain than either of them, I conjure you by the charity and benevolence which I know influence you upon all occa- sions, to communicate it without delay. It is possible, notwithstanding appear- ances to the contrary, that you are not be * Private corresr-'.mrienoo, LIFE OF COWPER. 33° come perfectly indifferent to ms and to what concerns me. I will therefore add a word or two on a subject which once interested you, and which is, for that reason worthy to be mentioned, though tru.y for no other — mean- ing- myeelf. 1 am well, and have been so, (uneasiness on your account excepted,) LotJ in mind and body, ever since I wrote to you. last, 1 have still the same employment. Homer in the morning, and Homer in the evening, as constant as the day goes round. In the spring I hope to send the Iliad and Odyssey to the press. So much for me and my occupations. Poor Mrs. Unwin has hitherto had but an unpleasant winter ; un- pleasant as constant pain, either in the head or side, could make it. She joins me in af- fectionate compliments to yourself and Mr. King, and in earnest wishes that you will soon favor me with a line that shall relieve me from all my perplexities. I am, dear madam, Sincerely yours, W. C. TO MRS. KING.* The Lodge, Jan IP, 17!K>. My dear Madam, — The sincerest thanks attend you, both from Mrs. Unwin and my- self, for many good things, on some of which I have already regaled with an affectionate remembrance of the giver. The report that informed you of inquiries made by Mrs. Unwin after a house at Hunt- ingdon was unfounded. We have no thought of quitting Weston, unless the same Provi- dence that led us hither should lead us away. It is a situation perfectly agreeable to us both ; and to me in particular who write much, and walk much, and consequently love silence and retirement, one of the most eligible. If it has a fault, it is that it seems to threaten us with a certainty of never see- ing you. But may we not hope that, when a milder season shall have improved your health, we may yet, notwithstanding the dis- tance, be favored with Mr. King's and your company'? A better season will likewise improve the roads, and, exactly in proportion as it does so, will, in effect, lessen the inter- val between us. I know not if Mr. Martyn be a mathematician, but most probably he is a good one, and he can tell you that this, is a proposition mathematically true, though rather paradoxical in appearance. I am obliged to that gentlem.i i, and much obliged to him for his favorable opinion of my translation. What parts of Homer are particularly intended by the critics as those in which I shall probably fall short, T know not; but let me fail where 1 may, 1 shall fail aowhere through want of endeavors to avoid * Private correspondence. j it. The under parts of the poems (those ] j mean which are merely narrative) I find the I most, difficult. These can only be supported j by the diction, and on these, for that reason ! I have bestowed the most abundant labor i Fine similes and fine speeches take care of : themselves : but the exact process of slaying ; a sheep, and dressing it, it is not so easy to j dignity in our language, and in our measure. j But ! shall have the comfort, as I said, to re- i fleet, that, whatever may be hereafter laid to 01} charge, the sin of idleness will not.* Justly, at 'east, it never will. In the mean- time, my dear madam, I whisper to you a secret; — not to fall short of the original in ; everything is impossible. I send you, 1 believe, all my pieces that j yOu have never seen. Did I not send you i " Catliarina?" If n?t, you shall have it here- i after. 1 am, dear madam, ever, ever in haste Sincerely yours, W. C. We are here first introduced to the notice of the Rev. John Johnson, the cousin of | Cowper, by the maternal line of the Donnes. The poet often used familiarly to call him I " Johnny of Norfolk." His name will fre- quently appear in the course of the ensuing correspondence. It is to his watchful and affectionate care that the poet was indebted for all the solace that the most disinterested regard, and highly conscientious sense oi duty, could administer, under circumstances the most afflicting. Nor did he ever leave his beloved bard, till he had closed his eyes in death, and paid the last sad offices, due to departed worth and genius. His acquaint- ance with Cowper commenced about this time, by a voluntary introduction, on his own part He has recorded the particulars of this iirst interview and visit in a poem, entitled " Rec- ollections of Cowper s " We trust that his estimable widow may see fit to communicate it to the public, who we have no doubt will feel a lively interest in a subject, issuing from the kinsman of Cowper. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 22, 1790. My dear Coz., — I had a letter yesterday from the wild boy Johnson, for whom I have conceived a great affection. Jt was just such a letter as I like, of the true helter-skelter kind ; and, though he writes a remarkably good hand, scribbled with such rapidity, that it was barely legible. He gave me a droll account of the adventures of Lord Howard's note, and of his own pursuit of it. The j poem he brought me came as from Lord I Howard, with his Lordship's request that 1 ! would revise it. It is in the form of a pas- ; toral, and is entitled, " The Tale of the Lute. or the Beauties of Audley End'." I read it I attentively, was much pleased with part of it, 540 COWPER'S WORKS. and part of it I equally disliked. I told him so, and in such terms as one naturally uses when there seems to be no occasion to qual- ify or to alleviate censure. I observed him afterwards somewhat more thoughtful and silent, but occasionally as pleasant as usual ; and in Kil wick- wood, where we walked the next day, the truth came out — that he was himself the author, and that Lord Howard, not approving it altogether, and several friends of his own age, to whom he had shown it, differing from his Lordship in opinion, and being highly pleased with it, he had come at last to a resolution to abide by m judgment; a measure to which Lord Howard by all means advised him. He ac- cordingly brought it, and will bring it again in the summer, when we shall lay our heads together and try to mend it. I have lately had a letter also from Mrs. King, to whom I nad written to inquire whether she / were living or dead : she tells me the critics expect from my Homer every- thing in some parts, and that in others I shall fall short. These are the Cambridge critics ; and she has her intelligence from the botanical professor, Martyn. That gentle- man in reply answers them, that I shall fall short in nothing, but shall disappoint them all. It shall be my endeavor to do so, and I am not without hope of succeeding. W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ, The Lodge, Feb. 2, 1790. My dear Friend, — Should Heyne' s* Homer appear before mine, which I hope is not probable, and should he adopt in it the opin- ion of Bentley, that the whole of the last Odyssey is spurious, I will dare to contradict both him and the Doctor. I am only in part of Bentley's mind (if indeed his mind were such) in this matter, and, giant as he was in learning, and eagle-eyed in criticism, am per- suaded, convinced, am sure (can I be more positive?) that, except from the 'moment when the Ithacans began to meditate an at- tack on the cottage of Laertes, and thence to the end, that book is the work of Homer. From the moment aforesaid, I yield the point, or rather, have never, since I had any skill in Homer, felt myself at all inclined to dispute it.f But I believe perfectly at the same * A German critic, distinguished by his classical erudi- tion and profound learning. t In this laborious undertaking, Cowper was assisted .>y the following editions of that great poet. 1st. That of Clark, 1729—1754. 4 vols. Gr. et Lat. This is the most popular edition of Homer, and the iasis of many subsequent editions. The text is formed tin that of Schrevelius and of Barnes. The notes are gram- matical and philological, with numerons quotations from Virgil of parallel passages. The want of the ancient Bre^k Scholia is the principal defect. 2udly. That of Villoison. Venice. 1788. Gi This edition is distinguished by a fac-simile f the text saw in any other work, unless in Shak- speare's. I am equally disposed to right for time, that Homer himself alone excepted, th€ Greek poet never existed, wi»o could have written the speeches made b) the shade of Agamemnon, in which there is more insight into the human heart discovered, than I ever r in any are's. I i the whole passage that describes Laertes, and the interview between him and Ulysses. Let Bentley grant these to Homer, and I will shake hands with him as to ail the rest. The battle with which the book concludes is, I think, a paltry battle, and there is a huddle in the management of it altogether unworthy of my favorite, and the favorite of all ages. If you should happen to fall into company with Dr. Warton* again, you will not, I dare say, forget to make him my respectful com- pliments, and to assure him that I felt my- self not a little flattered by the fav >rable mention he was pleased to make .f me and my labors. The poet who pleases a man like him has nothing left to wish for. I am glad that you were pleased with my your.? cousin Johnson; he is a boy, and bashfu., but has great merit in respect both of char, acter and intellect. So far at least as in * week's knowledge of him I could, possibly ' learn, he is very amiable and very sensible, and inspired me with a warm wish to know him better. W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f The Lodge, Feb. 5, 1790. My dear Friend, — Your kind letter de- served a speedier answer, but you know my excuse, which, were I to repeat always, my letters would resemble the fag-end of a news- paper, where we always find the price of stocks, detailed with little or no variation. and scholia of a MS. of Homer, in the tenth century, found in the library of St. Mark, Venice. The Preface abounds in learned and interesting matter, and is in high estimation among scholars. Wolf, Heyne, and the Ox- ford, or Grenville edition, have profited largely by Vil- . loison's labors. His undustrious search after valuable MSS. and care in collating them with received editions ; his critical acumen, sound scholarship, and profound erudition, entitle him to the gratitude and praise of the classical student. He died in 1805. 3rdly. That of Heyne. Leipsick. 1802, 8 vols. Gr. et Lat. The text is formed on that of Wolf. The editor was assisted in this undertaking by a copy of Bentley's Homer, in which that celebrated critic restores the long- lost digamma; and by an ancient and valuable MS. be- longing to Mr. Towneley. Of this edition it has been observed that " the work of Professor Heyne will in a great cieasure preclude the necessity of farther collations, from which nothing ol consequence can be expected. When the Greek lan- guage is better understood than it is at present, it will be resorted to as a rich repository of philological informa- tion." — Edinburgh Review, July, 1803. * Dr. Warton (Joseph) head master of Winchester School, upwards of thirty years, where he presided with high reputation; author of "Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope," and of an edition of the Works of Pope, jji 9 vols. 8vo. He was brother to Thomas Warton, well known for his History of English Poetry. Died in 1800. t Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. S4 When January returns, you have your feel- jigs concerning me, and such as prove the faithfulness of your friendship.* I have mine riiso concerning myself, but they are of a cast different from yours. Yours have a mixture of sympathy and tender solicitude, which makes them, perhaps, not altogether un- pleasant. Mine, on the contrary, are of an unmixed nature, and* consist, simply and merely, of the most alarming apprehensions. Twice ha<5 thi.t month returned upon me, ae- companu'd by such horrors as I have no rea- son to xupiK^e ever made part of tiie expe- rience of any o£n«f man. I accordingly look forward to it. and meet it, with a dread not to be imagined. I number the nights as they pass, and in tiie morning bless myself that another night is gone, and no harm has happened. This may argue, perhaps, some imbecility of mind, and no small degree of it; but it is natural, I believe, and so natural as to be necessary and unavoidable. I know that God is not governed by secondary causes, in any of his operations, and that, on the con- trary, they are all so many agents in his hand, which strike only when he bids them. I know consequently that one month is as dangerous to me as another, and that, in the middle of summer, at noonday, and in the clear sunshine, I am in reality, unless guard- ed by him, as much exposed as when fast asleep at midnight, and in midwinter. But we are not always the wiser for our knowl- edge, and I can no more avail myself of mine, than if it were in the head of another man, and not in my own. I have heard of bodily aches and ails, that have been particu- larly troublesome when the season returned in which the hurt that occasioned them was received. The mind, I believe (with my own, however, I am sure it is so), is liable to simi- lar periodical affection. But February is come, my terror is passed, and some shades of the gloom that attended his presence have passed with him. I look forward with a lit- tle cheerfulness to the buds and the leaves that will soon appear, and say to myself, till they turn yellow I will make myself easy. The year will go round, and January will approach. I shall tremble again, and I know it ; but in the meantime I will be as comfort- able as T can. Thus, in respect to peace of mind, such as it is that I enjoy, I subsist, as the poor are vulgarly said to do, from hand to mouth ; and of a Christian, such as you once knew me, am, by a strange transforma- tion, become an Epicurean philosopher, bear- ..ig this motto on my mind, — Quid sit futu- rum cras,fuge quccrere. I have run on in a strain that the begin- ning of your letter suggested to me, with * January was a season of the year when the nervous depression under which Cowper labored was generally nicst severe. such impetuosity, that I have not left mysell opportunity to write more by the present post; and, being unwilling that you should wait longer for what will be worth nothing when you get it, will only express the grea\ pleasure we feel on hearing, as we did lately from Mr. Bull, that Mrs. Newton is so muc' better. Truly yours, W. f TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Feb. 9, 1790. I have sent you lately scraps instead of letters, having had occasion to answer imme- diately on the receipt, which always happens while I san. s deep in Homer. I knew when I recommended Johnson to you, that you would find some way to serve him, and so it has happened ; for, notwith- standing your own apprehensions to the con- trary, you have already procured him a chap- lainship:* this is pretty well, considering that it is an early day, and that you have but just begun to know that there is such a man under heaven. I had rather myself be pa- tronized by a person of small interest, with a heart like yours, than by the Chancellor himself, if he did not care a farthing for me. If I did not desire you to make my ac- knowledgments to Anonymous, as I be- lieve I did not, it was because I am not aware that I am warranted to do so. But the omission is of less consequence, because, whoever he is, though he has no objection to doing the kindest things, he seems to have an aversion to the thanks they merit. You must know that two odes composed by Horace have lately been discovered at Rome.f I wanted them transcribed into the blank leaves of a little Horace of mine, and Mrs. Throckmorton performed that service * The poet's kinsman was made chaplain to Dr. Spen- cer Madan, the Bishop of Peterborough. t These Odes proved to be forgeries. They were re- ported to have been found in the Palatine Library, anc communicated to the public by Gaspar Pallavicini, the sub-librarian. We have room only for the following : — AD SALIUM FLORUM. Discolor grandem gravat uva ramum ; Instat Autumnus ; glacialis anno Mo& hyems volvente adiret, capillis Horrida canis. Jam licet Nymphas trepide fugaces Insequi, lento pede detinendas, Et labris captae, simulantis iram, Oscula figi. Jam licit vino madidos vetusto De die laetum recinare carmen ; Flore, si te des hilarum, licebit Sumere nocteiu Jam vide curas A quilone sparsas Mens viri fortis sibi constat, utrum Serius lethi citiusve tristis Advolat hora. There is a false quantity in the first stanza, whic* affords presumptive evidence of forgery. The title of the second Ode is, "Ad Librim SiUm.'' 342 COWPER'S WORKS for ma ; in a blank leaf, therefore, of the same oook, I wrote the following : — TO MRS. THROCKMORTON, On her beautiful Transcript of Horace's Ode, AD LIBRUM SUUM. Maria, could Horace have guess'd What honors awaited his ode, To his own little volume address'd, The honor which' you have bestow'd, Who have traced it in characters here. So elegant, even, and neat; He had laugh'd at the critical sneer. Which he seems to have' trembled to meet. And sneer if you please, he had said, Hereafter a nymph shall arise, Who shall give me, when you are all dead, The glory your malice denies, Shall dignity give to my lay, Although but a mere bagatelle ; And even a poet shall say, Nothing ever was written so well. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Feb. 26, 1790. You have set my heart at ease, my cousin, so far as you are yourself the object of its anxieties. What other troubles it feels can be cured by God alone. But you are never silent a week longer than usual, without giv- ing an opportunity to my imagination (ever fruitful in flowers of a sable hue) to tease rne with them day and night. London is in- deed a pestilent place, as you call it ; and I would, with all my heart, that thou hadst less to do with it ; were you under the same roof with me, 1 should know you to be safe, and should never distress you with melancholy letters. I feel myself well enough inclined to the measure you propose, and will show to your new acquaintance, with all my heart, a sam- ple of my translation, but it shall not be, if you please, taken from the Odyssey. It is a poem of a gentler character than the Iliad, and, as I propose to carry her by a coup de main, I shall employ Achilles, Agamemnon, and the two armies of Greece and Troy in my service. I will accordingly send you in the box that I received from you last night the two first books of the Iliad for that lady's perusal ; to those I have given a third revisal ; for them therefore I will be answerable, and am not afraid to stake the credit of my work upon litem with her, or with any living wight, especially one who understands the original. I do not mean that even they are finished, for I shall examine and cross-examine them yet again, and so you may tell her ; but I know that they will not disgrace me : where- as it is so long since I have looked at the Odyssey, that I know nothing at all about it. They shall set sail from Olney on Monday morning in the diligence, and will reach you, I hope, in the evening. As soon as she las done with them, I shall be glad to have them again, for the time draws near when I shall want to give them the last touch. I am delighted with Mrs. Bodham's* kind- ness in giving me the only picture of my mo- ther that is to be found, I suppose, in all the world. I had rather possess it than the rich- est jewel in the British crown, for I loved her with an affection that her death, fifty-twc years?, since, has not in the least abated. I remember her too, young as I was when she died, well enough to know that it is a ver\ exact resemblance of her, and as such it is to me invaluable. Everybody loved her, ana with an amiable character so impressed upoi all her features, everybody was sure to do so. I have a very affectionate and a very clever letter from Johnson, who promises me the transcript of the books entrusted to him in a few days. I have a great love for that y oung man ; he has some drops of the same stream in his veins that once animated the original of that dear picture, f W. C. TO MRS. BODHAM. Weston, Feb. 27, 1790. My dearest Rose,| — Whom I thought withered and fallen from the stalk, but whom I find still alive : nothing could give me greater pleasure than to know it, and to learn it from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were a child, and love you not a jot the less for having ceased to be so. Every creature that bears any affinity to my mother is dear to me, and you, the daughter of her brother, are but one remove distant from her : I love you there- fore, and love you much, both for her sake and for your own. The world could not have furnished you with a present so acceptable to me as the picture which you have so kindly sent me. I received it the night before last, and viewed it with a trepidation of nervas and spirits somewhat akin to what I should have felt, had the dear original presented hei - self to my embraces. I kissed it, and hun ; it where it is the last object thai I see at night, and, of course, the first on which I open my eyes in the morning. She died when I had completed my sixth year, yet I remember her well, and am an ocuiar witness of the great fidelity of the copy. T remember too a mul- titude of the maternal tendernesses which J received from her, and which have endeared * Mrs. Bodhara was a cousin of Cowper's, connected with him by his maternal family, the Donnes. t The manner in which Cowper speaks of his kinsman is uniformly the same— kind, affectionate, and endearing. % Mrs. Bodham was always addressed by Cowper \\ this playful and complimentary style, though her Chris tian name was Ann. LIFE OF COWPER, 34; :ier memory to mo beyond expression.* There is in me, I believe, more of the Donne than the Cowper, and though I love all of both names, and have a thousand reasons to love those of my own name, yet I feel the bond of nature draw me vehemently to your side. I was thought, in the days of my childhood, much to resemble my mother, and in my natu- ral temper, of which at the age of fifty-eight I must be supposed a competent judge, can trace both her and my late uncle, your father. Somewhat of his irritability, and a little I would hope both of his and of her , I know not what to call it without seeming to praise myself, which is not my intention, but speaking to you, I will even speak out, and say good nature. Add to all this, I deal much in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, flie Dean of St. Paul's,! and I think I shall nave proved myself a Donne at all points. The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you all. I account it a happy event that brought the dear boy, your nephew, to my knowledge, and that, breaking through all the restraints which his natural bashfulness imposed on him, he determined to find me out. He is amiable to a degree that I have seldom seen, and I often long with impatience to see him again. My dearest cousin, what shall I say in an- swer to your affectionate invitation ? I must say this, I cannot come now, nor soon, and I wish with all my heart I could. But I will tell you what may be done, perhaps, and it will answer to us just as well : you and Mr. Bodham can come to Weston, can you not ? The summer is at hand, there are roads and wheels to bring you, and you are neither of vou translating Homer. I am crazed that I * No present could possibly have been more acceptable o Cowper than the receipt of his mother's picture. He composed the beautiful verses, on this occasion, so ten- ierly descriptive of the impression made on his youthful magination by the remembrance of her virtues. We extract the following passage : — My motner ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? iiover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery-window, drew A long, Ioiik sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ? — It •as. Where thou art gone ; Vdieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave mo promise of thy quick return. What ardently 1 Wish'd, 1 long believed, 4nd, disappointed still, was still deceived ; By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrvw, even from a child. Thus many a sad tomorrow came and went, Till, all my stock o'* infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last Butmission to my lot, But, though I less deplored th ;e, ne'er forgot. T Dr. John Donne, an eminent and learned divine, •Those life is written by Iz< ak Walton. Bora 1573, died 631. cannot ask you all together for want of house room, but for Mr. Bodham and yourself we have good room, and equally good for any third in the shape of a Donne, whether named Hewitt,* Bodham, Balls, or Johnson, or b) whatever name distinguished. Mrs. Hewitt has particular claims upon me ; she was mv playfellow at Berkhamstead, and has a share in my warmest affections. Pray tell her so ! Neither do I at all forget my cousin Harriet. She and I have been many a time merry at Catfield, and have made the parsonage ring with laughter : — Give my love to her. Assure yourself, my dearest cousin, that I shall re- ceive you, as if you were my sister, and Mrs. Unwin is, for my sake, prepared to do the same. When she has seen you she will love you for your own. I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham for his kindness to my Homer, and with my love to you all, and with Mrs. Un win's kind respects, am, My dear, dear Rose, ever yours, W. C. . P. S. — I mourn the death of your poor brother Castress, whom I should have seen had he lived, and should have seen with the greatest pleasure. He was an amaible boy, and I was very fond of him. Still another P. S. — I find on consulting Mrs. Unwin that I have underrated our capa- bilities, and that we have not only room for you and Mr. Bodham, but for two of your sex, and even for your nephew into the bargain. We shall be happy to have it all so occupied. Your nephew tells me that his sister, in the qualities of the mind, resembles you; that is enough to make her dear to me, and I beg you will assure her that she is so. Let it not be long before I hear from you. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, Feb. 28, 1790. My dear Cousin John, — I have much wished to hear from you, and, though yo/i are wel- come to write to Mrs. CJnwin as often as you please, I wish myself to be numbered among your correspondents. I shall find time to answer you, doubt it not! Be as busy as we may, we can always find time to do what is agreeable to us. By the way, had you a letter from Mrs. Unwin ? I am witness that she addressed one to you before you went into Norfolk, but yourmathe- matico-poetical head forgot to acknowledge the receipt of it. I was never more pleased in my life than to learn from herself, that my dearest Rosej is still alive. Had she not engaged me to love her by the sweetness of her character * The Rev. J. Johnson's sister t Mrs. Ann Bodham. 344 COWPER'S WORKS. when a child, she would have done it effectu- ally now by making me the most acceptable present in the world, my own dear mother's picture. I am perhaps the only person living who remembers her, but I remember her well, and can attest on my own knowledge the truth of the resemblance. Amiable and ele- gant as the countenance is, such exactly was her own ; she was one of the tenderest pa- rents, and so just a copy of her is therefore to me invaluable. I wrote yesterday to my Rose, to tell her all this, and to thank her for her kindness in sending it. Neither do I forget your kind- ness, who intimated to her that I should be happy to possess it. She invites me into Norfolk, but alas ! she might as well invite the house in which I dwell; for, all other considerations and im- pediments apart, how is it possible that a translator of Homer should lumber to such a distance ! But, though I cannot comply with her kind invitation, I have made myself the best amends in my power, by inviting her and all the family oi Donnes to Weston. Perhaps we could not accommodate them all at once, but in succession we could, and can at any time find room for five, three of them being females, and one a married one. You are a mathematician ; tell'me then how five persons can be lodged in three beds (two males and three females) and I shall have good hope that you will proceed a senior optime. It would make me happy to see our house so furnished. As to yourself, whom I know to be a subsca- larian, or a man that sleeps under the stairs,* I should ha\ e no objection at all, neither could you possibly have any yourself to the garret, as a place in which you might be disposed of with great felicity of accommodation. I thank you much for your services in the transcribing way, und would by no means have you despair of an opportunity to serve me in the same way yet again ; — write to me soon, md tell me when I snail see you. I have not said the half that I have to say, but breakfast is at hand, which always termi- nates my epistles. What have you done with your poem ? The trimming that it procured you here has not, 1 hope, put you out of conceit with it entirely; you are more than equal to the al- teration that it needs. Only remember that in writing, perspicuity is always more than half the battle; the want of it is the ruin of wiore than half the poetry that is published. A meaning that does not stare you in the face is as bad as no meaning, because nobody will take the pains to poke for it. So now adieu for the present. Beware of killing yourself with problems, for, if you do, you will never ive to be another Sir Isaac. * This expression alludes to the situation of the rooms Vcupied by him at Caius College, Cambridge. Mrs, Unwin's affectionate remembrances attend you ; Lady Hesketh is much disposed to love you ; perhaps most who know you have some little tendency the same way. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, March 8, 1790. My dearest Cousin, — I thank thee much and oft, for negociating so well this poetica. concern with Mrs. , and for sending me her opinion in her own hand. I should be unreasonable indeed not tn be highly gratified by it, and I like it the better for being mod- estly expressed. It is, as you know, and it shall be s-ome months longer, my daily business to polish and improve what is done, that when the whole shall appear she may find her ex- pectations answered. I am glad also that thou didst send her the sixteenth Odyssey, though, as I said before, I know not at all at present whereof it is made ; but I am sure that thou wouldst not have sent it, hadst thou not conceived a good opinion of it thyself, and thought that it would do me credit. It was very kind in thee to sacrifice to this Mi- nerva on my account. For my sentiments on the subject of the Test Act, I cannot do better than refer thee to my poem, entitled and called " Expostula- tion." I have there expressed myself not much in its favor, considering it in a religious view ; and in a political one, I like it not a jot the better.* I am neither Tory nor high Churchman, but an old Whig, as my father was before me ; and an enemy, consequently, to all tyrannical impositions. Mrs. Unvvin bids me. return thee many thanks for thy inquiries so kindly made con- cerning her health. She is a little better than of late, but has been ill continually ever since last November. Everything that could try patience and submission she has had, and hei submission and patience have answered in the trial, though mine, on her account, have often failed sadly. I have a letter from Johnson, who tells me thai he has sent his transcript to you, begging at the same time more copy. Let him have it by all .means; he is an industrious youth and I love him dearly. I told him that you * The following is the passage alluded to. Hast thou by statute shoved from its design The Saviour's feast, his own blest bread and witje, And made the symbols of atoning grace An office-key, a picklock to a place ? That infidels may prove their title good, By an oath dipp'd in sacramental blood? A blot that will be still a blot, in spite Of all that grave apologists may write : And, though a bishop toil to cleanse the staL:, He wipes and scourb the silver cup in vain. And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, Till perjuries are common as bad pence, Wh r hiie thousands, careless of the damning sin, iss the book's outside, who ne'er look'd within? Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er The Test Act is now repealed. Expostulntum. LIFE OF COWPER. 341 we disposed to love him a little. A new poem is born on tne receipt of my mother's picture . — thou shalt have it. W. C. TO SAMUEL KOSE, ESQ. The Lodge, March 11, 1790. My dear Friend, — I was glad to hear from you, for a line from you gives me always much pleasure, but was not much gladdened by the contents of your letter. The state of your health, which I have learned more accu- rately perhaps from my cousin, except in this last instance, than from yourself, has alarmed me, and even she has collected her informa- tion upon that subject more from your looks than from your own acknowledgments. To complain much and often of our indisposi- tions does not always insure the pity of the hearer, perhaps sometimes forfeits it ; but to dissemble them altogether, or at least to sup- press the worst, is attended ultimately with an inconvenience greater still ; the secret will out at last, and our friends, unprepared to re- ceive it, are doubiy distressed about us. In saying this, I squint a little at Mrs. Unwin, who will read it ; it is with her, as with you, the only subject on which she practices any dissimulation at all; the consequence is, that, when she is much indisposed, I never believe myself in possession of the whole truth, live in constant expectation of hearing something worse, and at the long run am seldom disap- pointed. It seems, therefore, as on all other occasions, so even in this, the better course on the whole to appear what we are : not to lay the fears of our friends asleep by cheerful looks, which do not probably belong to us, or by letters written as if we were well, when in fact we are very much otherwise. On condition, however, that you act differently towards me for the future, I will pardon the past, and she may gather from my clemency shown to you some hopes, on the same con- ditions, of similar clemency to herself. W. C. TO MRS. KING.* Weston, March 12, 1790. My dear Madam, — I live in such a nook, have so few opportunities of hearing news, and so little time to read it, that to me to begin a letter seems always a sort of forlorn nope. Can it be possible, I say to myself, that I should have anything to communicate'? These misgivings have an ill effect, so far as »ny punctuality is concerned, and are apt to deter me from the business of letter- writ- ng, as from an enterprise altogether imprae- vicab 2 I will not say that you are more pleased * Private correspondence with my trifles than they deserve, lest I should seem to call your judgment in question; but I suspect that a little partiality to the brother of my brother enters into the opinion you form of them. No matter, however, by what you are influenced, it is for my interest that you' should like them at any rate, because, such as they are, they are the only return I can make you for all your kindness. This consideration will have two effects; it will have a tendency to make me more industri- ous in the production of such pieces, and more attentive to the manner in which I write them. This reminds me of a piece in your possession, which I will entreat you to com- mit to the flames, because I am somewhat ashamed of it. To make you amends, 1 hereby promise to send you a new edition of it when time shall serve, delivered from the passages that I dislike in the first, and in other respects amended. The piece that I mean, is one entitled — " To Lady Hesketh on her furnishing for me our house at Weston" — or, as the lawyers say, words to that amount. I hiive, likewise, since I sent you the last packet, been delivered of two or three other brats, and, as the year proceeds, shall prob ably add to the number. All that come shall be basketed in time, and conveyed to your door. I have lately received from a female cousin of mine in Norfolk, whom I have not seen these five-and- shirty years, a picture of my own mother. She died when I wanted two days of being six years old ; yet I remembe: her perfectly, find the picture a strong like- ness of her, and, because her memory has been ever precious to me, nave written a poem on the receipt of it: a poem which, one ex- cepted, I had more pleasure in writing than any hat I ever wrote. That one was ad- dressed to a lady whom I expect in a few minutes to come down to breakfast, and who has supplied to me the place of my own mother — my own invaluable mother, these six-and-twenty years. Some sons may be said to have had many fathers, but a plurali- ty of mothers is not common. Adieu, my dear madam ; be assured that I always think of you with much esteem and affection, and am, with mine and Mrs. Unwin's best compliments to you and yours, most un feignedly your friend and humble servant, W. C TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. The Lodge, March 21, 1790. My dearest Madam, — I shall only observe on the subject of your absence, that you have stretched it since you went, and have made it a week longer. Weston is sadly unked* * A common provincialism in Buckinghamshire, prob- ably a corruption of uncouth. 346 COWPER'S WORKS. witho at you ; and here are two of ite, who will be heartily glad to see you again. I be- lieve you are happier at home than anywhere, which is a comfortable belief to your neigh- bors, because it affords assurance that, since you are neither likely to ramble for pleasure, nor to meet with any avocations of business, while Weston shall continue to be your home, it will not often want you. The two first books of my Iliad have been submitted to the mspection and scrutiny of a great critic of your sex, at the instance of my cousin, as you may suppose. The lady is mistress of more tongues than a few (it is to be hoped she is single) ; and particularly she is mistress of the Greek.* She returned them with expressions, that, if anything could make a poet, prouder than all poets naturally are, would have made me so. I tell you this, because I know that you all interest your- selves in the success of the said Iliad. M) periwig is arrived, and is the very per- fection of all periwigs, having only one fault ; which is, that my head will only go into the first half of it, the other half, or the upper part of it, continuing still unoccupied. My artist m this way at Olney has, however, un- dertaken to make the whole of it tenantable, and then I shall be twenty years younger than you have ever seen me. I heard of your birth-day very early in the morning ; the news came from the steeple. W. C. The following letter is interesting as re- cording his opinion of the style best adapted to a translation of Homer. TO LADY HESKETM. The Lodge, March 22, 1790. I rejoice, my dearest cousin, that my MSS. have roamed the earth so successfully, and have met with no disaster. The single book excepted, that went to the bottom of the Thames, and rose again, they have been for- tunate without exception. I am not super- stitious, but have, nevertheless, as good a right to believe that adventure an omen, and a favorable one, as Swift had to interpret as he did the loss of a fine fish, which he had no sooner laid on the bank than it flounced into the water again. This,- he tells us himself, he always considered as a type of his future disappointments; and why may not I as well consider the marvellous recovery of my lost book from the bottom of the Thames as typi- cal of its future prosperity ? To say the truth, I have no fears now about the success of my translation, though in time past I have nad many. I knew there was a style some- where, could I but find it, in which Homer ought to be rendered, and which alone would * Mrs. Carter. suit him. Long time I blundered about it ere I could attain to any decided judgment on the matter ; at first, I was betrayed by a desire of accommodating my language to the simplicity of his into much of the quaintness that belonged to our writers of the fifteenth century. In the course of many revisals 1 have delivered myself from this evil, I believe, entirely ; but I have done it slowly, and as a man separates himself from his mistress when he is going to marry. [ had so strong a pre- dilection in favor of this style at -firsts that I was crazed to find that others were not as ' much enamored with it as myself. At every passage of that sort which I obliterated. I groaned bitterly, and said to myself, I am spoiling my work to please those who have no taste for the simple graces of antiquity. But, in measure as I adopted a more moden. phraseology, I became a convert to theii opinion, and, in the last revisal, which I am now making, am not sensible of having spared a single expression of the obsolete kind. I see my work so much improved by this alteration, that I am filled with wonder at my own backwardness to assent to the necessity of it, and the more when I consider that Milton, with whose manner I account myself intimately acquainted is never quaint, never twangs through the nos?., but is every- where grand and elegant, without resorting to musty antiquity for his beauties. On the contrary, he took a long stride forward, left the language of his own day far behind him, and anticipated the expressions of a century yet to come. I have now, as I said, no longer any doubt of the event, but I will give thee a shilling if thou wilt tell me what I shall say in my Preface. It is an affair of much delicacy, and I have as many opinions about it as there are whims in a weathercock. Send my MSS. and thine when thou wilt. In a day or two I shall enter on the last Iliad ; when I have finished it I shall give the Odyssey one more reading, and shall there- fore shortly have occasion for the copy in thy possession, but you see that there is no need to hurry. I leave the little space for Mrs. Unwin's use, who means, I believe, to occupy it, And am evermore thine most truly, W. C. Postscript, in the hand of Mrs. Unwin. You cannot imagine how much your 'adv ship would oblige your unworthy serva it, ff you would be so good to let me kn:>w m what point I differ from you. All that at present I can say is, that I will readily sacr- fice my own opinbn, unless I can give y u substantial reason for adhering to it. LIFE OF COWPER. 34 TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, March 23, 1790. Your MSS. arrived safe in New Norfolk- street, and I am much obliged to you for your labors. Were you now at Weston, I •ould furnish you with employment for some /eeks, and shall perhaps be equally able to do it in summer, for 1 have lost my best amanuensis in this place, Mr. G. Throckmor- ton, who is gone to Bath. You are a man to be envied who have never read the Odyssey, which is one of the most amusing story-books in the world. There is also much of the finest poetry in the world to be found in it, notwithstanding all that Longinus has insinuated to the con- trary.* His comparison of the Iliad and Odyssey to the meridian and to the declining sun is pretty, but, I am persuaded, not just. The pretimess of it seduced him; he was otheiwise too judicious a reader of Homer to hfcvfe made it. I can find in *the latter no symptoms of impaired ability, none of the effects of age ; on the contrary, it seems to me a certainty, that Homes, had he written the Odyssey in his youth, could not have written it better; and if the Iliad in his old age, that he would have written it just as well. A critic would tell me that, instead ►»f written, I should have said composed. Very likely — but I am not writing to one of that snarling generation. My boy, I lorg to see thee again. It has happened seme way or other, that Mrs. Un- win and I have conceived a great affection for thee. That I should is the less to be wondered ?t, (because thou art a shred of my own mo: her;) neither is the wonder great, that site should fall into the same pre- dicament ; for she loves everything that I love. You will ohsa T e that your own per- sonal right to be beloved makes no part of the consideration. There is nothing that I touch with so much tenderness as the vanity of a young man ; because, I know how ex- tremely suscer. tible he is of impressions that might hurt him in that particular part of his composition. If you should ever prove a coxcomb,f from which character you stand just now at a greater distance than any young man I know, it shall never be said that I have made you one ; no, you will gain nothing by me but the honor of being much valued by a poor poet, who can do you no good while he lives, and has nothing to leave you when he dies. If you can be contented to be dear to me on these conditions, so you shall ; but other terms more advantageous than these, or more inviting, none have I to propose. * Longinus compares the Odyssey to fhe setting sun, and the Iliad, as more characteristic of the loftiness of Homer's genius, to the splendor of the rising sun. t No man ever possessed a happier exemption, through- out life, from such a title. Farewell. Puzzle not yourself about a subject when you write to either of us : every thing is subject enough from those we love. W. C jn 70P.N JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, April 17, 1790. Your letter, tlkvt now lies before me, is al most three weeks old, and therefore of *f ul age to receive an answer, which it shall have without delay, if the interval between the present moment and that of breakfast should prove sufficient for the purpose. Yours to Mrs. Unwin was received yester- day, for which she will thank you in due time. I nave also seen, and have now in my desk, your letter to Lady Hesketh; she sent it thinking that it would divert me; in which she was not mistaken. I shall tell her when I write to her next, that you long to receive a line from her. Give yourself no trouble on the subject of the politic device you saw good to recur to, when you presented me with your manuscript;* it was an innocent deception, at least it could harm nobody save yourself; an effect which it did not fail to produce ; and, since the punishment followed it so closely, by me at least it may very well be forgiven. You ask, how I can tell that you are not addicted to practices of the de- ceptive kind ? And certainly, if the little time that I have had to study you were alone to be considered, the question would not be unreasonable; but in general a man who reaches my years finds " That long experience does attain To something like prophetic strain." I am very much of Lavater's opinion, and persuaded that faces are as legible as books, only with these circumstances to recommend them to our perusal, that they are read in much less time, and are much less likely to deceive us. Yours gave me a favorable im- pression of you the moment I beheld it, and, though I # shall not tell you in particular what I saw in it, for reasons mentioned in my last, I will add, that I have observed in you no- thing since that has not confirmed the opin- ion I then formed in your favor. In fact I cannot recollect that my skill in physiognomy has ever deceived me, and I should add more on this subject had I room. When you have shut up your mathematical books, you must give yourself to the study of Greek ; not merely that you may be able to read Homer and the other Greek classics with ease, but the Greek Testament and the Greek fathers also. Thus qualified, and by 'the aid of you* fiddle ^into the bargain, to- gether with some portion of the grace of God * The poem on Audley End, alluded to in a formar letter to Lady Hesketh. 848 COWPER'S WORKS. (without which nothing can be done) to en- able you to look well to your flock, when you shall get one, you will be set up for a parson. In which character, if I live to see you in it, I shall expect and hope that you will make a very different figure from most of your frater- nity.* Ever yours, W. C. % TO LADY HESXETH. The Lodge, April 19, 1790. My dearest Coz., — I thank thee for my cousin Johnson's letter, which diverted me. I had one from him lately, in which he ex- pressed an ardent desire of a line from you, and the delight he would feel in receiving it. I know not whether you will have the charity to satisfy his longings, but mention the mat- ter, thinking it possible that you may. A letter from a lady to a youth immersed in mathematics must be singularly pleasant. I am finishing Homer backward, having begun at the last book, and designing to per- severe in that crab-like fashion till I arrive at the first. This may remind you perhaps of a certain poet's prisoner in the Bastille (thank Heaven ! in the Bastille now no more) count- ing the nails in the door, for variety's sake, in all directions.! I find so little to do in the last revisal, that I shall soon reach the Odys- sey, and soon want those books of it which are in thy possession ; but the two first of the Iliad, which are also in thy possession, rLdch sooner ; thou mayst therefore send them by the first fair opportunity. I am in high spirits on this subject, and think that I have at last licked the clumsy cub into a shape that will secure to it the favorable notice of the public. Let not retard me, and I shall hope to get it out next winter. I am glad that thou hast sent the General those verses on my mother's picture. They will amuse him — only I hope that he will not miss my mother-in-law, and think that she ought to have made a third. On such an oc- casion it was not possible to mention her with any propriety. I rejoice at the General's recovery ; may it prove a perfect one. W. C. TO LAPY lE^SKETH. Weston, April 30, 1790. To my old friend, Dr. Madam* thou couldst * Cowper is often very sarcastic upon the clergy. We irust that these censures are not so merited in these times If reviving piety, t We subjoin the lines to which Cowper refers : — " To wear out time in numb'ring to and fro The studs, that thick emboss his iron door ; Then downward and then upward, then aslant, And then alternate ; with & sickly hope % By dint of change to give hia tasteless task Some relish ; till the sum, exactly found In all directions, he begins again." Book V. — Winter Morning's Walk. I Tht Bishop of Peterborough. not have spoken better than thou didst. Te him, I beseech you, ^hat I have not forgotten him; tell him also, that to my heart ana home he will be always welcome; nor he only, but all that are his. His judgment of my translation gave me the highest satisfac. tion, because I know him to be a rare, old Grecian. The General's approbation of my picture: verses gave me also much pleasure. I wrott- them not without tears, therefore I p;esumt it maybe that they are felt by others. Should he offer me my father's picture I shall gladly aecept it. A melancholy pleasure is bettei than none, nay, verily, better than most. He had a sad task imposed on him, but no man could acquit himself of such a one with more discretion or with more tenderness. The death of the unfortunate young man remind- ed me of those lines in Lycidas, " It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark That sunk so low tnat sacred head of thine !" How beautiful ! w. c. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. 5 * The Lodge, May 2, 1790. My dear Friend, — I am still at the old sport — Homer all the morning, and Homer all the evening. Thus have I been held in constant employment, I know not exactly how many, but I believe these six years, an interval of eighth months excepted. It is now become so familiar to me to take Homer from my shelf at a certain hour, tbat I shall no doubt continue to take him f.om my shelf at the same time, even after I have ceased to want him. That period is not far distant. I am now giving the last touches to a work, which, had I foreseen the difficulty of it, I should never have meddled with ; but which, having at length nearly finished it to my mind, I shall discontinue with regret. My very best compliments attend Mrs. Hill,"whom I love, " unsight unseen," as they say, but yet truly. Yours ever, W. C. TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. The Lodge, May 10, 1790. My dear Mrs. Frog,f — You have by thr time (I presume) heard from the Doctor whom I desired to present to you our best affections, and to tell you that we are well He sent an urchin, (I do not mean a hedge* hog, commonly called an urchin in old times, but a boy, commonly so called at present,) expecting that he would find you at Buck * Private correspondence. t The sportive title generally bestowed by fowper on his amiable friends the Throckmortons. LIFE OF COWPER, 34V and s, whither he supposed you gone on Thursday. He sent him charged with divers articles, and among others with letters, or at least with a letter ; which I mention, that, if the boy should be lost, together with his despatches, past all possibility of recovery, you may yet know that the Doctor stands acquitted of not writing. That he is utterly lost ^that is to say, the boy — for, the Doctor being the last antecedent, as the grammarians say, yor might otherwise suppose that he was intended) is the more probable, because ae was never four miles from his home be- fore, havirg only travelled at the side of a jfough-team; and when the Doctor gave him his direction to Buckland's,* he asked, very naturally, if- that place was in England. So, what has become of him Heaven knows ! I do not know that any adventures have presented themselves since your departure worth mentioning, except that the rabbit that infested your wilderness has been shot, for de- vouring your carnations ; and that I myself have been in some danger of being devoured in like manner by a great dog, viz., Pearson's. But I wrote him a letter on Friday, (I mean a letter to Pearson, not to his dog, which I mention to prevent mistakes— for the said last antecedent might occasion them in this place also,) informing him, that, unless he tied up his great mastiff in the day-time, I would send him a worse thing, commonly called and known by the name of an attorney. When I go forth to ramble in the fields, I do not sally (like Don Quixote) with a purpose of encountering monsters, if any such can be found ; but am a peaceable, poor gentleman, and a poet, who mean nobody any harm, the fox-hunters and the two universities of this land excepted. I cannot learn from any creature whether the Turnpike Bill is alive or dead — so igno- rant am >I, and by such ignoramuses sur- rounded. But, if I know little else, this at least I know, that I love you, and Mr. Frog; that I long for your return, and that I am, with Mrs. Unwin's best affections, Ever yours, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, May 28, 1790. My dearest Cot;., — I thank thee for the cffer of thy best services on this occasion. But Heaven guard my brows from the wreath you mention, whatever wreath beside may hereafter adorn them ! It would be a leaden extinguisher clapped on all the fire of my genius, and I should never more produce a ine worth reading. To speak seriously, it would make me miserable, and therefore I * The residence of the Throckmorton family in Berk- shire. am sure that thou, of all my friends, would&t least wish me to wear it.* Adieu, Ever thine — in Homer-hurry, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Weston, June 3, 1790. You will wonder, when I tell you, mat \ even I, am considered by people, who live at a great distance, as having interest and influ- ence sufficient to procure a place at court, for those who may happen to want one. I have accordingly been applied to within these few days by a Welchman, with :- wife and many children, to get him made Poec Laureat as fast as possible. If thou wouidst wish to make the world merry twice a year, thou canst not do better than procure the office for him. I will promise thee that he shall afford thee a hearty laugh in return every birth-day and every new year. He is an honest man. Adieu ! W. C The poet ! s kinsman, having consulted him on the subject of his future plans and studies, receives the following reply. The letter is striking, but admits of doubt as to the just- ness of some of jts sentiments. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, June 7, 1790. My dear John, — You know my engage- ments, and are consequently able to account for my silence. I will not therefore waste time and paper in mentioning them, but will only say, that, added to those with which you are acquainted, I have had other hindrances, such as business and a disorder of my spirits, to which I have been all my life subject. At present I am, thank God ! perfectly well both in mind and body. Of you I am always mindful, whether I write or not, and very de- sirous to see you. You will remember, 1 hope, that you are under engagements to us. and as soon as your Norfolk friends can spare you, will fulfil them. Give us all the time you can, and all that they can spare to us ! You never pleased me more than when you told me you had abandoned your mathe- matical pursuits. It grieved me to think, that you were wasting your time merely to gain a little Cambridge fame, not worth your hav- ing. I cannot be contented, that your re nown should thrive nowhere but on thr banks of the Cam. Conceive a nobler ambi- tion, and never let your honor be circum- * Lady Hesketh suggested the appointment ot the office of Poet Laureat to Cowper, which had become va- cant by the death of Warton in 1790. The p( et declined the oner of her services, and Henry James I've, Esq., wa» nominated the successor. 350 COWPER'S WORKS. scribed by the paltry dimensions of a univer- sity ! It is well that you have already, as you observe, acquired sufficient information in that science to enable l to pass credita- bly such examinations as I suppose you must hereafter undergo. Keep what you have gotten, and be content. More is needless.* You could not apply to a worse than I am to advise you concerning your studies. I was never a regular student myself, but lost the m 3st valuable years of my life in an at- torney's office and in the Temple. I will not therefore give myself airs, and affect to know what I know not. The affair is of great im- portance to you, and you should be directed in it by a wiser than I. To speak however in very general terms on the subject, it seems to me that your chief concern is with history, natural philosophy, logic, and divin- ity. As to metaphysics, I know little about them. But the very little that I do know has net taught me to admire them. Life is too short to afford time even for serious trifles. Pursue what you know to be attainable, make truth your object, and your studies will make you a wise man ! Let your divinity, if I may advise, be the divinity of the glorious Reforma- tion : I mean in contradiction to Arminianism, and all the isms that were ever broached in this world of error and ignorance. * To Cowper's strictures on the University of Cam- bridge, and his remark that the fame there acquired is ■not worth having, we by no means subscribe. We think no youth ought to be insensible to the honorable ambi- tion of obtaining its distinctions, and that they are not unfrequently the precursors of subsequent eminence in the Church, the Senate, and at the Bar. We have been informed that, out of fifteen judges recently on the bench, eleven had obtained honors at our two Universities. Whether the system of education is not susceptible of much improvement is a subject worthy of deep con- sideration. There seems to be a growing persuasion that, at the University of Cambridge, the mode of study is too exclusively mathematical ; and that a more com- prehensive plan, embracing the various departments of general knowledge and literature, would be an accession to the cause of learning. We admit that the University fully affords, the means of acquiring this general informa- tion, but there is a penalty attached to the acquisition which operates as a prohibition, because the prospect of obtaining honors must, in that case, be renounced. By adopting a more comprehensive system, the stimulants to exertion would be multiplied, and the end of educa- tion apparently more fully attained. When we reflect on the singular character of the pres- ent times, the instability of governments, and the disor- ganize'! state of society, arising from conflicting prin- ciples and opinions, the question of education assumes a momentous interest. We are (irmly persuaded that, un- less Ihe minds of youth be enlarged by useful knowledge, ttnd fortified by right principles of religion, they will not be fitted to sustain the duties and responsibilities that must soon devolve upon them ; nor will they be qualified to meet the storms that now threaten the political and moral horizon of Europe. Dr. Johnson, in enumerating the advantages resulting from a university education, specifies the following as calculated to operate powerfully on the mind of the stu- dent. " There is at least one very powerful incentive to learn- ing ; 1 mean the Genius of the place. It is a sort of in- spiring Deity, which every youth of quick sensibility and «hgenious disposition creates to himself, by reflecting that he is placed under those venerable walls where a Hooker »nd a Hammond, a Bacon and a Newton, once pursued file same course of scieace, and from whence they soared to the most elevated heights of literary fame."— The idler. No. 33. The divinity of ihe Reformation is caller Calvinism, but injuriously. It has been that of the church of Christ in all ages. It is the divinity, of St. Paul, and of St. Pants Mas ter, who met him in his way to Damascus. I have written in gn at haste, that I might finish, if possible, before breakfast. Adieu ! Let us see you soon ; the sooner the better. Give my love to the silent lady, the Rose, and all my friends around you ! W. C. There is an impressive grandeur and sub- limity in the concluding part of the above letter, which entitles it to be written in char- acters of gold. May it be engraven on the heart of every minister! The divinity of the glorious Reformation, as illustrated in the works of Cranmer, Jewel, Latimer, and Rid- ley, are in fact the essential doctrines of the gospel, as distinguished from a mere system of moral ethics. It is in proportion only as these great and fundamental truths are clearly understood, and fully, freely, and faithfully declared, that religion can acquire its holy ascendancy over the heart and practice. Moral preaching may produce an external reforma- tion, but it is the gospel alone that can change the heart. The corruption and lost state of man, the mercy of God in Christ, the necessity of a living faith in the Saviour, the office of the Holy Spirit, in his enlightening, converting, and sanctifying influences; — these are the grand themes of the Christian ministry. Whenever they are urged with the prominence that their incalculable im- portance demands, and accompanied by a divine influence, signal effects will never fail to follow. The careless will be roused, the lover of pleasure become the lover of God, and the oppressed heart find pardon and peace. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, June 8, 1790. My dear Friend, — Among the many who love and esteem you, there is none who re joices more in your felicity than myself. Far from blaming, I commend you much for connecting yourself, young as you are, with a well-chosen companion for life. Entering on the state with uncontaminated morals, you have the best possible prospect of hap- piness, and will be secure against a thousand and ten thousand temptations to which, at an early period of life, in such a Babylon as you must necessarily inhabit, you would other- wise have been exposed. I see it too in the light you do, a3 likely to be advantageous to you in your profession. Men of business have a better opinion of a candidate for em- ployment, who is married, because he has given bond to the world, as you observe, and to himself, for diligence, industry, and atten LIFE OF COWPER, 35* tion. It is altogether therefore a subject of much congratulation ; and mine, to which I add Mrs. Unwin's, is very sincere. Samson, at his marriage, proposed a riddle to the Philistines. I am no Samson, neither are you a Philistine. Yet expound to me the following if you can ! What are .they which stand at a distance from each other, and meet without ever mov- \ ing ?* Should you be so fortunate as to guess it, j you may propose it to the company, when | you celebrate your nuptials ; and, if you can j win thirty changes of raiment by it, as Sam- j son did by his, let me tell you, they will be j no contemptible acquisition to a young be- ! ginner. You will not, I hope, forget your way to Weston, in consequence of your marriage, ' where you and yours will always be wel- eome. W. C. TO MRS. KING.f The Lodge, June 14, 1790. My dear Madam, — I have hardly a scrap : of paper belonging to me that is not scrib- bled over with blank verse; and, taking out your letter from a bundle of others, this mo- ment, I find it thus inscribed on the seal- side : — Meantime his steeds Snorted, by Myrmidons detain'd, and loosed From their own master's chariot, foam'd to fly. You will easily guess to what they belong ; j and I mention the circumstance . merely in j proof of my perpetual engagement to Homer, j whether at home or abroad; for, when I j committed these lines to the back of your j letter, I was rambling at a considerable dis- j tance from home. I set one fo^t on a mole- hill, placed my hat, with the crown upward, on my knee, laid your letter upon it, and with a pencil wrote the fragment that I have sent you. In the same posture I have writ- ten many and many a passage of a work which I hope sbon to have done with. But all this is foreign to what I intended when I first took pen in hand. My purpose then was, to excuse my long silence as well as I eould, by telling you that I am, at present, not only a laborer in verse, but in prose also, having been requested by a friend, to whom I could not refuse it, to* translate for him a series of Latin letters, received from a Dutch minister of I he Cape of Good Hope. \ With this additional occupation you will be sensi- * This enigma is explained in a subsequent letter. Private correspondence. X The Dutch minister here mentioned, was Mr. Van fjier, who recorded the remarkable account of the great »piritual change produced in his mind, by reading the works of Mr. Newton. The letters were written in L„tin, and translated by Cowper at the request of his clerical Viena. ble that mj hands are full ; and it is a truth that, except to yourself, I would, just at this time, have written to nobody. I felt a true concern for what you told me in your last, respecting the ill state of health of your much- valued friend, Mr. Martyn. You say, if I knew half his worth, I should, with you, wish his longer continuance be- low. Now you must understand, that, igno- rant as I am of Mr. Martyn, except by your report of him, I do nevertheless sincerely wish it — and that, both for your sake and my own ; nor less for the sake of the pub- lic* For your sake, because you love and esteem him highly ; for the sake of the pub- lic, because, should it please God to take him before he has completed his great bo- tanical work, I suppose no other person will be able to finish it so well ; and for my own sake, because I know he has a kind and fa- vorable opinion beforehand of my transla tioh. and, consequently, should it justify his prejudice when it appears, he will stand, my friend against an army of Cambridge critics. It would have been strange indeed if self had not peeped uufc on this subject. I beg you will present my best respects to him, and assure him that, were it possible he could visit Weston, I should be most happy to re- ceive him. Mrs. Unwin would have been employed in transcribing my rhymes for you, would her health have permitted; but it is very seldom that she can write without being much a sufferer by it. She has almost a constant pain in her side, which forbids it. As soon as it leaves her, or much abates she will be glad to work for you. I am, like you and Mr. King, an adinirei of clouds, but only when there are blue in- tervals, and pretty wide ones too, between them. One cloud is too much for me, but a hundred are not too many. So with this riddle and with my best respects to Mr. King, to which 1 add Mrs. Unwin's to you both, — I remain, my dear madam, Truly yours, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, June 17, 1790. My dear Coz., — Here am I, at eight in the morninsr, in full dress, going a-visiting to Chiche oy. We are a strong party, and fill two chaises ; Mrs. F. the elder, and Mrs. G. in one; Mrs. F. the younger, and myself in another. Were it not that I shall find Ches- ters at the end of my journey, I should b« inconsolable. That expectation alone sup- ports my spirits : and, even with this pros- * Professor Martyn lived to an advanced old age, en deared to his family, respected and esteemed by the pub lie, and supported in his iast momenta by the consols tions and hopes of the gospel. 352 COWPER'S WORKS. pect before me, when I saw this moment a poor old woman coming- up the lane, oppo- site my window, I could not help sighing, and saying to myself, " Poor, but happy old woman ! Th ;u art exempted by thy situa- tion in life from riding in chaises, and mak- ing thyself fine in a morning : happier there- fore in my account than T, who am under the cruel necessity of doing both. Neither dost thou write voises. neither hast thou ever heard of the name of Homer, whom I am miserable to abandon for a whole morning!" This, and more of the same sort, passed in my mind on seeing the old woman above- said. The troublesome business with which I filled my last letter is, I hope, by this time concluded, and Mr. Archdeacon satisfied. I can, to be sure, but ill afford to pay fifty pounds for another man's negligence, but would be happy to pay a hundred rather than be treated as if I were insolvent ; threat- ened with attorneys and bums. One would think that, living where I live, I might be exempted from trouble. But alas ! as the philosophers often affirm, there is no nook under heaven in which trouble cannot enter; and perhaps, had there never been one phi- losopher in the world, this is a truth that would not have been always altogether a secret. I have made two inscriptions lately, at the request o; Thomas Gifford, Esq., who is sowing iv\ "uuty acres with acorns on one side of his ho use, and twenty acres with ditto on the other.* He e-^cn two memorials of stone on the occasion, that, when posterity shall be curious to know the age of the oaks, their curiosity may be gratified. 1. INSCRIPTION. Other stor.es the era tell , When some feeble mortal fell. I stand here to date the birth Of these hardy sons of earth. Anno 1790. 2. INSCRIPTION. Reader ! Behold a monument That aslii- r.o sigh or tear, Though it perpetuate the event Of a great burial here. Anno 1791. My works therefore will not all perish, or will not all perish soon, for he :.as ordered his lapidary to cut the characters very deep, and in stone extremely hard. It is not in rain, then, that l have so long exercised the business of a poet. I shall at last reap the reward of my labors, and be immortal prob- ably for many years. Ever thine, W. C. * At Chillington, Bucks TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, June 22, 1790. My dear Friend, — Villoison makes no mention of the ser- pent, whose skin or bowels, or perhaps both, were honored with the Iliad and the Odyssey inscribed upon them. But I have conversed with a living eye-witness of an African ser- pent long enough to have afforded skin and guts for the purpose. In Africa there are ants also which frequently destroy these monsters. They are not much larger than «*urs, but they travel in a column of immense length, and eat through everything that op- poses them. Their bite is like a spark of fire. When these serpents have killed their prey, lion or tiger, or any other large animal, before they swallow him, the) take a consid- erable circuit round about the carcass, to see if the ants are coming, because, when they have gorged their prey, they are unable to escape them. They are nevertheless some- times surprised by them in their unwieldy state, and the ants make a passage through them. Now if you thought your own story of Homer, bound in snake-skin, worthy of three notes of admiration, you cannot do less than add six to mine, confessing at the same time, that, if I put you to the expense of a letter, I do not make you pay your money for nothing. But this account I had from a person of most unimpeached veracity. I rejoice with you in the good Bishop's re- moval to St. Asaph,* and especially because the Norfolk parsons much more resemble the ants above-mentioned than he the serpent. He is neither of vast size, nor unwieldy, nor voracious; neither, I dare say, does he sleep after dinner, according to the practice of the ^.icl serpent. But, harmless as he is, I am mistaken if his mutinous clergy did not sometimes disturb his rest, and if he did not fine their bite- though they could not actually eat through him, in a degree resembling fire. Good men like him, tind peaceable, should have good and peaceable folks to deal with and I heartily wish him such in his nev diocese. But if. he will keep the clergy to their b-iciness, he shall have trouble, let him go v.nere he may; and this is boldly spoken. conrideriFie xhat I speak it to one of that But like Jeremiah's bn-fltfejv, of figs: some of you cannot be bet- id .-i.i. some of you are stark naught. Ask the ^isnop himself if this be not true. W. C. TO MRS. BOimAM. Weston, June 29, 1790. My dearest Cousin, — It is true that T did sometimes complain to Mrs. Unwin of you/ * Dr. Lewis Bagot, previously Bishop of Norwich. LIFE OF COWPER. 355 long silence. But it is likewise true that I made many excuses for you in my own mind, and did not feel myself at all inclined to be asigry, not even much to wonder. There is an awkwardness and a difficulty in writing to those whom distance and length of time have made in a manner new to us, that nat- urally gives us a check, when you would otherwise be glad to address them. But a time, I hope, is near at hand when you and I shall be effectually delivered from all such constraints, and correspond as fluently as if our intercourse had suffered much less inter- ruption. You must not suppose, my dear, that though I may be said to have lived many years with a pen in my hand, I am myself altogether at my ease on this tremendous oc- casion. Imagine rather, and you will come nearer the truth, that when I placed this sheet before me, 1 asked myself more than once, " How .ihall I fill it? One subject in- deed presents itself, the pleasant prospect that opens upon me of our coming once more together : but, that once exhausted, with what shall T proceed?" Thus I ques- tioned myself; but rinding neither end nor profit of such questions, I bravely resolved to dismiss them all at once, and to engage in the great enterprise of a letter to my quon- dam Rose at a venture. 'There is great truth in a rant of Nat Lee's, or of Dryden's, ! know noc which, who makes an enamoured v>v\th any to his mistress, And nonsense shall be eloquence in love. For certain it is, that they who truly love one another are not very nice examiners of each other's style or matter; if an epistle comes, it is always welcome, though it be perhaps neither so wise, nor so witty, as one might have wished to make it. And now, my cousin, let me tell thee how much I feel myself obliged to Mr. Bodham for the readi- ness he expresses to accept my invitation. Assure him that, stranger as he is to me at present, and natural as the dread of strangers has ever been to me, I shall yet receive him with open arms, because he is your husband, and loves you dearly. That consideration alo/ie will endear him to me, and I dare say that I shall not find it his only recommenda- tion to my best affections. May the health of his relation (his mother, I suppose) be soon restored, and long continued, and may nothing melancholy, of what kind soever, in- terfere to prevent our joyful meeting. Be- tween the present moment and September our house is clear for your reception, and you have nothing to do but to give us a day or two's notice of your coming. In Septem- ber we expect Lady Hesketh, and 1 only regret that our h^use is not large enough to hold all together, for, were it possible that you could meet, yon would love each other. Mrs. Unwin bids me offer you her best love. She is never well, bur, always patient and ivhvays cheerful, and feels beforehand that she shall be loatn to part with you. My love to all the dear Donnes of every name ! — write soon, no matter about what. w. c TO LADY HESKETH. Weston, July 7, 1790. Instead of beginning with the saffron. vested morning, to which Homer invites me, on a morning that has no saffron vest to boast, I shall begin with you. It is irksome to us both to wait so long as we must for you, but we are willing to hope that by a longer stay you will make us amends for all this tedious procrastination. Mrs. Unwin has made known her whole case to Mr. Gregson, whose opinion of it has been very consolatory to me. He says in- deed it is a case perfectly out of the reach of all physical aid, but at the same time not at all dangerous. Constant pain is a sad griev- ance, whatever part is affected, and she is hardly ever free from an aching head, as well as an uneasy side, but patience is an anodyne of God's own preparation, and of that he gives her largely. The French, who like all lively folks are extreme in everything, are such in their zeal for freedom, and if it were possible to make so noble a cause ridiculous, their manner of promotirig it could not fail to do so. Princes and peers reduced to plain gentlemanship, and gentles reduced to a level with their own lacqueys, are excesses of which they will re- pent hereafter.* Difference of rank and sub- ordination are, I believe of God's appoint- ment, and consequently essential to the well- being of society : but what we mean by fanaticism in religion is exactly that which animates their politics, and unless time should sober them, they will, after all, be an unhappy people. Perhaps it deserves not much to be wondered at, that, at their first escape from tyrannical shackles, they should act extravagantly, and treat their kings as they have sometimes treated their idols. To these however they are reconciled in due time ag...n, but their respect for monarchy is at an end. They want nothing now but a little English sobriety, and that they want extremely. I heartily wish them some wit in their anger, for it were great pity that so many millions should be miserable for wan* of it. * The distinctions of rank were abolished during the French Revolution, and the title of citizen considered to be the only legal and honorable appellation. 23 B54 COWPER'S WORKS. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, July 8, 1790. My dear Johnny, — You do well to perfect yourself on the violin. Only beware that an amusement so very bewitching as music, es- pecially when we produce it ourselves, do not steal from you all those hours that should be given to study. I can be well content that it should serve you as a refresh- ment after severer exercises, but not that it should engross you wholly. Your own good 6ense will most probably dictate to you this precaution, and I might have spared you the trouble of it, but I have a degree of zeal for your proficiency in more important pursuits, that would not suffer me to suppress it. Having delivered my conscience by giving you this sage admonition, I will convince you that I am a censor not over and above severe, by acknowledging in the next place that I have known very good performers on the violin, very learned also ; and my cousin, Dr. Spencer Madan, is an instance. I am delighted that you have engagedyour sister to visit us ; for I say to myself, if John be amiable what must Catharine be ? For we males, be we angelic as we* may, are al- ways surpassed by the ladies. But know this, that I shall not be in love with either of you, if you stay with us only a few days, for you talk of a week or so. Correct this erratum, I ^beseech you, and convince us, by a much longer continuance here, that it was one. W. C. Mrs. Unwin has never been well since you saw her. You are not passionately fond of letter-writing, I perceive, who have dropped a lady ; but you will be a loser by the bar- gain; for one letter of hers, in point of real utility and sterling value, is worth twenty of mine, and you will never have another from her till you have earned it. TO MRS. KING.* The Lodge, July 16, 1790. My dear Madam, — Taking it for granted that this will find you at Perten-hall, I follow you with an early line and a hasty one, to tell you how much we rejoice to have seen yourself and Mr. King; and how much re- gret you have left behind you. The wish that we expressed when we were together, Mrs. Unwin and I have more than once ex- pressed sinee your departure, and have al- ways felt it — that it had pleased Providence to appoint our habitations nearer to each other. This is a life of wishes, and they only are happy who have arrived where wishes cannot enter. We shall live now in hope of ft second meeting and a longer interview ; * Private correspondence. which, if it please God to continue to yoj and to Mr. King your present measure" *f health, you will be able, I trust, to contrive hereafter. You did not leave us without en- couragement to expect it ; and I know thai you do not raise expectations but with a sincere design to fulfil them. Nothing shall be wanting, on our part, t< accomplish in due time a journey to Perten hall. But J am a strange creature, who am less able than any man living to project any- thing out of the common course, with a rea- sonable prospect of performance. I have singularities, of which, I believe, at present you know nothing ; and which would fill you with wonder, if you knew them. I will add, however, in justice to myself, that they would not lower me in your good opinion ; though, perhaps, they might iempt you to question the soundness of my upper story. Almost twenty years have I been thus unhappily cir- cumstanced ; and the remedy is in the "hand of God only. That I make you this partial communication on the subject, conscious, at the same time, that you are well worthy to be entrusted with the whole, is merely be- cause the recital would be too long for a let- ter, and painful both to me and to you. But all this may vanish in a moment; and, if it please God, it shall. In the meantime, my dear madam, remember me in your prayers, and mention me at those times, as one whom it has pleased God to afflict with singulai visitations. How I regret, for poor Mrs. Unwin's sake, your distance ! She has no friend suitable as you to her disposition and character, in all the neighborhood. Mr. King, too, is just the friend and companion with whom I could be happy ; but such grow not in this coun- try. Pray tell him that I remember him with much esteem and regard; and believe me, my dear madam, with the sincerest af fection, Yours entirely, W. C. TO JOHN JOHNSON, EoQ. Weston, July 31, 1790. You have by this time, I presume, an- swered Lady Hesketh's letter ? If not, an- swer it without delay, and this injunction I give you, judging that it may not be entirely unnecessary, for, though I have seen you but once, and only for two or three days, I have found out that you are a scatter-brain.* 1 made the discovery. perhaps the sooner, be- cause in this you very much resemble myself, who. in the course of my life, through mere carelessness and inattention, lost many ad vantages; an insuperable shyness has arse deprived me of many. And here again there * This title was not long merits LIFE OF COWPER 351 is a resemblance between us. You will do well to guard against both, for of both, I be lieve, you have a considerable share as well as myself. We long to see you again, and are only concerned at the short stay you propose to make with us. If time should seem to you as short at Weston, as it seems to us, your visit here will begone " as a dream when one awaketh, or as a watch in the night." It is a life of dreams, but the pleasantest one naturally wishes longest. I shall find employment for you, having made already some part of the fair copy of the Odyssey a foul one. I am revising it for the last time, and spare nothing that I can mend. The Iliad is finished. If you have Donne's poems, bring them with you, for I have not seen them many years, and should like to look them over.* You may trust us, too, if you please, with a little of your music, for I seldom hear any, and delight much in it. You need not fear a rival, for we have but two fiddles in the neighborhood — one a gardener's, the other a tailor's : terrible performers both ! W. 0. Mrs. Newton was at this time in very de- clining health. It is to this subject that Cowper alludes in the following letter. * Dr. Donne, Dean of St. Paul's, and Chaplain to King .•ames the First, belonged to that class of writers, whom Johnson, in his Life of Cowley, describes as metaphysical poets. Their great object seemed to be to display their wit and learning, and to astonish by what was brilliant, rather than to please by what was natural and simple. Notwithstanding this defect, the poetry of Donne, though harsh and unmusical, abounds in powerful thoughts, and discovers a considerable share of learning. His divinity was drawn from the pure fountain of Revelation, of which he drank copiously and freely. Of his fervent zeal and piety, many instances are recorded in that inimitable piece of biography, Izaak Walton's Lives. We subjoin a specimen of his poetry, composed during a severe fit of sickness, and which, on his recovery, was set to music, and used to be often sung to the organ by the choristers of St. Paul's, in his own hearing. HTMN TO GOD THE FATHER. Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before ? Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore ? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more. Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin, and made my sin their door ? Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallow'd in a score ? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more. 3. I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore But swear by thyself that, at my death, thy Son Shall shine, as h3 shines now, and heretofore. And having done that thou hast done, I fear no more Divine Poems TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* The Lodge, Aug. 11, 1790. My dear Friend,— That I may not seem unreasonably tardy in answering your last kind letter, I steal a few minutes from my customary morning business, (at present the translation of Mr. Van Lier's Narrative,) tc inform you that I received it safe from the hands of- Judith Hughes, whom we met in the middle of Hill-field. Desirous of gain- ing the earliest intelligence possible concern- ing Mrs. Newton, we were going to call on j her, and she was on her way to us. It J grieved us much that her news on that sub- | ject corresponded so little with our earnest wishes of Mrs. Newton's amendment. But if Dr. Benamerf still gives' hope of her re- ! ccvery, it is not, I trust, without substantial reason for doing so ; much less can I sup- j pose that he would do it contrary to his own j persuasions, because a thousand reasons, that ; must influence, in such a case, the conduct j of a humane and sensible physician, concur to forbid it. If it shall please God to restore her, no tidings will give greater joy to us. In the meantime, it is our comfort to know, that in any event you will be sure of sup ports invaluable, and that cannot fail you, though, at the same time, I know well that, i with your feelings, and especially on so af- ' feeling a subject, you will have need of the full exercise of all your faith and resignation. To a greater trial no man can be called, than that of being a helpless eye-witness of the sufferings of one he loves and loves tenderly. This I know by experience; but it is long since I had any experience of those commu- nications from above, which alone can 'enable us to acquit ourselves, on such an occasion, as we ought. But it is otherwise with you, and I rejoice that it is so. With respect to my own initiation into the secret of animal magnetism, I have a thou, i sand doubts. Twice, as you know, I have I been overwhelmed with the blackest despair : and at those times everything in which I have been at any period of my life concerned has afforded to the enemy a handle against me. I tremble, therefore, almost at every step I take, lest on some future similar occasion it should yield him opportunity, and furnish him with means to torment me. Decide foi me, if you can ; and in the meantime, present, if you please, my respectful compliments and very best thanks to Mr. Holloway, for his most obliging offer.J; I am, perhaps, the only man living who would hesitate a mo- ment, whether, on such easy terms, he should » Private correspondence. r Dr. Benamer was a pious and excellent man, whos*. ho ust! was the resort of religious persons at that time, wh a went there for the purpose of edification. Mr. New ton was a regular attendant on these occasions. % Newton had suggested the propriety of Cowper trying the yfifect of animal magnetism, in the hopes of mi Ugatinfl -his disorder, but he declined the offer. 356 COWPER'S WORKS. or should not accept it. But if he finds an- other like me, he will make a greater discov- ery than even that which he has already made of the principles of this wonderful art. For I take it for granted, that he is the gen- tleman whom you once mentioned to me as indebted Only to his own penetration for the knowledge of it. I shall proceed, you may depend on it, with all possible despatch in your business. Had it fallen into my hands a few months later, I should have made a quicker riddance ; for, before the autumn shall be ended, I hope to have done with Homer. But my first morning hour or two (now and then a let- ter which must be written excepted) shall always be at your service till the whole is finished. Commending you and Mrs. Newton, with all the little power I have of that sort, to His fatherly and tender care in whom you have both believed, in which frieDdly office I am fervently joined by Mrs. Unwin, I re- main, with our sincere love to you both, and to Miss Catlett, my dear friend, most affec- tionately yours, W. C. The termination of a laborious literary un- tertaking is an eventful period in an author's life. The following letter announces the termination of Cowper's Homeric version, and its conveyance to the press. . TO MRS. BODHAM. Weston, Sept. 9, 1790. My dearest Cousin, — I am truly sorry to be forced after all to resign the hope of see- ing you and Mr. Bodham at Weston this year; the next may possibly be more propi- tious, and I heartily wish it may. Poor Catharine's* unseasonable indisposition has also cost us a disappointment which we much regret. And, were it not that Johnny has made shift to reach us, we should think our- selves completely unfortunate. But him we have, and him we will hold as long as we can, so expect not very soon to see him in Norfolk. He is so harmless, cheerful, gen- tle, and good-tempered, and I am so entirely at my ease with him, that I cannot surrender him without a needs must, even to those who have a superior claim upon him. He left us yesterday morning, and whither do you think he is gone, and on what errand ? Gone, as cure as you are alive, to London, and to con- vey my Homer to the bookseller's. But he will return the day after to-morrow, and I mean to part with him no more till necessity shall force us asunder. Suspect me not, my sousin, of being such a monster as to have im- oosed this task myself on youi kind nephew, * The Rev. J. Johnson's sister. or even to have thought of doing it. It hap- pened that one day, as we chatted by the fire- side, I expressed a wish that I could hear of some trusty body going to London, to whose care I might consign my voluminous labors, the work of five years. For I purpose never to visit that city again myself, and should have been uneasy to have left a charge, of so much importance to me, altogether to the care of a stage-coachman. Johnny had no sooner heard my wish than, offering himself to the service, he fulfilled it; and his offer was made in such terms, and accompanied with a countenance and manner expressive of so much alacrity, that, unreasonable as I thought it at first to give him so much trou- ble, I soon found that I should mortify him by a refusal. He is gone therefore with a box full of poetry, of which I think nobody will plunder him. He has only to say what it is, and there is no commodity I think a freebooter would covet less. W. C. The marriage of his friend, Mr. Rose, was too interesting an event not to claim Cowper's warm congratulations. TO SAMUEL ROSE, FSQ. Tku Lodge, Sept. 13, 1790. My dear Friend, — Your letter was particu- larly welcome to me, not only because it came after a long silence, but because it brought me good news— news of your marriage, and consequently, I trust, of your happiness. May that happiness be durable as your lives, and may you be the Felices ter et amplius of whom Horace sings so sweetly ! This is my sincere wish, and, though expressed in prose, shall serve as your epithalamium. You cc m- fort me when you say that your marriage will not deprive us of the sight of you hereafter. If you do not wish that I should reoret your union, you must make that assurance good as often as you have opportunity. After perpetual versification during five years, I find myself at last a vacant man, and reduced to read for my amusement. My Homer is gone to the press, and you will im- agine that 1 feel a void in consequence. The proofs however will be coming soon, and I shall avail myself with all my force, of this last opportunity to make my work as perfect as I wish it. I shall not therefore be long time destitute of employment, but shall have sufficient to keep me occupied all the winter and part of the ensuing spring, for Johnson purposes to publish either in March, April, or May — my very preface is finished. It did not cost me much trouble, being neither long nor learned. I have spoken my mind as freely as decency would permit on the subject of Pope's version, allowing hini at the same time ail the LIFE OF COWPER, 35' merit to which I think him entitled. I have given my reasons for translating in blank verse, and hold some discourse on the mech- anism of it, chiefly with a view to obviate the prejudices of some people against it. I expatiate a little on the manner in which I ihink Homer ought to be rendered, and in which I have endeavored to render him my- self, and anticipated two or three cavils to which I foresee that I shall be liable from the ignorant or uncandid, in order, if possi- ble, to prevent them. These are the chief heads of my preface, and the whole consists of about twelve pages. It is possible, when I come to treat with Johnson about the copy, I may want some person to negotiate for me, and knowing no one so intelligent as yourself in books, or so j well qualified to estimate their just value, I ; shall beg leave to resort to and rely on you as my negotiator. But I will not trouble you unless I should see occasion. My cous- in was the bearer of my MS3. to London. He went on purpose, and returns to-morrow. Mrs. Unwin's affectionate felicitations added to my own, conclude me, Dear friend, Sincerely yours, W. o. The trees of a colonnade will solve my riddle*. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.f The Lodge, Sept. 17, 1790. My dear Friend, — I received last night a copy of my subscribers' names from John- son, in which I see how much I have been indebted to yours and to Mrs. Hill's solici- tations. Accept my best thanks, so justly due to you both. It is an illustrious cata- logue, in respect of rank and title, but me- thinks I should have liked it as well had it been more numerous. The sum subscribed, however,* will defray the expense of printing, which is as much as, in these unsubscribing days, I had any reason to promise myself. I devoutly second your droll wish, that the booksellers may contend about me. The more the better : seven times seven, if they please ; and let them fight with the fury of Achilles, Till ev'ry rubric-post be crimson'd o'er With blood of booksellers, in battle slain For me, and not a periwig untorn. Most truly yours, W. C. TO MRS. KING.f , Weston, Oct. 6, 1790. My dear Madam, — I am truly concerned that you have so good an excuse for your Bilence. Were it proposed to my choice, vvhether you should omit to write through ill- * What are they which stand at a distance from each other, and meet without ever moving 1 f Private correspondence. ness or indifference to me, I shcfald he seifisb enough, perhaps, to find decision difficult fo a few moments ; but have such an opinion at the same time of my affection for you, as tf the Almighty can in one moment cure me of this nfental in- firmity. That he can, I know by experience ; and there are reasons for which I ought to believe that he will. But from hope to de- spair is a transition that I have made so often, that I can only consider the hope that may come, and that sometirues I believe will, as a short prelude of joy to a miserable conclu- sion of sorrow that shall never end. Thus are my brightest prospects clouded, and thus, to me, is hope itself become like a withered fjowev, that has lost both its hue and its fra- grance. I ought not to have written in this dismal strain to you, in your present trying situa- tion, nor did I intend it. You have more need to be cheered than to be saddened ; but a dearth of other themes contained me tc it, I am desirous to gratify him in a particular tbat so emphatically bespeaks his friendship for me ; and should my books see another edition, shall be obliged tc you if you will add it accordingly. W C. LIFE OF OOWPER. '£& choose myself for a subject, and of myself I can write no otherwise. Adieu, my dear friend. We are well : and, notwithstanding all that I have said, I am myself as cheerful as usual. Lady Hesketh is here, and in her company even I, except now and then for a moment, forget my sorrows. I remain sincerely yours, W. C. The purport of this letter is painful, but it is explained by the peculiarity of Cowper's case. The state of mind which the Christian ought to realize, should be a willingness to remain or to depart, as may seem best to the supreme Disposer of events ; though the pre- dominating feeling (where there is an assured and lively hope) will be that of the apostle, viz., that "to be with Christ is far better." The question is, how is this lively hope and assurance to be obtained 1 How is the sense of guilt, and the fear of death and judgment, to be overcome 1 The Gospel proclaims the appointed remedy. "Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the world." * " I, even I, am He, which blotteth out all thy transgressions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins." f " If any man sin , we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous, and he is the pro- pitiation for our sins.";); The cordial recep- tion of this great gospel truth into the heart, the humble reliance upon God's pardoning mercy, through the blood of the cross, will, by the grace of God, infallibty lead to inward joy and peace. " Therefore, being justified by faith, we have peace with God, through our Lord Jesus Christ. By whom also we have access by faith unto this grace wherein we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God."§ The same divine grace that assures peace to the conscience, will also change and renew the heart, and plant within it those holy principles and affections that will lead to newness of life. The promise of the blood to pardon, and the Spirit to teach and to sanctify, are the two great fundamental doctrines of the Gospel. || TO MRS. BODHAM. Weston. Nov. 21, 1790. My dear Coz., — Our kindness to your nephew is no more than he must entitle him- self to wherever he goes. His amiable dis- position and manners will never fail to secure him a warm place in the affection of all who know him. The advice I gave respecting his poem on Audley End w T as dictated by my 'ove of him, and a sincere desire of his suc- cess. It is one thing to write what may * John i. 29. f Isaiah xliii. 25. t. 1 John ii. 1, 2. $ Rom. v. 1, 2. I! 1 John i. 7. Isaiah lxi. 1—3. Luke ii. 9—13. John xvi. 16, 17. please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biassed in our fa. vor ; and another to write what may please everybody ; because they who have no con- | nexion or even knowledge of the author will i be sure to find fault if they can. My advice, I however, salutary and necessary as it seemed i to me, was such as I dare not have given to I a poet of less diffidence than he. Poets are to a proverb irritable, and he is the only one I ever knew who seems to have no spark of that fire about him. He has left us about a fortnight, and sorry we were to lose him; but had he been my son he must have gone, and 1 could not have regretted him more. If his sister be still with you, present my love to her, and tell her how much I wish to see them at Weston together. Mrs. Hewitt probably remembers more of my childhood than I can recollect either of hers or my own ; but this I recollect, that the days of that period were happy days com- pared with most I have seen since. There are few, perhaps, in the world, who have not cause to look back with regret on the days of infancy; yet, to say, the truth, I suspect some deception in this. For infancy itself has its cares, and though we cannot now con- ceive how trifles could affect us much, it is certain that they did. Trifles they appear now, but s&ch they were not then. W. C. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. (MY BIRTH-DAY.) Weston, Friday, Nov. 26, 1790. My dearest Johnny, — I aub happy that you have escaped from the claws of Euclid into the bosom of Justinian. It is useful, I sup- pose, to every man to be well grounded in the principles of jurisprudence, and I take it to be a branch of science that bids much fairer to enlorge the mind, and e, with much pleasure May you rise from the condition of an humble prosecutor, or witness, to the bench of judg- ment ! When your letter arrived, it found me with the worst and most obstinate cold that I evei caught. This was one reason why it had not a speedier answer. Another is, that, except Tuesday morning, there is none in the week in which I am not engaged in the last revisa' of my translation ; the revisal I mean of my proof-sheets. To this business I give myself with an assiduity and attention truly admir- able., and set an example, which, if other poets could be apprised of, they would do well, to follow. Miscarriages in authorship (I am itersuaded) are as nfJen to be ascribed to want Oi piiins-taki/'g as to want of ability. Lady Hesketh, Mrs. Unwin, and myself, often mention you, and always in terms that, though you would blush to hear them, you need not be ashamed of; at the same time wishing much that you would change our trio into a quartetto. YV. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, Dec. 1, 1790. My dear Friend, — It is plain that you un- understand trap, as we used to say at school : for you begin with accusing me of long silence, conscious yourself, at the same time, that you have been half a year in my debt, or thereabout. But I will answer your accusa- tions with a boast — with a boast of having intended many a day to write to you again, notwithstanding your long insolvency. Your brother and sister of Chicheley can both wit- ness for me, that, weeks since, I testified such an intention, and, if I did not execute it, it was not for want of good-will, but for want of leisure. When will you be able to glory of such designs, so liberal and mao-nificent. you who have nothing to do, by your own confession, but to grow fat and saucy? Add to all this, that I have had a violent cold, such as I never have but at the first approach of winter, and such as at that time I seldom escape. A fever accompanied it, and an in- cessant cough. You measure the speed of printers, of my printer at least, rather by your own wishes than by any just standard. Mine (I believe) is as nimble a one as falls to the share of poets in general, though not nimble ene ugh LIFE OF COWPER, 361 to satisfy either the author or his friends. I told you that my work would go to press in autumn, and so it did. But it had been six weeks in London ere the press began to work upon it. About a month since we began to print, and, at the rate of nine sheets in a fort- night, have proceeded to about the middle of the sixth Iliad. " No further?" — you say. I answer — " No, nor even so far, without much scolding on my part, both at the book- seller and the printer." But courage, my friend ! Fair and softly, as we proceed, we shall find our way through at last ; and, in confirmation of this hope, while I write this, another sheet arrives. I expect to publish in the spring. I love and thank you for the ardent desire you express to hear me bruited abroad, et per or a viriim volitantem. For your encourage- ment, I will tell you that I read, myself at least, with wonderful complacence what I have done; and if the world, when it shall appear, do not like it as well as I, we will both say and swear with Fluellin, that " it is an ass and a fool (like you !) and a prating coxcomb." I felt no ambition of the laurel.* Else, though vainly, perhaps, I had friends who would have made a stir on my behalf on that occasion. I confess that, when I learned the new condition of the office, that odes were no longer required, and that the salary was increased, I felt not the same dislike of it. But I could neither go to court, nor could I kiss hands, were it for a much more valuable consideration. Therefore never expect to hear that royal favors find out me ! Adieu, my dear old friend ! I will send you a mortuary copy soon, and in the mean- time remain, Ever yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. f The Lodge, Dee. 5, 1790. My dear Friend, — Sometimes I am too sad, and sometimes too busy to write. Both these causes have concurred lately to keep me silent. But more than by either of these I have been hindered, since I received your last, by a vio- lent cold, which oppressed me during almost the whole month of November. Your letter affects us with both joy and sorrow : with sorrow and sympathy respect- ing poor Mpft. Newton, whose feeble and dying state suggests a wish for her release rather than for her continuance ; and joy on your account, who are enabled to bear, with so much resignation and cheerful acquies- 3nce in the will of God, the prospect of a loss, which even they who know you best apprehended might prove too much for you. * The office of Poet Laureat, mentioned in a former tetter. Privale correspondence. As to Mrs. Newton's interest in the best things, none, intimately acquainted with her as we have been, could doubt it. She doubt- ed it indeed herself; but though it is not our luty to doubt, any more than it is our privilege, I have always considered the self- condemning spirit, to which such doubts are principally owing, as one of the most fa- vorable symptoms of a nature spiritually re- newed, and have many a time heard you mak6 the same observation. [Tom off.] We believe that the best Christian is occa- sionally subject to doubts and fears ; and that they form a part of the great warfare. That it is our privilege and duty to cultivate an habitual sense of peace in the conscience, and that this peace will be enjoyed in pro- portion as faith is in exercise, and the soul is in communion with God, we fully agree. But who that is acquainted with the inward experiences of the Christian, does not know that there are alternations of joy and fear, of triumph and of depression ? The Psalms of David furnish many instances of this fact, as well as the history of the most eminent saints recorded in Scripture. " Though 1 am sometimes afraid, yet put I my trust in thee." We conceive these words to be an exemplification of the truth of the case. When, therefore, we hear persons speak of the entire absence of sin and infirmity, and exemption from doubts and fears, we are strongly disposed to believe that they labor under great self-deception, and know little of their own hearts, in thus arguing against the general testimony of the Church of Christ in all ages. A plain and pious Chris- tian once told us of an appropriate remark that he addressed to an individual who pro- fessed, to be wholly free from any fears on this subject. "If," observed this excellent man, " you have no fears for yourself, you must allow me to entertain some for you." TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, Dec. 18, 1790. I perceive myself so flattered by the in- stances of illustrious success mentioned in your letter, that I feel all the amiable modes- ty, for which I was once so famous, sensibly giving way to a spirit of vain-glory. The King's College subscription makes mb proud — the effect that my verses have had on your two young friends, the mathematicians, makes me proud, and I am, if possible proud- er still of the contents of the letter that you inclosed. You complained of being stupid, and sent me one of the cleverest letters. 1 have not complained of being stupid, and sent you one of the dullest. But it is no matter. I never aim at anything above the pitch of every day's scribble, when I write to those I love. Homer proceeds, my boy ! We shall get through it in time, and (I hop**) by the t\nje appointed. We are now in the tenth Hind. I expect the ladies every minute to breakfast. You have their best love. Mine attends the whole army of Donnes at Mattishall Green* assembled. How happy should I find my- self, were I but one of the party ! My ca- pering days are over. But do you caper for me, that you may give them some idea of the happiness I should feel were I in the midst of them ! W. C. TO MRS. KING.f The Lodge, Dec. 31, 1790. My dear Madam, — Returning from my walk at half-past three, I found your wel- come messenger in the kitchen ; and, enter- ing the study, found also the beautiful pres- ent with which you had charged him.| We have all admired it (for Lady Hesketh was here to assist us in doing so ;) and for my own particular, I return your my sincerest thanks, a very inadequate compensation. Mrs. Unwin, not satisfied to send you thanks only, begs your acceptance likewise of a turkey, which, though the figure of it might not much embellish a counterpane, may pos- sibly serve hereafter to swell the dimensions of a feather-bed. I have lately been visited with an indispo- sition much more formidable than that which I mentioned to you in my last — a nervous fever ;■ a disorder to which I am subject, and which I dread above all others, because it comes attended by a melancholy perfectly insupportable. This is the first day of my complete recovery, the first in which I have perceived no symptoms of my terrible mal- ady; and the only drawback on this comfort that I feel is the intelligence contained in yours, that neither Mr. King nor yourself are w T ell. I dread always, both for my own health and for that of my friends, the unhappy influences of a year worn out. But, my dear madam, this is the last day of it; andl resolve to hope that the new year shall ob- literate all the disagreeables of the old one. I can wish nothing more warmly than that it may prove a propitious year to you. My poetical operations, I mean of the oc- casional kind, have lately been pretty much at a stand. I told you, I believe, in my last, that Homer, in the present stage of the pro- cess, occupied me more intensely than ever. * In Norfolk. t Private correspondence. t This counterpane is mentioned in a previous letter, dated Oct. 5th, in this year : so that, unless it was taken Back and then returned in an improved state, there seems «© be some error, that we do not profess to explain. He still continues to do so, and threatens, till he shall be completely finished, to makj all other composition impracticable. I have, however, written the mortuary verses as usual ; but the wicked clerk for whom I write them has not yet sent me the impres- sion. I transmit to you the long promised Catharina; and, were it possible that I could transcribe the others, would send them also. There is a way, however, by which I can procure a frank, and you. shall not want them long. I remain, dearest madam, Ever yours, W. C. We have now the pleasure of introducing to the reader a lady, of whom we should say much, if a sense of propriety did not, impose silence upon our pen. The Catharina, re- corded by the muse of Cowper, was Mise Stapleton at that time, subsequently married to Mr. George Throckmorton Courtney, and finally Lady Throckmorton, by the decease of the elder brother Sir John. As we can- not impose on the p6et the restraint which we are compelled to practise in our own case, we shall beg leave to insert the follow- ing verses, written on the occasion of he? visit to Weston. She came — she is gone — we have met — And meet perhaps never again ; The sun of that moment is set, And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina* has fled like a dream — (So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regvet and ester-m, That will not so suddenly pass. The last ev'ning ramble we made, Catharina, Maria, j- and I. Our progress was often delay'd By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paus'd under man3 r a tree, And much she was charm'd with a tonej Less sweet to Maria and me, Who so lately had witness'd her own. My numbers that day she had sung, And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heard. I esteem'd The work of my fancy the more, And' e'en to myself never seem'd So tuneful a poet before. Though the pleasures of London exceed In number the days of the year. Catharina, did nothing impede, Would feel herself happier here ; For the close woven arches of lim-,* On the banks of our river, I kn ' , Are sweeter to her many times Than ought that the city can show. * Miss Stapleton, afterwards Lady Throckmorton, <«v the person to whom the present undertaking is dedicated t The wife of Sir John Throckmorton. So it is, wnen the mind is imbued With a well-judging taste from above, Then, whether embelli.sh'd or rude Tis nature alone that we love. The achievements of art may amuse, May even our wonder excite, But groves, hills, and valleys, diffuse A lasting, a sacred delight. Since then in the rural recess Catharina alone can rejoice. May it still be her lot to possess The scene of her sensible choice ! To inhabit a mansion remote b'rom the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note To measure the life that she leads. With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, To wing all her moments at home, And with scenes that new rapture inspire, As oft as it suits i\er to roam, She will have just the life she prefers. Wich little to hope or to fear, And ours would be pleasant as her*, Might we view her enjoying it here, TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, Jan. 4, 1791. My dear Friend, — You would long since uave received an answer to your last, had not the wicked clerk of Northampton delayed to send me the printed copy of my annual dirge, which I waited to enclose. • Here it is at last, and much good may it do the readers !* I have 'regretted that I could not write sooner, especially because it well became me to reply as soon as possible to your kind in- quiries after my health, which has been both better and worse since I wrote last. The enough was cured, or nearly so, when I re- seived your letter, but I have lately been afflicted with a nervous fever, a malady for- midable to me above all others, on account of the terror and dejection of spirits that in my case always accompany it. I even look forward, for this reason, to the month now surrent, with the most miserable apprehen- sions ; for in this month the distemper has twice seized me. I wish to be thankful, however, to the sovereign Dispenser both of health and sickness, that, though I have felt cause enough to tremble, he gives me now encouragement to hope that I may dismiss my fears, and expect, for this January at least, to escape it. The mention of quantity reminds me of a remark that I have seen somewhere, possi- bly in Johnson, to this purport, that, the syl- lables in our language being neither long .ior short, our verse accordingly is less beau- tiful than the verse of the Greeks or Romans, because requiring less artifice in its constvue- * See laortutry verses composed on this occasion. tion. But I deny the fact, and am ready to depose on oath, that I find every syllable as distinguishably and clearly, either' long or short, in our language, as in any other. I know also, that without an attention to the quantity of our syllables, good verse cannot possibly be written, and that ignorance of this matter is one reason why we see so much that is good for nothing. The move- ment of a verse is always either shuffling or graceful, according to our management in this particular, and Milton gives almost as many proofs of it in his Paradise Lost as there are lines in the poem. Away, there- fore, with all such unfounded observations ! I would not give a farthing for many bushels of them — nor you perhaps for this letter. Yet, upon recollection, forasmuch as I know you to be a dear lover of literary gossip, I think it possible you may esteem it highly. Believe me, my dear friend, most truly yours, W. C. The fi-1 lowing letter records the death of Mrs. Newton, the object of so early and last- ing an attachment on the part of the Rev. John Newton. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Weston, Jan. 20, 1791. My dear Friend, — Had you been a man of this world, I should have held myself bound by the law of ceremonies to have sent you long since my tribute of condolence. I have sincerely mourned with you ; and though you have lost a wife, and I only a friend, yet do I understand too well the value of such a friend as Mrs. Newton not to have sympa thised with you very nearly. But you are not a man of this world; neither can you, who have both the Scripture and the Giver of Scripture to console you, have any need of aid from others, or expect it from such spiritual imbecility as mine. I considered, likewise, that receiving a letter from Mrs. Unwin, you, iD fact, received one from my- self, with this difference only,- — that hers could not fail to be better adapted to the occasion and to your own frame of mind than any that I could send you. [Torn off.] TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, Jan. 21, IV*,. I know that you have already been cate- chised by Lady Hesketh on the subject of your return hither, before the winter shall be over, and shall therefore only say, that if you can come, we shall be hapry to receive you. Remember also, that nothing can ex. * Private correspondence. 364 COWPER'S WORKS. euse the non-performance of a promise, but absolute necessity! In the meantime, my faith in /our veracity is such that I am per- suaded you will suffer nothing less than ne- cessity to prevent it. Were you not ex- tremely pleasant to us, tmd just the sort of youth that suits us, we should neither of us have said h*alf so much, or perhaps a word on the subject. Yours, my dear Johnny, are vagaries that I shall never see practised by any other ; and whether you slap your uncle, or reel as if you were fuddled, or dance in the path be- fore me, all is characteristic of yourself, and therefore to me delightful.* I have hinted to you indeed sometimes, that you should be cautious of indulging antic habits and singu- larities of all sorts, and young men in general have need enough of such admonition. But yours are a sort of fairy habits, such as might belong to Puck or Robin Goodfellow, and therefore, good as the advice is, I should be half sorry should you take it. This allowance at least, I giv<- you. Con- tinue to take your walks, if walks they may be called, exactly in their present fashion, till you have taken orders! Then indeed, forasmuch as a skipping, curvetting, bound- ing divine might be a spectacle not altogether seemly, I shall consent to your adoption of a more grave demeanor. W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, Feb. 5, 1791. My dear Friend, — My letters to you are all either petitionary, or in the style of ac- knowledgments and thanks, and such nearly in an alternate order. In my last I loaded you with commissions, for the due discharge of which I am now to say, and say truly, how much 1 feel myself obliged to you ; neither can I stop there, but must thank you like- wise for new honors from Scotland, which have left me nothing to wish for from that country ; for my list is now, I believe, graced with the subscription of all its learned bodies. I regret only that some of them arrived too late to do honor to my present publication of names. But there are those among them, and from Scotland too, that may give a useful hint perhaps to our own universities. Your very handsome present of Pope's Homer has arrived safe, notwithstanding an accident that befell him by the way. The Hall-servant brought the parcel from Olney, resting it on the pommel of the saddle, and his horse fell with him. Pope was in consequence rolled in the dirt, but being well coated, got no damage. If augurs and soothsayers were * These innocent peculiarities were in a less degree re- gained to the end of life by this truly amiable and inter- esting man. not out of fashion, I should have consulted one or two of trnt order, in hope of learning from them that this fall was ominous. J have found a place for him in the parlor where he makes a splendid appearance, and where he shall not long want a neighbor, one. who if less popular than himself, shall at least look as big as he How has it happened that, since Pope did certainly dedicate both Iliad and Odyssey, no dedication is found in this first edition of them ? W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Weston, Feb. 13, 179L I now send you a full and true account of this business. Having learned that your inn at Wobu;.T was the George, we sent Samuel thither yesterday. Mr. Martin, master of th« George, tc id him.* W. C. P. S. I cannot help adding a circum- stance that will divert you. Martin, having learned from Sam whose servant he was, told him that he had never seen Mr. Cowper, but he had heard him frequently spoken of by the companies that had called at his house ; and therefore, when Sam would have paid for his breakfast, would take nothing from him. Who says that fame is only empty breath % On the contrary, it is good ale, and cold beef into the bangain. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston Underwood, Feb. 36, 1791. My dear Friend, — It is a maxim of much weight, Woi'th cunning o'er and o'er, He who has Homer to translate, Had need do nothing more. But, notwithstanding the truth and im- portance of this apophthegm, to which I lay claim as the original author of it, it is not equally true that my application to Homer, close as it is, has been the sole cause of my delay to answer you. No. In observing so long a silence I have been influenced much more by a vindictive purpose, a purpose to punish you for your suspicion that I could possibly feel myself hurt or offended by any critical suggestion of yours, that seemed to reflect on the purity )f my nonsense verses. Understand, if you please, for the future, that whether I disport myself in Greek or * This letter contained the history of a servant's cruelty to a post-horse, which a reader of humanity could not wish to see in print, lint the postscript describes so plcriRantlv the signal influence of a pcet's reputation uld never otherwise see them ; and I should hardly withhold them from you, whose claim upon me is of so much older a date than theirs. It is not indeed with read- iness and good-will that I give them to any- body ; for, if I live, I shall probably print them; and my friends, who are previously well acquainted with them, will have the loss reason to value the book in which they shall appear. A trifle can have nothing to recom- mend it but its novelty. I have spoken of giving copies; but, in fact, 1 have given none. They who have them made them ; for, till my whole work shall have fairly passed tn« ■ press, it will not leave me a moment more than is necessarily due to my correspondents. Their number has of late increased upon me, by the addition of many of my maternal relatives, who, having found me out about a year since, have behaved to me in the most affectionate manner, and have been singularly serviceable to me in $ie article of my sub- scription. Several of them are coming from Norfolk to visit me in the course of the summer. I enclose a copy of my last mortuary ver- ses. The clerk for whom they were written is since dead; and whether his successor, the late sexton, will choose to be his owu dirge- maker, or will employ me, is a piece of im- portant news which has not yet reached me. Our best remembrances attend yourself and Miss Catleti, and we rejoice in the kind Prov- idence that has given you in her so amiable and comfortable a companion. Adieu, my dear friend. I am sincerely yours, W. C. TO MRS. THROCKMORTON. Weston, April 2, 1791. My dear Mrs. Frog, — A word or two be fore "breakfast : which is all that I shall have time to send you ! You have not, I hope, forgot to tell Mr. Frog how much I am 24 570 COWPER'S WORKS obliged to him for hi kind th( ugh unsuc- cessful attempt in my favor at Oxford. It seems not a little extraordinary that persons so nobly patronised themselves on the score of literature should resolve to give no en- couragement to it in return. Should I find a fair opportunity to thank them hereafter, I will not neglect it. Could Homer come himself. H^tress'tl and poor And tune his harp at Rhcdicine's door. The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear) " Begone ! no tramper gets a farthing here." I have read your husband's pamphlet through and iiirough. You may ihink per- haps, and so may lie, that a quesiion so re- mote from ail concern of mine could not in- terest me ; but if you think so, you are both mistaken. He can write nothing that will not interest me: in the first place, for the writer's sake, and in the next place, because he writes better and reasons better than any- body; with more candor, and with more suf- ficiency, and, consequently, with more satis- faction to all his readers, save only his oppo- nents. They, I think, by this time, wish that they had let him alone. Tom is delighted past measure with his wooden nag, and gallops at a rate that would kill any horse that had a life to lose. Adieu ! W. C. 1'0 JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, April 6, 1791. My dear Johnny, — A thousand thanks for your splendid assemblage of Cambridge lu- minaries! If you are not contented with your collection, it can only be because yoa are unreasonable ; for I, who may be sup- posed more covetous on this occasion than anybody, am highly satisfied, and even de- lighted with it. If indeed you should find it practicable to add still to the number, I have not the least objection. But this charge I give you : ' AXXo 6e roi £p£co, av ft iv\ (bptrr'i ftdlXco ffrjiri. Stay not an hour beyond the time you have mentioned, even though you should be able to add a thousand names by doing so ! For I cannot afford to purchase them at that cost. I long to see you, and so do we both, and will not suffer you to postpone your visit for an) r such consideration. No, my dear boy ! In the affair of subscriptions, we are already il- lustrious enough, shall be so at least, when you shall have enlisted a college or two more ; which, perhaps, you may be able to do in the course of the ensuing week. I feel myself much obliged to your university, and much disposed to admire the liberality of spirit wliich they have shown on this occasion. Certainly I have not deserved much favor at their hands, all things considered. But the cause of literature seems to have some weight with them, and to have superseded the resent- ment they might be supposed to entertain on the score of certain censures that you wot of. It is not so at Oxford. W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, April 29, 1791. My dear Friend, — I forget if I told you that Mr. Throckmorton had applied through the medium of to the university of Ox- ford. He did so, but without success. Their answer was, "that they subscribe to noth- ing." Pope's subscriptions did not amount I think, to six hundred ; and mine will not fall very short of five. Noble doings, at a time of day when Homer has no news to tell us, and when, all other comforts of life having risen in price, poetry has of course fallen. 1 call it a "comfort of life;" it is so to others, but to myself it is become even a necessary. The holiday times are very unfavorable to the printer's progress. He and all his demons are making themselves merry and me sad, for I mourn at every hinderance. W. C. . TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, May 2, 1791. My dear Friend, — Monday being a day in which Homer has now no demands upon me, I shall give part of the present Monday to you. But it this moment occurs to me that the pro- position with which I begin will be obscure to you, unless followed by an explanation. You are to understand, therefore, that Mon- day being no post-day, I have consequently no proof-sheets to correct, the correction of which is nearly all that I have to do with Ho- mer at present. I say nearly all, because I am likewise occasionally employed in reading over the whole of what is already printed, that I may make a table of errata to each of the poems. How much is already printed ? say you : I answer — the whole Iliad, and al- most seventeen books of the Odyssey. About a fortnight since, perhaps three w r eeks, I had a visit from your nephW, Mr Bagot, and his tutor, Mr. Hurlock, who came hither under conduct of your niece, Miss Barbara. So were the friends of Ulysses conducted to the palace of Antiphates the Lsestrigonian by that monarch's daughter But mine is no palace, neither am I a giant, neither did I devour one of the party. On the contrary, I gave them chocolate, and per- mitted them to depart in peace. I was much pleased both with the young man and his tutor. In the countenance of the former I saw much Bagotism, and not less in his man- ner. I will leave you to guess what 1 mean LIFE OF COWPEK 371 by that expression. Physiognomy is a study of which I have almost as high an opinion as Lavater himself, the professor of it, and for this good reason, beeause it never yet deceived me. But perhaps I shall speak more truly if I say, that I am somewhat an adept in the art, although I have never studied it ; for whether I will or not, I judge of every human creature by the countenance, and, as I say, have never yet seen reason to repent of my judgment. Sometimes I feel myself powerfully attracted, as I was by your nephew, and sometimes with equal vehemence repulsed, which attraction and repulsion have always been justified in t'he sequel. I have lately read, and with more attention than I ever gave to them before, Milton's Latin poems. But these I must make the subject of some future letter, in which it will be ten to one that your friend Samuel John- son gets another slap or two at the hands of your humble servant. Pray read them your- self, and with as much attention as I did ; then read the Doctor's remarks if you have them, and then tell me what you think of both.* It will be pretty sport for you on sucha day as this, which is the fourth that we have had of almost incessant rain. The weather, and a cold, the effect of it, have con- fined me ever since last Tuesday. Mrs. Un- win however is well, and joins me in every good wish to yourself and family. I am, my good friend, Most truly yours, W. C. TO THE REV. MR. BUCHANAN. Weston, May 11, 1791. My dear Sir, — You have sent me a beauti- ful poem, wanting nothing but metre. I would to heaven that you could give it that requisite yourself; for he who could make the sketch cannot but be well qualified to finish. But if you will not, I will ; provided always, nevertheless, that God gives me ability, for it will require no common share to do justice to your conceptions.! I am much yours, W. C. Your little messenger vanished before I could catch him. * Johnson's remark on Milton's Latin poems is as fol- lows : u The Latin pieces are lusciously elegant : but the delight which they afford is rather by the exquisite imi- tation of the ancient writers, by the purity of the diction and the harmony of the numbers, than by any power of invention or vigor of sentiment. They are not all of equal value ; the elegies excel the odes ; and some of the exercises on gunpowder treason might have been spared." He, however, quotes with approbation the remark of Hampton, the translator of Polybius, that " Milton was the first Englishman who, after the revival of letters, wrote Latin verses with classic elegance." — See Johnson's Life of Milton. f We are indebted to Mr. Buchanan for having sug- gested to Cowper the outline of the poem called "The Four Ages," viz., infancy, youth, middle age, and old age. the writer was acquainted with this respectable clergy TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, May 18, 1791. My dearest Coz., — Has another of my let ters fallen short of its destination ; or where- fore is it, that thou writest not? One letter in five weeks is a poor allowance for your friends at Weston. One, that I received two or three days since from Mrs. Frog, has not at all enlightened me on this head. But I wander in a wilderness of vain conjecture. I have had a letter lately from Xew York, from a Doctor Cogswell of that place, to thank me for my fine verses, and to tell me, which pleased me particularly, that, after having read " The Task/' my first volume fell intc his hands, which he read also, and was equally pleased with. This is the only instance I can recollect of a reader doing justice to my first effusions ; for I am sure, that in point of ex- pression they do not fall a jot below my second, and that in point of subject they are for the most part superior. But enough, and too much of this. " The Task," he tells me has been reprinted in that city. Adieu ! my dearest Coz. We have blooming scenes under wintry skies, and with icy blasts to fan them. Ever -thine, W. C. TO JOHN JOHNSON", ESQ. Weston, May 23, 1791. My dearest Johnny, — Did I not know that you are never more in your element than when you are exerting yourself in my cause, I should congratulate you on the hope there seems to be that your labor will soon have an end.* You will wonder, perhaps, my Johnny, that Mrs. Unwin, by my desire, enjoined you to secrecy concerning the translation of the Frogs and Mice.f 'Wonderful it may well seem to you, that I should wish to hide for a short time from a few what I am just going to publish to all. But I had more reasons than one for this mysterious management ; that is to say, I had two. In the first place, I wished to surprise my readers agreeably ; and secondly, I wished to allow none of my friends an opportunity to object to the measure, who might think it perhaps a measure more boun- tiful than prudent. But I have had my suffi- cient reward, though not a pecuniary one. It is a poer.t of much humor, and accordingly I found the translation of it very amusing. It struck me, too, that I must either make it part of the present publication, or never pub- lish it at all ; it would have been so terribly out of its place in any other volume. I long for the time that shall bring you man in his declining years. He was considered to be • man of cultivated mind and taste. * The labor of transcribing Cowper's version. t See his version of Homer. 372 COWPER'S WORKS. once more to Weston, and ail your et ceteras with you. Oh ! what a month of May has this been ! Let never poet, English poet at least, give himself to the praises of May again. W. C. We add the verses that he composed on this occasion. THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. Two nymphs,* both nearly of an age, Of numerous charms possess'd, A warm dispute once chanc'd to wage, Whose temper was the best. The worth of each had been complete, Had both alike been mild; But one, although her smile was sweet, Frown'd oftener than she smil'd. And in her humor, when she frown'd, Would raise her voice and roar; And shake with fury to the ground, The garland that she wore. The other was of gentler cast, From all such frenzy clear; Her frowns were never known to last, And never prov'd severe. Tp poets of renown in song, The nymphs referr'd the cause, Who, strange to tell ! all judged it wrong, And gave misplac'd applause. They gentle call'd, and kind, and soft, The flippant and the scold ; And, though she chang'd her mood so oft, That failing left untold. No judges sure were e'er so mad, Or so resolv'd to err ; In short, the charms her sister had, They lavished all on her. Then thus the god, whom fondly they Their great inspirer call, Was heard one genial summer's day, To reprimand them all : " Since thus ye have combin'd," he said, " My fav'rite nymph to slight, Adorning May, that peevish maid ! With June's undoubted right ; ' " The minx shall, for your folly's sake, Still prove herself a shrew ; Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, And pinch your noses blue." TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, May 27, 1791. My dearest Coz., — I, who am neither dead, nor sick, nor idle, should have no excuse, were I as tardy in answering as you in writ- ing. I live indeed where leisure abounds, and you where leisure is not ; a difference that accounts sufficiently both for your si- lence and my loquacity. * May and June. When you told Mrs. that my Homei would come forth in May, y &u told her what you believed, and, therefore, no falsehood. But you told her at the same time what will not happen, and therefore not a truth. There is a medium between truth and falsehood ; and I believe the word mistake expresses it exactly. I will therefore say that you were mistaken. If instead of May you had men- tioned June, I natter myself that you would have hit the mark. For in June there is every probability that we shall publish. You will say, "Hang the printer! for it is his fault!" But stay, my dear ; hang him not just now ! For to execute him and find an other will cost us time, and so much, too, that I question if, in that case, we should '/publish sooner than in August. To say truth, I am not perfectly sure that there will be any necessity to hang him at all ; though that is a matter which I desire to leave en tirely at your discretion, alleging only, in the meantime, that the man does not appear to me during the last half year to have been at all in fault. His remittance of sheets in all that time has been punctual, save and except while the Easter holidays lasted , when I sup pose he found it impossible to keep his devils to their business. I shall, however, receive the last sheet of the Odyssey to-niorrow, and have already sent up the Preface, togethei with all the needful. You see, therefore, that the publication of this famous work cannot be delayed much longer. As for politics, I reck not, having no room in my head for anything but the Slave bill. That is lost; and all the rest is a trifle. I have not seen Paine's book,* but refused to see it, when it was offered to me. No man shall convince me that I am improperly gov- erned while I feel the contrary. Adieu, W. 0. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, June 1, 1791. My dearest Johnny, — Now you may rest. Now I can give you joy of the period, of" which I gave you hope in my last ; the period of all your labors in my service. f 3ut this I can foretell you, also, that, if you persevere in serving your friends at this rate, your life is likely to be a life of labor. Yet persevere ! Your rest will be the sweeter hereafter ! In the mean time I wish you, if at any time you suould find occasion for him, just such a friend as you have proved to me ! J W. G. * The " Rights of Man," a book which created a grea« ferment in the country, by its revolutionary character and statements. t As a transcriber. PART THE THIRD - Having now arrived at that period in the i story of Cowper when he had brought to a close his great and laborious undertaking, his version of Homer, we suspend for a moment the progress of the correspondence, to afford room for a few observations. We have seen in many of the preceding letters, with what ardor cf application and liveliness of hope he devoted himself to this favorite project of enriching the literature of his country with an English Homer, that might justly be esteemed a faithful yet free translation ; a genuine and graceful repre- sentative of the justly a .1 mired original. After five years <",f intense ' labor, from which nothing could withhold him, except the pressure of that unhappy malady which re- tarded his exertions for several months, he published his complete version in two quarto volumes, on the first of July, 1791, having in- scribed the Iliad to his young noble kinsman, Earl Cowper, and the Odyssey to the dowa- ger Countess Spencer — a lady for whose virtues he had long entertained a most cordial and affectionate veneration. He had exerted no common powers of genius and of industry in this rreat enterprise, yet, we lament to say, he failed in satisfying the expectations of the public. Hayley as- sign a r?ason for this failure, which we give in his own words. "Homer," he observes, " is so exquisitely beautiful in his own lan- guage, and he has been so long an idol in every literary mind, that any copy of him, which the best of modern poets can execute, must probably resemble in its effect the por- trait of a graceful woman, painted by an ex- cellent artist for her lover : the lover indeed will acknowledge great merit in the work, and think himself much indebted to the skill of such an artist, but he will never admit, as in truth he never can feel, that the best of re- semblances exhibits all the grace that he dis- cerns in the beloved original." This illustration is ingenious and amusing but we doubt its justness ; because the paint- er may pi oduce a correct and even a fluttering likeness of the lover's mistress, though it is true that the lover himself will thiiik other- wise. But where is the translator that can do justice to the rierits of H >mer? Who can exhibit his majestic simplify, his sententious force, the lofty grandeur of his conceptions, ind the* sweet charm of his imagery, embel- ished with all the crraeee of a language never surpassed either in harmony or richness The two competitors, who are alone entitled to be contrasted with each other, are Pope and Cowper. vv e pass over Ogityy, Chap- man, and others. It is Hector alone that is worthy to contend with Achilles. To the version of Pope must be allowed the praise of melody of numbers, richness of poetic dic- tion, splendor of imagery and brilliancy of effect ; but these merits are acquired at the expense of fidelity and justness of interpre- tation. The simplicity of the heroic ages is exchanged for the refinement of modern taste, and Homer sinks under the weight of orna- ments not his own. Where Pope fails, Cow- per succeeds ; but, on the other hand, where Pope succeeds, Cowper seems to fail. Cow- per is more faithful, but less rich and spirited. He is singularly exempt from the defects at tributable to Pope. There is nothing extra- neous, no meretricious ornament, no labored elegance, nothing added, nothing omitted. The integrity of the text, is happily preserved. But though it is in the page of Cowper that we must seek for the true interpretation of Homers meaning — though there are many passages distinguished by much grace and beauty — yet, on the whole, the lofty spirit, the bright glow of feeling, the "thoughts that breathe, the words that burn," are not sufficiently sustained. Each of these distin- guished writers, to a certain extent, has failed, not from any w T aut of genius, but because complete success is difficult, if not unattaina- ble. Two causes may perhaps be assigned for this failure ;. first, no copy can equal the original, if the original be the production of a master artist. The poet who seeks to transfuse into his own page the meaning and spirit of an author, endowed with extraordi- nary powei-s, resembles the chemist in his laboratory, who, in endeavoring to condense the properties of different substances, and to extract their essence, has the misfortune to see a great portion of the volatile qualities evaporate in the pro k ten degrees; but, the moment i saw her, at least, when I had been a minute in her company, I felt them rise again, and they soon rose . even above their former pitch. I know two ladies of fashion now whose manners have this effect upon me, the lady in question and the Lady Spencer. I am a shy animal, and want much kindness to make me easy. Such I shall be to my dying day. Here sit 7, calling myself shy, yet have just published by the bye, two great volumes of poetry. This reminds me of Ranger's observation in the " Suspicious Husband," who says to somebody, I forget whom, " There is a de- gree of assurance in you modest men thai we impudent fellows can never arrive at? — As- surance, indeed ! Have you seen 'em ? What do you think they are ? Nothing less, I can tell you, than a translation of Homer, of the sublimest poet in the world. That's all. Can I ever have the impudence to call my- self shy again \ You live, I think, in the neighborhood of Birmingham. What must you not have felt on the late alarming occasion ! You, I sup- pose, could see the fires from your windows. We, who only heard the news of them, have trembled. Never sure was religious zeal more terribly manifested or more to the prejudice of its own cause.* Adieu, my dear friend. I am," with Mrs. Unwin's best compliments, Ever yours, W. C. * The riots at Birmingham originated in the imprudent seal of Dr. Priestley, and his adherents, the Unitarian dis- senters, who assembled together at a public dinner, to commemorate the events of the French revolution. Toasts were given of an inflammatory tendency, and handbills were previously circulated of a similar charac- ter. The town of Birmingham being distinguished for its loyalty, became deeply excited by these acts. The mob collected in great multitudes, and proceeded to the house of Dr. Priestley, which they destroyed with fire. All his valuable philosophical apparatus and manu- scripts perished on this occasion. We concur with Cow- •*-- in lamenting such outrages. TO MRS. KING.* Weston, Au.j. 4, 1791. My dear Madam, — Your last letter, which gave us so unfavorable an account of youi health, and which did not speak much mort comfortably of Mr. King's, affected us with much concern. Of Dr. Raitt we may say, in the words of Milton, " His long experience did attain To something like prophetic strain;" for as he foretold to you, so he foretold to Mrs. Unwin, that, though her disorders might not much threaten life, they would yet cleave to her to the last ; and she and perfect health must ever be strangers to each other. Such was his prediction, and it has been hitherto accomplished. Either, headache or pain in the side has been her constant companion ever since we had the pleasure of seeing you. As for myself, I cannot properly say that I enjoy a good/ state of health, though in general I have it, because I have it accompanied with fre- quent fits of dejection, to which less health and better spirits would, perhaps, be infinitely preferable. But it pleased God that I should be born in a country where melancholy is the national characteristic. To say the truth, I have often wished myself a Frenchman. N. B. I write this in very good spirits. You gave us so little hope in your last that we should have your company this sum- mer at Weston, that to repeat our invitation seems almost like teasing you. 1 will only say, therefore, that, my Norfolk friends hav- ing left us, of whose expected arrival here J believe I told you in a former letter, we should be happy could you succeed them. We now, indeed, expect Lady Hesketh, but not immediately : she seldom sees Weston till all its summer beauties are fled, and red, brown, and yellow, have supplanted the uni- versal verdure. My Homer is gone forth, and I can de- voutly say, " Joy go with it !" What place it holds in the estimation of the generality I cannot tell, having heard no more about it since its publication than if no such work existed. I must except, however, an anony- mous eulogium from some man of letters, which I received about a week ago. It was kind in a perfect stranger, as he avows him- self to be, to relieve me, at so early a day, from much of the anxiety that I could not but feel on such an occasion. I should be glad *o know who ne is, only that I might thanit him. Mrs. Unwin, who is at this moment come down to breakfast, joins me in affectionate compliments to yourself and Mr. King ; and I am, my dear madam, Most sincerely yours, W. C. * Private correspondence. 180 COWPER'S WORKS. TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. Weston, August 9, 1791. My dear Sir, — I never make a correspond- ent wait for an answer through idleness, or want of proper respect for him ; but if I am silent it is because I am busy, or not well, or' because I stay till something occur that may make my letter at least a little better than mere blank paper. I therefore write speedily in reply to yours, being at present neither much occupied, nor at all indisposed, nor forbidden by a dearth of materials. I wish always, when I have a new piece in hand, to be as secret as you, and there was a time when I could be so. Then I lived the life of a solitary, was not visited by a single neighbor, because I had none with whom I could associate ; nor ever had an inmate. This was when I dwelt at Olney ; but since I have removed to Weston the case is differ- ent. Here I am visited by all around me, and study in a room exposed to all manner of inroads. It is on the ground floor, the room in which we dine, and in which I am sure to be found by all who seek me. They find me generally at my desk, and with my work, whatever it be, before me, unless perhaps I have conjured it into its hiding-place before they have had time to enter. This, however, is not always the case ; and, consequently, sooner or later, 1 cannot fail to be detected. Possibly you, who I suppose have a snug study, would find it impracticable to attend to anything closely in an apartment exposed as mine, but use has made it familiar to me, and so familiar, that neither servants going and coming disconcert me ; nor even if a lady, with an oblique glance of her eye, catches two or three lines of my MSS., do I feel myself inclined to blush, though natu- rally the shyest of mankind. You did well, I believe, to cashier the sub- ject of which you gave me a recital. It cer- tainly wants those agremens which are nec- essary to the success of any subject in verse. It is a curious story, and so far as the poor young lady was concerned a very affecting one ; but there is a coarseness in the char- acter of the hero that would have spoiled all. In fact, I find it myself a much easier matter to write, than to get a convenient theme to write on. I am obliged to you for comparing me as you go both with Pope and with Homer. It is impossible in any other way of manage- ment to know whether the translation be well executed or not, and if well, in what degree. It was in the course of such a process that I irst became dissatisfied with Pope. More than thirty years since, and when I was a young Templar, I accompanied him with his original, line by line, through both poems. A fellow student of mine, a person of fine classical taste, joined himself with me in the labor. We were neither of us, as you may imagine, very diligent in our proper business. I shall be glad if my reviewers, whosoevei they may be, will be at the pains to read me as you do. I want no praise' that I .*m no« entitled to, but of that to which I am entitled I should be loath to lose a tittle, 'fiaving worked hard to earn it I would heartily second the Bishop of Salisbury* in recommending to you a close pursuit of your Hebrew studies, wers it not that I wish you to publish what I may un- derstand. Do both, and I shall be satisfied. Your remarks, if I may b>:t receive thcin soon enough to serve me in case o* a new edition, will be extremelv welcome W. C. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, Aug. 9, 1791. My dearest Johnny, — The little that I have heard about Homer myself has been equally or more flattering than Dr. 's intelligence, so that I have good reason to hope that I have not studied the old Grecian, and how to dress him, so long and so intensely, to nc purpose. At present I am idle, both on ac- count of my eyes and because I know not tc what to attach myself in particular. Many different plans and projects are recommended to .me. Some call aloud for original verse^ others for more translation, and others for other things. Providence, I hope, will direct me in my choice, for other guide I have none, nor wish for another. God bless you, my dearest Johnny, W. C. The active mind of Cowper, and the neces- sity of mental exertion, in order to arrest the terrible incursions of his depressing malady soon led him to contract a new literary en- gagement. A splendid edition of Milton was at that time contemplated, intended to rival the celebrated Shakspeare of Boydell ; and to combine all the adventitious aid that editorial talent, the professional skill of a most dis- tinguished artist, ani the utmost embellish- ment of type could command, to ensure suc- cess. Johnson, the bookseller, invited the co-operation of C jwper, in the responsible office of Editor. For such an undertaking he was unquestiona 1 ly qualified, by his refined critical taste and discernment, and by his pro- found veneration for this first 0i modern epic poets. Cowper readily entered into this pro- ject, and by his admirable translations of the Latin and Italian poems of Milton, justly added to the fame which he had already ac- quired. But to those who know how to ap- preciate his poetic powers, and his noble ardor in proclaiming the most important ■ Dr. Douglas. truths, it must ever be a source of unfeigned regret that the hours given to translation, and especially to Homer, were not dedicated to the composition of some original work. Who would not have hailed with delight another poem, rivalling all the beauties and moral excellences of "The Task," and en- dearing to the mind, with still higher claims, the sweet poet of nature, and the graceful yet sublime teacher of heavenly truth and wisdom 1 Ihe grief is this — that, sunk in Homer's mine, I lose my precious years, now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, Proves dross when halanc'd in the Christian It was this literary engagement that first laid the foundation of that intercourse, which commenced at this time between Cowper and Hayley ; an intercourse which seems to have ripened into subsequent habits of friendship. As their names have been so much associated together, and Hayley eventually became the poet's biographer, we shall record the cir- cumstances of the origin of their intimacy in Hayley's own words. "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 Cow- per, 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 attach- ments : ' 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 endeavor to make us enemies »*7 1 ! i kh gave rise to our intimacy, and that I * c .n providentially conducted to Weston at a sea --on when my presence there afforded pe- 2uJi.ir comfort to my affectionate friend under the pressure of a domestic affliction, which threatened to overwhelm his very tender •♦pints.* " Tho 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 '.he projects of any man ; but I was soon sur- prised and concerned in hearing that I was * Se*t verses addressed to John Johnson, Esq. T An alarming attack with which Mrs. Unwin was Suited. represented in a newspaper 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." We gave credit to Hayley for. the kind and amiable spirit which he manifested on this delicate occasion ; and for the address with which he converted an apparent collision of interests' into a magnanimous triumph of lit- erary and courteous feeling. The succeeding letters will be found to contain frequent allusions both to his past and newly contracted engagement. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, Sept. 14, 1791. My dear Friend, — Whoever reviews me wil in fact have a laborious task of it, in the per formance of which he ought to move leisurely and to exercise much critical discernment. In the meantime, my courage is kept up by the arrival of such testimonies in my favor as give me the greatest pleasure ; coming from quarters the most respectable. I have reason, therefore, to hope that our periodical judges will not be very averse to me, and that per haps they may even favor me. If one man of taste and letters is pleased, another man so qualified can hardly be displeased; and if critics of a different description grumble, they will not however materially hurt me. You, who know how necessary it is to me to be employed, will be glad to hear that 1 have been 'called to a new literary engage- ment, and that I have not refused it. A Mil- toil, that is to rival, and, if possible, to exceed in splendor, Boydell's Shakspeare, is in con- templation, and I am in the editor's office. Fuseli is the painter. My business will be to select notes from others, and to write original notes ; to translate the Latin and Italian poems, and to give a correct text. I shall have vears allowed me to do it in. w. a TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, Sept. 21, 1791. My dear Friend, — Of all the testimonies in favor of my Homer that I have received, none has given me so sincere a pleasure as that of Lord Bagot. It is an unmixed pleasure, ^id without a drawback ; because I know him tc be perfectly, and in all respects, whether eru- dition or a fine taste be in question, so well qualified to judge me, that I can neither ex pect nor wish a sentence more valuable thai his — sht6k' avrpli 'Ef crrfidtffoi [itvti, kou pot $i\a yovvar 1 dpwpcu 882 COWPER'S WORKS. I hope by this time you have received your rolumes, and are prepared to second the ap- plauses of your brother — else, woe be to you ! I wrote to Johnson immediately on the receipt of your last, giving him a strict injunction to despatch them to you without delay. He had sold some time since a hundred of the unsub- scribed-for copies. I have not a history in the world except Baker's Chronicle, and that I borrowed three years ago from Mr. Throckmorton. Now the case is this : I am translating Milton's third Elegy — his Elegy on the death of the Bishop of Winchester.* He begins it with saying, that, while he was sitting alone, dejected, and musing on many melancholy themes, first, the idea of the Plague presented itself to his mind, and of the havoc made by it among th*e great. Then he proceeds -thus : Turn memini clarique ducis, fratrisque verendi Intempestivis ossa cremata rogis : Et memini Heroum quos vidit ad sethera raptos ; Flevit et amissos Belgia tota duces. I cannot learn from my only oracle, Baker, who this famous leader and his reverend brother were. Nor does he at all ascertain "or me the event alluded to in the second of these couplets. I am not yet possessed of Warton, who probably explains it, nor can be for a month to come. Consult him for me if you have him, or, if you have him not, consult some other. Or you may find the intelligence perhaps in your own budget ; no matter how you come by it, only send it to me if you can, and as soon as you can, for I nate to leave unsolved difficulties behind me.f In the first year of Charles the First, Milton was seventeen years of age, and then wrote this elegy. The period therefore to which I would refer you, is the two or three last years of James the First. Ever yours, W. C. TO THE REV. MR. KING.J Weston, Sept. 23, 179 J. Dear Sir, — We are truly concerned at your account of Mrs. King's severe indisposition ; and, though you had no better news to tell us, are much obliged to you for writing to inform us of it, and to Mrs. King for desir- ing you to do it. We take a lively interest in what concerns her. I should never have asqfibed her silence to neglect, had she nei- ther written to me herself nor commissioned * Moestus eram, et tacitus nullo comitante sedebam, Haerebantque animo tristia plura meo : &c. &c. t Warton informs us that the distinguished brothers alluded to in Milton's elegy are the Duke of Brunswick •uid Count Mansfelt, who fell in the war of the Palatinate, jhat fruitful scene of warlike operations. The two latter are the Earls of Oxford and Southampton, who died at the siege of Breda, in the year 1625. } Private correspondence. you to write for her. I had, indeed, for som time expected a letter from her by ever} post, but accounted for my continual disap- pointment by supposing her at Edgeware, to which place she intended a visit, as she tola me long since, and hoped that she w >uld write immediately on her return. Her sufferings will be felt here till we learn that they are removed ; for which rea- son we shall be much obliged by the earliest notice of her recovery, which we most sin- cerely wish, if it please God, and which will not fail to be a constant subject of pn-yei at Woston. *I beg you, sir, to jxesent Mrs. Ucvin's and my affectionate remembrances t Mrs. King, in which you arc equally & partaker, and to believe me, with tnu 6siee.r and much sincerity, Yours, W. 0. to mrs. znw "* Weston, Oct. 21, 1791. My dear Friend, — You could not have sent me more agreeable »*:.ws than that of your better health, and T am greatly obliged to you for making me the first of your correspond* ents to whom you have given that welcome intelligence. This is a favor which I should have acknowledged much sooner, had not a disorder in my eyes, to which I have always been extremely subject, required that I should make as little use of my pen as possible. T felt much for you, when I read that part of your letter in which you mention your visit- ors, and the fatigue which, indisposed as you have been, they could not foil to occasion you. Agreeable as you would have found them at another time, and happy as you would have been in their company, you could not but feel the addition they necessarily made to your domestic attentions as a considerable inconvenience. But I have al- ways said, and shall never say otherwise, that if patience under adversity, and submission to the afflicting- hand of God, be true forti- tude — which no reasonable person can den;.' — then your sex have ten times more tru* fortitude to boast than ours ; and 1 have not the least doubt that you carried yourself with infinitely more equanimity on that occasion than I should have done, or any he of my acquaintance. Why is it, since the fir^t of- fender on earth was a woman, that the women are nevertheless, in all the most important points, superior to the men ? That they are so I will not allow to be disputed, having ol served it ever since I was capable of making the )bservation. I believe, on recollection that, when I had the happiness to see yon here we agitated this question a little ; but I * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. 38S do not remember that we arrived at any de- cision of it. The scripture calls you the weaker vessels ; and perhaps the best solution of the difficulty, therefore, may be found in those other words of Scripture — My strength is perfected in weakness. Unless you can furnish me with a better key than this, I shall be much inclined to believe that I have found the true one. I am deep in a new literary engagement, being retained by my bookseller as editor of an intended most magnificent publication of Milton's Poetical Works. This will occupy me as much as Homer did for a year or two to come ; and when I have finished it, I shall have run through all the degrees of my pro- fession, as author, translator, and editor. I know not that a fourth could be found ; but if a fourth can be found, I dare say I shall find it. I remain, my dear madam, your affec- tionate friend and humble servant, W. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, Oct. 25,1791. My dear Friend, — Your unexpected and transient visit, like everything else that is past, has now the appearance of a dream, but it was a pleasant one, and I heartily wish that Buch dreams could recur more frequently. Your brother Chester repeated his visit yes- terday, and I never saw him in better spirits. At such times he has, now and then, the very look that he had when he was a boy, and when I see it I seem to be a boy myself, and entirely forget fur a short moment the years that have intervened since I was one. The look that I mean is one that you, I dare say, have observed. — Then we are at Westminster again. He left with me that poem of your brother Lord Bagot's which was mentioned when you were her^. It was a treat tome, and I read it to my cousin Lady. »Hesketh and to Mrs. Unwin, to whom it was a treat also. It has great sweetness of numbers and much elegance of ev ression, and is just such a poem as I should be happy to have composed myself about a year ago, when- 1 was loudly called upon by a certain noble- man* to celebrate the beauties of his villa. But 1 had two insurmountable difficulties to contend with. One was that I had never seen his villa, and the other, that I had no eyes at that time for anything but Homer. Should 1 at any time hereafter undertake the task, I shall now at least know how to go about it, which, till I had seen Lord Bagot's poem, I verily did not. I was particularly charmed with the parody of those beautiful lines of Milton : * Lord B'agot. ** The song was partial, but the harmony ("What could it less, when spirits immortal sing 1) Suspended hell, and took with ravishment The thronging audience." There's a parenthesis for you ! The paren- thesis it seems is out of fashion, and perhaps the moderns are in the right to proscribe what they cannot attain to. I will answer for it that had we the art at this day of in- sinuating a sentiment in this graceful man ner, no reader of taste would quarrel with the practice. Lord Bagot showed his by selecting the passage for his imitation. •I would beat Warton, if he were living, for supposing that Milton ever repented of his compliment to the memory of Bishop Andrews. I neither do, nor can, nor will believe it. Milton's mind could not be nar- rowed by anything, and, though he quarrelled with episcopacy in tfce church of England idea of* it, I am persuaded that a good bish- op, as well as any other good man, of what- soever rank or order, had always a share of his veneration.* Yours, my dear friend, Very affectionately, W TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, Oct. 31, 1791 My dear Johnny, — Your kind and affec- tionate letter well deserves my thanks, and should have had them long ago, had I not been obliged lately to give my attention to a mountain of unanswered letters, which 1 h ; . fiai The sense I had given of these words is the sense in which an old scholiast has under- stood them, as appears in Clarke's note in loco. Clarke indeed prefers the other, but it does not appear plain to me that he does it with good reason against the judgment of a very ancient commentator and a Grecian. And I am the rather inclined to this per- suasion, because Achilles himself seems to have apprehended that Agamemnon would not content himself with Briseis only, when he says, But I have other precious things on board, Of these take none away without my leave, &c. It is certain that the words are ambiguous, and that the sense of them depends altogether on the punctuation. But I am always undei the correction of so able a critic as your neighbor, and have altered, as I say, my ver- sion accordingly. As to Milton, the die is cast. I am engaged, have bargained with Johnson, and cannot re- cede. I should otherwise have been glad to do as you advise, to make the translation of his Latin and Italian part of another volume; for, with such an addition, I have nearly as much verse in my budget as would be re- quired for the purpose. This squabble, in the meantime, between Fuseli and Boy dell* does not interest me at all ; let it terminate as it may, I have only to perform my job, and leave the event to be decided by the combatants. Suave mari Vnagno turbantibus aequora ventis E terra ingentem alterius spectare laborem. Adieu, my dear friend, I am most sincere ly yours, W. C. Why should you suppose that I did not ad- mire the poem you showed me? I.did admire it, and told you so, but you carried it off in your pocket, and so doing left me to forget it, and without the means of inquiry. I am thus nimble in answering, merely with a view to ensure myself the receipt of other remarks in time for a new impi ession. TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. Weston, Dec. 10, 1791. Dear Sir, — I am much obliged to you for wishing that I were employed in some origi- nal work rather than in translation. To tell the truth, I am of your mind; and, unless I could find another Homer, I shall promise (I believe) and vow, when I have done with Milton, never to translate again. But my veneration for our great countryman is equal to what I feel for the Grecian ; and conse- quently I am happy, and feel myself honor- ably employed whatever I do for Milton. I am now translating his Epilaphium Damo- ras, a pastoral in my judgment equal to any * Fuseli was associated with Cowper's Milton, and Boy dell interested in Hayley's, which produced a collision oi feeling between them. 25 386 COWPER'S WORKS. of Virgil's Bucolics, but of which Dr. John- son (so it pleased him) speaks, as I remem- ber, contemptuously. But he who never saw any beauty in a rural scene, was not likely to have much taste for a pastoral. In pace quiescat ! I was charmed with your friendly offer to be my advocate with the public; should I want one, I know not where I could find a better. The reviewer in the Gentleman's Magazine grows more and more civil. Should he con- tinue to sweeten at this rate, as he proceeds, I know not what will become of all the little modesty I have left. I have availed myself of some of his strictures, for I wish to learn from everybody. W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, Dec. 21, 1791. My dear Friend, — It grieves me, after hav- ing indulged a little hope that I might see you in the holidays, to be obliged to disappoint myself. The occasion, too, is such as will ensure me your sympathy. On Saturday last, while I was at my desk near the window, and Mrs. Unwin at the fireside opposite to it, I heard her suddenly exclaim, "Oh! Mr. Cowper, don't let me fall !" I turned and saw her actually falling, together with her chair, and started to her side just in time to prevent her. She was seized with a violent giddiness, which lasted, though with some abatement, the whole day, and was attended too with some other very, very alarming symptoms. At present, how- ever, she is relieved from the vertigo, and seems in all respects better. She has been my faithful and affectionate nurse for many years, and consequently has a claim on all my attentions. She has them, and will have them as long as she wants them ; which will probably be, at the best, a considerable time to come. I feel the shock, as you may suppose, in every nerve. God grant that there may be no repetition of it. Another such a stroke upon her would, I think, overset me completely ; but at present I hold up bravely. W. C. Few events could have afflicted the tender and affectionate mind of Cowper more acutely than the distressing incident recorded in the preceding letter. Mrs. Unwin had for some time past experienced frequent returns of headache, sensations of bodily pain, and an increasing incapacity even for the common routine of daily duties. By an intelligent observer these symptoms might have been interpreted as the precursors of some im- pending dispensation, in the same manner as the gathering clo 'ds and the solemn stillness of nature announce the approaching storm and tempest. But the stroke is not the less felt because it is anticipated. Among the sorrows which inflict a wound on the feeling heart, to see a beloved object, idontified in character, in sentiment, and pursuit, endeared to us by the memory of the past, and by the fears and anxieties of the present, sinking under the slow yet consuming incursions of disease ; and to be assured, as we contem- plate the fading form, that the moment of separation is drawing nigh ; this is indeed a trial, where the mind feels its own bitterness,- and is awakened to the strongest emotions of tenderness and love. The cheering prospect of a happy change, founded on an interest in the promises of the gospel, can alone mitigate the mournful an- ticipation. It is a subject for deep thank- fulness when we can cherish the persuasion for ourselves, or, like Cowper, feel its con- soling support for others ; and when we are enabled to exclaim with the poet, The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light thro' chinks that time has made; Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new. Waller's Divine Poesie. The following letter communicates some further details of Mrs. Unwin's severe attack, and of Cowper's feelings on this distressing occasion. TO MRS. KING* r Weston, Jan. 26, 1792. My dear Madam, — Silent as I have long been, I have had but too good a reason for being so. About six weeks since, Mrs. Un- win was seized with, a sudden and most alarming disorder, a vertigo, which would have thrown her out of her chair to the ground, had I not been quick t-nough to catch her while she was falling. For some moments her knees and ancles were so en- tirely disabled that she had no use of them , and it was with the exertion of all my strength that I replaced her in her seat. Many days she kept her bed, and for some weeks her chamber ; but, at length, she has joined me again in the study. Her recovery has been extremely slow, and she is still fee- ble ; but, I thank God, not so feeble but that I hope for her perfect restoration as the spring advances. I am persuaded, that with your feelings for your friends, you will know how to imagine what I must have suffered - on an occasion so distressing, and to pardon a silence owing to such a cause. The account you give me of the patience with w hich a lady of your acquaintance has Private correspondence. .ately endured a terrible operation, is a strong proof that your sex surpasses ours in heroic fortitude. I call it by that name, because I verily believe, that in God's ac- count, there is nore true heroism in suffer- ing his will with meek submission than in doing our own, or that of our fellow-mortals who may have a right to command us, with the utmost valor that was ever exhibited in a field of battle. Renown and glory are, in general, the incitements to such exertions ; but no laurels are to be won by sitting pa- tiently under the knife of a surgeon. The virtue is, therefore, of a less suspicious char- acter ; the principle of it more simple, and the practice more difficult ; — considerations that seem sufficiently to warrant my opinion, that the infallible Judge of human conduct may possibly behold with more complacency a suffering than an active courage. I forget if I told you that I am engaged for a new edition of Milton's Poems. In fact, I have still other engagements, and so various, that I hardly know to which of them all to give my first attentions. I have only time, therefore, to condole with you on the double loss you have lately sustained, and to congratulate you on being female ; be- iause, as such, you will, I trust, acquit your- self well under so severe a trial. 1 remain, my dear madam, Most sincerely yours, W. C. 10 THE REV. WALTER BAG0T. Weston-Underwood, Feb. 14, 1792. My dear Friend, — It is the only advantage I believe, that they who love each other de- rive from living at a distance, that the news of such ills as may happen to either seldom reaches the other till the cause of complaint is over. Had I been your next neighbor, I should have suffered with you during the whole indisposition of your two children and your own. As it is, I have nothing to do Dut to rejoice in your own recovery and theirs, which I do sincerely, and wish only to learn from yourself that it Is complete. I thank you for suggesting the omission of the line due to the helmet of Achilles. How the omission happened I know not, whether by my fault or the printer's ; it is certain, however, that I had translated it, and I have now given it its proper place. I purpose to keep back a second edition -bill 1 have had opportunity to avail myself of the remarks of both friends and strangers. The ordeal of criticism still awaits me in the reviews, and probably they will all in their turn mark many things that may be mended. By the Gentleman's Magazine I have already profited in several instances. My reviewer here, though favrfuble in the main, is a pretty close observer, and, though not al- ways right, is often so. In the affair of Milton I will have no hor- rida bella if I can help it.* It is at least my present purpose to avoid them, if possible For which reason, unless I should soon see occasion to alter my plan, I shall confine myself merely to the business of an anno- tator, which is my proper province, and shaL sift out of Warton's notes every tittle that relates to the private character, political or religious principles, of my author. These are properly subjects for a biographer's hand- ling, but by no means, as it seems to me, for a commentator's. In answer to your question, if I have had a correspondence with the Chancellor, I re- ply — yes. We exchanged three or four let- ters on the subject of Homer, or rather on the subject of my Preface. He was doubt- ful whether or not my preference of blank verse, as affording opportunity for a closer version, was well founded. On this subject he wished to be convinced; defended rhyme with much learning, and much shrewd rea soning ;, but at last allowed me the honor* of the victory, expressing himself in these words: — " I am clearly convinced that Homer may be best rendered in blank verse, and you have succeeded in the passages that I have- looked into.'''' Thus it is when a wise man differs in opinion. Such a man will be candid; and conviction, not triumph, will be his object. Adieu ! — The hard name I gave you I take to myself, and am your EKizayXoraTOS) w. c. We are indebted to a friend for the oppor- tunity of inserting nine additional letters, addressed by Cowper to Thomas Park, Esq., known as the author of " Sonnets and Mis- cellaneous Poems," and subsequently as the editor of that splendid work, "Walpole's Royal and Noble Authors." TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. Weston-Underwood, Feb. 19, 1792. Dear Sir, — Yesterday evening your parcel came safe to hand, containing the " Cursory Remarks," "Fletcher's Faithful Shepherd- esse," and your kind letter, for all which I am much obliged to you. Everything that relates to Milton must be welcome to an editor of him ; and I am so unconnected with the learned world, that, unless assistance seeks me, I am not very likely to find it. Fletcher's work was not in my possession ; nor, indeed, was I possessed of any other, when I engaged in this under- * He alludes to the dispute between Boydell and Fuseli the painter. 388 COWPER'S WORKS. taking, that could serve me much in the per- formance of it. The various untoward inci- dents of a very singular life have deprived me of a valuable collection, partly inherited from my father, partly from my brother* and partly made by myself; so that I have at present fewer books than any man ought to have who writes for the public, especially who assumes the character of an editor. At the present moment, however, I find myself tolerably well provided for this occasion by the kindness of a few friends, who have not been backward to pick from their shelves everything that they thought might be use- ful to me. I am happy to be able to num- ber you among these friendly contributors. You will add a considerable obligation to those you have already conferred, if you will be so good as to furnish me with such no- tices of your own as you offer. Parallel passages, or, at least, a striking similarity of expression, is always worthy of remark ; and I shall reprint, I believe, all Mr. Warton's notes of that kind, except such as are rather trivial, and some, perhaps, that are a little whimsical, and except that I shall diminish the number of his refererces, which are not seldom redundant. Where a word only is in question, and that, perhaps, not an uncom- mon one in the days of Milton, his use of it proves little or nothing ; for it is possible that authors writing on similar subjects may use the same words by mere accident. Bor- rowing seems to imply poverty, and of pov- erty 1 can rather suspect any man than Mil- ton. But I have as yet determined nothing absolutely concerning the mode of my com- mentary, having hitherto been altogether busied in the translation of his Latin poems. These I have finished, and shall immediately proceed to a version of the Italian. They, being few, will not detain me long; and, when they are done, will leave me at full liberty to deliberate on the main business, and to plan and methodise my operations. I shall be always happy in, and account myself honored by, your communications, and hope that our correspondence thus begun will not terminate in limine primo. I am, my dear sir, with much respect, Your most obliged and humble servant, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f Weston, Feb. 20, 1792. My dear Friend, — When I wrote the lines in question, I was, as I almost always am, so pressed for time, that I was obliged to put * The Rer. John Cowper, Fellow of Bennet College, Cambridge. " I had a brother .once, Peace to the memory of a man of worth," &c. fcc. Private correspondence. them down in a great hurry.* Perhaps J printed them wrong. If a lull stop be made at the end of the second line, the appearance of inconsistency, perhaps, will vanish ; but should you still think them liable to that ob- jection, they may be altered thus : — In vain to live from age to age We modern bards endeavor; But write in Patty's book one page,f You gain your point forever. Trifling enough I readily confess they are : but I have always allowed myself to trifle oc- casionally ; and on this occasion had not, nor have at present, time to do more. By the way, should you think this amended copy worthy to displace the former, I must wait for some future opportunity to send you them properly transcribed for the purpose. Your demand of more original composition from me will, if Ilive, and it please God to afford me health, in all probability be sooner or later gratified. In the mean time, you need not, and, if you turn the matter in youi thoughts a little, you will perceive that you need not, think me unworthily employed in preparing a new edition of Milton. His two principal poems are of a kind that call for an editor who believes the gospel and is well grounded in all evangelical doctrine. Such an editor they have never had yet, though only such a one can be qualified for the office. We mourn for the mismanagement at Bot- any Bay, and foresee the issue. The Romans were, in their origin, banditti ; and if they be- came in time masters of the world, it was not by drinking grog, and allowing themselves in all sorts of licentiousness. The African colo- nization, and the manner of conducting it, has long been matter to us of pleasing speculation. God has highly honored Mr. Thornton ; and I doubt not that the subsequent history of the two settlements will strikingly evince the su- perior wisdom of his proceedings.! Yours, ' W. C. P. S. Lady Hesketh made the same objec tion to my vecses as you ; but, she being a lady-critic, I did not heed her. As they stand at present, however, they are hers ; and I be- lieve you will think them much improved. * Mrs. Martha More had requested Cowper to furnish a contribution to her collection of autographs. The re- sult appears in the sequel of this letter. f In the present edition of the Poems the lines stand thus, on a farther suggestion of Lady HeskethV ■ In vain to live from age to age, While modern bards endeavor, / write my name in Patty's page, And gain my point for ever. W. Cowper. March 6, 1792. X This alludes to the new colony for liberated Africans, at Sierra Leone ; in the origin of which Mr. Henry Thorn* ton and Mr. Zachary Macauley were mainly instrumental. For interesting accounts of this colony, see the "Mission ary Register of the Church Missionary Society," pissim. My heart bears me witness how glad I shall oe to see you at the time you mention ; and Mrs. Unwin says the same. TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. Weston, Feb. 21, 1792. My dear Sir, — My obligations to you on the score of your kind and frieadly remarks demanded from me a much more expeditious acknowledgment of the numerous packets that contained them ; but I have been hindered by many causes, each of which you would admit as a sufficient apology, but none of which I will mention, lest I should give too much of my paper to the subject. My ac- knowledgments are likewise due to your f£ir sister, who has transcribed so many sheets in a neat hand, and with so much accuracy. At present I have no leisure for Homer, but shall certainly find leisure' to examine him with reference to your strictures, before I send him a second time to the printer. This I am at present unwilling to do, choosing rather to wait, if that may be, till I shall have under- gone the discipline of all the reviewers; none of which have yet taken me in hand, the Gen- tleman's Magazine excepted. By several of his remarks I have benefitted, and shall no doubt be benefitted by the remarks of all. Milfon at present engrosses me altogether. His Latin pieces I have translated, and have begun with the Italian. These are few, and will not detain me long. I shall then proceed immediately to deliberate upon and to settle the plan of my commentary, which I have hitherto had but little time to consider. I look forward to it, for this reason, with some anxiety. I trust at least that this anxiety will cease when I have once satisfied myself about the best manner of conducting it. But, after all, I seem to fear more about the labor to which it calls me than any great difficulty with which it is likely to be attended. To the labors of versifying I have no objection, but to the labors of criticism I am new, and ap- prehend that I shall find them wearisome. Should that be the case, I shall be dull, and must be contented to share the censure of being so with almost all the commentators that have ever existed. I have expected, but not wondered that I have not received, Sir Thomas More and the other MSS. you promised me ; because my silence has been such, considering how loudly [ was called upon to write, that you must nave concluded me either dead or dying, and did not choose perhaps to trust them to ex- leutors. W. C. TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. Weston, March 2, 1792. My dear Sir, — I have this moment finished a comparison of your remarks with my text and feel so sensibly my obligations to youf great accuracy and kindness, that I canno deny myself the pleasure of expressing them immediately. I only wish that instead of re- vising the two first books of the Iliad, you could have found leisure to revise the whole two poems, sensible how much my work would have benefitted. I have not always adopted your lines, though often, perhaps, at least as good as my own ; because there will and must be dissimi larity of manner between two so accustomed to the pen as we are. But I have let few passages go unamended which you seemed to think exceptionable ; and this not at all from complaisance; for in such a cause I would not sacrifice an iota on that principle, but on clear conviction. I have as yet heard nothing from Johnson about the two MSS. you announced, but feel ashamed that I should want your letter to re- mind me of. your obliging offer to inscribe Sir Thomas More to me, should you resolve to publish him. Of my consent to such a measure you need not doubt. I am covetous of respect and honor from all such as you. Tame hare, at present, I have none. But, to make amends, I have a beautiful little spaniel, called Beau, to whom I will give the kiss your sister Sally intended for the former, unless she should command me to bestow it elsewhere ; it shall attend on her directions. I am going to take a last dinner with a most agreeable family, who have been my only neighbors ever since I have lived at Weston. On Monday they go to London, and in the summer to an estate in Oxfordshire, which is to be their home in future. The occasion is not at all a pleasant one to me, nor does it leave me spirits to add more, than that I am, dear sir, Most truly yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON* Weston, March 4, 1792. My dear Friend, — All our little world is going to London, the gulf that swallows most of our good things, and, like a bad stomach, too often assimilates them to itself. Our neighbors at the Hall go thither to-morrow Mr. and Mrs. Throckmorton, as we lately called them, but now Sir John and my Lady, are no longer inhabitants here, but henceforth of Bucklands, in Berkshire. 1 feel the loss of them, and shall feel it, since kinder or more friendly treatment I never can receive at any hands than I have always found at theirs. But it has long been a foreseen change, and was, indeed, almost daily expected long before it happened. The desertion of the Hall, how. ever, will not be total. The second brother * Private correspondence. 390 COWPER S WORKS. George, now Mr. Courtenay * intends to re- side there : and, with him, as with his elder brother, I have always been on terms the most agreeable. Such is this variable scene : so variable, that, had the reflections I sometimes make upon it a permanent influence, I should tremble at the thought of a new connexion, and, to be out of the reach of its mutability, lead almost the ife of a hermit. It is well with those who, ike you, have God for their companion. Death cannot deprive them of Him, and he changes not the place of his abode. Other changes, therefore, to them are all supporta- ble ; and what you say of your own experi- ence is the strongest possible proof of it. Had you lived without God, you could not have endured the loss you mention. May He preserve me from a similar one ; at least, till he shall be pleased to draw me to himself again ? Then, if ever that day come, it will make me equal to any burden ; but at present I can bear nothing well. I am sincerely yours, W. C. TO MRS. KING.f Weston, March 8, 1792. My dear Madam, — Having just finished all my Miltonic translations, and not yet begun my comments, I find an interval that cannot be better employed than in discharging ar- rears due to my correspondents, of whom I begin first a letter to you, though your claim be of less ancient standing than those of all the rest. I am extremely sorry that you have been so much indisposed, and especially that your indisposition has been attended with such ex- cessive pain. But may I be permitted to ob- serve, that your going to church on Christ- mas-day, immediately after such a sharp fit of rheumatism, was not according to the wisdom with which I believe you to be en- dued, nor was it acting so charitably toward yourself as I am persuaded you would have acted toward another. To another you would, I doubt not, have suggested that text — " I will have mercy and not sacrifice," as ^implying a gracious dispensation, in circum- stances like yours, from the practice of so severe and dangerous a service. Mrs. Unwin, 'I thank God, is better, but still wants much of complete restoration. We have reached a time of life when heavy blows, if not fatal, are at least long felt. I have received many testimonies concern- ing my Homer, which do me much honor, and afford me great satisfaction ; but none from which I derive, or have reason to derive, more Jinn that of Mr. Martyn. It is of great use It me, when I write, to suppose some such * Afterwards Sir George Throckmorton, t Private correspondence. person at my elbow, witnessing what I do and I ask myself frequently — Would this please him? If I think it would, it stands: if otherwise, I alter it. My work is thus fin ished, as it were, under the eye of some ot the best judges, and has the better chance to win their approbation when they actually see it. I am, my dear madam Affectionately yours, W. C. TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. Weston-Underwood, March 10, 1792. Dear Sir, — You will have more candor, aa I J^ope and believe, than to impute my delay to answer your kind and friendly letter to inattention or want of a cordial respect for the writer of it. To suppose any such cause of my silence were injustice both to yourself and me. The truth is, I am a very busy man, and cannot gratify myself with writing to my friends so punctually as I wish. You have not in the least fallen in my es- teem on account of your employment ,* as you seemed to apprehend that you might. It is an elegant one, and, when you speak modestly, as you do, of your proficiency in it, I am far from giving you entire credit for the whole assertion. I had indeed supposed you a person of independent fortune, who had nothing to do but to gratify himself; and whose mind, being happily addicted to literature, was at full leisure to enjoy its in- nocent amusement. But it seems I was mis- taken, and your time is principally due to an art which has a right pretty much to engross your attention, and which gives rather the air of an intrigue to your intercourse and familiarity with the muses than a lawful con- nexion. No matter : I am not prudish in this respect, but honor you the more for a passion, virtuous and laudable in itself; and which you indulge not, I dare say, without benefit to yourself and your acquaintance. I, for one, am likely to reap the fruit of your amours, and ought therefore, to be one of the last to quarrel with til em. You are in danger, I perceive, of thinking of me more highly than you ought to think * Mezzotinto engraving. Mr. Park, in early youth, flue* tuated in the choice between the sister arts of poetry music, and painting, and composed the following lires to record the result. By fancy warm'd, I seiz'd the quill, And poetry the strain inspir'd ; Music improv'd it by her skill, Till I with both their charms was fir'd. Won by the graces each display'd, Their younger sister I forgot ; Though first to her my vows were paid, — By fate or choice it matters not. She, jealous of their rival powers, And to repay the injury done, Condemn'd me through life's future hours, All to admire, but wed with none. T.P. LIFE OF COWPER. 3Si i am not one of the literati, among whom you seem disposed to place me. Far from it. I told you in my last how heinously I am unprovided with the means of being so, having long since sent all my books to market. My learning accordingly lies in a very narrow compass. It is school-boy learn- ing somewhat improved, and very little more. From the age of twenty to twenty-three, I was occupied, or ought to have been, in the study of the law. From thirty-three to sixty J have spent my time in the country, where my reading has been only an apology for 'dleness, and where, when I had not either a .nagazine or a review in my hand, I was some- times a carpenter, at others a birdcage maker, or a gardener, or a drawer of landscapes. At fifty years of age I commenced an author. It is a whim that has served me longest and best, and which will probably be my last. Thus you see .1 have had very little oppor- tunity to become what is property called — learned. In truth, having given myself so entirely of late to poetry, I am not sorry for this deficiency, since great learning, I have been sometimes inclined to suspect, is rather a hindrance to the fancy than a furtherance. You will do me a favor by s'ending me a copy of Thomson's monumental inscription. He was a poet, for whose memory, as you iustly suppose, I have great respect ; in com- mon, indeed, with all who have ever read him with taste and attention. Wishing you heartily success in your pres- ent literary undertaking and in all profes- sional ones, I remain, Dear sir, with great esteem, Sincerely yours, W. C. P. S. After what I have said, I will not Dlush to confess, that I am at present per- fectly unacquainted with the merits of Drum- mond,* but shall be happy to see him in due time, as I should be to see see any author edited by you. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, March 11, 1792. My dear Johnny, — You talk of primroses that you pulled on Candlemas-day ; but what think you of me that heard a nightingale on new-year's day ? Perhaps I am the only man in England who can boast of such good for- tune ; good indeed, for if it was at all an omen it could not be an unfavorable one. The winter, however, is now making himself * Drummond, an elegant Scottish poet, born in 1585. His works, though not free from the conceits of the ftalian School, are characterised by much delicacy of taste and feeling. There is a peculiar melody and sweet- ness in his verse, and his sonnets particularly have pro- cured for him a fame, which has survived to the present time. An edition of his Poems was published in 1791, »y Cowper's correspondent, Mr. Park. amends, and seems the more peevish for hav ing been encroached on at so undue a season. Nothing less than a large slice out of the spring will satisfy him. Lady Hesketh left us yesterday. She in- tended to have left us four days sooner; but in the evening before the day fixed for her departure, snow enough fell to occasion just so much delay of it. We have faint hopes that in the month of May we shall see her again. I know that you have had a letter from her, and you will no doubt have the grace not to make her wait long for an answer. We expect Mr. Rose on Tuesday ; but he stays with us only till the Saturday follow- ing. With him I shall have some conferen- ces on the subject of Homer, respecting a new edition I mean, and some perhaps on the subject of Milton; on him I have not yet begun to comment, or even fix the time when I shall. Forget not your promised visit ! W. C. We add the verses composed by Cowper on the extraordinary incident mentioned at the beginning of the preceding letter. to the nightingale which the author heard on new-year's day, 1792. Whence is it, that amaz'd I hear, From yonder wither'd spray, This foremost morn of all the year, -The melody of May % And why, since thousands would be proud Of such a favor shown, Am I selected from the crowd, To witness it alone 1 Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, For that I also long Have practis'd in the groves like theo Though not like thee, in song. Or sing'st thou rather under force Of some divine command, Commission'd to presage a course Of happier days at hand 1 Thrice welcome then ! for many a long And joyless year have I, As thou to-day, put forth my song Beneath a wintry sky. But thee no wintry skies can harm, Who only need'st to sing, To make e'en January charm, And ev'ry season spring. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Weston, March 18, 1792. My dear Friend, — We are now once mon reduced to our dual state, having lo?t oui * Private correspondence. 592 COWPER'S WORKS. neighbors at the Hall and our inmate Lady Hesketh. Mr. Rose indeed, has spent two or three days here, and is still with us, but he leaves us in the afternoon. There are those in the world whom we love, and whom we are happy to see ; but we are happy like- wise in each other, and so far independent of our fellow mortals as to be.able to pass our time comfortably without them : — as com- fortably, at least, as Mrs. Unwin's frequent indispositions, and my no less frequent trou- bles of mind, will permit. When I am much distressed, any company but hers distresses me more, and makes me doubly sensible of my sufferings, though sometimes, I confess, it falls out otherwise ; and, by the help of more general conversation, I recover that elasticity of mind which is able to resist the pressure. On the whole, I believe I am situ- ated exactly as I should wish to be, were my situation to be determined by my own election ; and am denied no comfort that is compatible with the total absence of the chief of all. Adieu, my dear friend, I remain, affectionately yours. W. C. many pieces wrote each jn particular, there can be no better criterion by which to de- termine the point than the more or less pro- ficiency manifested in the composition. Of this proficiency, where it appears, and of those plays in which it appears not, you seem to have judged well and truly, and, conse- quently, I approve of your arrangement. I- attended, as you desired me, in reading the character of Cecilia, to the hint you gave me concerning your sister Sally, and give you joy of such a sister. This, however, not exclusively of the rest, for, though they may not all be Cecilias, I have a strong persuasion that they are all very amiable. W. C. TO THE REV. MR. HTJRDIS. Weston, March 23, 1792. My dear Sir, — I have read your play care- fully, and with great pleasure : it seems now I to be a performance that cannot fail to do j you much credit. Yet, unless my memory deceives me, the scene between Cecilia and Heron in the garden has lost something that pleased me much when I saw it first ; and I am not sure that you have not likewise ob- literated an account of Sir Thomas's execu- tion, that I found very pathetic. It would be strange if, in these two particulars, I should seem to miss what never existed ; you will presently know whether I am as good at remembering what I never saw as I am at forgetting what I have seen. But if I am right, I cannot help recommending the omit- ted passages to your re-consideration. If the pky were designed for representation, I should be apt to think Cecilia's first speech rather too long, and should prefer to have it broken into dialogue, by an interposition now and then from one of her sisters. But, since it is designed, as I understand, for the closet only, that objection seems of no im- portance ; at no rate, however, would I ex- punge it, because it is both prettily imagined a^d elegantly written. I have read your cursory remarks, and am much pleased both with the style and the argument. Whether the latter be new or not I am not competent to judge ; if it be, you are entitled to much praise for the in- vention of it. Where other data are want- ing to ascertain the time when an author of TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, March 25, 1792. My dearest Coz., — Mr. Rose's longer stay than he at first intended was the occasion of the longer delay of my answer to your note, as you may both have perceived by the date thereof, and learned from his information. It was a daily trouble to me to see it lying in the window-seat, while I knew you were in expectation of its arrival. By this time I presume you have seen him, and have seen likewise Mr. Hayley's friendly letter and com- plimentary sonnet, as well as the letter of the honest Quaker; all of which, at least the two former, I shall be glad to receive again at a fair opportunity. Mr. Hayley's letter slept six weeks in Johnson's custody.* It was necessary that I should answer it without delay, and .accordingly I answered it the very evening on which I received it, giv- ing him to understand, among other things, how much vexation the bookseller's folly had cost me, who had detained it so long : espe- cially on account of the distress that I knew it must have occasioned to him also. From his reply, which the return of the post brought me, I learn that in the long interval of my non-correspondence, he had suffered anxiety and mortification enough; so much, that I dare say he made twenty vows never to haz- ard again either letter or compliment to an unknown author. What, indeed, could he imagine less than that I meant by such an obstinate silence to tell him that I valued neither him nor his praises, nor his proffered friendship ; in short, that I considered him as a rival, and therefore, like a true author, hated and despised him ? He is now, how- ever, convinced that I love him, as indeed I * We have already stated that Hayley was engaged m a life of Milton, when Cowper was announced as editor of Johnson's projected work. With a generosity that re- flects the highest credit on his feelings, he addressed a letter on this occasion to Cowper, accompanied by a com- plimentary sunnet, and offering his kind aid in any way that might prove most acceptable. The letter was en trusted to the bookseller, who delayed transmitting u six weeks, and thereby created great anxiety in Hay ley '• mind. LIFE OF COWPER. 393 do, and I account him the chief acquisition that my own verse has ever procured me. Brute should I be if I did not, for he prom- ises me every assistance in his power. I have likewise a very pleasing letter from Mr. Park, which T wish you were here to read ; and a very pleasing poem that came enclosed in it for my revisal, written when he t was only twenty years of age, yet wonder- fully well written, though 'wanting some cor- rection. To Mr. Hurdis I return Sir Thomas More to-morrow, having revised it a second time. He is now a very respectable figure, and will do my friend, who gives him to the public this spring, considerable credit. W. C. TO THOMAS tARK, ESQ. Weston-Underwood, March 30, 1792. My dear Sir, — If you have indeed so favor- able an opinion of my judgment as you pro- fess, which I shall not allow myself to ques- tion, you will think highly and honorably of your poem,* for so I think of it. The view vou give of the place that you describe is slear and distinct, the sentiments are just, the reflections touching, and the numbers uncom- monly harmonious. I give you joy of having been able to produce, at twenty years of age, what would not have disgraced you at a much later period; and, if you choose to print it, have no doubt that it will do you great credit. You will perceive, however, when you re- ceive your copy again, that I have used all the liberty you gave me. I have proposed many alterations ; but you will consider them as only proposed. My lines are by no means obtruded on you, but are ready to give place to any that you shall choose to substitute of your own composing. They will serve at least to mark the passages which seem to me susceptible of improvement, and the manner in which I think the change may be made. I have not always, seldom, indeed, given my reasons ; but without a reason I have altered nothing, and the decision, as I say, is left with you in the last instance. Time failed me to be particular and explicit always, in accounting for my strictures, and I assured myself that you would impute none of them to an arbitrary humor, but all to their true cause — a desire to discharge faithfully the trust committed to me. I cannot but add, I think it a pity that you, who have evidently such talents for poetry, should be so loudly called another way, and want leisure to cultivate them , for if such was the bud, what might we not have ex- pected to see in the full-blown flower ? Per- haps, however, I am not quite prudent in * A juvenile offering of gratitude to the place where lie wiitei had recei *ed his educp-ica. saying all this to you, whose proper function is not that of a poet, but I say it, trusting to your prudence, that you will not suffer it to seduce you. I have not the edition of Milton's juvenile poems which you mention, but shall be truly glad to see it, and thank you for the offer. No possible way occurs to me of return- ing your MS. but by the Wellingborough coach ; by that conveyance, therefore, I shall send it on Monday, and my remarks, rough as I made them, shall accompany it. Believe me, with much sincerity, Yours, W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, March 30, 1792. My dear Friend, — My mornings, ever since you went, have been given to my corre- spondents ; this morning I have already writ- ten a long letter to Mr. Park, giving my opinion of his poem, which is a favorable one. I forget whether I showed it to you when you were here, and even whether I had then received it. He has genius and delicate taste ; and, if he were not an engraver, might be one of our first hands in poetry. w. a TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, April 5, 1792. You talk, my dear friend, as John Bunyan says, "like one that has the egg-shell still upon his head." You talk of the mighty favors that you have received from me, and forget entirely those for which I am indebted to you ; but though you forget them, I shall not, nor ever think that I have requited you, so long as any opportunity presents itself of rendering you the smallest service; small indeed is all that I can ever hope to render. You now perceive, and sensibly, that not without reason I complained, as I use to do, of those tiresome rogues, the printers. Bless yourself that you have not two thick quartos to bring forth, as I had. My vexation was always much increased by this reflection — they are every day, and all day long, em- ployed in printing fcr somebody, and why not for me ? This was adding mortification to disappointment, so that I often lost all patience. The suffrage of Dr. Robertson makes more than amends for the scurvy jest passed upon me by the wag unknown. I regard him not ; nor, except for about two momenta after I first heard of his doings, have I ever regarded him. I have somewhere a secret enemy ; I know not for what cause he should be so, but he, I imagine, supposes that he has a cause : it is well, however, to have bul 394 COWPER'S WORKS. one ; and I will take all the care I can not to increase Lie number. I have begun my notes, and am playing the commentator manfully. The worst of it is that I am anticipated in almost all my op- portunities to shine by those who have gone before rne. W. C. The following letter is the commencement of Cowper's correspondence with Hayley, originating in the circumstances already de- tailed to the reader. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, April 6, 1792. My dear Friend, — God grant that this friendship of ours may be a comfort to us all the rest of our days, in a world where true friendships are rarities, and, especially where suddenly formed, they are apt soon to ter- minate ! But, as I said before, I feel a dis- position of heart toward you that I never felt for one whom I had never seen, and that shall prove itself, I trust, in the event, a pro- pitious omen. Horace says somewhere, though I may quote it amiss, perhaps, for I have a terrible memory, " Utrumque nostrum incredibili modo Consentit astrum." . . . Our stars consent, at least have had an influence somewhat similar, in another and more important article. . . . It gives me the sincere st pleasure that I may hope to see you at Weston ; for, as to any migrations of mine, they must, I fear, notwithstanding the joy I should feel in be- ing a guest of yours, be still considered in the light of impossibilities. Come, then, my friend, and be as welcome (as the country people say here) as the flowers in May ! I am happy, as I say, in expectation ; but the fear, or rather the consciousness, that I shall not answer on a nearer view, makes it a trembling kind of happiness and a doubtful. After the privacy which I have mentioned above, I went to Huntingdon ; soon after my arrival there, I took up my quarters at the house of the Rev. Mr. Unwin ; I lived with him while he lived, and ever since his death have lived with his widow. Her, therefore, you will find mistress of the house ; and I judge of you amiss, or you will find her just such as you would wish. To me she has been often a nurse, and invariably the kind- est friend, through a thousand adversities that I have had to grapple with in the course of almost thirty years. I thought it better io introduce her to you thus, than to present ner to you at your coming, quite a stranger. Briiig with you any books that you think may be useful to my commentatorship, for with you for an interpreter, I shall be afraid of none of them. And, in truth, if you think that you shall want them, you must bring books for your own use also, for they are an article with which I am heinously unprovided . being much in the condition of the man whose library Pope describes as < " No mighty store ! His own works neatly bouud, and little more !" You shall know how this has come to pass hereafter. Tell me, my friend, are your letters in your own hand- writing ? If so, I am in pain foi your eyes, lest by such frequent demands upon them I should hurt them. I had rather write you three letters for one, much as I prize your letters, than that should happen. And now, for the present, adieu, — I am going to accompany Milton into the lake of fire and brimstone, having just begun my an- notations. W. C. TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. Weston, April 8, 1792. My dear Sir, — Your entertaining and pleasant letter, resembling in that respect all that I receive from you, deserved a more ex- peditious answer, and should have had what it so well deserved, had it not reached me ai a time when, deeply in debt to all my corre spondents, I had letters to write without number. Like autumnal leaves that strew the brooks in Vallombrosa, the unanswered farrago lay before me. If I quote at all, you must expect me henceforth to quote none but Milton, since for a long time to come I shall be occupied with him only. I was much pleased with the extract you gave me from your sister Eliza's letter ; she writes very elegantly, and (if I might say it without seeming to flatter you) I should say much in the manner of her brother. It is well for your sister Sally that gloomy Dis is already a married man, else perhaps finding her, as he found Proserpine, studying botany in the fields, he might transport her to his own flowerless abode, where all her hopes of improvement in that science would be at an end forever. What letter of the 10th December is that which you say you have not yet answered Consider, it is April now, and I never remem- ber anything that I write half so long. But perhaps it relates to Catenas, for I do re- member that you have not yet furnished me with the secret history of him and his family which I demanded from you. Adieu ! Yours most sincerely, W. C. i,IFE OF COWPER. 392 I rejoice that you are so well with the .earned Bishop of Sarum,* and well remem- ber how he ferreted the vermin Lauderf out of all his hidings, when I was a boy at West- minster. I have not yet studied with your last re- marks before me, but hope soon to find an opportunity. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. J Weston, April 15, 1792. My dear Friend, — I thank you for your re- mittance ; which, to use the language of a song much in use when we were boys, " Adds fresh beauties to the spring, And makes all nature look more gay." What the author of the song had particularly in vit v when he thus sang, I know not ; but probab ./ it was not the sum of fifty pounds : whir h, as probably, he never had the happi- ness to possess. It was, most probably, some beautiful nymph, — beautiful in his eyes, at least, — who has long since become an old woman. I have heard about my wether mutton from various quarters. First, from a sensible little man, curate of a neighboring village ;§ then from Walter Bagot; then from Henry Cowper ; and now from you. It was a blun- der hardly pardonable in a man who has lived amid fields and meadows, grazed by sheep, almost these thirty years. I .have ac- cordingly satirized myself in two stanzas which I composed last night, when I lay awake, tormented with pain, and well dosed with laudanum. If you find them not very brilliant, therefore, you will know how to account for it. Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse If, bound in rhyming tethers, He had committed this abuse Of changing ewes for wethers ; • But male for female is a trope, Or rather bold misnomer, That would have startled even Pope When he translated Homer. Having translated all the Latin and Italian Mil tonics, I was proceeding merrily with a Commentary on the Paradise Lost, when I was seized, a week since, with a most tor- menting disorder; which has qualified me, however, to make some very feeling obser- vations on that passage, when I shall conie to it : " 111 fare our ancestor impure !" For this we may thank Adam; — and you * Dr. Douglas. t Lauder endeavored to depreciate the fame of Milton by a charge of plagiarism. Dr. Douglas successfully vin- dicated the great poet from such an imputation, and proved that it was a gross Action on the part of Lauder. t Private correspondence. $ The Rev. John Buchanan. may thank him, too, that I am not able to fill my sheet, nor endure a writing posture any longer. I conclude abruptly, therefore, but sincerely subscribing myself, with my l»est compliments to Mrs. Hill, Your affectionate, W. C. TO LADY THROCKMORTON. Weston, April 16, 1792. My dear Lady Frog, — I thank you for youl letter, as sweet as it was short, and as sweet as good news could make it. You encourage a hope that has made me happy ever since I have entertained it. And if my wishes can hasten the event, it will not be long sus- pended.* As to your jealousy, I mind it not, or only to be pleased with it ; I shall say no more on the subject at present than this, that of all ladies living, a certain lady, whom I ne'ed not name, would be the lady of my choice for a certain gentleman, were the whole sex submitted to my ejection. What a delightful anecdote is that which you tell me of a young lady detected in thb very act of stealing our Catharina's praises ; is it possible that she can survive the shame, the mortification of such a discovery 1 Can she ever see the same company again, or any company that she can suppose, by the re- motest possibility, may have heard the tid- ings 1 If she can, she must have an assur- ance equal to her vanity. A lady in London stole my song on the broken Rose, or rather would have stolen and have passed it for her own. But she too was unfortunate in her attempt ; for there happened to be a female cousin of mine in company, who knew that I had written it. It is very flattering to a poet's pride that the ladies should thus hazard everything for the sake of appropriat- ing his verses. I may say with Milton that I am fallen on evil tongues, and evil days, be- ing not only plundered of that which belongs to me, but being charged with that which does not. Thus it seems (and I have learned it from more quarters than one) that a report is, and has been sometime, current in this and the neighboring counties, that, though I tfave given myself the air of declaiming against the Slave Trade in " The Task," I am in reality a friend to it ; and last night I received a letter from Joe Rye, to inform me that I have been much traduced and calum- niated on this account. Not knowing how I could better or more effectually refute the scandal, I have this morning sent a copy to the Northampton paper, prefaced by a short letter to the printer, specifying the oc- casion. The verses are in honor of Mr Wilberforce, and sufficiently expressive of * The prospect of a marriage between Miss Stapleton, the Catharina of Cowper, and Mr. Courtenay, Sir John Throckmorton's brother. S96 COWPER'S WORKS, my present sentiments on the subject. You are a wicked fair one for disappointing us of our expected visit, and therefore, out of mere spite, I will not insert them. I have been very ill these ten days, and for the same spite's sake will not tell you what has ailed me. But, lest you should die of a fright, I will have the mercy to tell you that I am re- covering. Mrs. Giftord and her. little ones are gone, but your brother is still here. He told me that he had some expectations of Sir John at Weston; if he come, I shall most heartily re- ioice once more to see him at a table so many years his own. W. C. We subjoin the verses addressed to Mr. Wilberforce, intended to vindicate Cowper from the charge of lukewarmness in such a cause. TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ,. Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee by cruel men and impious, call'd Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain. Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd, Fear not lest labor such as thine be vain ! Thou hast achiev'd a part, hast gain'd the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause : [pause Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho : cold caution And weave delay, the better hour is near, That shall remunerate thy toils severe By peace for Afric, fenc'd with British laws. Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love From all the just on earth and all the blest above ! In detailing the incidents that occur in the life of Cowper, we have just recorded a ma- levolent report, highly injurious to his integ- rity and honor. In order to recall the fact to the memory of the reader, we insert the statement itself, in the words of Cowper: * A report is, and has been some time cur- rent, in this and the neighboring counties, that, though I have given myself the air of declaiming against the slave trade in 'The Task,' I am in reality a friend to it ; and last night I received a letter from Joe Rye, to^in- form me, that I have been much traduced and calumniated on this account." That the author of " The Task," a poem distinguished by its tone of pure and elevated morality, and breathing a spirit of most un- compromising hostility against the slave trade —that such a man, at that time in the very zenith of his fame, should be publicly accused of favoring the very cause which he had so eloquently denounced, is one of those circum- stances which, for the honor of human nature, we could wish not to have been compelled to record. With this painful fact before us, we would ask, what is popularity, and what wise man would attach value to so fleeting a posses, sion ? It is a gleam of sunshine, which em- bellishes for a moment the object on which it falls, and then vanishes away. In the course of a life not passed without observation, we have had occasion to remark, in the political, the literary, and even in the religious world, the evanescent character of popular favor. We ha" seen men alternately caressed and deserted, praised and censured, and made to feel the vanity of human applause and ad- miration. The idol of to-day is dethroned by the idol of to-morrow, which, in its turn, yields to the dominion of some more favored rival. The wisdom of God evidently designs, by these events, to check the thirst for human praise and distinction, by showing us the pre- carious tenure by which they are held. We are thus admonished to examine our motives, and to be assured of the integrity of our in- tentions ; neither to despise public favor, nor yet to overvalue it; but to preserve that calm and equable temper of mind, and that full consciousness of the rectitude of our princi- ples, that we may learn to enjoy it without triumph, or to lose it without dejection. " Henceforth Thy patron He whose diadem has dropp'd Yon gems of heaven ; eternity thy prize ; And leave the racers of this world their own." The reader will be amused in finding the origin of the injurious report above men- tioned disclosed in the following letter. Mr. Rye was unjustly supposed to have aided in propagating this misconception; but Cowper fully vindicates him from such a charge. TO THE REV. J. JEKYLL RYE* Weston, April 16, 1792. My. dear Sir, — I am truly sorry that yon should have suffered any apprehensions, such as your letter indicates, to molest you for a moment. I believe you to be as honest a man as lives, and consequently do not believe it possible that you could in your letter to Mr. Pitts, or any otherwise, wilfully misrepresent me. In fact you did not ; my opinions on the subject in question were, when I had the pleasure of seeing you, such as in that letter you stated them to be, and such they still continue. If any man concludes, because I allow my- self the use of sugar and rum, that therefore I am a friend to the slave trade, he concludes rashly, and does me great wrong; for the man lives not who abhors it more than I do. My reasons for my own practice are satisfactory to myself, and they whose practice is contra- ry, are, I suppose, satisfied with theirs. Sc * Vicar of Dalington, near Northampton. LIFE OF COWPER, 391 far is good. Let every man act according to his own judgment and conscience ; but if we condemn another for not seeing with our eyes, we are unreasonable; and if we re- proach him on that account, we are unchari- table, which is a still greater evil. I had heard, before I received the favor of vours, that such a report of me as you men- tion had spread about the country. But my information told me that it was founded thus — The people of Olney petitioned parlia- ment for the abolition — My name was sought among the subscribers, but was not found. A question was asked, how that happened ? Answer was made, that I had once indeed been an enemy to the slave trade, but had changed my mind, for that, having lately read a history, or an account of Africa, I had seen it there asserted, that till the commencement of that traffic, the negroes, multiplying at a prodigious rate, were necessitated to devour each other; for which reason I had judged it better that the trade should continue, than that they should be again reduced to so hor- rid a custom. Now all this is a fable. I have read no such history; I never in my life read any such assertion; nor, had such an assertion presented itself to me, should I have drawn any such conclusion from it. On the contra- ry, bad as it were, I think it would be better the negroes should even eat one another, than that we should carry them to market. The single reason why I did not sign the petition was, because I was never asked to do it; and the reason why I was never asked was, because I am not a parishioner of Olney. Thus stands the matter. You will do me the justice, I dare say, to speak of me as of a man who abhors the commerce, which is now, I hope, in a fair way to be abolished, as often as you shall find occasion. And I beg you henceforth to do yourself the just- ice to believe it impossible that I should, for a moment, suspect you of duplicity or mis- representation. I "have been grossly slan- dered, but neither by you, nor in conse- quence of anything that you have either said or written. I remain, therefore, still, as heretofore, with great respect, much and tru- ly yours, W. C. Mrs. Unwin's compliments attend you. Cowper, on this occasion, addressed the following letter to the editors of the North- ampton Mercury, enclosing the verses on Mr. Wilberforce which have just been inserted. TO THE PRINTERS OF THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY. Weston-Underwood, April 16, 1792. Sirs*, — Having lately learned that it is pret- ty generally reported, both in your county and in this, that my present opinion, concern ing the slave trade, differs totally from thai which I have heretofore given to the public and that I am no longer an enemy, but a friend to that horrid traffic ; I entreat you to take an early opportunity to inseit in your paper the following lines,* written no longer since than this very morning, expressly for the two purposes of doing just honor to the gentleman with whose name they are in scribed, and of vindicating myself from an as persion so injurious. I am, &c, W. Cowper. The last two lines in the sonnet, addressed to Mr. Wilberforce, were originally thus ex- pressed : — Then let them scoff, two priz* thou hast won ; Freedom for captives, and thy God's " Well done." These were subsequently altered as fol low : Enjoy what thou bast won, esteem and love From all the just on earth and all the blest above. Cowper's version of Homer, which has formed so frequent a subject in the preced- ing pages, led to a public discussion, in which the interests of literature and the success of his own undertaking were deeply concerned. The question agitated was the relative merits of rhyme and blank verse, in undertaking a translation of that great poet. Johnson, the great dictator in the republic of letters, in his predilection for rhyme, had almost proscribed the use of blank verse in poetical composi- tion. " Poetry," he observes, in his life of Milton, " may subsist without rhyme ; but English poetry will not please, nor can rhyme ever be safely spared, but where the subject is able to support itself. Blank verse makes some approach to that which is Called the lapidary style ,* has neither the easiness of prose, nor the melody of numbers; and there- fore tires by long continuance. Of the Italian writers without rhyme, whom Milton alleges as precedents, not one is popular. What reason could urge in its defence, has been confuted by the ear." Johnson, however, makes an exception in the instance of Milton. " But, whatever be the advantages of rhyme," he adds, " I cannot prevail on my self to wish that Milton had been a rhymer for I cannot wish his work to be other than it is ; yet, like other heroes, he is to be ad- mired rather than imitated. He that thinks himself capable of astonishing, may write blank verse ; but those that hope only to please must condescend to rhyme." In his critique on the " Night Thoughts," he makes a similar concession. " This is on« * See page 396. 398 COWPER'S WORKS. of the few poems in which blank verse could not be changed for rhyme but with disad- vantage. The wild diffusion of the senti- ments, and the digressive sallies of imagina- tion, would have been compressed and con- strained by confinement to rhyme."* Cowper, it will be remembered, questions the correctness of Johnson's taste on this subject, and vindicates the force and majesty of blank verse with much weight of argu- ment. With respect, however, to the im- portant question, how a translation of Homer might be best executed, his sentiments are delivered so much at large in the admirable preface to his version of the Iliad, that we shall lay a few extracts from it before the reader. " Whether a translation of Homer," he re- marks, "may be best executed in blank verse or in rhyme, is a question in the decision of which no man can find difficulty, who has ever duly considered what translation ought to be, or who is in any degree practically acquainted with those very different kinds of versification. I will venture to assert, that a just translation of any ancient poet in rhyme is impossible. No human ingenuity can be equal to the task of closing every couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing at the same time the full sense, and only the full sense, of his original. The translator's ingenuity, indeed, in this case, becomes itself a snare ; and the readier he is at invention and expedient, the more likely he is to be betrayed into the widest departure from the guide whom he professes to follow." It was this acknowledged defect in Pope, that led Cowper to engage in his laborious undertaking of producing a new version. We admire the candor with which he ap- preciates the merits of Pope's translation, and yet we cannot refuse to admit the just- ness of his strictures. "I have no contest," he observes, "with my predecessor. None is supposable be- tween performers on different instruments. Mr. Pope has surmounted all difficulties in his version of Homer that it was possible to surmount in rhyme. But he was fettered, and his fetters were his choice." " He has given us the Tale of Troy divine in smooth verse, generally in correct and elegant lan- guage, and in diction often highly poetical. But his deviations are so many, occasioned chiefly by the cause already mentioned, that, much as he has done, and valuable as his work is on some accounts, it was yet in the humble province of a translator, that I thought it possible even for me to follow him vith son!" advantage." * Young's testimony in favor of blank verse is thus rorcibly, though rather pompously expressed :— "Blank verse is verse unfnllen, uncursed; verse re- claimed, re-enthroned in the true language of the gods." See Conjectures on Original Composition. What the reader may expect to discover in the two respective versions is thus de- scribed : — " The matter found in me, whether he like it or not, is found also in Homer ', and the matter not found in me, how much soever he may admire it, is only found in Mr. Pope. I have omitted nothing; I have in- vented nothing." " Fidelity is indeed the very essence of translation, and the term itself implies it. For which reason, if we suppress the sense of our original, and force into its place our own, we may call our work an imitation, if we please, or perhaps a para- phrase, but it is no longer the same author only in a different dress, and therefore it is not a translation." After dwelling upon the merits and defects of the free and the close translation, and ob- serving that the former can hardly be true to the original author's style and manner, and that the latter is apt to be servile, he thus declares his view of the subject : — " On the whole, the translation which partakes equally of fidelity and liberality, that is close, but not so close as to be servile ; free, but not so free as to be licentious, promises fairest; and my ambition will be sufficiently gratified, if such of my readers as are able and will take the pains to compare me in this respect with Homer, shall judge that I have in any measure attained a- point so difficult." He concludes his excellent preface with these interesting words : — " And now I have only to regret that my pleasant work is ended. To the illustrious Greek I owe the smooth and easy flight of many thousand hours. He has been my companion at home and abroad, in the study, in the garden, and in the field ; and no meas- ure of success, let my labors succeed as they may, will ever compensate to me the loss of the" innocent luxury that I have enjoyed as a translator of Homer." Having thus endeavored to do justice to the excellent preface of Cowper, we have re- served an interesting correspondence, which passed between Lord Thurlow and Cowpei on this subject, and now introduce it to the notice of the reader. It is without date. TO THE LORD THURLOW. My Lord, — A letter reached me yesterday from Henry Cowper, enclosing another from your lordship to himself; of which a pas- sage in my work formed the subject. It gave me the greatest pleasure : your stric- tures are perfectly just, and here follows the speech of Achilles accommodated to them. I did not expect to find your lordship on the side of rhyme, remembering well with how much energy and 1 interest I have heard you repeat passages from the "Paradise Lost," which you could not have recited as you did, unless you had been perfectly sen- sible of their music. It comforts me. there- fore, to know that if you have an ear for rhyme, you have an ear for blank verse also. Jt seems to me that I may justly complain of rhyme as an inconvenience in translation, even though I assert in the sequel that to me it has been easier to rhyme than to write without, because I always suppose a rhym- ing translator to ramble, and always obliged to do so. Yet I allow your lordship's ver- sion of this speech of Achilles to be very '.lose, and closer much than mine. But 1 Delieve that, should either your lordship or I give them burnish or elevation, your lines would be found, in measure as they acquired stateliness, to have lost the merit of fidelity — ■ in which case nothing more would be done than Pope has done already. I cannot ask your lordship to proceed in your strictures, though I should be happy to receive more of them. Perhaps it is pos- sible that when you retire into the country, you may now and then amuse yourself with my translation. Should your remarks reach me, I promise faithfully that they shall be all most welcome, not only as yours, but be- cause I am sure my work will be the better for them. With sincere and fervent wishes for your lordship's health and happiness, I remain, my lord, &c. W. C. The following is Lord Thurlow's reply : — TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. Dear Cowper. — On coming to town this morning, I was surprised particularly at re- ceiving from you an answer to a scrawl I sent Harry, which I have forgot too much to resume now. But I think I could not mean to patronize rhyme. I have fancied that it was introduced to mark the measure in modern languages, because they are less numerous and metrical than the ancient, and the name seems to import as much. Per- haps there was melody in ancient song with- out straining it to musical notes, as the com- mon Greek pronunciation is said to have had the compass of five parts of an octave. But surely that word is only figuratively applied to modern poetry. Euphony seems to be the highest term it will bear. I have fancied also, that euphony is an impression derived a good deal from habit, rather than suggested Dy nature; therefore in some degree acci- dental, and consequently conventional. Else, why can't we bear a drama with rhyme, or the French, one without it? Suppose the 'Rape of the Lock," "Windsor Forest," * L' Allegro," " II Penseroso," and many other (ittle poems which please, stripped of the rhyme, which might easily be done, would they please us as well ? It would be unfair to treat rondeaus, ballads, and odes in the same manner, because rhyme makes in some sort a part 1 of the conceit. It was this way of thinking which made me suppose that habitual prejudice would miss the rhyme; and that neither Dryden nor Pope would have dared to give their great authors in blank verse. I wondered to hear you say you thought rhyme easier in original compositions ; but you explained it, that you could go further a-field if you were pushed for want of a rhyme. An expression preferred for the sake of the rhyme looks as if it were worth more than you allow. But, to be sure, in translation, the necessity of rhyme imposes very heavy fetters upon those who mean translation, not paraphrase. Our common heroic metre is enough ; the pure iambic bearing only a sparing introduction of spon dees, trochees, &c, to vary the measure. Mere translation I take to be impossible, if no metre were required. But the differ- ence of the iambic and heroic measure de- stroys that at once. It is also impossible to obtain the same sense from a dead language and an ancient author, which those of his own time and country conceived : words and phrases contract, from time and use, such strong shades of difference from their origi- nal import. In a living language, with the familiarity of a whole life, it is not easy to conceive truly the actual sense of current expressions, much less of older authors. No two languages furnish equipollent words,— their phrases differ, their syntax and their idioms still more widely. But a translation, strictly so called, requires an exact conform- ity in all those particulars, and also in numlters ; therefore it is impossible. I really think at present, notwithstanding the opinion expressed in your preface, that a translator asks himself a good question, Ho\fr would my author have expressed the sentence I am turning, in English, as literally and fully as the genius, and use, and character of the language will admit o*'? In the passage before us, arra was the fondling expression of childhood to its pa- rent; and to those who first translated the lines, conveyed feelingly that amiable senti- ment. Fepau expressed the reverence which naturally accrues to age. Aiorpctim implies an history. Hospitality was an article of re- ligion ; strangers were supposed to be sent by God, and honored accordingly. Jove's altar was placed in ^tvoSo^^v. Phcenix had been describing that as his situation in the court of Peleus ; and his Ac>rp^£ \ with Johnny, much cheered since I began writing to you, and bj Mary's looks and good spirits. W. C. TO DR. DARWIN, AUTHOR OF THE BOTANIC GARDEN. Two poets (poets by report Not oft so well agree) Sweet harmonist of Flora's court ! Conspire to honor thee. They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth, By labors of their own. We, therefore, pleas'd, extol thy song, Though various, yet complete, Rich in embellishment as strong, And learn'd as it is sweet. No envy mingles with our praise ; Though, could our hearts repine, At any poet's happier lays, They would, they must, at thine But we, in mutual bondage knit Of friendship's closest tie, Can gaze on even Darwin's wit With an unjaundic'd eye : And deem the bard, whoe'er he be, And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for thee, Unworthy of his own.* * The celebrated poem of "the Botanic Garden," originated in a copy of verses, addressed by Miss Seward to Dr. Darwin, complimenting him on his sequestered retreat near Lichfield. In this retreat there was a mossy fountain of the purest water ; aquatic plants bordered ita summit, and branched from the fissures of the rock. There was also a brook, which he widened into small lakes. The whole scene formed a little paradise, and was embellished with various classes of plants, uniting the Linnean science, with all the charm of landscape. When Miss Seward presented her verses to Dr. Darwin, he was highly gratified, she observes, and said, '• I shall send this poem to the periodical publications ; but it ought to form the exordium of a great work. The Lin- nean system is unexplored poetic ground, aud a happy subject for the muse. It affords fine scope for poetic landscape; it suggests metamorphoses of the Ovidian kind, though reversed. Ovid made men and women into flowers, plants, and trees. You should make flow- ers, plants, and trees, into men and women. I," con- tinued he, M will write the notes, which must be scien- tific, and you shall write the verse." Miss S." remarked, that besides her want of botanic knowledge, the undertaking was not strictly proper for a female pen ; and that she felt how much more it was adapted to the ingenuity and vigor of his own fancy. After maav objections urged on the part of Dr. Darwin, he at length acquiesced, and ultimately produced his " Loves of the Plants, or Botanic Garden."* Though this poem obtained much celebrity on its first appearance, it was nevertheless severely animadverted upon by some critics. A writer in the Anti-Jacobin Re- view, (known to be the late Mr. Canning) parodied the work, by producing " The Loves of the Triangles," in which triangles were made to fall in love with the same fervor of passion, as Dr. Darwin attiibuted to plants. The stvle, the imagery, and the entire composition of " The Loves of the Plants," were most successfully imi- tated. We quote the following. "In filmy, gauzy, gossamery lines, With lucid language, and most dark designs, In sweet tetrandryan monogynian strains, Pant for a pistil in botanic pains ; Raise lust in pinks, and with unhallowed fire. Bid the soft virgin Violet expire." We do not think that the Botanic Garden ever fullt * See Life of Dr. Darwin, by Mistt Seward. LIFE OF COWPER. 409 TO LADY HESKETH. Weston, June 11, 1792. My dearest Coz , — Thou art ever in my moughts, whether I am writing to thee or not, and my correspondence seems to grow upon me at such a rate that I am not able to address thee as often as 1 would. In fact, I live only to write letters. Hayley is as you see added to the number, and to him I write almost as duly as I rise in the morning ; nor is he only added, but his friend Carwardine also — Car- wardine the generous, the disinterested, the friendly. I seem, in short, to have stumbled suddenly on a race of heroes, men who re- solve to have no interests of their own Jill mine are served. But I will proceed to other matters, and that concern me more intimately, and more immediately, than all that can be done for me either by the great or the small, or by both united. Since I wrote last, Mrs. Unwin has been continually improving in strength, but at so gradual a rate that I can only mark it by saying that she moves about every day with ess support than the former. Her recovery s most of all retarded by want of sleep. On the whole, I believe she goes on as well as could be expected, though not quite well enough to satisfy me. And Dr. Austen, speaking from the reports I have made of her, says he has no doubt of her restoration. During the last two months I seem to my- self to have been in a dream. It has been a most eventful period, and fruitful to an un- common degree, both in good and evil. I have been very ill, and suffered excruciating pain. I recovered, and became quite well again. I received within my doors a man, but lately an entire stranger, and who now loves me as a brother, and forgets himself to serve me. Mrs. Unwin has been seized with an illness that for many days threatened to deprive me of her, and to cast a gloom, an impenetrable one, on all my future prospects. She is now granted to me again. A few days since I should have thought the moon might have descended into my purse as likely as any emolument, and now it seems not impossible. All this has come to pass with such rapidity as events move with in romance indeed, but not often in real life. Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases. To the foregoing I have to add in conclu- sion, the arrival of my Johnny, just when I wanted him most, and when only a few days before I had no expectation of him. He came to dinner on Saturday, and I hope I shall keep him long. What comes next I know not, but shall endeavor, as you exhort me, to look for good, and I know I shall have your prayer that I may not be disappointed. maintained its former estimation, after the keen Attic wit of Mr. Canning, though the concluding lines of Cow- >er seem to promise perp etuitv to its fame. Hayley tells me you begin to be jealous of him, lest I should love him more than I love you, and bids me say, " that, should I do so, you in revenge must "love him more than I do." Him I know you will love, and me, because you have such a habit of doing it that you cannot help it. Adieu ! My knuckles ache with letter- writing. With my poor patient's affectionate remembrances, and Johnny b. I am ever thine, W. J. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, June 19, 1792. Thus have I filled a whole page to my dear William of Eartham, and have not said a syllable yet about my Mary. A sure sign that she goes on well. Be it known to you that we have these four days discarded our sedan with two elbows. Here is no more carrying, or being carried, but she walks up stairs boldly, with one hand upon the balus trade, and the other under my arm, and in like manner she comes down in a morning. Still I confess she is feeble, and misses much of her former strength. The weather too is sadly against her : it deprives her of many a good turn in the orchard, and fifty times have I wished, this very day, that Dr. Darwin's scheme of giving rudders and sails* to the ice * That a very perceptible change, generally speaking' has taken place in the climate of Great Britain, and that the same observation applies to other countries, has been a frequent subject of remark, both with the past and present generation. Various causes have been assigned for this peculiarity. It has been said that nature is grow- ing old, and losing its elasticity and vigor. Others have attributed the change to the vast accumulation of ice in the Polar regions, and its consequent influence on the temperature of the air. Dr. Darwin humorously sug- gested the scheme of giving rudders and sails to the Ico Islands, that they might be wafted by northern gales, and thus be absorbed by the heat of a southern latitude. It is worthy of remark that in Milton's Latin Poems, there is a college thesis on this subject, viz., whether nature was becoming old and infirm. Milton took the negative < of this proposition, and maintained, naturam non pati senium, that nature was not growing old. Cowper, in his translation of this poem, thus renders some of the How ?— Shall the face of nature then be plough'd Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last On the great Parent fix a sterile curse ? Shall even she confess old age, and halt, And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows ?— Shall Time's unsated maw crave and ingulph The very heav'ns, that regulate his flight? — No. The Almighty Father surer laid His deep foundations, and providing well For the event of all, the scales of Fate Suspended, in just equipoise, and bade His universal works, from age to age, One tenor hold, perpetual, uniisturb'd. — Not tardier now is Saturn than of old, Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars Phoebus, his vigor unimpair'd, still shows Th' effulgence of his youth, nor needs the god A downward course, that he may warm the vales; But, ever rich in influence, runs his road, Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone. Beautiful as at first, ascends the star From odorif'rous Ind, whose office is To gather home betimes th' ethereal flock, To pour them o'er the skies again at eve, And to discriminate the night and day. 410 COWPER'S WORKS. islands that spoil all our summers, were actu- ally put into practice. So should we have gentle airs instead of churlish blasts, and those everlasting sources of bad weather being once navigated into the southern hemisphere, my Mary would recover as fast again. We are both of your mind respecting the journey to Eartham, and think that July, if by that time she have strength for the journey, will be better than August. We shall have more long days before us, and them we shall want as much for our return as for our going forth. This however, must be left to the Giver of all good. If our visit to you be according to his will, he will smooth our way before us, and appoint the time of it ; and I thus speak, not because I wish to seem a saint in your eyes, but because my poor Mary actually is one, and would not set her foot over the threshold, unless she had, or thought she had, God's free permission. With that she would go through floods and fire, though without it she would be afraid of everything — afraid even to visit you, dearly as she loves, and much as she longs to see you. W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. Weston, June 27, 1792. Well then — let us talk about this journey to Eartham. You wish me to settle the time of it, and I wish with all my heart to be able to do so, living in hopes meanwhile that I shall be able to do it soon. But some little time must necessarily intervene. Our Mary must be able to walk alone, to cut her own food, feed herself, and to wear her own shoes, for at present she wears mine. All things considered, my friend and brother, you will see the expediency of waiting a lit- tle before we set off to Eartham. We mean indeed before that day arrives to make a •trial of the strength of her head, how far it may be able to bear the motion of a car- riage — a motion that it has not felt these seven years. I grieve that we are thus cir- cumstanced, and that we cannot gratify our- selves in a delightful and innocent project without all these precautions ; but when we have leaf-gold to handle we must do it ten- derly. I thank you, my brother, both for present- ing my authorship* to your friend Guy, and for the excellent verses with which you have inscribed your present. There are none Still Cynthia's changeful horn waxes and wanes Alternate, and with arms extended still, She welcomes to her breast her brother's beams. Nor have the elements deserted yet Their functions. — Thus, in unbroken series, all proceeds ; And shall, till, wide involving either pole And the immensity of yonder heav'n, The final flames of destiny absorb The world, consum'd in one enormous pyre! * Verses on Dr. Darwin. neater or better turned — with what shall 1 requite you? I have nothing to send you but a gim-crack, which I have prepared fo! my bride and bridegroom neighbors, whc are expected to-morrow ! You saw in my book a poem entitled Catharina, which con eluded with a wish that we had her for e neighbor :* this therefore is called CATHARINA: (The Second Part.) ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ, Believe it or not, as you choose, The doctrine is certainly true, That the future is known to the muse, And poets are oracles too. I did but express a desire To see Catharina at home, At the side of my friend George's fire, And lo ! she is actually come. And such prophecy some may despise, But the wish of a poet and friend Perhaps is approv'd in the skies, And therefore attains to its end. 'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth, From a bosom effectually warm'd With the talents, the graces, and worth, Of the person for whom it was form'd. Maria would leave us, I knew, To the grief and regret of us all ; But less to our grief could we view Catharina the queen of the Hall. And therefore I wish'd as I did, And therefore this union of hands, Not a whisper was heard to forbid, But all cry amen to the bands. Since therefore I seem to incur No danger of wishing in vain, When making good wishes for her, I will e'en to my wishes again. With one I have made her wife, And now I will try with another, Which I cannot suppress for my life, How soon I can make her a mother. Te WILLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. Weston, July 4, 1792. I know net how you proceed in your lift of Milton, but I suppose not very rapidly for while you were here, and since you left us, you have had no other theme but me As for myself, except my letters to you, and the nuptial song I inserted in my last, I have literally done nothing since I saw you. Nothing, I mean, in the writing way, though a great deal in another; that is to say, in attending my poor Mary, and endeavoring tc nurse her up for a journey to Eartham. In this I have hitherto succeeded tolerably w§41 * See p. 362. LIFE OF COWPER. 4n and had rather carry this point completely than be the most famous editor of Milton that the world has ever seen or shall see. Your humorous descant upon my art of wishing made us merry, and consequently did good to us both. I sent my wish to the Hall yesterday. They are excellent neigh- bors, and so friendly to me that I wished to gratify them. When I went to pay my first visit, George flew into the court to meet me, and when I entered the parlor Catharina sprang into my arms. y W.C. TO WILLIAM HATLET, ESQ. Weston, July 15, 1792. The progress of the old nurse in Terence is very much like the progress of my poor patient in the road of recovery. I cannot, indeed, say that she moves but advances not, for advances are certainly made, but the progress of a week is hardly perceptible. I know not therefore, at present, what to say about this long-postponed journey. The utmost that it is safe for me to say at this moment is this — You know that you are dear to us both : true it is that you are so, and equally true that the very instant we feel ourselves at liberty, we will fly to Earth- am. I have been but once within the Hall door since the Courtenays came home, much is I have been pressed to dine there, and have hardly escaped giving a little offence by declining it : but, though I should offend all the world by my obstinacy in this in- stance, I would not leave my poor Mary alone. Johnny serves me as a represent- ative, and him I send without scruple. As to the affair of Milton, I know not what will become of it. I wrote to Johnson a week since to tell him that, the interruption of Mrs. Un win's illness still continuing, and being likely to continue, I knew not when I should be able to proceed. The translations (I said) were finished, except the revisal of a part. God bless your dear little boy and poet ! I thank him for exercising his dawning gen- ius upon me, and shall be still happier to thank him in person. Abbot is painting me so true, That (trust me) you would stare And hardly know, at the first view, If I were here or there.* I have sat twice ; and the few who. have Been his copy of me are much struck with the resemblance. He is a sober, quiet man, which, considering that I must have him at * Thi9 portrait was taken at the instance of Dr. John- Bon, and ;s thought most to resemble Cowper. It is now In the possession of Dr. Johnson's family, and represents the poet in a sitting posture, in an evening dress. least a week longer for an inmate, is a giea' comfort to me. My Mary sends you her best love. She can walk now, leaning on my arm only, anq her speech is certainly much improved. 1 long to see you Why cannot you and dear Tom spend the remainder of the summer with us? We might then all set off for Eartham merrily together. But I retract •this, conscious that I am unreasonable. It is a wretched world, and what we would is almost always what we cannot. Adieu! Love me, and be sure of a re« turn. w a TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. Weston-Underwood, July 20, 1792. Dear Sir, — I have been long silent, and must now be short. My time since I wrote last has been almost wholly occupied in suf fering. Either indisposition of my own, or of the dearest friend I have,* has so entirely engaged my attention, that, except the revis- ion of the two elegies you sent me long since, I have done nothing; nor do I at pres- ent foresee the day when I shall be able to do anything. Should Mrs. Unwin recover sufficiently to undertake a journey, I have promised Mr. Hayley to close the summer with a visit to him at Eartham. At the best, therefore, I cannot expect to proceed in my Anain business, till the approach of winter. I am thus thrown so much into ar- rear respecting Milton, that I already despair of being ready at the time appointed, and so I have told my employer. I need not say that the drift of this melan- choly preface is to apprize you that you must not expect despatch from me. Such expedi- tion as I can use I will, but I believe you must be very patient. It was only one year that I gave to draw ing, for I found it an employment hurtful tc my eyes, which have always been weak, and subject to inflammation. I finished my at- tempt in this way with three small land- scapes, which I presented to a lady. These may, perhaps, exist, but I have now no cor- respondence with the fair proprietor. Ex- cept these, there is nothing remaining to show that I ever aspired to such an accom- plishment. The hymns in the Olney collection marked (C) are all of my composition, except one, which bears that initial by a mistake of the printer. Not having the book at hand, I can- not now say which it is. Wishing you a pleasant time at Margate and assuring you, that I shall receive, with great pleasure, any drawing of yours with * Mrs. Unwin. 412 COWPER'S WORKS which you may favor me, and give it a dis- tinguished place in my very small collection, I remain, dear sir, Much and sincerely yours, W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, July 22, 1792. This important affair, my dear brother, is* at last decided, and we are coming. Wednes- day se'nnight, if nothing occur to make a later day necessary, is the day fixed for our 'ourney. Our rate of travelling must depend on Mary's ability to bear it. Our mode of travelling will occupy three days unavoida- bly, for we shall come in a coach. Abbot finishes my picture to-morrow ; on Wednes- day he returns to town, and is commissioned to order one down for us, with four steeds to draw it ; " Hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, That cannot go but forty miles a day." Send us our route, for I am as ignorant of it almost as if I were in a strange country. We shall reach St. Alban's, I suppose, the first day ; say where we must finish our sec- ond day's journey, and at what inn we may best repose ? As to the end of the third day, we know where that will find us, viz., in the arms, and under the roof, of our be- loved Hayley. General Cowper, having heard a rumor of this intended migration, desires to m«et me on the road, that we may once more see each other. He lives at Ham, near Kingston. Shall we go through Kingston or near it? For I would give him as little trouble as pos- sible, though he offers very kindly to come as far as Barnet for that purpose. Nor must I forget Carwardine, who so kindly desired to be informed what way we should go. On what point of the road will it be easiest for him to find us? On all these points you must be my oracle. My friend and brother, we shall overwhelm you with our numbers; this is all the trouble that I have left. My Johnny of Norfolk, happy in the thought of accom- panying us, would be broken-hearted to be left behind. In the midst of all these Solicitudes, I laugh to think what they are made of, and what an important thing it is for me to travel. Other men steal away from their homes silently, and make no disturbance, but when I move, houses are turned upside down, maids are turned out of their beds, all the counties through which I pass appear to be in an up- -oar — Surrey greets me by the mouth of the General, and Essex by that of Carwardine. How strange does all this seem to a man who has seen no bustle, and made none for wenty yews together ! Adieu! W.C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.* July 25, 1792. My dear Mr. Bull, — Engaged as I have been ever since I saw you, it was not possi- ble that I should write sooner; and, busy aa I am at present, it is not without difficulty that I can write even now : but I promised you a letter, and must endeavor, at least, to be as good as my word. How do you imagine I have been occupied these last ten days ? In sitting, not on cockatrice' eggs, nor yet to gratify a mere idle humor, nor because I was too sick to move; but because my cousin Johnson has an aunt who has a longing de- sire of my picture, and because he would, therefore, bring a painter from London to draw it. For this purpose I have been sit- ting, as I say, these ten days ; and am heart- ily glad that my sitting time is over. You have now, I know, a burning curiosity to learn two things, which I may choose whe- ther I will tell you or not ; First, who was the painter; and secondly, how he has suc- ceeded. The painter's name is Abbot. You never heard of him, you say. It is very like- ly; but there is, nevertheless, such a painter, and an excellent one he is. Multa sunt qua bonus Bernardus nee vidit, nee audivit. To your second inquiry, I answer, that he has succeeded to admiration. The likeness is so strong, that when my friends enter the room where the picture is, they start, astonished to see me where they know I am not. Misera- ble man that you are, to be at Brighton in- stead of being here, to contemplate this prodigy of art, which, therefore, you can never see; for it goes to London next Mon- day, to be suspended awhile at Abbot's ; and then proceeds into Norfolk, where it will be suspended forever. But the picture is not the only prodigy I have to tell you of. A greater belongs to me ; and one that you will hardly credit, even on my own testimony. We are on the eve of a journey, and a long one. On this very day se'nnight we set out for Eartham, the seat of my brother bard, Mr. Hayley, on the other side of London, nobody knows where, a hundred and twenty miles off. Pray for us, my friend, that we may have a safe going and return. It is a tremendous exploit, and I feel a thousand anxieties when I think of it. But a promise made to him when he was here, that we would go if we could, and a sort of persuasion that we can if we will, oblige us to it. The journey, and the change of air, together with the novelty to us of the scene to which we are going, may, I hope, be useful to us both ; especially to Mrs. Unwin, who has most need of restoratives She sends her love to you and to Thomas, i* which she is sincerely joined by Your affectionate W. C. * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. .4! TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, July 29, 1792. Through floods and flames to your retreat I win my desp'rate way, And when we meet, if e'er we meet, Will echo your huzza. You will wonder at the word desp'rate in -he second line, and at the if in the third ; Dut could you have any conception of the fears I have had to bustle with, of the dejec- tion of spirits that I have suffered concerning this journey; you would wonder much more that I still courageously persevere in my reso- lution to undertake it. Fortunately for my intentions, it happens, that as the day ap- proaches my terrors abate ; for had they con- tinued to be what they were a week since, I must, after all, have disappointed you ; and was actually once on the verge of doing it. I have told you something of my nocturnal experiences, and assure you now, that they were hardly ever more terrific than on this oc- *. asion. Prayer has however opened my pas-* sage at last, and obtained for m§ a degree of confidence that I trust will prove a comforta- ble viaticum to me all the way. On Wednes- day, therefore, we set forth. The terrors that I have spoken of would appear ridiculous to most, but to you they will not, for you are a reasonable creature, and know well that, to whatever cause it be owing, (whether to constitution, or to God's express appointment) I am hunted by spir- itual hounds in the night season. I can- not help it. You will pity me, and wish it were otherwise ; and, though you may think there is much of the imaginary in it, will not deem it for-that reason an evil less to be la- mented — so much for fears and distresses. Soon I hope they shall all have a joyful ter- mination, and I, my Mary, my Johnny, and my dog, be skipping with delight at Eartham ! Well ! this picture is at last finished, and well finished, I can assure you. Every crea- ture that has seen it has been astonished at the resemblance. Sam's boy bowed to it, and Beau walked up to it, wagging his tail as he went, and evidently snowing that he ac- knowledged its likeness to his master. It is a half-length, as it is technically but absurdly called; that is to say, it gives all but the foot and ankle. To-morrow it goes to town, and will hang some months at Ab- bot's, when it will be sent to its due destina- tion in Norfolk.* I hope, or rather wish, that at Eartham I mav recover that habit of study which, invet- erate as it once seemed, I now seem to have lost — lost to such a degree that it is even painful to me to think of what it will cost me to acquire it again. Adieu ! my dear, dear Hayley ; God give us * To Mrs. Bodham's. a happy meeting. Mary sends her love — sh« is in pretty good plight this morning, having slept well, and for her part, has no fears at all about the journey. t Ever yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* July 30, 1792 My dear Friend,— Like you, I am obliged to snatch short opportunities of corresp >nd- ing with my friends ; and to write what 1 can, not what I would. Your kindness in giving me the first letter after your return claims my thanks ; and my tardiness to answer it would demand an apology, if, having been here, and witnessed how much my time is occupied in attendance on my poor patient, you could possibly want one. She proceeds, I trust, in her recovery ; but at so slow a rate, that the difference made in a week is hardly percepti- ble to me, who am always with her. This last night has been the worst she has known since her illness — entirely sleepless till seven in the morning. Such ill rest seems but an indifferent preparation for a long journey which we purpose to undertake on Wednes- day, when we set out for Eartham, on a visit to Mr. Hayley. The journey itself will, I hope, be useful to her ; and the air of the sea, blowing over the South Downs, to- gether with the novelty of the scene to us, will, I hope, be serviceable to us both. You may imagine that we, who have been resident on one spot so many years, do not engage in such an enterprise without some anxiety. Persons accustomed to travel would make themselves merry with mine; it seems so disproportioned to the occasion. Once I have been on the point of determining not to go, and even since we fixed the day; my troubles have been so insupportable. But it has been made a matter of much prayer, and at last it has pleased God to satisfy me, in some measure, that his will corresponds with our purpose, and that He will afford us his protection. You, I know, will not be un- mindful of us during our absence from home; but will obtain for us, if your prayers can do it, all that we would ask for ourselves — the presence and favor of God, a salutary effect of our journey, and a safe return. I rejoiced, and had reason to do so, in your coming to Weston, for I think the Lord came with you. Not, indeed, to abide with me; not to restore me to that intercourse with Him which I enjoyed twenty years ago ; but to awaken in me, however, more spiritual feeling than I have experienced, except in two instances, during all that time. The comforts that I had received under your min istry, in better days, all rushed upon my rec * Private correspondence. 41^ OWPER'S WORKS ollection ; and. during two or three transient moments, seemed to be in a degree renewed. You will tell me that, transient as they were, they were yet evidences of' a love that is not so ; and I am desirous to believe it. With Mrs. Unwin's warm remembrances, and my cousin Johnson's best compliments, I am Sincerely yours, W. C. P. S. — If I hear from you while I am abroad, your letter will find me at William Hayl.-y's, Esq., Eartham, near Chichester. We propose to return in about a month. Cowper records the particulars of this visit in the following letters. TO THE REV. MR. GREATHEED. Eartham, Aug. 6, 1792. My dear Sir, — Having first thanked you for your affectionate and acceptable letter, I will proceed, as well as I can, to answer your equally affectionate request, that I would send you early news of our arrival at Eartham. Here we are in the most elegant mansion that I have ever inhabited, and surrounded by the most delightful pleasure-grounds that I have ever seen ; but which, dissipated as my powers of thought are at present, I will not undertake to describe. It shall suffice me to say, that they occupy three sides of a hill, which in Buckinghamshire might well pass for a mountain, and from the summit of which is beheld a most magnificent landscape bounded by the sea, and in one part by the Isle of Wight, which may also be seen plainly from the window of the library, in which I am writing. It pleased God to carry us both through the journey with far less difficulty and incon- venience than I expected. I began it indeed with a thousand fears, and when we arrived the first evening at Barnet, found myself oppressed in spirit to a degree that Could hardly be exceeded. I saw Mrs. Unwin weary, as she might well be, and heard such noises, both within the house, and without, that I concluded she would get no rest. But I was mercifully disappointed. She rested, though not well, yet sufficiently ; and when we finished our next day's journey at Ripley, we were both in better condition, both of body and mind, than on the day preceding. At Ripley we found a quiet inn that housed, as it happened, that night, no company but ourselves. There we slept well, and rose perfectly refreshed ; and, except some terrors that I felt at passing over the Sussex hills by moonlight, met with little to complain of, till we arrived about ten o'clock at Eartham. Here we are as happy as it is in the power of terrestrial good to make us. It is almost a paradise in which we dAvell ; and our re« ception has been the kindest that it was pos- sible for friendship and hospitality to contrive. Our host mentions you with great respect, and* bids me tell you that he esteems you highly. Mrs. Unwin, who is, I think, in some points, already the better for her excursion, unites with mine her best compliments both to yourself and Mrs. Greatheed. I have much to see and enjoy before 1 can be per- fectly apprized of all the delights of Eartham and will therefore now subscribe myself Yours, my dear sir, With great sincerity, W. C. TO MRS. COURTENAT. Eartham, August 12, 1792. My dearest Catharina, — Though I have travelled far, nothing did I see in my travels that surprised me half so agreeably as your kind letter; for high as my opinion of your good-nature is, I had no hopes of hearing from you till I should have written first ; a pleasure which I intended to allow myself the first opportunity. After three days' confinement in a coach, and suffering as we went all that could be suffered from excessive heat and dust, we found ourselves late in the evening at the door of our friend Hayley. In every othei respect the journey was extremely pleasant. At the Mitre, in Barnet, where we lodged the first evening, we found our friend. Rose, who had walked thither from his house in Chancery-lane to meet us ; and at Kingston, where we dined the second day, I found my old and much-valued friend, General Cowper, whom I had not seen in thirty years, and but for this journey should never have seen again. Mrs. Unwin, on whose account I had a thousand fears, before we set out, suffered as little from fatigue' as myself, and begins, I hope, already to feel some beneficial effects from the air of Eartham, and the exercise that she takes in one of the most delightful pleasure-grounds in the world. They oc- cupy three sides of a, hill, lofty enough to command a view of the sea, which skirts the horizon to a length of many miles, with the Isle of Wight at the end of it. The inland scene is equally beautiful, consisting of a large and deep valley well cultivated, and enclosed by magnificent hills, all crowned with wood. I had, for my part, no concep- tion that a poet could be the owner of such a paradise ; and his house is as elegant as his scenes are charming.* But think not, my dear Catharina, that amidst all these beauties I shall lose the re- membrance of the peaceful, but less splendid, Weston. Your precincts will be as dear to * This residence afterwards became the property of thf late William Huskisson, Esq. LIFE OF COWPER. 415 me as e\er, when I return ; though when that day will arrive I know not, our host being determined, as I plainly see, to keep us as long as possible. Give my best love to your husband. Thank him most kindly for hk* at- tention to the old bard of Greece, and pardon me that I do not now send you an epitaph for Fop. I am not sufficiently recollected to compose even a bagatelle at present; but in due time you shall receive it. Hayley, who will some time or other I hope see you at Weston, is already prepared to .ove you both, and, being passionately fond of music, longs much to hear you. Adieu. W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Eartham, Aug. ]4, 1792. My dear Friend, — Romney is here: it would add much to my happiness it' you were of the party; I have prepared Hayley to think highly, that is, justly, of you, and the time, I hope, will come when you will supersede all need of my recommendation. Mrs. Unwin gathers strength. I have in- deed great hopes, from the air and exercise which this fine season affords her opportunity to use, that ere we return she will be herself again. W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Eartham, Aug. 18, 1792. Wishes in this world are generally vain, and in the next we shall make none. Every day I wish you were of the party, knowing how happy you would be in a place where we have nothing to do but enjoy beautiful scenery and converse agreeably. Mrs. Unwin' s health continues to improve ; and even I, who was well when I came, find mvself still better. Yours, W. C. TO MRS. COURTENAY. Eartham, Aug. 25, 1792. Without waiting for an answer to my last, [ send my dear Catharina the epitaph she desired, composed as well as I could compose it in a place where every object, being still new to me, distracts my attention, and makes me as awkward at verse as if J Ijad never dealt in it. Here it is. EPITAPH ON FOP; A DOG, BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, Here moulders one whose bones some honor claim ! tfo sycophant, although of spaniel race ! ind though no hound, a martyr to the chase ! Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets rejoice ! Your haunts no longer echo to his voice. This record of his fate exulting view, He died worn out with vain pursuit of you! " Yes !" the indignant shade of Fop replies, " And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies !" I am here, as I told you in my last, de- lightfully situated, and in the enjoyment of all that the most friendly hospitality can im- part; yet do I neither forget Weston, nor my friends at Weston: on the contrary, I have at length, though much and kindly pressed to make a longer stay, determined on the day of our departure — on the seven- teenth day of September we shall leave Eartham ; four days will b.e necessary to bring us home again, for I am under a promise to General Cowper to dine with him on the way, which cannot be done comfort- ably, either to him or to ourselves, unless we sleep that night at Kingston. The air of this place has been, I believe, beneficial to us both. I indeed was in toler- able health before I set out, but have ac- quired since I came, both a kptter appetite and a knack of sleeping almost as much in a single night as formerly in two. Whether double quantities of that article will be favor able to me as a poet, time must show. About myself, however, I care little, being made of materials so tough, as not to threaten me even now, at the end of so many lustrums, with anything like a speedy dissolution. My chief concern has been about Mrs. Unwin, and my chief comfort at this moment is, that she likewise has received, I hope, con siderable benefit by the journey. Tell my dear George that I begin to long to behold him again, and, did it not savor of ingratitude to the friend under whose roof I am so happy at present, should be impatient to find myself once more under yours. Adieu ! my dear Catharhia. I have noth- ing to add in the way of news, except that Romney has drawn me in crayons, by the suffrage of all here, extremely like. W. C. TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS* Eartham, Aug. 26, 1792. My dear Sir, — Your kind but very affect ing letter found me not at Weston, to which place it was directed, but in a bower of my friend Hayley's garden at Eartham, where I was sitting with Mrs. Unwin. We both knew the moment we saw it from whom it came, and, observing a red seal, both, com- * This amiable and much esteemed character, and en doared B8 one of the friends of Cowper, was horn at Bishopstone in Sussex, in 1763. He was elected Pro- fessor of Poetry at Oxford In 1~!>3, and died at a prema- ture age. In 1H01. His claims as an author principally rest on his once popular poem of the wv Village Curate/' He also wrote " A Vindication of the University of Ox- ford from the Aspersions of Mr. Gibbon." His work* are published in 3 vols. 416 COWPER'S WORKS forted ourselves that all was well at Bur- wash : but we soon felt that we were not called to rejoice, but to mourn with you ;* tve do indeed sincerely mourn with you, and, if it will afford you any consolation to know it, you may be assured that every eye here has testified what our hearts have suffered for you. Your loss is great, and your dis- position I perceive such as exposes you to feel the whole weight of it : I will not add to your sorrow by a vain attempt to assuage it; your own good sense, and the piety of your principles, will, of course, suggest to you the most powerful motives of acquies- cence in the will of God. You will be sure to recollect that^ the stroke, severe as it is, is not the stroke of an enemy, but of a father ; and will find I trust, hereafter, that like a father he has done you good by it. Thousands have been able to say, and myself as loud as any of them, it has been good for me that I was afflicted ; but time is necessary to work us to this persuasion, and in due time it -shall be yours. Mr. Hayley, who tenderly sympathizes ||ith you, has enjoined me to send you as pressing an invitation as I can frame, to join me at this place. I have every motive to wish your consent; both your benefit and my own, which, I believe, would be abundantly answered by your coming, ought to make me eloquent in such a cause. Here you will find silence and retirement in perfection, when you would seek them ; and here such company as I have no doubt would suit you, all cheerful, but not noisy ; and all alike disposed to love you : you and I seem to have here a fair opportunity of meeting. It were a pity we should be in the same county and not come together. I am here till the seventeenth of September, an interval that will afford you time to make the neces- sary arrangements, and to gratify me at last with an interview; which I have long desired. Let me hear from you soon, that I may have double pleasure, the pleasure of expecting as well as that of seeing you. Mrs. Unwin, I thank God, though still a sufferer by her last illness, is much better, and has received considerable benefit by the air of Eartham. She adds to mine her affec- tionate compliments, and joins me and Hay- ley in this invitation. Mr. Romney is here, and a young man a cousin of mine. I tell you who we are, that you may not be afraid of us. Adieu ! May the Comforter of all the afflicted, who seek him, be yours! God oless you ! W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Eartham, Aug. 26, 1792. I know not how it is, my dearest coz., but, * Mr Hurdis had just lost a favorite sister. in a new scene and surrounded with strange objects, I find my powers of thinking dissi- pated to a degree, that makes it difficult to me even to write a letter, and even a letter to you; but such a letter as I can, I will, and have the fairest chance to succeed this morning, Hayley, Romney, Hayley's son, and Beau, being all gone together to the sea for bathing. The sea, you must know, is nine miles off, so that, unless stupidity prevent, I shall have opportunity to write not only to you, but to poor Hurdis also, who is broken-hearted for the loss of his favorite sister, lately dead ; and whose letter, giving an account of it, which I received yesterday, drew tears from the eyes of all our party. My only comfort respecting even yourself is, that you write in good spirits, and assure me that you are in a state of recovery ; otherwise I should mourn not only for Hurdis, but for myself, lest a certain event should reduce me, and in a short time too, to a situation as distressing as his ; for though nature designed you only for my cousin, you have had a sister's place in my affections ever since I knew you. The reason is, I suppose, that, having no sister, the daughter of my own mother,! thought it proper to have one, the daughter of yours. Certain it is, that I can by no means afford to lose you, and that, unless you will be upon honor with me to give me always a true account of yourself, at least when we are not together, I shall always be unhappy, because always suspicious that you deceive me. Now for ourselves. I am, without the least dissimulation, in good health ; my spir its are about as good as you have ever seen them ; and if increase of appetite, and a double portion of sleep, be advantageous, such are the advantages that I have received from this migration. As to that gloominess of mind, which I have had these twenty years, it cleaves to me even here, and, could I be. translated to Paradise, unless I left my body behind me, would cleave to me even there also. It is my companion for life, and nothing will ever divorce us. So much for myself. Mrs. Unwin is evidently the better for her jaunt, though by no means as she was before this last attack; still wanting help when she would rise from her seat, and a support in walking ; but she is able to use more exercise than she could at home, and moves with rather a less tottering step. God knows what he designs for me, but when I see those who are dearer to me than myself distempered and enfeebled, and myself as strong as in the days of my youth, I tremble for the solitude in which a few years maj place me. I wish her and you to die before me, but not till I am more likely to follow immediately. Enough of this ! Romney has drawn me in crayons, and, in LIFE OF COWPER. 41 the opinion of all here, with his best hand, and with the most exact resemblance pos- sible.* The seventeenth of September is the day en which I intend to leave Eartham. We shall ihen have been six weeks resident here ; a holiday time long enongh for a man who has much to do. And now, farewell ! W. C. P. S. Hay ley, whose love for me seems to be truly that of a brother, has given me his picture, drawn by Romney, about fifteen years ago ; an admirable likeness. TO MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.f Eartham, Sept., 1792. Dear Madam, — Your two counsellors are of one mind. We both are of opinion that you willdo well to make your second vol- ume a suitable companion to the first, by embellishing it in the same manner ; and have no doubt, considering the well-deserved popularity -of your verse, that the expense will be amply refunded by the public. I would give you, madam, not my counsel only, but consolation also, were t not dis- qualified for that delightful service by a great dearth of it in my own experience. I t<5o often seek but cannot find it. Of this, < however, I can assure you, if that may at all \ comfort you, that both my friend Hayley and myself most truly sympathize with you un- der all your sufferings. Neither have you, I am persuaded, in any degree lost the interest you always had in him, or your claim to any service that it may be in his power to render you. Had you no other title to his esteem, his respect for your talents, and his feelings for your misfortunes, must ensure to you the friendship of such a man forever. I know, however, there are seasons when, look which way we will, we see the same dismal gloom enveloping all objects. This I is itself an affliction: and the worse, because | it makes us think ourselves more unhappy than we are^: and at such a season it is, I doubt not, that you suspect a diminution of our friend's zeal to serve you. I was much struck by an expression in your letter to Hayley, where you say that you " will endeavor to take an interest in green leaves again." This seems the sound of my own voice reflected to me from a dis- tance ; I have so often had the same thought and desire. A day scarcely passes, at this season of the year, when I do not contem- plate the trees so soon to be stript, and say, " Perhaps I shall never see you clothed again." Every year, as it passes, makes this expectation more reasonable ; and the year * This portrait is now in the possession of Dr. Johnson's *amily. t Private correspondence. with me cannot be very distant, when the event* will verify it. Well, may God grant us a good hope of arriving in due time where the leaves never fall, and all will be right ! Mrs. Unwin, I think, is a little better than when you saw her; but still so feeble as to keep me in a state of continual apprehen- sion. I live under the point of a sword sus- pended by a hair. Adieu, my dear madam ; and believe me to remain your sincere and affectionate humble servant, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Eartham, Sept. 9, 1792. My dearest Cousin, — I determine, if pos- sible, to send you one more letter, or at least, if possible, once more to send you something like one, before we leave Earth- am. But I am in truth so unaccountably local in the use of my pen, that, like the man in the fable, who could leap well no- where but at Rhodes, I seem incapable of writing at all, except at Weston. This is, as I have already told yon, a delightful place ; more beautiful scenery I have never beheld, nor expect tobehold; but the charms of it, uncommon as they are, have not in the least alienated my affections from Weston. The genius of that place suits me better, it has- an air of snug concealment, in which a 7 disposition like mine feels peculiarly grati- fied ; whereas here I see from every window woods like forests, and hills like mountains, a wildness, in short, that rather increases my natural melancholy, and which, were it not for the agreeables I find within, would soon convince me that mere change of place can avail me little. Accordingly, I have not looked out for a house in Sussex, nor shall. The intended day of our departure contin- ues'to be the seventeenth. I hope tore-con- duct Mrs. Unwin to the Lodge with hei health considerably mended ; but it is in the article of speech chiefly, and in her powers of walking, that she is sensible of much im- provement. Her sight and her hand still fail her, so that she can neither read nor work ; both mortifying circumstances to her, who is never willingly idle. On the eighteenth I purpose to dine with the General, and to rest that night at King- ston, bu the pleasure I shall have in the in- terview will hardly be greater than the pain I shall feel at the end of it, for we shall part, probably to meet no more. Johnny, I know, has told you that Mr. Hurdis is here. Distressed by the loss of his sister, he has renounced the place where she died forever, and is about to enter on a new course of life at Oxford. You would admire him much, he is gentle in his manners, and delicate in his person, resembling oui 27 418 COWPER'S WORKS, poor friend, Unwin, both in face and figure, more than any one I have seen. But he has not, at least he has not at present, his vi- vacity. I have corresponded since I came here with Mrs. Court enay, and had yesterday a very kind letter from her. Adieu, my dear ; may God bless you. Write to me as soon as you can after the twentieth. I shall then be at Weston, and indulging myself in the hope that I shall ere long see you there also. W. C. Hayley, speaking of the manner in which they employed their time at Eartham, ob- serves, " Homer was not the immediate object of our attention. The morning hours that we could bestow upon books were chiefly devoted to a complete revisal and correction of all the translations, which my friend had finished, from the Latin and Italian poetry of Milton: and we generally amused ourselves after dinner in forming together a rapid met- rical version of Andreini's Adamo * He * This is one of those scarce and curious books which is not to be procured without difficulty. It is a dramatic representation of the Fall, remarkable, not so much for any ..peculiar vigor, either in the conception or execution of the plan, as for exhibiting that mode of celebrating sacred subjects, formerly known under the appellation of mysteries. A further interest is also attached to it from the popular persuasion that this work first sug- gested to Milton the design of his Paradise Lost. There is the same allegorical imagery, and sufficient to form the frame-work of that immortal poem. Johnson, in his Life of Milton, alludes to the report, without arriving at any decided conclusion on the subjeot, but states, that Milton's original intention was to have formed, not a nar- rative, but a dramatic work, and that he subsequently began to reduce it to its present form, about the year ]655. Some sketches of this plan are to be seen in the library of Trinity college, Cambridge. Dr. Joseph War- tot and Hayley both incline to the opinion that, the Adamo of Andreini first suggested the hint of the Para- dise Lost. That the Italians claim this honor for their countryman is evident from the following passage from Tiraboschi, which, to those of our readers who are conversant with that language, will be an interesting quotation. "Certo benche L' Adamo dell Andreini sia in confronto dell Paradiso Perduto cib che e il Poema di Ennio in confronto a quel di Virgilio, nondimeno non pub negarsi che le idee gigantesche, delle quali 1' autore Inglese ha abbellito il suo Poema, di Satana, che entra nel Paradiso terrestre, e arde d' invidia al vedere la felicita dell' Uomo, del congresso de Demonj, della battaglia degli Angioli contra Lucifero, e piii altre sommiglianti immagini veggonsi nelV Adamo adombrate per modo, che a me sembramolto credibile, che anche il Milton dalle immondezze, se cosi e lecito dire, dell' Andreini raccogliesse l'oro, di cui adorno il suo Poema. Per altro IS Adamo deli' Andreini, benche abbia alcuni tratti di pessimo gusto, ne ha altri ancora, che si posson proporre come modello di excel- lente poesia." It is no disparagement to Milton to have been indebted to the conceptions of another for the origin of his great undertaking. If Milton borrowed, it was to repay with largeness of interest. The only use that he made of the suggestion was, to stamp upon it the immortality of his own creative genius, and to produce a work which is des- tined to survive to the latest period of British literature. For farther information on this subject, we refer the reader to the "Inquiry into the Origin of Paradise Lost,' r in Todd's excellent edition of Milton ; and in Hayley's Life of Milton will be found Cowper's and Hayley's joint version of the first three acts of the Adamo above men- tioned. In addition to the Adamo of Andreini, Milton is said to have been indebted to the Du Bartas of Sylvester, and to the Adartus I":ku1 of Grotius. Hayley, in his Life of also mentions the interest excited in Cow- per's mind by his son, a fine boy of eleven yenrs, whose uncommon talents and engaging qualities endeared him so much to the poet, that he allowed and invited him to criticise his Homer. A specimen of this juvenile criticism will appear in the future correspond- ence. This interesting boy, with a young companion, employed themselves regularly twice a day in drawing Mrs. Unwin in a commodious garden-chair, round the airy hill at Eartham. " To Cowper and to me," h« adds, " it was a very pleasing spectacle to see the benevolent vivacity of blooming youth thus continually laboring for the ease, health,, and amusement of disabled age." The reader will perceive from the last letter, that Cowper, amused as he was with the scenery of Sussex, began to feel the powerful attraction of home. TO MRS. COURTENAY,* WESTON-TJNDERWOOD.j Eartham, Sept. 10, 1792. My dear Catharina, — I am not so uncour- teous a knight as to leave your last kind letter, and the last I hope that I shall receive for a long time to come, without an attempt, at least, to acknowledge and to send you something in the shape of an answer to it; but, having been obliged to dose myself last night with laudanum, on account of a little nervous fever, to which I am always subject, and for which I find it the best remedy, I feel myself this morning particularly under the in- fluence of Lethean vapors, and, consequently, in danger of being uncommonly stupid ! You could hardly have sent me intelligence that would have gratified me more than that of my two dear friends, Sir John and Lady Throckmorton, having departed from Paris two days before the terrible 10th of August. I have had many anxious thoughts on their Milton, enumerates also a brief list of Italian writers, who may possibly have thrown some suggestions into the mind of the poet. But the boldest act of imposition ever recorded in the annals of literature, is the charge preferred against Milton by Lauder, who endeavored to prove that he was " the worst and greatest, of all plagia- ries." He asserted that " Milton had borrowed the sub- stance of whole books together, and that there was scarcely a single thought or sentiment in his poem which he had not stolen from some author or other, notwith- standing his vain pretence to things unattempted yet ir prose or rMjme^ In support of this charge, he was base enough to corrupt the text of those poets, whom he pro- duced as evidences against the originality of Milton, by interpolating several verses either of his own fabrication, or from the Latin translation of Paradise Lost, by Wil- liam Hog. This gross libel he entitled an " Essay on Milton's Use and Imitation of the Moderns ;" and so far imposed on Dr. Johnson, by his representations, as to prevail upon him to furnish a preface to his work. The public are indebted to Dr. Douglas, the Bishop of Salis- bury, for first detecting this imposture, in a pamphlet en- titled " Milton vindicated from the charge of Plagiarism brought against him by Mr. Lauder." Thus exposed to infamy and contempt, he made a public recantation of his error, and soon after quitted England for the West Indies, where he died in 1771. * Now Dowager Lad) Throckmorton. t Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER 41 account; and am truly happy to learn that they have sought a more peaceful region, while it was yet permitted them to do so. They will not, I trust, revisit those scenes of tumult and horror while they shall continue to merit that description. We are here all of one mind respecting the cause in which the Parisians are engaged ; wish them a free people, and as happy as they can wish them- selves. But their conduct has not always pleased us ; we are shocked at their sangui- nary proceedings, and begin to fear, myself in particular, that they will prove themselves unworthy, because incapable of enjoying it, of the inestimable blessing of liberty. My daily toast is, Sobriety and freedom to the French ; for they seem as destitute of the former as they are eager to secure the latter. We still hold our purpose of leaving Earth- am on the seventeenth ; and again my fears on Mrs. Un win's account begin to trouble me; but they are now not quite so reason- able as in the first instance. If she could bear the fatigue of travelling then, she is more equal to it at present ; and, supposing that nothing happens to alarm her, which is very probable, may be expected to reach Weston in much better condition than when she left it. Her improvement, however, is . chiefly in her looks, and in the articles of speaking and walking: for she can neither rise from her chair without help, nor walk without a support, nor read, nor use her needle. Give my love to the good doctor, and make him acquainted with the state of his patient, since he, of all men, seems to have the best right to know it. T am proud that you are pleased with the Epitaph* I sent you, and shall be still prouder *.o see it perpetuated by the chisel. It is all that I have done since here I came, and all v hat I have been able to do. I wished, in- deed, to have requited Rornney, for his well- drawn copy of me, in rhyme : and have more than once or twice attempted it ; but I find, ike the man in the fable, who could leap only at Rhodes, that verse is almost impossi- ble to me, except at Weston. — Tell my friend George that I am every day mindful of him, and always love him; and bid him by no means to vex himself about the tardiness of Andrews.f Remember me affectionately to William, and to Pitcairn, whom I shall hope to find with you at my return ; and, should you see Mr. Buchanan, to him also. I have now charged you with commissions enow, and having added Mrs. Unwin's best compli- ments, and told you that I long to see you again, will conclude myself, My dear Catharina, Most truly yours, W. C. * On Fop, Lady Throckmorton's dog. f A 8t<»ne-m ison, who was making a pedestal for an witique bust oi Homer. Their departure from Eartham was a scene of affecting interest, and a perfect contrast to the gaiety of their arrival. Anxious to re- lieve the mind of Hayley from any apprehen- sion for their safety, Cowper addressed to him the following letter from Kingston. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. The Sun, at Kingston, Sept. 18, 17%. My dear Brother, — With no sinister acci- dent to retard or terrify us, we find ourselves at a quarter before one, arrived safe at King- ston. I left you with a heavy heart, and with a heavy heart took leave of our dear Tom* at the bottom of the chalk-hill. But. soon after this last separation, my troubles gushed from my eyes, and then I was better. We must now prepare for our visit to the General. I add no more, therefore, than our dearest remembrances and prayers that God may bless you and yours, and reward you an hundred-fold for all your kindness. Tell Tom I shall always hold him dear for his af- I fectionate attentions to Mrs. Unwin. From j her heart the memory of him can never be erased. Johnny loves you all, and has his share in all these acknowledgments. Adieu ! W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, Sept. 21, 1792. My dear Hayley, — Chaos himself, even the chaos of Milton, is not surrounded with more confusion, nor has a mind more completely in a hubbub, than I experience at the present moment. At our first arrival, after long ab- sence, we find a hundred orders to servants necessary, a thousand things to be restored to their proper places, and an endless variety of minutioe to be adjusted; which, though individually of little importance, are momen tous in the aggregate. In these circumstan ces I find myself so indisposed to writing, that, save to yourself, I would on no account attempt it ; but to you I will give such a re- cital as I can of all that has passed -ince I sent you that short note from Kingston, knowing that, if it be a perplexed recital, \ ou will consider the cause and pardon it. I will begin with a remark in which I am inclined to think you will agree with me, that there is sometimes more true heroism passing in a corner, and on occasions that make no noise in the world, than has often been exercised by those whom that world esteems her greatest heroes, and on occasions the most illustrious. I hope so at least; for all the heroism I have to boast, and all the oppor- tunities I have of displaying any, are of a private nature. After writing the note, I immediately began to prepare for my af> * Hayley's son. 420 COWPER'S WORKS pointed visit to Ham ; but the struggles that I had with my own spirit, laboring as I did under the most dreadful dejection, are never to be told. I would have given the world to have been excused. I went, however, and carried my point against myself, with a heart riven asunder — I have reasons for ii 11 this anxiety, which I cannot relate now. The visit, however passed off well, and we re- turned in the dark to Kingston ; J, with a lighter heart than I had known since my de- parture from Eartham, and Mary too, for she had suffered hardly less than myself, and chieily on my account. That night we rested well in our inn, and at twenty minutes afier eight next morning set off for London ; ex- actly at ten we reached Mr. Rose's door; we drank a dish of chocolate with him, and pro- ceeded, Mr. Rose riding with us as far as St. Alban's. From this time we met with no impediment. In the dark, and in a storm, at eight at night, we found ourselves at our own back-door. Mrs. Unwin was very near slipping out of the chair in which she was taken from the chaise, but at last was landed safe. We all have had a good night, and are all well this morning. God bless you, my dearest brother. W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. Weston, Oct. 2, 1792. My dear Hayley, — A bad night, succeeded by an east wind, and a sky all in sables, have such an effect on my spirits, that, if I did not consult my own comfort more than yours, I should not write to-day, for I shall not enter- tain you much- yet your letter, though con- taining no very pleasant tidings, has afforded me some relief. It tells me, indeed, that you have been dispirited yourself, and that poor little Tom, the faithful 'squire of my Mary, has been seriously indisposed. All this grieves me : but then there is a warmth of heart and a kindness in it that do me good. I will endeavor not to repay you in notes of sorrow and despondence, though all my sprightly chords seem broken. In truth, one day excepted, I have not seen the day when I have been cheerful since I left you. My spirits, I think, are almost constantly lower than they were ; the approach of winter is perhaps the cause, and if it is, I have nothing better to expect for a long time to come. Yesterday was a day of assignation with myself, the day of which I said some days before it came, when that day comes I will begin my dissertations. Accordingly, when it came, I prepared to do so ; filled a letter- oase with fresh paper, furnished myself with a pretty good pen, and replenished my ink- bottle ; but, partly from one cause, and partly from another, chiefly, however, from distress and dejection, after writing and obliterating about six lines, in the composition of which I spent near an hour, I was obliged to relin- quish the attempt. An attempt so unsuc- cessful could have no other effect than to dis- hearten me, and it has had that effect to such a degree, that I know not when I shall find courage to make another: At present I shall certainly abstain, since at present I cannot well afford to expose myself to the danger of a fresh mortification. W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, Oct. 13, 1792. I began a letter to you yesterday, my dearest brother, and proceeded through two sides of my sheet, but so much of my ner- vous fever found its way into it, that, looking over it this morning, I determined not to send it. I have risen, though not in good spirits, yet in better than I generally do of late, and therefore will not address you in the melan- choly tone that belongs to my worst feelings. I began to be restless about your portrait, and to say, how long shall I have to wait for it? I wished it here for many reasons; the sight of it will be a comfort to me, for I not only love but am proud of you, as of a con- quest made in my old age. Johnny goes to town on Monday, on purpose to call on Romney, to whom he shall give all proper information concerning its conveyance hither The name of a man whom I esteem as I do Romney, ought not to be unmusical in my ears : but his name will be so till I shall have paid him a debt justly due to him, by doing such poetical honors to it as I intend. Heaven knows when that intention will be executed, for the muse is still as obdurate and as coy as ever. Your kind postscript is just arrived, and gives me great pleasure. When I cannot see you myself, it seems some comfort, however, that you have been seen by another known to me ; and who will tell me in a few days that he has seen you. Your wishes to dis- perse my melancholy would, I am sure, pre- vail, did that event depend on the warmth and sincerity with which you frame them ; but it has baffled both wishes and prayers, and those the most fervent that could be made, so many years, that the case seems hopeless. But no more of this at present. Your vtrses to Austen are as sweet as the honey that they accompany : kind, friendly, witty, and elegant ! When shall I be able to do the like? Perhaps when my Mary, like your Tom, shall cease to be an invalid, 1 may recover a power, at least, to do some- thing. I sincerely rejoice in the dear little man's restoration. My Mary continues, J hope, to mend a little. W. 0. LIFE OF COWPER. 42 TO MRS. KING.* Oct. 14. 1792. My dear Madam, — Your kind inquiries af- ter mine and Mrs. Unwin's health will not permit me to be silent ; though I am and have long been so indisposed to writing, that even a letter has almost overtasked me. Your last but one found me on the point of setting out for Sussex, whither I went with Mrs. Unwin, on a visit to my friend, Mr. Hayley. We spent six weeks at Eartham, and returned on the nineteenth of Septem- ber. I had hopes that change of air and change of scene might be serviceable both to my poor invalid and me. She, I hope, has received some benefit; and I am not the worse for it myself; but, at the same time, must acknowledge that I cannot boast of much amendment. The time we spent there could not fail to pass as agreeably as her weakness, and my spirits, at a low ebb, would permit. Hayley is one of the most agreeable men, as well as *)ne of the most cordial friends. His house is elegant; his library large, and well chosen; and he is surrounded by the most delightful scenery. But I have made the experiment only to prove, what indeed I knew before, that crea- tures are physicians of little value, and that health and cure are from God only. Hence- forth, therefore, I shall wait for those bless- ings from Him, and expect them at no other hand. In the meantime, I have the comfort to be able to tell you that Mrs. Unwin, on the whole, is restored beyond the most san- guine expectations I had when I wrote last; and that, as to myself, it is not much other- wise with me than it has been these twenty years ; except that this season of the year is always unfavorable to my spirits. I rejoice that you have had the pleasure of another interview with Mr. Martyn ; and am glad that the trifles I have sent you afforded him any amusement. This letter has already given you to understand that I am at present no artificer of verse ; and that, consequently, I have nothing new to communicate. When I have, I shall do it to none more readily than to yourself. My dear madam, Very affectionately yours, W. C. iO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Oct. 18, 1792. My dear Friend, — I thought that the won- ler had been all on my side, having been employed in wondering at your silence, as ong as you at mine. Soon after our arrival tt Eartham, I received a letter from you, vhich I answered, if not by the return of the * Private correspondence. post, at least in a day or two. Not that should have insisted on the ceremonial of letter for letter, during so long a period could I have found leisure to double youi debt ; but while there, I had no opportunity for writing, except now and then a short one ; for we breakfasted early, studied Milton as soon as breakfast was over, and continued in that employment till Mrs. Unwin came forth from her chamber, to whom all the rest of my time was necessarily devoted. Our re- turn to Weston was on the nineteenth of last month, according to your information. You will naturally think that, in the interval, I must have had sufficient leisure to give you notice of our safe arrival. But the fact has been otherwise. I have neither been well myself, nor is Mrs. Unwin, though better, so much improved in her health as not still to require my continual assistance. My disorder has been the old one, to which I have been subject so many years, and especially about this season' — a nervous fever; not, indeed, so oppressive as it has sometimes proved, but sufficiently alarming both to Mrs. Unwin and myself, and such as made it neither easy nor proper for me to make much use of my pen while it continued. At present I am tolerably free from it; a blessing for which I believe myself partly indebted to the use of James's powder, in small quantities; and partly to a small quantity of laudanum, taken every night; but chiefly to a manifes- tation of God's presence vouchsafed to me a few days since; transient, indeed, and dimly seen through a mist of many fears and troubles, but sufficient to convince me, at least while the Enemy's power is a little re- strained, that he has not cast me off forever. Our visit was a pleasant one ; as pleasant us Mrs. Unwin's weakness and the state of my spirits, never very good, would allow. As to my own health, I never expected that it would be much improved 'by the journey : nor have T found it so. Some benefit, in- deed, I hoped; and, perhaps, a little more than I found. But the season was, after .the first fortnight, extremely unfavorable, stormy, and wet ; and the prospects, though grand and magnificent, yet rather of a melancholy cast, and consequently not very propitious to me. The cultivated appearance of Weston suits my frame of mind far better than wild hills that aspire to be mountains, covered with vast unfrequented woods, and here and there affording a peep between their summits at the distant ocean. Within doors aft wag hospitality and kindness, but the scenery would have its effect; and, though delightfu" in the extreme to those who had spirits t« bear it, was too gloomy for me. Yours, my dear friend, Most sincerely, w.c. *22 COWPER'S WORKS, TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, Oct. 19, 1792. My dearest Johnny, — You are too useful when you are here not to be missed on a hun- dred occasions daily ; and too much domesti- cated with us not to be regretted always. I hope, therefore, that your month or six weeks will not be like many that I have known, ca- pable of being drawn out into any length whatever, and productive of nothing but dis- appointment. J have done nothing since you went, ex- cept that I have composed the better half of a sonnet to Romney; yet even this ought to bear an earlier date, for I began to be haunt- ed with a desire to do it long before we came out of Sussex, and have daily attempted it ever since. It would be well for the reading part of the world, if the writing part were, many of them, as dull as I am. Yet even this small produce, which my sterile intellect has hard- ly yielded at last, may serve to convince you that in point of spirits I am not worse. In fact, I am a little better. The powders and the laudanum together have, for the present at least, abated the fever that con- sumes them; and in measure as the fever abates, I acquire-a less discouraging view of things, and with it a little power to exert myself. In the evenings I read Baker's Chronicle to Mrs. Unwin, having no other history, and hope in time to be as well versed in it as his admirer, Sir Roger de Coverley. W. C. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, Oct. 22, 1792. My dear Johnny, — Here I am, with I know not how many letters to answer, and no time to do it in. I exhort you, therefore, to set a proper value on this, as proving your priority in my attentions, though in other respects ikely to be of little value. You do well to sit for your picture, and give very sufficient reasons for doing it ; you will also, I dqubt not, take care that when future generations shall look at it, some spec- tator or other shall say, this is the picture of a good man and a useful one. And now God bless you my dear Johnny. I proceed much after the old Tate; rising cheerless and distressed in the morning, and brightening a little as the day goes on. A lieu, W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, Oct. 28, 1792. Nothing done, my dearest brother, nor £kely to be done at* present; yet I purpose in a day or two to make another attempt, to which, however, I shall address myself wilb fear and trembling, like a man who, having sprained his wrist, dreads to use it. I have not, indeed, like such a man, injured myself by any extraordinary exertion, but seem aa much enfeebled as if 1 had. The conscious- ness that there is so much to do, and nothing done, is a burden I am not able to bear. Milton especially is my grievance, and I might almost as well be haunted by his ghost as goaded with continual reproaches for neg- lecting him. I will therefore begin: I will do my best; and if, after all, that best prove good for nothing, I will even send the notes, worthless as they are, that I have made al- ready : a measure very disagreeable to my self, and to which nothing but necessity shall compel me. I shall rejoice to see those new samples of your biography,* which you give me to expect. Allons! Courage! — Here comes some- thing, however; produced after a gestation as long as that of a pregnant woman. It is the debt long unpaid, the compliment due to Romney; and if it has your approbation, I will send it, or you may send it for me. I must premise, however, tha* I intended noth- ing less than a sonnet when I began. I know not why, but I said to myself, it shall not be a sonnet; accordingly I attempted it in one sort of measure, then in a second, then in a third, till I had made the trial in half a dozen different kinds of shorter verse, and behold it is a sonnet at last. The fates would have it so. TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. Romney ! expert infallibly to trace, On chart or canvas, not the form alone, And semblance, but, however faintly shown, The mind's impression too on every face, With strokes, that time ought never tc erase : Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I own The subject worthless, T have never known The artist shining with superior grace. But this I mark, that symptoms none of woe, In thy incomparable work appear : Well ! I am satisfied it should be so, Since on maturer thought the cause is clear; For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see, While I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee 1 w. c. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.f Nov. 5, 1792. My dearest Johnny, — I have done nothing since you went, except that I have finished the Sonnet which I told you I had begun, and sent it to Hayley, who is well pleased therewith, and has by this time transmitted it to whom it most concerns. * Hayley's Life of Milton, t Private correspondence LIFE OF COWPER. 421 1 would not give the algebraist sixpence for his encomiums on my Task, if he condemns my Homer, which, 1 know, in point of lan- guage, is equal to it, and in variety of num- bers superior. But the character of the for- mer having been some years established, he follows the general cry; and should Homer establish himself as well, and I trust he will hereafter, I shall have his warm suffrage for that also. But if not — it is no matter. Swift says somewhere, — There are a few good judges of poetry in the world, who lend their taste to those who have none : and your man of figures is probably one of the borrowers. Adieu — in great haste. Our united love attends yourself and yours, whose I am most truly and affectionately. W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, Nov. 9, 1792. My dear Friend, — I wish that I were as in- dustrious and as much occupied as you, though in a different way; but it is not so with me. Mrs. Un win's great debility (who is not yet able to move without assistance) is of itself a hindrance such as would effect- ually disable me. Till she can work, and read, and fill up her time as usual (all which is at present entirely out of her power) I may now and then find time to write a letter, but T shall write nothing more. I cannot sit with my pen in my hand and my books be- fore me, while she is in effect in solitude, si- lent, and looking at the fire. To this hin- drance that other has been added, of which you are already aware, a want of spirits, such as I have never known, when I was not ab- solutely laid by, since I commenced an author. How long I shall be continued in these un- comfortable circumstances is known only to Him who, as he will, disposes of us all. I may be yet able, perhaps, to prepare the first book of the Paradise Lost for the press, be- fore it will be wanted ; and Johnson himself seems to think there will be no haste for the second. But poetry is my favorite employ- ment, and all my poetical operations are in the meantime suspended ; for, while a work to which I have bound myself remains unac- complished, I can do nothing else. Johnson's plan of prefixing my phiz to the jjew edition of my poems is by no means a f)leasant one to me, and so I told him in a etter I sent him from Eartham, in which I assured him that my objections to it would not be easily surmounted. But if you judge that it may really have an effect in advancing the sale, I would not be so squeamish as to Buffer the spirit of prudery to prevail in me to his disadvantage. Somebody told an au- thor, I forget whom, that there was more vanity in refusing his picture than in grant- ing it, on which he instantly complied. I do not perfectly feel all the force of the argu- ment, but it shall content me that he did. I do most sincerely rejoice in the success of your publication,* and have no doubt that my prophecy concerning your success in greater matters will be fulfilled. We are naturally pleased when our friends approve what we approve ourselves ; how much then must I be pleased, when you speak so kindly of Johnny ! I know him to be all that you think him, and love him entirely. Adieu ! We expect you at Christmas, and shall therefore rejoice when Christmas comes. Let nothing interfere. Ever yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.f Nov. 11, 1792. My dear Friend, — I am not so insensible of your kindness in making me an exception from the number of your correspondents, to w T hom you forbid the hope of hearing from you till your present labors are ended, as to make you wait longer for an answer to your last; which, indeed, would have had its an- swer before this time, had it been possible for me to write. But so many have demands upon me of a similar kind, and while Mrs. Unwin continues an invalid, my opportunities of writing are so few, that I am constrained to incur a long arrear to some, with whom 1 would wish to be punctual. She can at pres- ent neither work nor read ; and, till she can do both, and amuse herself as usual, my own amusements of the pen must be suspended. I, like you, have a work before me, and a work to which I should be glad to address myself in earnest, but cannot do it at present When the opportunity comes, I shall, likf you, be under a necessity of interdicting some of my usual correspondents, and of shorten- ing my letters to the excepted few. Man) letters and much company are incompatible with authorship, and the one as much as the other. It will be long, I hope, before the world is put in possession of a publication, which you design should be posthumous. Oh for the day when your expectations of my complete deliverance shall be verified! At present it seems very remote : so distant, indeed, that hardly the faintest streak of it is visible in my horizon. The glimpse, with which I was favored about a month since, has never been repeated ; and the depression of my spirits has. The future appears gloomy as ever; and I seem to myself to be scram- bling always in the dark, among rocks and precipices, without a guide, but with an enemy ever at my heels, prepared to push * Decisions of the English Courts. t Private correspondence. 424 COWPER'S WORKS. me headlong. Thus I have spent twenty years, but thus I shall not spend twenty years more. Long ere that period arrives, the grand question concerning my everlast- ing weal or woe will be decided. Adieu, my dear friend. I have exhausted my time, though not filled my paper. Truly yours, W. C. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, Nov. 20, 1792. My dearest Johnny, — I give you many thanks for your rhymes, and your verses without rhyme; for your poetical dialogue between wood and stone : between Homer's head and the head of Samuel; kindly in- tended, I know very well, for my amusement, and that amused me much. The successor of the clerk defunct, for whom I used to write, arrived here this morn- ing, with a recommendatory letter from Joe Rye, and an humble petition of his own, en- treating me to assist him as I had assisted his predecessor. I have undertaken the service, although with no little reluctance, being in- volved in many arrears on other subjects, and having very little dependence at present on my ability to write at^all. I proceed exactly as when you were here — a letter now and then before breakfast, and the rest of my time all holiday ; if holiday it may be called, that is spent chiefly in moping^ and musing, and "forecasting the fashion of uncertain evils.'''' The fever on my spirits has harassed me much, and I have never had so good a night, nor so quiet a rising, since you went, as on this very morning; a relief that I account particularly seasonable and propitious, be- cause I had, in my intentions, devoted this morning to you, and could not have fulfilled those intentions, had I been as spiritless as I generally am. I am glad that Johnson is in no haste for Milton, for I seem myself not likely to ad- dress myself presently to that concern, with any prospect of success ; yet something now and then, like a secret whisper, assures and encourages me that it will yet be done. W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, Nov. 25, 1792. How shall I thank you enough for the in- terest you take in my future Miltonic labors, and the assistance you promise me in the performance of them ; I will some time or other, if I live, and live a poet, acknowledge vour friendship in some of my best verse ; the most suitable return one poet can make to another : in the meantime, 1 love you, and am sensible of all your kindness. You wish me warm in my work, and I ardently wish th« same : but when I shall be so God only knows. My melancholy, which seemed a little alleviated for a few days, has gathered about me again with as black a cloud aa ever ; the consequence is absolute incapacity to begin. I was for some years dirge-writer to the town of Northampton, being employed by the clerk of the principal parish there to fur- nish him with an annual copy of verses pro- per to be printed at the foot of his bill of mortality; but the clerk died, and, hearing nothing for two years from his successor, I well hoped that I was out of my office. The other morning however Sam announced the new clerk ; he came to solicit the same ser- vice as I had rendered his predecessor, and I reluctantly complied; doubtful, indeed, whether I was capable. I have however achieved that labor, and I have done nothing more. I am just sent for up to Mary, dear Mary ! Adieu ! she is as well as when I left you, I would I could say better. Remember us both affectionately to your sweet boy, and trust me for being Most truly yours, W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Dec. 9, 1792. My dear Friend, — You need not be uneasy on the subject of Milton. I shall not find that labor too heavy for me, if I 'have health and leisure. The season of the year is un- favorable to me respecting the former ; and Mrs. Unwin's present weakness allows me less of the latter than the occasion seems to call for. But the business is in no haste. The artists employed to furnish the embellish- ments are not likely to be very expeditious ; and a small portion only of the work will be wanted from me at once : for the intention is to deal it out to the public piece-meal. I am, therefore, under no great anxiety on that ac- count. It is not, indeed, an employment that I should have chosen for myself; because poetry pleases and amuses me more, and would cost me less labor, properly so called. All this I felt before I engaged with Johnson ; and did, in the first instance, actually decline the service ; but he was urgent ; and, at last, I suffered myself to be persuaded. The season of the year, as I have already said, is particularly adverse to me : yet not in itself, perhaps, more adverse than any other ; but the approach of it always reminds me of the same season in the dreadful seventy- three, and in the more dreadful eighty-six. I can- not help terrifying myself with doleful mis- givings and apprehensions : nor is the enemy negligent to seize a'J the advantage that the occasion gives him. Thus, hearing much * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER 423 from him, and having little or no sensible support from God, I suffer inexpressible things till January is over. And even then, whether increasing years have made me more liable to it, or despair, the longer it lasts, grows naturally darker, I find myself more inclined to melancholy than I was a few years since. God only knows where this will end ; but where it is likely to end, unless he interpose powerfully in my favor, all may know. I remain, my dear friend, most sincerely /ours, W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Weston, Dec. 16, 1792. My dear Sir, — We differ so little, that it is pity we should not agree. The possibility of restoring our diseased government is, I think, the only point on which we are not of one mind. If you are right, and it cannot be touched in the medical way, without danger of absolute ruin to the constitution, koep the doctors at a distance say I — and let us live as long as we can. But perhaps physicians might be found of skill sufficient for the pur- pose, were they but as willing as able. Who are they ? Not those honest blunderers, the mob, bat our governors themselves. As it is in the power of any individual to be honest if he will, any body of men are, as it seems to me, equally possessed of the same option. For 1 can never persuade myself to think the world so constituted by the Author of it, and human society, which is his ordinance, so shabby a business, that the buying and sel- ling of votes and consciences should be es- sential to its existence. As to multiplied representation I know not that I foresee any great advantage likely to arise from that. Provided there be but a reasonable number of reasonable heads laid together for the good of the nation, the end may as well be answered by five hundred as it would be by a thousand, and perhaps better. But then they should be honest as well as wise, and, in order that they may be so, they should put it out of their own power to be other- wise. This they might certainly do if they would ; and, would they do it, I am not con- vinced that any great mischief would ensue. You say, " somebody must have influence," Out I see no necessity for it. Let integrity of intention and a due share of ability be supposed, and the influence will be in the right place ; it will all centre in the zeal and good of the nation. That will influence their debates and decisions, and nothing else ought to do it. You will say, perhaps, that wise zaen, and honest men, as they are supposed, they are yet liable to be split into almost as many differences of opinion as there are in- dividuals : but I rather think not. It is ob- served of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough, that each always approved and seconded the plans and views of the other and the reason given for it is that they were men of equal ability. The same cause that could make two unanimous would make twenty so, and w T ould at least secure a majority among as many hundreds. As to the reformation of the church, I want none, unless by a better provision for the inferior clergy ; and, if that could be brought about by emaciating a little some of our too corpulent dignitaries, I should be well contented. The dissenters, I think, Catholics and others, have all a right to the privileges of all other Englishmen, because to deprive them is persecution, and persecution on any ac- count, but especially on a religious one, ia an abomination. But after all, valeat res- publica. I love my country, I love my king and I wish peace and prosperity to Old England.* Adieu! W. C. TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. Weston-Underwood, Dec. 17, 1792. My dear Sir,— You are very kind in think- ing it worth while to inquire after so irregu- lar a correspondent. When I had read your last, I persuaded myself that I had answered your obliging letter received while I was at Eartham, and seemed clearly to remember it; but upon better recollection, am inclined to think myself mistaken, and that I have many pardons to ask for neglecting to do it so long. While I was at Mr. Hayley's I couTd hardly find opportunity to write to anybody. He is an early riser and breakfasts early, and unless I could rise early enough myself to despatch a letter before breakfast, I had no leisure to do it at all. For immediately after breakfast we repaired to the library, where we studied in concert till noon ; and the rest of my time was so occupied by necessary attention to my poor invalid, Mrs. Unwin, and by various other engagements, that to write was impossible. * The question of a Reform in Parliament was at this time beginning to engage the public attention, and Mr. Grey (now Earl Grey) had recently announced his in- tention in the House of Commons of bringing forward that important subject in the ensuing session of Parlia- ment. It was accordingly submitted to the House, May 6th, 1793, when Mr. Grey delivered his sentiments at con- siderable length, embodying many of the topics now so familiar to the public, but by no means pursuing the principle to the extent since adopted. The debate lasted till two o'clock in the morning, when it was ad- journed to the following day. After a renewed discus- sion, which continued till four in the morning, the House divided, when the numbers were as follow, viz., Ayea 40, Noes 282. It is interesting to mark this first commencement of the popular question of Reform (if we except Mr. Pitt's meas- ure, in 1782) and to contrast its slow progress with the final issue, under the same leader, in the year 1832. The minority for several successive years seldom exceeded the amount above specified, though the measure was at length carried by so large a majority. 426 COWPER'S WORKS, Since my leturn, I have been almost con- stantly afflicted with weak and inflamed eyes, and indeed have wanted spirits as well as \eisure. If you can, therefore, you must par- don me ; and you will do it perhaps the rather, when I assure you that not you alone, but every person and every thing that had de- mands upon me has been equally neglected. A strange weariness that has long had domin- ion over me has indisposed and indeed dis- qualified me for all employment ;* and my hindrances besides have been such that I am sadly in arrear in all quarters. A thousand times I have been sorry and ashamed that your MSS. are yet un revised, and if you knew the compunction that it has cost me, you would pity me ; for I feel as if I were guilty in that particular, though my conscience tells me that it could not be otherwise. Before I received your letter written from Margate, I had formed a resolution never to be engraven, and was confirmed in it by my friend Hay ley's example. But, learning since though I have not learned it from himself, that my bookseller has an intention to prefix a copy of Abbot's picture of mef to the next edition of my poems, at his own expense, if * This expression alludes to the nervous fever and great depression of spirits that Cowper labored under, in the months of October and November, and which has been frequently mentioned in the preceding correspond- ence. t There were three portraits of Cowper, taken respect- ively by Sir Thomas Lawrence, Abbot, and Romney. The reader may be anxious to learn which is entitled to be considered the best resemblance. The editor is able to satisfy this inquiry, on the joint authority of the three most competent witnesses, the late Rev. Dr. Johnson, the present Dowager Lady Throckmorton, and John Higgins, Esq., formerly of Weston. They all agree in assigning the superiority to the portrait by Abbot* and in evidence of this, all have repeated the anecdote mentioned by Cowper, of his dog Beau going up to the picture, and shaking his tail, in token of recognition. It is an exact resemblance of his form, features, manner, and costume. That by Romney was said to resemble him at the moment it was taken, but it was his then look, not his customary and more placid features. There^s an air of wildness in it, expressive of a disordered mind, and which the shock, produced by the paralytic attack of Mrs. Unwin, was rapidly impressing on his countenance. This portrait has always been considered as awakening distressing emotions in the beholder. The portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence is the most pleasing, but not so exact and faith- ful a resemblance. There is however a character of pe- culiar interest in it, and he is represented in the cap which he was accustomed to wear in a morning, pre- sented to him by Lady Hesketh. It was on this picture that the following beautiful lines were composed by the late Rev. Dr. Randolph. ON SEEING A SKETCH OF COWPER BY LAWRENCB. Sweet bard ! whose mind, thus pictured in thy face, O'er every feature spreads a nobler grace ; Whose keen, but softened eye appears to dart A look of pity through the human heart ; To search the secrets of man's inward frame, To weep with sorrow o'er his guilt and shame; Sweet bard ! with whom, in sympathy of choice, I've ofttimes left the world at Nature's voice, To join the song that all her creatures raise, To carol forth their great Creator's praise ; Or, 'rapt in visions of immortal day, Have gazed on Truth in Zion's heavenly way ; Sweet Bard !— may this thine image, all I know, Or ever may, of Cowper's form below, Teach one who views it with a Christian's love, To seek and find thee, in the realms above. I can be prevailed upon to consent to it ; ir consideration of the liberality of his beha- vior, I have felt my determination shaken. This intelligence, however comes to me from a third person, and till it reaches me in a di- rect line from Johnson, I can say nothing to him about it. When he shall open to me hia intentions himself, I will not be backward to mention to him your obliging offer, and shall be particularly gratified, if I must be engraved at last, to have that service performed for me by a friend. I thank you for the anecdote* which could not fail to be very pleasant, and remain, my dear sir, with gratitude and affection, Yours, W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. Weston, Dec. 26, 1792. That I may not be silent, till my silence alarms you, I snatch a moment to tell you, that although toujours triste I am not worse than usual, but my opportunities of writing are paucified, as, perhaps, Dr. Johnson would have dared to say, and the few that I have are shortened by company. Give my love to dear Tom, and thank him for his very apposite extract, which I should be happy indeed to turn to any account. How often do I wish, in the course of every day, that I could be employed once more in poetry, and how often, of course, that this Miltonic trap had never caught me ! The year ninety- two shall stand chronicled in my remembrance as the most melancholy that I have ever known, except the few weeks that I spent at Eartham ; and such it has been principally because, being engaged to Milton, I felt my- self no longer free for any other engagement. That ill-fated work, impracticable in itself, has made everything else impracticable. I am very Pindaric, and obliged to be so by the hurry of the hour. My friends are come down to breakfast. Adieu! W. C. TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. Weston-Underwood, Jan. 3, 1798. My dear Sir, — A few lines must serve to introduce to you my much- valued friend Mr. Rose, and to thank you for your very obliging attention in sending me so approved a remedy for my disorder. It is no fault of yours, but it will be a disappointment to you to know, that I have long been in possession of that remedy, and have tried it without effect ; or, * The Hon. Mrs. Boscawen had expressed her regret that Cowper should employ his time and talents in trans- lation, instead of original composition ; accompanied by a wish that he would produce another " Task," adverting to what Pope had made his friend exclaim, " Do write next winter more ' Essays on Man.' " LIFE OF COWPER. 421 to speak more truly, with an unfavorable one. Judging by the pain it causes, I conclude that it is of the caustic kind, and may, there- fore, be sovereign in cases where the eyelids are ulcerated : but mine is a dry inflammation, which it has always increased as often as I have used it. I used it again, after having long since resolved to use it no more, that I might not seem, even to myself, to slight your kindness, but with no better effect than in 3very former instance. You are very candid in crediting so readily the excuse I make for not having yet revised your MSS., and as kind in allowing me still longer time. I refer you for a more particu- lar account of the circumstances that make all literary pursuits at present impracticable to me, to the young gentleman who delivers this into your hands.* He is perfectly master of the subject, having just left me after having spent a fortnight with us. You asked me a longtime since a question concerning the Olney Hymns, which I do not remember that I have ever answered. Those marked C. are mine, one excepted, which though it bears that mark, was written by Mr. Newton. I have not the collection at present and therefore cannot tell you which it is. You must extend your charity still a little farther, and excuse a short answer to your two obliging letters. I do everything with my pen in a hurry, but will not conclude without entreating you to make my thanks and best compliments to the lady,f who was so good as to trouble herself for my sake to write a character of the medicine. I remain, my dear sir, Sincerely yours, W. C. Your request does me honor. Johnson will have orders in a few days to send a copy of the edition just published.^ TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, Jan. 20, 1793. My dear Brother, — Now I know that you are safe, I treat you, as you see, with a philo- sophical indifference, not acknowledging your kind and immediate answer to anxious inqui- ries, till it suits my own convenience. I have learned, however, from my late solicitude, that not only you, but yours, interest me to a degree, that, should anything happen to either of you, would be very inconsistent with my peace. Sometimes I thought that you were extremely ill, and once or twice, that you were dead. As often some tragedy reached my ear concerning little Tom. "Oh, vancc mentes hominum .'" How liable are we to a thou- sand impositions, and how indebted to honest * Mr. Rose. f Mrs. Haden, formerly governess to the daughters of ..ord Eardley. X Th* fifth edition of Cowper's Poems. old Time*, who never fails to undeceive us Whatever you had in prospect, you acted kindly by me not to make me partaker of your expectations ; for I have a spirit, if not so sanguine as yours, yet that would have waited for your coming with anxious impa- tience, and have been dismally mortified by the disappointment. Had you come, and come without notice too, you would not have sur- prised us more, than (as the matter was man- aged) we were surprised at the arrival of your picture. It reached us in the evening, after the shutters were closed, at a time when a chaise might actually have brought you with out giving us the least previous intimation Then it was, that Samuel, with his cheerfu countenance, appeared at the study door, and with a voice as cheerful as his looks, ex- claimed, " Mr. Hayley is come, madam !" We both started, and in the same moment cried, " Mr. Hayley come ! And where is he V The next moment corrected our mistake, and finding Mary's voice grow suddenly tremu. lous, I turned and saw her weeping. I do nothing, notwithstanding all your ex hortations : my idleness is proof against them all, or to speak more truly, my difficulties are so. Something indeed I do. I play at push-pin with Homer every morning before breakfast, fingering and polishing, as Paris did his armor. I have lately had a letter from Dublin on that subject, which has> pleased me. W. C TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, Jan. 29, 1793. My dearest Hayley, — I truly sympathize with you under your weight of sorrow for the loss of our good Samaritan.* But be not broken-hearted, my friend ! Remember the loss of those we love is the condition on which we live ourselves ; and that he who chooses his friends wisely from among the excellent of the earth, has a sure ground to hope concerning them when they die, that a merciful God has made them far happier than they could be here, and that we shall join them soon again. This is solid com- fort, could we but avail ourselves of it ; but I confess the difficulty of doing so. Sorrow is like the deaf adder, "that hears not the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely ;" and I feel so much myself for the death of Austen, that my own chief consola- tion is, that I had never seen him. Live yourself, 1 beseech you, for I have seen bd much of vou that I can by no means spar»> you, and I will live as long as it shall pleas*. God to permit. I know you set some value on me, therefore let that promise comfort * Dr. Austen, who is here alluded to, was not less dis tinguished for his humane and benevolent qualities, that for his professional skill and eminence. 128 COWPER'S WORKS. you, and give us not reason to say, like Da- vid's servant — " We know that it would have pleased thee more if all we had died, than this one, for whom thou art inconsolable." You have still Romney, and Carwardine, and Guy, and me, my poor Mary, and I know not how many beside ; as many, I suppose, as ever had an opportunity of spending a day with you. He who has the most friends must necessarily lose the most, and he whose friends are numerous as yours may the bet- ter spare a part of them. It is a changing, transient scene : yet a little while, and this poor dream of life will be over with all of us. The living, and they who live unhappy, they are indeed subjects of sorrow. Adieu ! my beloved friend, Ever yours, W. C. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.* Jan. 31, 1793. Io Pee an. My dearest Johnny, — Even as you fore- told, so it came to pass. On Tuesday I re- ceived your letter, and on Tuesday came the pheastmts ; for which I am indebted in many thanks, as well as Mrs. Unwin, both to your kindness and to your kind friend Mr. Cope- man. In Copeman's ear this truth let Echo tell, — " Immortal bards like mortal pheasants well ;" And when his clerkship's out, I wish him herds Of golden clients for his golden birds. Our friends the Courtenays have never dined with us since their marriage, because we have never asked them ; and we have never asked them, because poor Mrs. Unwin is not so equal to the task of providing for and entertaining company as before this last illness. But this is no objection to the ar- rival here of a bustard ; rather it is a cause for which we shall be particularly glad to see the monster. It will be a handsome present to them. So let the bustard come, as the Lord Mayor of London said of the hare, when he was hunting — let her come, a' God's name : I am not afraid of her. Adieu, my dear cousin and caterer. My eyes are terribly bad ; else, I had much more to say to you. Ever affectionately yours, W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, Feb. 5, 1793. In this last revisal of my work (the Ho- mer) I have made a number of small im- provements, and am now more convinced than ever, having exercised a cooler judg- ment upon it than before I could, that the translation will make its way. There mus* * Private correspondence. be time for the conquest of vehement an^ long-rooted prejudice; but, without much self-partiality, I believe, that the conquest will be made ; and am certain that I should be of the same opinion, were the work another man's. I shall soon have finished the Odyssey, and when I have, will send the corrected copy of both to Johnson. ■ Adieu ! W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Weston, Feb. 10, 1793. My pens are all split, and my ink-glass is dry ; Neither wit, common-sense, nor ideas have I. In vain has it been, that I have made several attempts to write, since I came from Sus- sex ; unless more comfortable days arrive than I have confidence to look for, there is an end of all writing with me. I have no spirits : — when Rose came, I was obliged to prepare for his coming by a nightly dose of laudanum — twelve drops suffice ; but with- out them, I am devoured by melancholy. A-propos of the Rose ! His wife in her political notions is the exact counterpart of yourself — loyal in the extreme. Therefore, if you find her thus inclined, when you be- come acquainted with her, you must not place her resemblance of yourself to the ac- count of her admiration of you, for she is your likeness ready made. In fact, we are all of one mind about government matters, and notwithstanding your opinion, the Rose is himself a Whig, and I am a Whig, and you, my dear, are a Tory, and all the Tories now-a-days call all the Whigs republicans. How the deuce you came to be a Tory is best known to yourself: you have to answer for this novelty to the shades of your ances- tors, who were always Whigs ever since we had any. Adieu. W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, Feb. 17, 1793. My dear Friend, — I have read the critique of my work in the Analytical Review, and am happy to have fallen into the hands of a critic, rigorous enough indeed, but a scholar, and a man of sense, and who does not delib- erately intend me mischief. I am better pleased indeed that he censures some things than I should have been with unmixed com- mendation, for his censure (to use the new diplomatic term) will accredit his praises. In his particular remarks he is for the most •part right, and I shall be the better foi them ; but in his general ones I think he as- serts too largely, and more than he couid prove. With respect to inversions in par- ticular, I know that they do not abound. LIFE OF COWPER. 42S Once they did, and I had Milton's example for it, not disapproved by Addison. But on 's remonstrance against them, I ex- punged the most, and in my new edition shall have fewer still. I know that they give dignity, and am sorry to part with them; but, to parody an old proverb, he who lives in tlje year ninety-three, must do as in the year ninety-three is done by others. The same remark I have to make on his censure of inharmonious lines. I know them to be much fewer than he asserts, and not more in number than I accounted indispen- sably necessary to a due variation of ca- dence. I nave, however, now, in conformity with modern taste, (over much delicate in my mind,) given to a for greater number of them a flow as smooth as oil. A few I re- tain, and will, in compliment to my own Judgment. He thinks me too faithful to compound epithets in the introductory lines, and I know his reason. He fears lest the English reader should blame Homer, whom he idolizes, though hardly more than I, for such constant repetition. But them I shall not alter. They are necessary to a just rep- resentation of the original. In the affair of Outis,* I shall throw him flat on his back by an unanswerable argument, which I shall give in a note, and with which I am fur- nished by Mrs. Unwin. So much for hyper- criticism, which has run away with all my paper. This critic, by the way is, ;f I know him by infallible indications. W. C. TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. Weston, Feb. 22, 1793. My dear Sir, — My eyes, which have long been inflamed, will hardly serve for Homer, and oblige me to make all my letters short. You have obliged me much, by sending me so speedily the remainder of your notes. I have begun with them again, and find them, as before, very much to the purpose. More to the purpose they could not have been, had you been poetry professor already. I rejoice sincerely in the prospect you have of that office, which, whatever may be your own thoughts of the matter, I am sure you will fill with great sufficiency. Would that my interest and power to serve you were greater ! One string to my bowl have, and one only, which shall not be idle for want of my exertions. I thank you likewise for your very entertaining notices and remarks in the natural way. The hurry in which I write wou.d not suffer me to send you many in return, had I many to send, but only two or three present themselves. Frogs will feed on worms. I saw a frog gathering into his gullet an earth-worm as * A name given to Ulysses. t Maty. long as himself; it cost him time and labof but at last he succeeded. Mrs. Unwin and I, crossing a brook, saw from the foot-bridge somewhat at the bot- torn of the water which had the appearance of a flower. Observing it attentively, we found that it consisted of a circular assem- blage of minnows ; their heads all met in a centre, and their tails, diverging at equal distances, and being elevated above their heads, gave them the appearance of a flower half blown. One was longer than the rest, and as often as a straggler came in sight, he quitted his place to pursue him, and having driven him away, he returned to it again, and no other minnow offering to take it in his absence. This we saw him do several times. The object that had attached them all was a dead minnow, which they seemed to be devouring. After a very rainy day, I saw on one of the flower borders what seemed a long hair, but it had a waving, twining motion. Consider- ing more nearly, I found it alive, and en- dued with spontaneity, b,ut could not dis- cover at the ends of it either head or tail, or any distinction of parts. I carried it into the house, when the air of a warm room dried and killed it presently. W. C TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. Weston, Feb. 24, 1793. Your letter (so full of kindness and so ex- actly in unison with my own feelings for you) should have had, as it deserved to have, an earlier answer, had I not been perpetually tortured with inflamed eyes, which are a sad hindrance to me in everything. But, to make amends, if I do not send you an early answer, I send you at least a .speedy one, being obliged to write as fast as my pen can trot, that I may shorten the time of poring upon paper as much as possible. Homer too has been another hindrance, for always when I can see, which is only about two hours every morning, and not at all by can- dle-light, I devote myself to him, being in haste to send him a second time to the press, that nothing may stand in the way of Milton. By the way, where are my dear Tom's re- marks, which I long to have, and must have soon, or they will come too late 1 Oh, you rogue ! what would you give to have such a dream about Milton as I had about a week since? I dreamed that, being in a house in the city, and with much com- pany, looking towards the lower end of the room from the upper end of it, I descried a figure which I immediately knew to be Mi* ton's. He was very gravely but very neath attired in the fashion of his day, and had a countenance which filled me witfi those feel- €dO COWPER'S WORKS. ings thcat an affectionate child has for a be- loved father, — such, for instance, as Tom has for you. My first thought was wonder, where he could have been concealed so many years ; my second, a transport of joy to find nim still alive ; my third, another transport to find my- self in his company ; and my fourth, a resolu- tion to accost him. I did so, and he received me with a complacence in which I saw equal sweetness and dignity. I spoke of his Para- dise Lost as every man must who is worthy to speak of it at all, and told him along story of the manner in which it affected me when I first discovered it, being at that time a school-boy. He answered me by a smile, .and a gentle inclination of his head. He then grasped my hand affectionately, and with a smile that charmed me, said, " Well, you for your part will do well also ;" at last, recollecting his great age (for I understood him to be two hundred years old) I feared that I might fatigue him by too much talk- ing, I took my leave, and he took his with an air of the most .perfect good-breeding. His person, his features, his manner, were all so perfectly characteristic, that I am persuaded an apparition of him could not represent him more completely. This may be said to have been one of the dreams of Pindus, may it not?* How truly I rejoice that you have recov- ered Guy! That man won my heart the moment I saw him : give my love to him, and tell him I am truly glad he is alive again. There is much sweetness in those lines from the sonneteer of Avon, and not a little in dear Tom's : an earnest, I trust, of good things to come ! With Mary's kind love, I must now ^on- clude myself, My dear brother, ever yours, Lippus. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, March 4, 1793. My dear Friend, — Since I received your last I have been much indisposed, very blind, * Whether this is a poetical or real dream of Cowper'si we presume not to decide. It bears so strong a resem- blance to Milton's vision of the Bishop of Winchester, (the. celebrated Dr. Andrews,) as to suggest the prob- ability of having been borrowed from that source. The passage is to be found in Milton's beautiful Latin elegy on the death of that prelate, and is thus translated by Cowper : "While I that splendor, and the mingled shade Of fruitful vines with wonder fixt survey'd, At once, with looks, that beam'd celestial grace, The seer of Winton stood before my face. His snowy vesture's hem descending low His golden sandals swept, and pure as snow New-fallen shone the mitre on his brow. Where'er lie trod a tremulous sweet sound Of gladness shook the tlow'ry scene around : Attendant angels clap their starry wings, The trumpet shakes the sky, all tether rings, i Eack chaunts his welcome, Then night retired, and, chas'd by dawning day, The visionary bliss pass'd all away : I mourn'd my banish'd sleep with fond concern : Frequent to me may dreams like this return." and very busy. But I have not suffered a] these evils at one and the same time. While the winter lasted I was miserable with a fe- ver on my spirits ; when the spring began to approach I was seized with an inflammation in my eyes, and ever since I have been able to use them, have been employed in giving more last touches to Home/, who is on the point of going to press again. Though you are Tory, I believe, and I am Whig, our sentiments concerning the mad- caps of France are much the same. -They are a terrible race, and I have a horror both of them and their principles.* Tacitus is certainly living now, and the quotations you sent me can be nothing but extracts from some letters of his to yourself. Yours, most sincerely, W. C. We have already mentioned the interest excited in Cowper's mind by a son of Hay- ley's, a youth of not more than twelve years of age, and of most promising talents. At Cowper's request he addressed to him the subjoined letter, containing criticisms on his Homer, which do honor to his taste and acuteness. The poet's reply may also be regarded as a proof of his kind condescen- sion and amiable sweetness of temper. TO WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. Eartham, March 4, 1793. Honored King of Bards, — Since you deign to demand the observations of an humble and inexperienced servant of yours, on a work of one who is so much his superior (as he is ever ready to serve you with all his might), behold what you demand! But let me de- sire you not to censure me for my unskilful and perhaps (as they will undoubtedly ap- pear to you) ridiculous observations ; but be so kind as to receive them as a mark of re- spectful affection from Your obedient servant, Thomas Hayley. Book. Line. v I. 184 I cannot reconcile myself to these 195 expressions. " Ah cloth'd with impudence," &c., and " Shame- 196 less wolf," and " Face of flint." I. 508 " Dishonor'd foul." is. in my opin- ion, an uncleanly expression. I. 661 " Reel'd." I think makes it appear as if Olympus was drunk. I. 749 " Kindler of the fires of Heaven," I think makes Jupiter appeal too much like a lamplighter. II. 317 These lines are, in my opinion, to 319 below the elevated genius of Mr. Cowper. XVIII. 300 This appears to me to be rathei Irish, since in line 300 you say, " No one sat," and in line 304 " Polydamus rose." * Louis XVI., the_ unhappy King ol France, had re cently perished on the dcaffold, Jan. 21, 1793. LIFE OF COWPER. 431 TO MR. THOMAS HAYLEY. Weston, March 14, 1793. My dear little Critic, — I thank you heartily for your observations, on which I set a higher value, because they* have instructed me as much, and have entertained me more, than all the other strictures of our public judges in these matters. Perhaps I am not much more pleased with shameless wolf, &c, than you. But what is to be done, my little man ? Coarse as the expressions are, they are no more than equivalent to those of Homer. The invective of the ancients was never tem- pered with good manners, as your papa can tell you; and my business, you know, is not to be more polite than my author, but to re- present him as closely as I can. Dishonor 'd foul I have wiped away, for the reason you give, which is a very just one, and the present reading is this, Who had dared dishonor thus The life itself &c. Your objection to kindle?' of the fires of heavenl had the good fortune to anticipate, and expunged the dirty ambiguity some time since, wondering not a little that I had ever admitted it. The fault you find with the two first verses of Nestor's speech discovers such a degree of just discernment that, but for your papa's assurance to the contrary, I must have sus- pected him as the author of that remark : much as I should have respected it, if it had been so, J value it, I assure you, my little friend, still more as yours. In the new edi- tion the passage will be found thus altered : Alas ! great sorrow falls on Greece to-day ! Priam, and Priam's sons, with all in Troy — Oh ! how will they exult, and in their hearts Triumph, once hearing of this broil between The prime of Greece, in council and in arms ! Where the word reel suggests to you the idea of a drunken mountain, it performs the service to which I destined it. It is a bold metaphor ; but justified by one of the sublim- it passages in scripture, compared with the sublimity of which even that of Homer suf- feis humiliation. It is God himself who, speaking, I think, by the prophet Isaiah, says, " The earth sb.*ll reel to andfro like a drunkard."* With equal boldness in the same scripture, the poetry of which was never equalled, mountains are said to skip, to break out into singing, and the fields to clap their hands. I intend, therefore, that my Olympus shall be still tipsy. The accuracy of your last remark, in which rou convicted me of a bull, delights me. A * Isaiah xxiv. 20. fig for all critics but you!. The blockheadi could not find it. It shall stand thus: — First spake Polydamus Homer was more upon his guard than to commit such a blunder, for he says, IPX* liypevsiv. And now, my dear little censor, once more accept my thanks. I only regret that your strictures are so few, being just and sensible as they are. Tell your papa that he shall hear from me soon. Accept mine, and my dear invalid's affectionate remembrances. Ever yours, W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, March 19, 1793. My dear Hay ley, — I am so busy every morning before breakfast (my only opportu- nity), strutting and stalking in Homeric stilts, that you ought to account it an instance of marvellous grace and favor, that I condescend to write even to you. Sometimes I am seri- ously almost crazed with the multiplicity of the matters before me, and the little or no time that I have for them ; and sometimes I repose myself, after the fatigue of that dis- traction, on the pillow of despair ; a pillow which has often served me in the time of need, and is become, by frequent use, if not very comfortable, at least convenient. So reposed, I laugh at the world, and say, " Yes, you may gape and expect both Homer and Milton from me, but 1*11 be hanged if ever you get them." In Homer you must know I am advanced as far as the fifteenth book of the Iliad, leav- ing nothing behind me that can reasonably offend the most fastidious : and I design him for public appearance in his new dress as soon as possible, for a reason wl ch any poet may guess, if he will but thrust his hand into his pocket. You forbid me to tantalize you with an in- vitation to Weston, and yet you invite me to Eartham ! No ! no ! there is no such hap- piness in store for me at present. Had I rambled at all, I was under promise to all my dear mother's kindred to go to Norfolk, and they are dying to see me ; but I have told them that die they must, for I cannot go ; and ergo, as you will perceive, can go nowhere else. Thanks for Mazarin's epitaph !* It is full * We have not heen able to discover this epitaph, nor does it appear that it was ever translated by Cowper. Cardinal Mazarin was minister of state to Louis XIII., and during the minority of Louis XIV. The last mo- merfs of this great statesman are too edifying not to be recorded. To the ecclesiastic (Joly) who attended him, he said, "• I am not satisfied with my state ; I wish to feel a more profound sorrow for my sins. I am a great sin 432 COWPER'S WORKS. . of witty paradox, and is written with a force and severity which sufficiently bespeak the author. I account it an inestimable curi- osity, and shall be happy when time shall serve, with your aid, to make a good trans- lation of it. But that will be a stubborn business. , Adieu ! The clock strikes eight : and now for Homer. W. C. The two following letters bear an honor- able testimony to his bookseller, Johnson, whom he had commissioned his friend, Mr. Rose, to consult respecting a second and re- vised edition of his Homeric version. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, March 27, 1793. My dear Friend, — I must send you a line of congratulation on t&e event of your trans- action with Johnson, since you, I know, par- take with me in the pleasure I receive from it. Few of my concerns have been so hap- pily concluded. I am now satisfied with my bookseller, as I have substantial cause to be, and account myself in good hands ; a circum- stance as pleasant to me as any other part of my business ; for I love dearly to be able to confide, with all my heart, in those with whom I am connected, of what kind soever the con- nexion may be. The question of printing or not printing the alterations seems difficult to decide. If they are not printed, I shall perhaps disoblige some purchasers of the first edition, and if they are, many others of them, perhaps a great majority, will never care about them. As far as I have gone, I have made a fair copy ; and when I have finished the whole, will send them to Johnson, together with the interleaved volumes. He will see in a few minutes what it will be best to do, and by his judgment I shall b^e determined. The opin- ion to which I most incline is, that they ought to be printed separately, for they are man\ of them rather long, here and there a whole speech, or a whole simile, and the verbal ner. I have no hope but in the mercy of God." (Je suis in grand criminel, je o'ai d'esperanee qu'en ]a misori- » rde divine.) At another time he besought his confes- sed to treat him like the lowest subject in the realm, being convinced; he said, that there was but one gospel for the great, as well as for Ihe little, ((iu'il n'y avail rju'un Evangile pour Ies grands, et pour les petits.) His sufferings were very acute. M You see," he observed to those around him, " what infirmities and wretchedness the fortunes and dignities of this world come to." He repeated many times the Miserere, (Ps. li.) stretching forth his hand*, then clasping them, and lifting up his eyr-* to heaven, with all the marks of the most sincere jevotion. . At midnight he exclaimed, "lam dying— my mind grows indistinct. I trust in Jesus Christ." (Je vais bientdt mourir, mon jugement se trouble, j'espere en lesus Christ.) Afterwards, frequently repeating the JBcred name of Jesus, he expired. (Se mettant en de- voir do repeter aussi frequemment lc tres-saint nom de il expira.) His to ire du Card. JUazarin, par M. Aubery. and lineal variations are so numerous, that altogether, I apprehend, they will give a new air to the work, and I hope a much im- proved one. I forgot to say in the proper place, that some notes, although but very few, I have added already; and may perhaps see here and there opportunity for a few more. But, notes being little wanted, especially by people at all conversant with classical literature, as most readers of Homer are, I am persuaded that were they numerous, they would be deemed an incumbrance. I shall write to Johnson soon, perhaps to-morrow, and then shall say the same thing to him. In point of health, we continue much the same. Our united love, and many thanks for your prosperous negotiations, attend your- self and whole family, and especially my lit- tle namesake. Adieu ! W. C. TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Weston, March 29, 1793. My dear Friend, — Your tidings concerning the slender pittance yet to come, are, as you observe, of the melancholy cast. Not being gifted by nature with the means of acquiring much, it is well, however, that she has given me a disposition to be contented with little. I have now been so many years habituated to small matters that I should probably find myself incommoded by greater ; and may ] but be enabled to shift, as I have been hitb erto, unsatisfied wishes will never trouble me much. My pen has helped me somewhat ; and, after some years 1 toil, I begin to reap the benefit. Had I begun sooner, perhaps I should have known fewer pecuniary distress- es ; or, who can 'say ? — it is possible that I might not have succeeded so well. Fruit ripens only a short time before it rots ; and man, in general, arrives not at maturity of mental powers at a much earlier period. I am now busied in preparing Homer for his second appearance. An author should con- sider himself as bound not to please himself, but the public ; and as far as the good pleas- ure of the public may be learned from the critics, I design to accommodate myself to it. The Latinisms, though employed by Milton, and numbered by Addison among the arts and expedients by which he has given dignity to his style, I shall render into plain English ; the rougher lines, though my reason for using them has never been proved a bad one, so far as I know, I rhall make perfectly smooth ; and shall give body and substance to all that is in any degree feeble and flimsy. And when I have done all this, and more, if the critics still grumble, I shall say the very deuce is in them. Yet, that they will grumble f * Private correspondence. LIFE OF COWPER. 431 make no doubt ; for, unreasonable as it is to do so, 1 hey all require something better than Homer, and that something they will certainly newer get from me. As to the canal that is to be my neighbor, I hear little about it. The Courtenays of Weston have nothing to do with it, and I nave no intercourse with Tyringham. When it is finished, the people of these parts will have to carry their coals seven miles only, which now they bring from Northampton or Bedford, both at the distance of fifteen. But, as Balaam says, who shall live when these things are done? It is not for me, a sexage- narian already, to expect that I shall. The chief objection to canals in general seems to be, that, multiplying as they do, they are likely to swallow the coasting trade. I cannot tell you the joy I feel at the dis- appointment of the French : pitiful mimics of Spartan and Roman virtue, without a grain of it in their whole character. Ever yours, W. C. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ. Weston, April 11, 1793. My dearest Johnny, — The long muster-roll of my great and small ancestors I signed and dated, and sent up to Mr. Blue-mantle, on Monday, according to your desire. Such a pompous affair, drawn out for my sake, re- minds me of the old fable of the mountain in parturition, and a mouse the produce. Rest undisturbed, say I, their lordly, ducal, and royal dust! Had they left me something handsome, I should have respected them more. But perhaps they did not know that such a one as I should have the honor to be numbered among their descendants.* Well ! I have a little bookseller that makes me some amends for their deficiency. He has made me a present; an act of liberality which I take every opportunity to blazon, as it well de- serves. But you, I suppose, have learned it already from Mr. Rose. Fear not, my man. You will acquit your- self very well, I dare say, both in standing for your degree, and when you have gained it. A little tremor and a little shame-faced- ness in a stripling like you, are recommend- ations rather than otherwise; and so they ought to be, being symptoms of an ingenu- * Cowper. according to his kinsmnn, was descended, by the maternal line, through the families of Hippesley of Throughley, in Sussex, and Pellet, of Bolney, in the same county, from the several noble houses of West, Knollys, Carey, Bullen, Howard, and Mowbray; and so by four different lines from Henry the Third, king of England. He justly adds, u Distinctitn of this nature can shed no additionaf lustre on the memory of Cowper ; but genius, however exalted, disdains not, while it boasts not, the splendor of ancestry ; and royalty itself may be flat- tered, and perhaps benefited, by discovering its kindred to suet piety, such purity, such talents as hiB. w - SkUck of the Life of Cowper, by Dr. Johnson. ous mind, rather unfrequent in this age of brass. What you say of your determined purpose with God's help, to take up the cross and de- spise the shame, gives us both real pleasure. In our pedigree is found one, at least, who did it before you* Do you the like ; and you will meet him in heaven, as sure as the scrip- ture is the word of God.f The quarrel that the world has with evan- gelic men and doctrines, they would have with a host of angels in the human form. For it is the quarrel of owls with sunshine; of ignorance with divine illumination. Adieu, my dear Johnny ! We shall expect you with earnest desire of your coming, and receive you with much delight. W. C. TO WILLIAM HATLEY, ESQ. • Weston, April 23, 1793. My dear Friend and Brother, — Better late than never, and better a little than none at all ! Had I been at liberty to consult my inclinations, I would have answered your truly kind and affectionate letter immediately. But I am the busiest man alive, and, when this epistle is despatched, you will be the only one of my correspondents to whom I shall not be indebted. While I write this, my poor Mary sits mute; which I cannot well bear, and which, together with want of time to write much, will have a curtailing effect on my epistre. My only studying time is still given to Homer, not to correction and amendment of him (for that is all over) but to writing notes. Johnson has expressed a wish for some, that the unlearned may be a little illuminated concerning classical story and the mytholo- gy of the ancients ; and his behavior to me has been so liberal, that I can refuse him nothing. Poking into the old Greek com- mentators blinds me. But it is no matter. I am the more like Homer. Ever yours, my dearest Hayley, W. C TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.^ April 25, 1793. My dear Friend, — Had it not been stipu- lated between us that, being both at present pretty much engrossed by business, we should write when opportunity offers, I should be frighted at the date of your last ; but you will not judge me, I know, by the unfre- quency of my letters ; nor suppose that my thoughts about you are equally unfrequent * Dr. Donne, formerly Dean of St. Paul's, t u Be wiser thou — like our forefather Donne, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone" t Private correspondence. 28 434 uOWPER'S WORKS. [n truth, they are not. No day passes in which you are excluded from them. I am bo busy that I do not expect even now to fill my paper. While I write, my poor invalid, who is still unable to muse herself either with book or needle, sits silent at my side ; which makes me, in all my letters, hasten to a conclusion. My only time for study is now before breakfast ; and I lengthen it as much as I can, by rising early. I know not that, with respect to our health, we are either better or worse than when you saw us. Mrs. Unwin, perhaps, has gained a little strength ; and the advancing spring, I hope, will add to it. As to myself, 1 am, in body, soul, and spirit, semper idem. Prayer, I know, is made for me, and sometimes with great enlargement of heart, by those who offer it; and in this circumstance consists the only evidence I can find, that God is still favorably mindful of me, and has not cast me off for ever. A long time since, I received a parcel from Dr. Cogshall, of New York ; and, looking on the reverse of the packing-paper, saw there an address to you. I conclude, therefore, that you received it first, and at his .desire transmitted it to me ; consequently you are acquainted with him, and, probably, apprised of the nature of our correspondence. About three years ago I had his first letter to me, which came accompanied by half a dozen American publications. He proposed an ex- thange of books on religious subjects, as jikely to be useful on both sides of the water. Most of those he sent, however, I had seen oefore. I sent him, in return, such as I could get ; but felt myself indifferently qual- ified for such a negotiation. I am now called upon to contribute my quota again ; and shall be obliged to you if, in your next, you will mention the titles of half a dozen that may be procured at little cost, that are likely to be new in that country and useful. About two months since, I had a letter from Mr. Jeremiah Waring, of Alton in Hamp- shire. Do you know such a man ? I think I have seen his name in advertisements of mathematical works. He is, however, or seems to be, a^ery pious man. I was a little surprised lately, seeing in the last Gentleman's Magazine a letter from somebody at Winchester, in which is a copy of the epitaph of our poor friend Unwin : an English, not a Latin one. It has been pleas- ant to me sometimes to think, that his dust lay under an inscription of my writing; which I had no reason to doubt, because the Latin one, which I composed at the request of the executors, was, as I understood from Mr. H. Thornton, accepted by them and ap- proved. If they thought, after all, that an English one, as more intelligible, would therefore be preferable, 1 believe they judged wisely; but, having never heard that they had changed their mind about it, I was at a loss to account for the alteration. So now, my dear friend, adieu ! — When 1 have thanked you for a barrel of oysters, and added our united kind remembrances to your- self and Miss Catfett, I shall have exhausted the last moment that I can spare at present. I remain sincerely yours, W. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, May 4, 1793. My dear Friend, — While your sorrow for our common loss was fresh in your mind, I would not write, lest a letter on so distress- ing a subject should be too painful both to you and me ; and now that I seem to have reached a proper time for doing it, the mul- tiplicity of my literary business will hardly afford me leisure. Both you and I have this comfort when deprived of those we love — at our time of life we have every reason to believe that the deprivation cannot be long. Our sun is setting too, and when the hour of rest arrives we shall rejoin your brother, and many whom we have tenderly loved, our forerunners into a bettter country. I will say no more on a theme which it will be better perhaps to treat with brevity; and because the introduction of any other might seem a transition too violent, I will only add that Mrs. Unwin and I are about as well as we at any time have been within the last year. Truly yours, W. C, TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. May 5, 1793. My dear Friend, — My delay to answer your last kind letter, to which likewise you desired a speedy reply, must have seemed rather difficult to explain on any other sup- position than that of illness ; but illness has not been the cause, although, to say the truth, I cannot boast of having been lately very well. Yet has not this been the cause of my silence, but your own advice, very proper and ear- nestly given to me, to proceed in the revisal of Homer. To this it is owing, that, instead of giving an hour or two before breakfast to my correspondents, I allot that time entirely to my studies. I have nearly given the last touches to the poetry, and am now busied far more laboriously in writing notes at the request of my honest bookseller, transmitted to me in the first instance by you, and after- ward repeated by himself. I am therefore, deep in the old Scholia, and have advanced to the latter part of Iliad nine, explaining, as I go, such passages as may be difficult to un- learned readers, and such only ; for notes of LIFE OF COWPER. 435 that kind are the notes that Johnson desired. find it a more laborious task than the trans- ation was, and shall be heartilyglad when it s over. In the meantime, all the letters I *eceive remain unanswered, or, if they receive in answer, it is always a short one. Such his must be. Johnny is here, having flown over London. Homer, I believe, will make a much more respectable appearance than before. John- son now thinks it will be right to make a separate impression of the amendments. W. C. I breakfast every morning on seven or eight pages of the Greek commentators. For so much I am obliged to read in order to select perhaps three or four short notes for the readers of my translation. Homer is indeed a tie upon me, that must not on any account be broken, till all his de- mands are satisfied; though I have fancied, while the revisal of the Odyssey was at a distance, that it would ask less labor in the finishing, it is not unlikely, that, when I take it actually in hand, I may find myself mis- taken. Of this at least I am sure, that un- even verse abounds much more in it than it once did in the Iliad ; yet to the latter the critics objected on that account, though to the former never; perhaps because they had not read it. Hereafter they shall not quarrel with me on that score. The Iliad is now all smooth turnpike, and I will take equal care, that there shall be no jolts in the Odyssey. TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, May 7, 1793. My dearest Coz., — You have thought me long silent, and so have many others. In fact I have not for many months written punctually to any but yourself and Hayley. My time, the little I have, is so engrossed by Homer, that I have at this moment a bundle of unanswered letters by me, and letters likely to be so. Thou knowest, I dare say, what it is to have a head weary with think- ing. Mine is so fatigued by breakfast time, three days out of four, I am utterly incapable of sitting down to my desk again for any purpose whatever. I am glad I have convinced thee at last that thou art a Tory. Your friend's defini- tion of Whig and Tory must be just, for aught I know, as fir as the latter are con- cerned; but respecting the former, I think him mistaken. There is no true Whig who wishes all power in the hands of his own party. The division of it which the lawyers eall tripartite is exactly what he desires; and &e would have neither king, lords, nor com- oons unequall " trusted, or in the smallest degree predominant. Such a Whig am I, and such Whigs are the true friends of the constitution. Adieu! my dear; I am dead with weari- ness. W. C. TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. May 17, 1793. Dear Sir, — It has not been without fre- quent self-reproach that I have so long omit- ted to answer your last very kind and most obliging letter. I am by habit and inclina- tion extremely punctual in the discharge of such arrears, and it is only through necessity, and under constraint of various indispensable engagements of a different kind, that I am become of late much otherwise. I have never seen Chapman's translation of Homer, and will not refuse your offer of it, unless, by accepting it, I shall deprive you of a curiosity that you cannot easily replace.* The line or two which you quote from him. except that the expression of " a well-written soul" has the quaintness of his times in it, do him credit. He cannot surely be the same Chapman who wrote a poem, I think, on the battle of Hochstadt, in which, when I was a very young man, I remember to have seer the following lines: "Think of two thousand gentlemen at least, And each man mounted on his capering beast. Into the Danube they were push'd by shoals," &( . These are lines that could not fail to im- press the memory, though not altogether in the Homerican style of battle. I am, as you say, a hermit, and probably an irreclaimable one, having a horror of Lon- don that I cannot express, nor indeed very easily account for. Neither am I much less disinclined to migration in general. I did no little violence to my love of home last sum- mer, when I paid Mr. Hayley a visit, and in truth was principally induced to the journey by a hope that it might be useful to Mrs. Unwin; who, however, derived so little ben- efit from it, that I purpose for the iVrure to avail myself of the privilege my years may reasonably claim, by compelling my youiuvr friends to visit me. But even this is a point which I cannot well compass at present/both because I am too busy, and because poor Mrs. Unwin is not able to bear the fatigue of company. Should better days arrive, days * Chapman claims the honor of being the first trans lator of the whole of the works of Homer. He was bore in 1557, and was the contemporary of Shakspeare, Spen- ser. Jonson, &c. His version of the Iliad was dedicate* to Henry, Prince of Wales. He also translated Musaeua and Hesiod, and was the author of many other works. He died in 1634, aged seventy-seven. His version of Horner is now obsolete, and rendered tedious by the pro- tracted measure of fourteen syllables ; though occasion ally it exhibits much spirit Waller, according to Dry den, could never read his version without emotion, and P« pe found it worthy of his particular attention. of more leisure to me, and of some health to her, I shall not fail to give you notice of the change, and shall then hope for the pleasure of seeing you at Weston. The epitaph you saw is on the tomb of the same Mr. Unwin to whom the "Tirocinium" is inscribed ; the son of the lady above men- tioned. By the desire of his executors I wrote a Latin one, which they approved, but it was not approved by a relation of the de- ceased, and therefore was not used. He ob- jected to the mention I had made in it of his mother having devoted him to the service of God in his infancy. She did it, however, and not in vain, as I wrote in my epitaph. Who wrote the English one I know not. The poem called the " Slave" is not mine, nor have I ever seen it. I wrote two on the subject — one entitled "The Negro's Com- plaint," and the other "The Morning Dream." With thanks for all your kindness, and the patience you have with me, I remain, dear sir, Sincerely yours, W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, May 21, 1793. My dear Brother, — You must either think me extremely idle, or extremely busy, that I have made your last very kind letter wait so very long for an answer. The truth how- ever is, that I am neither ; but have had time enough to have scribbled to you, had I been able to scribble at all. To explain this riddle I must give you a short account of my pro- ceedings. I rise at six every morning and fag till near eleven, when I breakfast. The conse- quence is, that I am so exhausted as not to be able to write when the opportunity offers. You will say — " Breakfast before you work, and then your work will not fatigue you." I answer — "Perhaps I might, and your counsel would probably prove beneficial ; but I can- not spare a moment for eating in the early part of the morning, having no other time for study." This uneasiness of wbi",h I com- plain is a proof that I am somewhat stricken in years; and there is no other cause by which I can account for it, since I go early to bed, always between ten and eleven, and seldom fail to sleep well. Certain it is, ten years ago I could have done as much, and sixteen years ago did actually much more, without suffering fatigue or any inconve- nience from my labors. How insensibly old age steals on, and how often is it actually arrived before we suspect it ! Accident alone, some occurrence that suggests a comparison of our former with our present selves, affords the discovery. Well ! it is always good to be undeceived, especially on an article of Buch importance. There has been a book lately published entitled "Man as he is." I have heard a high character of it, as admirably written, and am informed, that for that reason, and because it inculcates Whig principles, it is by many imputed to you. I contradict this report, assuring my informant, that had it been yours, I must have known it, for that you have bound yourself to make me your father-confessor on all such wicked occasions, and not to conceal from me even a murder, should you happen to commit one* I will not trouble you, at present, to send me any more books with a view to rny notes on Homer. I am not without hopes that Sir John Throckmorton, who is^ expected here from Venice in a short time, may bring me Villoison's edition of the Odyssey. He cer- tainly will, if he found it published, and that alone will be insiar omnium. Adieu, my dearest brother ! Give my love to Tom, and thank him for his book, oi which I believe I need not have deprived him, intending that my readers shall detect the occult instruction contained in Homer's sto ries for themselves. W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Weston, June 1, 1793. My dearest Cousin, — You will not (you say) come to us now; and you tell us not when you will. These assignations, sine die, are such shadowy things that I can neither grasp nor get any comfort from them. Know you not that hope is the next best thing to enjoyment? Give us then a hope, and a de- terminate time for that hope to fix on', and we will endeavor to be satisfied. Johnny is gone to Cambridge, called thither to take his degree, and is much missed by me. He is such an active little fellow in my ser- vice, that he cannot be otherwise. In three weeks, however, I shall hope to have him again for a fortnight. I have had a letter from him, containing an incident which has given birth to the following. TO A YOUNG FRIEND,f ON HIS ARRIVAL AT CAMBRIDGE WET, WHEN NO RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE. If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found. While moisture none refreshed the herbs around, Might fitly represent the Church, endow'd, With heavenly gifts, to heathens not allow'd ; In pledge, perhaps, of favors from on high, Thy locks were wet. when other locks were dry Heav'n grant us half the omen ! may we see, Not drought on others, but much dew on thee ! These are spick and span. Johnny him * The real author was Robert t The poet's kinsman. LIFE OF COWPER. 43T *elf has not yet seen them. By the way, he nas filled your book completely; and I will give thee a guinea if thou wilt search thy old Dook for a couple of songs and two or three other pieces, of which I know thou madest copies at the vicarage, and which I have lost. The songs I know are pretty good, and I would fain recover them. W. C. TO THE REV. MR. HTJRDIS. Weston, June 6, 1793. My dear Sir, — I seize a passing moment merely to say that I feel for your distresses, and sincerely pity you, and I shall be happy to learn from your next, that your sister's amendment has superseded the necessity you feared of a journey to London. Your candid account of the effect thai your afflictions have both on you* ©pints and temper I can perfectly understand, having labored much in ft'i nre myself, and perhaps more than «ny man. It is in such a school, however, that we must learn if we ever truly learn it, the natural depravity of the human heart, and of our own in particular ; together with the consequence that necessarily follows such wretched premises; our indispensable need of the atonement, and our inexpressible obliga- tions to Him who made it. This reflection cannot escape a thinking mind, looking back to those ebullitions of fretfulness and impa- tience to which it has yielded in a season of great affliction. Having lately had company, who left us only on the 4th, I have done nothing — noth- iug indeed, since my return from Sussex, ex- cept a trifle or two, which it was incumbent upon me to write. Milton hangs in doubt : neither spirits nor opportunity suffice me for that labor. I regret continually that I ever suffered myself to be persuaded to undertake it. The most that I hope to effect is a com- plete revisal of my own Homer. Johnson told my friend, who has just left me, that it will begin to be reviewed in the next Ana- lytical, and he hoped the review of it would not offend me. By this I understand, that if [ am not offended it will be owing more to my own equanimity than to the mildness of the critic. So be it ! He will put an oppor- tunity of victory over myself into my hands, and I will endeavor not to lose it. Adieu! W. C. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* June 12, 1793. My dear Friend, — You promise to be con- futed with a short line, and a short one you must have, hurried over in the little interval I lavt happened to find between the conclusion * Private coi'espcndence. of my morning task and breakfast. Study has this good effect, at least : it makes me an early riser, who might otherwise, perhaps, be as much given to dozing as my readers. The scanty opportunity I have, I shall em- ploy in telling you what you principally wish to be told — the present state of mine and Mrs. Unwin's health. In her I cannot per- ceive any alteration for the better ; and must be satisfied, I believe, as indeed 1 have great reason to be, if she does not alter for the worse. She uses the orchard-walk daily, but always supported between two, and is still unable to employ herself as formerly. But she is cheerful, seldom in much pain, and has always strong confidence in the mercy and faithfulness of God. As to myself, I have always the same song to sing — Well in body, but sick in spirit; sick, nigh unto death. Seasons return, but not to me returns God. or the sweet approach of heavenly day, Or sight of cheering truth, or pardon seal'd. Or joy, or hope, or Jesus's face divine ; But cloud, &c. I could easily set my complaint to Milton's tone, and accompany him through the whole passage,* on the subject of a blindness more deplorable than his ; but time fails me. I feel great desire to see your intended publication; a desire which the manner in which Mr. Bull speaks of it, who called here lately, has no tendency to allay. I believe I forgot to thank you for your last poetical present : not because I was not much pleased with it, but I write always in a hurry, and in a hurry must now conclude myself, with our united love, Yours, my dear friend, Most sincerely, W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. Weston, June 29, 1793, Dear architect of fine chateaux in air Worthier to stand forever if they could, Than many built of stone, or yet of wood, For back of royal elephant to bear ! Oh for permission from the skies to share, Much to my own though little to thy good, With thee (not subject to the jealous mood !) A partnership of literary ware. But I am bankrupt now ; and doom'd henceforth To drudge, in descant dry.t on others' lays , Bards. I acknowledge, of unequall'd worth ! But what is commentator's happiest praise 1 That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes, Which they who need them use. and then despise. What remains for me to say on this subject, my dear brother bard, I will say in prose * Paradise lost, Book III. t He alludes to his notes on Homer. 438 UUYVPER'S WORKS. There are other impediments which I could not comprise within the bounds of a sonnet. My poc r Mary's infirm condition makes it impossible for me, at present, to engage in a work such as you propose. My thoughts are not sufficiently free, nor have I, nor can I, by any means, rind opportunity; added to it comes a difficulty which, though you are not at all aware of it, presents itself to me under a most forbidding appearance. Can you guess it? No, not you ; neither perhaps will you be able to imagine that such a difficulty can possibly subsist. If your hair begins to bris- tle, stroke it down again, for there is no need why it should erect itself. It concerns me, not you. I know myself too well not to know that I am nobody in verse, unless in a corner, and alone, and unconnected in my operations. This is not owing to want of love for you, my brother, or the most consum- mate confidence in you ; for I have both in a degree that has not been exceeded in the ex- perience of any friend yon have, or ever had. But I am so made up — I will not enter into a metaphysical analysis of my strange, compo- sition, in order to detect trfb true cause of this evil : but on a general view of the matter, I suspect that it proceeds from that shyness which has been my effectual and almost fatal hindrance on many other important occasions, and which I should feel, I well know, on this, to a degree that would perfectly cripple me. No ! I shall neither do, nor attempt anything of consequence more, unless my poor Mary get better ; nor even then, unless it should please God to give me another nature, in con- cert with any man — I could not, even with my own father or brother, were they now alive. Small game must serve me at present, and till I have done with Homer and Milton, a sonnet, or some such matter, must content me. The utmost that I aspire to, and Heaven knows with how feeble a hope, is to write at some better opportunity, and when my hands are free, " The Four Ages." Thus I have opened my heart unto thee.* W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLET, ESQ. Weston, July 7, 1793. My dearest Hayley, — If the excessive heat of this day, which forbids me to do anything else, will permit me to scribble to you, I shall rejoice. To do this is a pleasure to me at all times, but to do it now, a double one ; be- cause 1 am in haste to tell you how much I am delighted with your projected quadruple alliance, and to assure you, that if it please God to afford me health, spirits, ability, and leisure, I will not fail to devote them all to * What the proposed literary partnership was, which Hayley suggested, we know not ; it is evident that it was not the poem of " The Four Ages," which forms the sub- ject of the following letter, and in which Cowper ac- quiesced. the production of my quota of " The Foul Ages."* You are very kind to humor me as you do, and had need be a little touched yourself with all my oddities, that you may know how to ad- minister to mine. All whom I love do so, and I believe it to be impossible to love heartily those who do not. People must not do me good in their way, but in my own, and then they do me good indeed. My pride, my am- bition, and my friendship for you, and the in- terest I take in my own dear self, will all be j consulted and gratified by an arm-in-arm ap- pearance with you in public ; and I shall work with more zeal and assiduity at Homer, and, when Homer is finished at Milton, with the prospect of such a* coalition before me. But what shall I do with a multitude of small pieces, from which I intended to select the best, and adding them to " The Four Ages," to have made a volume ? Will there be room for them upon your plan? I have re-touched them, and will re-touch them again. Some of them will suggest pretty devices to designer ■ and, in short, 1 have a desire not to lose them. I am at this moment, with all the impru- dence natural to poets, expending nobody knows what, in embellishing my premises, or rather the premises of my neighbor Court e- nay, which is more poetical still. 1 have built one summer-house already, with the boards of my old study, and am building another, spick and span, as they say. I have also a stone-cutter now at work, setting a bust of my dear old, Grecian on a pedestal ; and be- sides all this I meditate still more that is to be done in the autumn. Your project therefore is most opportune, as any project must needs be that has so direct a tendency to put money into the pocket of one so likely to want it. Ah brother poet ! send me of your shade, And bid the zephyrs hasten to my aid ! Or, like a worm unearth'd at noon, I go, Despatch'd by sunshine, to the shades below. My poor Mary is as well as the heat will allow her to be: and whether it be cold or sultry, is always affectionately mindful of you and yours. W. C. It is due to the memory of my reverend friend and brother-in-law, the Rev. Dr. John- son, to state that Cowper was indebted to his ever-watchful and affectionate kindness for what he here calls his " dear old Grecian." * Hayley made a second proposition to unite with Cow- per in the projected poem of " The Four Ages," and to engage the aid of two distinguished artists, who were to embellish the work with appropriate designs. We b«» lieve that Lawrence and Flaxman were the persons to whom Hayley refers. We cannot sufficiently regret the failure of this plan, which would have enriched literature and art with so happy a specimen of poetical and pro- fession talent. But the period was unhappily approach- ing which was to suspend the fine powers of Cowper'l mind, and to shroud them in the veil of darkness. LIFE OF COWPEL 431 With that amiable solicitude which formed so prominent -o feature in his character, and which was always se ?king how to please and to con- fer a favor, he had contrived to procure an an- tique bust of Homer, to gratify Cowper's partiality for his favorite bard. No present could possibly have been more acceptable or appropriate. We cannot avoid remarking, on this occasion, that, to anticipate a want and to supply it, to know how to minister to the gratification of another, and to enhance the gift by the grace of bestowing it, is one of the great arts of social and domestic life. It is not the amount, nor the intrinsic value of the favor, for the power of giving must in that 3ase be restricted to the few. To give royally requires not only an enlarged heart, but ample and enlarged means, t is the appropriate- ness of the time and the occasion, the grace of the manner, and the unobtrusiveness of its character, that constitutes the value of the gift and endears the giver. Cowper recorded his gratitude by the fol- lowing poetical tribute, which has always been justly admired : — Kinsman belov'd, and as a son by me ! When I behold this fruit of thy regard, The sculptur'd form of my old fav'rite bard ! I rev'rence feel for him. and love for thee. Joy too, and grief! much joy that there should be Wise men. and learn'd who grudge not to reward With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn : critics by courtesy ! The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine, I lose my precious years, now soon to fail ! Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, Proves dross when balanc'd in the Christian scale ! Be wiser thou ! — like our forefather Donne, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone ! TO THOMAS PARK, ESQ. W. U., July 15, 1793. Dear Sir, — Within these few days I have received, by favor of Miss Knapps, your ac- ceptable present of Chapman's translation of the Iliad. I know not whether the book be a rarity, but a curiosity it certainly is. I have as yet seen but little of it ; enough, however, to make me wonder that any man, with so little taste for Homer, or apprehension of his manner, should think it worth while to under- take the laborious task of translating him : the hope of pecuniary advantage may perhaps account for it.* His information I fear, was * Chapman's version is thus described by Warton: he "frequently retrenches or impoverishes what he could not feel and express," and yet is " not always without Btrength and spirit." By Anton, in his Philosophical Sat- ires, published in 1616, he is characterised as •'Greeke-thund'ring Chapman, beaten to the age, With a deepe furie and a sudden rage." The testimony of Bishop Percy is flattering. " Had Chap- man," he observes, '• translated the Iliad into blank verse, had been one of our chief classic performances." not much better than his verse, for I have con suited him in one passage of some difficulty, and find him giving a sense of his own, not at all warranted by the words of Homer. Pope sometimes does this, and sometimes omits the difficult part entirely. I can boast of having done neither, though it has cost me infinite pains to exempt myself from the necessity. I have seen a translation by Hobbes, which I prefer for its greater clumsiness. Many years have passed since I saw it, but it mado me laugh immoderately. Poetry that is not good can only make amends for that defi- ciency by being ridiculous ; and, because the translation of Hobbes has at least this recom- mendation, I shall be obliged to you, should it happen to fall in your way, if you would be so kind as to procure it for me. The only edition of it I ever saw (and perhaps there never was another*), was a very thick 12mo., both print and paper bad ; a sort of book that would be sought in vain, perhaps, anywhere but on a stall. When you saw Lady Hesketh, you saw the relation of mine with whom I have been more intimate,«even from childhood, than any other. She has seen much of the world, un- derstands it well, and, having great natural vivacity, is of course one of the most agreea- ble companions. I have now arrived almost at a close of my labors on the Iliad, and have left nothing be- hind me, I believe, which I shall wish to alter on any future occasion. In about a fortnight or three weeks I shall begin to do the same for the Odyssey, and hope to be able to per- form it while the Iliad is in printing. Then Milton will demand all my attention, -and when I shall find opportunity either to re- vise your MSS., or to write a poem of my own,f which I have in contemplation, I can hardly say. Certainly not till both these tasks are accomplished. I remain, dear sir, With many thanks for your kind present, Sincerely yours, W. C. TO MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH. Weston, July 25, 1793. My dear Madam, — Many reasons concurred to make me impatient for the arrival of your most acceptable present,} and among them was the fear lest you should perhaps suspect me of tardiness in acknowledging so great a favor ; a fear, that, as often as it prevailed, distressed me exceedingly. At length I have received it, and my little bookseller assures * Cowper is mistaken in this supposition. Wood, in his Athense, records an edition of the Iliad in 1675 ; and of tne Odyssey in 1667, and there was a re-impression of both in 1686. t The Four Ages. t The poem of the Emigrants, which was dedicated U Cowper. 440 COWPER'S WORKS me, that he sent it the very day he got it ; by some mistake, however, the wagon brought it instead of the coach, which occasioned the delay. It came this morning, about an hour ago ; consequently I have not had time to peruse the poem, though you may be sure I have found enough for the perusal of the dedica- tion. I have, in fact, given it three readings, and in each have found increasing pleasure. I am a whimsical creature : when I write for the public, I write of course with a de- sire to please; in other words, to acquire fame, and I labor accordingly, but when I find that 1 have succeeded, feel myself alarmed, and ready to shrink from the acqui- sition. This I have felt more than once ; and when I saw my name at the head of your dedica- tion, I felt it again ; but the consummate deli- cacy of your praise soon convinced me that I might spare my blushes, and that the de- mand was less upon my modesty than my gratitude. Of that be assured, dear madam, and of the truest esteem and respect of your most obliged and affectionate* humble ser- vant, W. C. P. S. I should have been much grieved to have let slip this opportunity of thanking you for your charming sonnets, and my two most agreeable old friends, Monimia and Orlando.* TO THE REV. MR. GREATHEED. Weston, July 27, 1793. I was not without some expectation of a line from you, my dear sir, though you did not promise me one at your departure, and am happy not to have been disappointed: still happier to learn that you and Mrs. Great- heed are well, and so delightfully situated. Your kind offer to us of sharing with you the house which you at present inhabit, added to the short, but lively, description of the scen- ery that surrounds.it, wants nothing to win 1 our acceptance, should it please God to give Mrs. Unwin a little more strength, and should I ever be master of my time so as to be able to gratify myself with what would please me most. But many have claims upon us, and some who cannot absolutely be said to have any would yet complain and think themselves yl.'ghted, should we prefer rocks and caves to them. In short, we are called so many ways } * Mrs. Charlotte Smith is well known as an authoress, ■md particularly for her beautiful sonnets. She was for- merly a great eulogist of the French Revolution, but the horrors which distinguished that political era led to a change in her sentiments which she publicly avowed in her '* Banished Man." There is a great plaintivenfcss of feeling in all her writings, arising from the unfortunate incidents of her chequered life. We remember this lady, with her family, formerly resident at Oxford, where she Kcited much interest by her talents and misfortunes. that these numerous demands are likely te operate as a remora, and to keep us fixed at home. Here we can occasionally have the pleasure of yours and Mrs. Greatheed's com- pany, and to have it here must I believe con- tent us. Hayley in his last letter gives me reason to expect the pleasure of seeing him and his dear boy Tom, in the autumn. He will use all his eloquence to draw us to Eartham again. My cousin Johnny, of Nor- folk, holds me under promise to make my first trip thither, and the very same promise I have hastily made to visit Sir John and Lady Throckmorton, at Bucklands. How to reconcile such clashing promises, and give satisfaction to all, would puzzle me, had 1 nothing else to do ; and therefore, as I say the result will probably be, that we shah find ourselves obliged to go nowhere, since we cannot everywhere. Wishing you both safe at home again, ana to see you as soon as may be here, I remain, Affectionately yours, W. C. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, July 27, 1793. I have been vexed with myself, my dearest brother, and with everything about me, not excepting even Homer himself, that I have been obliged so long to delay an answer tc your last kind letter. If I listen any longei to calls another way, I shall hardly be abk to tell you how happy we are in the hope oi seeing you in the autumn, and before the autumn will have arrived. Thrice welcomt will you and your dear boy be to us, and the longer you will afford us your company, the more welcome. I have set up the head of Homer on a famous fine pedestal, and a very majestic appearance he makes. I am now puzzled about a motto, and wish you to de- cide for me between two, one of which I have composed myself, a Greek one, as fol- lows : Ec-oi/a rig ravrnv ; kXvtov avepog ovvo^ oXulev' Ovvofta S'ovtos avrip atydirov aiev £%"• The other is my own translation of a pas- sage in the Odyssey, the original of which I have seen used as a motto to an engraved head of Homer many a time. The present edition of the lines stand? thus: Him partially the muse And dearly loved, yet gave him good and ill : She quench'd his sight, and gave him strain, divine. Tell me, by the way, (if you ever had any speculations on the subject,) what is it you LIFE OF COWPER 441 luppose Homer to have meant in particular, vviien he ascribed his blindness to the muse, for that he speaks of himself under the name of Demodocus, in the eighth book, I believe is by all admitted. How could the old bard study himself blind, when books were either so few or none at all ? And did he write his poems ? If neither were the cause, as seems reasonable to imagine, how could he incur his blindness by such means as could be justly imputable to the muse ? Would mere thinking blind him? I want to know : " Call up some spirit from the vasty deep!" I said to my Sam* , " Sam, build me a shed in the garden, with anything that you can find, and make it rude and rough, like one of those at Eartham." "Yes, Sir," says Sam, and straightway laying his own noddle, and the carpenter's noddle together, has built me a thing fit for Stow Gardens. Is not this vexatious? 1 threaten to inscribe it thus : Beware of building ! I intended Rough logs and thatch, and thus it ended. But my Mary says, I shall break Sam's heart and the carpenter's too, and will not consent to it. Poor Mary sleeps but ill. How have you lived who cannot bear a sun- beam ? Adieu ! My dearest Hayley, W. C. The following seasonable and edifying letter, addressed by Cowper to his beloved kinsman, on the occasion of his ordination, will be read with interest. TO THE REV. JOHN JOHNSON.f August 2, 1793. My dearest Johnny, — The bishop of Nor- wich has won my heart by his kind and lib- eral behavior to you ; and, if I knew him, I would tell him so. I am glad that your auditors find your voice strong and your utterance distinct; glad, too, that your doctrine has hitherto made you no enemies. You have a gracious Master, who, it seems, will not suffer you to see war in the beginning. It will be a won- der, however, if you do not, sooner or later, find out that sore place in every heart, which can ill endure the touch of apostolic doctrine. Somebody will smart in his conscience, and you will hear of it. I say not this, my dear Johnny, to terrify, but to prepare you for mat which is likely to happen, and which, troublesome as it may prove, is yet devoutly to be wished; for, in general, there is little good done by preachers till the world begins lo abuse them. But understand me aright. * Samuel Roberts, his faithful servant, t Private correspondence. I do not mean that you should give them un necessary provocation, by scolding and railing at them, as some, more zealous than wise, are apt to do. That were to deserve their anger No ; there is no need of it. The self-abasing doctrines of the gospel will, of themselves, create you enemies ; but remember this, for your comfort — they will also, in due time, transform them into friends, and make them love you, as if they were your own children God give you many such; as, if you are faithful to his cause, I trust he will ! " Sir John and Lady Throckmorton hav« lately arrived in England, and are now at the Hall. They have brought me from Rome a set of engravings on Odyssey sub- jects, by Flaxman, whom you have heard Hayley celebrate. They are very fine, very much in the antique style, and a present from the Dowager Lady Spencer. Ever yours, W. C. TO LADY HESKETH. Weston, Aug. 11, 1/93. My dearest Cousin, — I am giad that my poor and hasty attempts to express some lit- tle civility to Miss Fanshaw and the amiable Count * have your and her approbation. The lines addressed to her were not what . I would have made them, but lack of time, &. lack which always presses me, would not suffer me to improve them. Many thanks for her letter, which, were my merits less the subject of it, I should without scruple say is an excellent one. She writes with the force and accuracy of a person skilled in more languages than are spoken in the pres- ent day, as 1 doubt not that she is. I per- fectly approve the theme she recommends to me, but am at present so totally absorbed in Homer, that all I do beside is ill done, being hurried over ; and I would not execute ill a subject of her recommending. I shall watch the walnuts with more at- tention than they who eat them, which I do in some hope, though you do not expressly say so. that when their threshing time ar- rives, we shall see you here. I am now go- ing to paper my new study, and in a short time it will be fit to inhabit. Lady Spencer has sent me a present from Rome, by the hands of Sir John Throck- morton, engravings of Odyssey subjects, af ter figures by Flaxman,f a statuary at pres ent resident there, of high repute, and much a friend of Hayley's. Thou livest, my dear, I acknowledge, in a very fine country, but they have spoiled it by building London in it. Adieu, W. C. * Count Gravina, the Spanish Admiral. t These illustrations are executed in outline, and form one of the most beautiful and elegant epecimens of pro* fessional art. 442 COWPER'S WORKS. That the allusion in the former part of the letter may be better understood, it is neces- sary to state, that Lady Hesketh had lent a mar uscript poem of Cowper's to her friend Miss Fanshaw, with an injunction that she should neither show it nor take a copy. This promise was violated, and the reason assigned is expressed by the young lady in the following verses. What wonder ! if my wavering hand Had dared to disobey, When Hesketh gave a harsh command, And Cowper led astray 1 Then take this tempting gift of thine, By pen uncopied yet ; But, canst thou memory confine, Or teach me to forget 1 More lasting than the touch of art The characters remain, When written by a feeling heart On tablets of the brain. COWPER'S REPLY. To be remembered thus is fame, And in the first degree ; And did the few like her the same, » The press might rest for me. So Homer, in the memory stored Of many a Grecian belle. Was once preserved — a richer hoard, But never lodged so well. We add the verses addressed to Count Gravina, whom Cowper calls "the amiable Count," and who had translated the well- known, stanzas on the Rose* into Italian verse. My Rose, Gravina, blooms anew, And, steep'd not now in rain, But in Castalian streams by you, Will never fade again. TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Weston, Aug. 15, 1793. Instead of a pound or two, spending a mint Must serve me at least, I believe, with a hint, That building, and building, a man may be driven At last out of doors, and have no house to live in. Besides, my dearest brother, they have not only built for me what I did not want, but have ruined a notable tetrastic by doing so. I had written one which I designed for a hermitage, and it will by no means suit the fine and pompous affair which they have made instead of one. So that, as a poet, I am every way afflicted ; made poorer than I need have been, and robbed of my verses : what case can be more deplorable ?f . * ' The rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,'&c. t The lines here alluded to are entitled, " Inscription for an Hermitage ;" and are as follow :— This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, Builf as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet, Preliminary to— the last retreat. You must not suppose me ignorant of what Flaxman has done, or that I have not seen it, or that I am not actually in posses sion of it, at least of the engravings which you mention. In fact, I have had them more than a fortnight. Lady Dowager Spencer, to whom I inscribed my Odyssey, and who was at Rome when Sir John Throckmorton was there, charged him with them as a pres- ent to me, and arriving here lately he exe- cuted his commission. Romney, I doubt not, is right in his judgment of them ; he is an artist himself, and cannot easily be mis- taken ; and I take his opinion as an oracle., the rather because it coincides exactly with •my own. The figures are highly classical antique, and elegant ; especially that of Pe nelope, who, whether she wakes or sleeps, must necessarily charm all beholders. Your scheme of embellishing my Odyssey with these plates is a kind one, and the fruit of your benevolence to me ; but Johnson, I fear, will hardly stake so much money as the cost would amount to, on a work, the fate of which is at present uncertain. Nor could we adorn the Odyssey in this splendid manner, unless we had similar ornaments to bestow on the Iliad. Such, I presume, are not ready, and much time must elapse even if Flaxman should accede to the plan, before he could possibly prepare them. Happy in- deed should I be to see a work of mine so nobly accompanied, but, should that good fortune ever attend me, it cannot take place till the third or fourth edition shall afford the occasion. This I regret, and I regret too that you will have seen them before I can have an opportunity to show them to you. Here is sixpence for you if you will abstain from the sight of them while you are in London. The sculptor 1 — nameless, though once dear tc fame : But this man bears an everlasting name.* So I purpose it shall stand; and on the pedestal, when you come, in that form you will find it. The added line from the Odys- sey is charming, but the assumption of son- ship to Homer seems too daring ; suppose it stood thus : &S s through a medium that is incapable of ad- mitting it. Such, alas ! -is the influence of physical causes and of a morbid temperament on the inward perceptions of the soul, that it is possible to be a child of God, without a consciousness of the blessing, and to have a title to a crown, and yet feel to be immured in the depths of a dungeon. The consolation to the friends of the un- happy sufferer, if not to the patient himself, is, that the chains are of his own forging, and that, if he had but the discernment to know it, the delusion would promptly vanish, and the peace of God flow into the soul like a river. That such was the case with Cowper, no one can doubt for a moment, A species of mental aberration, on a particular subject, in- /olved his mind in a strange and sad delusion. The Sun of Righteousness, therefore, failed in his last moments to impart its refreshing light and comfort, because the cloud of de- spair intervened, and obscured the setting beams of grace and glory. Who can contemplate so mysterious a process of the mind, without exclaiming — How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man ! How passing wonder He, who made him such ! vVh-o centred in our make such strange extremes ! It is impossible to dwell on the manner of Cowper's death, and not to be reminded of the wish cherished by himself on this subject, and recorded so impressively in the following So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, More golden than that age of fabled gold Renown'd in ancient song; notvex : d with care, Or stain'd with guilt, beneficient. approved Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. So glide m; life away and so. at Zo-si, My share of duties decently fulfill' 'd, May some disease, not tardy to perform Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat, Beneath the turf that I have often trod.* God mercifully granted the best portion of his prayer, but saw fit to deny the rest. No conscious guilt or open transgress'on stained his life ; his heart was the seat "of every beneficent and kind affection. As an author, he was blessed with an honorable career of usefulness ; the public voice con- ferred upon him the title to immortality, and succeeding times have ratified the claim. But if perception be necessary to enjoyment, he was not " peaceful in his end ;" for he died without this conviction. He did not, like Elijah, ascend in a chariot of fire ; it was his lot rather to realize the quaint remark of some of the old divines, " God sometimes puts his children to bed in the dark," that they may have nothing whereof to boast ; that their salvation may appear to be more fully the result of his own free and unmerited mercy, and that in this, as in all things, he may be known to act as a sovereign, who "giveth no account of his matters."-}- But the severest exercises of faith are al- ways mingled with some gracious purpose ; and God may perhaps see fit to appoint these dark dispensations, that the transition into eternity may be more glorious ; and that the emancipated spirit, bursting the shackles of death and sin, and delivered from the bond- age of its fears, may rise with a nobler tri- umph from the depths of humiliation into the very presence-chamber of its God. l^hese remarks are so closely connected with the subject of Cowper's afflicting mal- ady, that the time is now arrived when it is necessary to enter into a more detailed view of its nature and character; to trace' its origin and progress, and to disengage this complicated question from that prejudice and misrepresentation which have so inveterately attached to it. At the same time, it is with profound reluctance that the Editor enters upon this painful theme, from a deep con- viction that it does not form a proper subject for discussion, and that the veil of secrecy is never more suitably employed, than when it is thrown over infirmities which are too sa- cred to meet the gaze of public observation. This inquiry is now, however, no longer op- tional. Cowper himself has, unfortunately, suffered in the public estimation by the man- ner in which his earliest biographer, Hayley has presented him before the public. Bv suppressing some very important letters, which tended to elucidate his real character, an air of mystery has been imparted which deeply affects its consistency : while, by atui buting what he could not sufficiently concea * The Task, book vi. t Job xxxiii. 13. LIFE OF COWPER. 461 of the malady of the poet to the operation of religious causes, truth has been violated, and an unmerited wound inflicted upon religion itself. Thus Hayley, from motives of deli- cacy most probably, or from misapprehension of the subject, has committed a double error ; while others, misled by his authority, have unhappily aided in propagiiting the delusion. The Private Correspondence of Cowper, which is exclusively incorporated with the prosent edition, is of the first importance, as it dispels the mystery previously attached to his character. All that now remains is, to estabhsn by undeniable evidence that, so far from religious causes having been instru- mental to his malady, the order of events and the testimony of positive facts both mili- tate again such « conclusion. For this purpose, we shall now introduce to the notice of tLs \eader, copious extracts from the Memoir of Ocwper, written by him- self, containing the p.\ticulars of his life, from his earliest years .o the period of his malady and subsequent ,vcovery. This re- in ark able document was in bonded to record his sense of the Divine meicy in the preser- vation of his life, during a season ot disas- trous feeling ; and to perpetuate the remem- brance' of that grace which overruled this event, in so remarkable a manner, to his best and eternal interests. He designed this document principally for the perusal of Mrs. Unwin, to whose hands it was most confiden- tially entrusted. A copy was also presented to Mr. Newton, and ultimately to Dr. John- Bon ; but the parties were strictly enjoined never to allow another copy to be taken By some means the Memoir at length found its way before the public. On this ground the editor feels less difficulty in communicat- ing its purport; as the seal of secrecy has been already broken, though in the estima- tion of Dr. Johnson and his friends, in so unauthorized a manner. Its publication, how- ever has been unquestionably attended by one beneficial result, in having established, beyond the possibility of contradiction, that so far from Cowper's religious views having been the source of his malady, they were the first occasion and instrument of its cure.* The Memoir is interesting in another re- spect. It elucidates the early events of Cow- per's history. One important subject is how- ever omitted, his attachment to Miss Theo- dora Cowper, the failure of which formed no small ingredient in the disappointments of his early life. This omission we shall be enabled to supply. With these preliminary remarks we shall now introduce this curious and remarkable document, simply suppressing those portions which violate the feelings, without being es- sential to the substance of the narrative. * The following is the result of the information obtained by the Editor on this subject, after the minutest inquiry. A lady who was on a visit at Mr. Newton's, in London, saw, it is said, this Memoir of Cowper lying, among other papers, on the table. She was led to peruse it, and felt a deeper interest in the contents, from having herself been recently recovered from a state of derangement. She privately copied the manuscript, and communicated it to some friend. It was finally published by a pious char acter, who considered that in so doing he exonerated the religious views of Cowper from the charge of having been instrumental to his malady. MEMOIR OF THE EARLY LIFE OF WILLIAM COWPER, Esq, WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. I cannot recollect, that, till the month of December, in the thirty-second year of my life, I had ever any serious impressions of the religious kind, or at all bethought myself of the things of my salvation, except in two or three instances. The first was of so transi- tory a nature, and passed when I was so very young, that, did I not intend what fol- lows for a history of my heart, so far as re- ligion has been its object, I should hardly mention it. At six years old, I was taken from the nursery, and from the immediate care of a most indulgen* mother, smd sent to a consid- erable school in Bedfordshire.* Here I had hardships of different kinds to conflict with which I felt more sensibly in proportion to the tenderness with which I had been treated at home. But my chief affliction consisted in my being singled out from all the other boys by a lad about fifteen years of age, as a prop- er object upon whom he might let loose the cruelty of his temper. 1 choose to forbear a particular recital of the many acts of barbar- * Market Street. Hayley places this village in Hert- fordshire, and Cowper in Bedfordshire. Both are right, for the public road or street forms a boundary between the two counties. t 68 COWPER'S WORKS. fty with which he made it his business con- tinually to persecute me : it will be suffi- cient to say, that he had, by his savage treat- ment of me, impressed such a dread of his figure upon my mind, that I well remember being afraid to lift up my eyes upon him, higher than his knees; and that I knew him by his shoe-buckles better than any other part of his dress. May the Lord pardon him, and may we meet in glory ! One day, as I was sitting alone on a bench in the school, melancholy, and almost ready to weep at the recollection of what I had al- ready suffered, and expecting at the same time my tormentor every moment, these words of the Psalmist came into my mind, " I will not be afraid of what man can do unto me." I ap- plied this to my own case, with a degree of trust and confidence in God that would have been no disgrace to a much more experienced Christian. Instantly I perceived in myself a briskness of spirits, and a cheerfulness, which I had never before experienced, — and took several paces up and down the room with joyful alacrity — his gift in whom I trusted. Happy had it been for me, if this early effort towards a dependence on the blessed God had been frequently repeated by me. But, alas ! it was the first and last instance of the kind between infancy and manhood. The cruelty of this boy, which he had long practised in so secret a manner that no creature suspected it, was at length discovered. He was expelled from the school, and I was taken from it. From hence, at eight years old, I was sent to Mr. D., an eminent surgeon and oculist, having very weak eyes, and being in danger of losing one of them. I continued a year in this family, where religion was neither known nor practised; and from thence was despatched to Westminster. Whatever seeds of religion I might carry thither, before my seven years' apprenticeship to the classics was expired, they were all murred and corrupted ; the duty of the school-boy swallowed up every other ; and I acquired Latin and Greek at the expense of a knowledge much more important.* Here occurred the second instance of se- rious consideration. As I was crossing St. * We deeply lament that boys frequently leave public ichools most discreditably deficient even in the common principles of the Christian faith. My late lamented friend, the Rev. Legh Richmond, used to observe that Christ was crucified between classics and mathematics. A great Improvement might be effected in the system of modern education, if a brief but compendious summary of divine truth, or analysis of the Bible, were drawn up, divided into parts, suited to the different gradations of age and knowledge, and introduced into our public schools under the sanction of the Episcopal Bench. Care should also be taken, in the selection of under-masters, to appoint men of acknowledged religious as well as classical attain- ments, who might specially superintend the religious im- Brovement of the boys. Such are to be found in our Universities, men not less eminent for divine than pro- fane knowledge. A visible reformation would thus be effected, powerfully operating on the moral and spiritual tharacter of the rising generation. Margaret's churchyard, late one evening, I saw a glimmering light in the midst of it, which excited my curiosity. Just as I arrived at the spot, a grave-digger, who was at work by the light of his lanthorn, threw 7 up a skull which struck me upon the leg. This little accident [ was an alarm to my conscience ; for that event ! may be numbered among the best religious i documents which I received at Westminster. I The impression, however, presently went off, j and I became so forgetful of mortality, that, i strange as it may seem, surveying my activity and strength, and observing the evenness of : my pulse, 1 began to entertain, with no small S complacency, a notion that perhaps I might I never die ! This notion was, however, very | short-lived ; for I was soon after struck with a I lowness of spirits, uncommon at my age, and j frequently had intimations of a consumptive \ habit. I had skill enough to understand their j meaning, but could never prevail on myself to disclose them to any one ; fbr I thought j any bodily infirmity a disgrace, especially a consumption. This messenger from the Lord, however, did his errand, and perfectly con- vinced me that I was mortal. That I may do justice to the place of my education, I must relate one mark of licligious discipline, which, in my time, was observed at Westminster; I mean, the pains which Dr. Nicholls took to prepare us for confirmation. The old man acquitted himself of his duty like one who had a deep sense of its impor- tance ; and I believe most of us were struck by his manner, and affected by his exhortation. For my own part, I then, for the first time, attempted prayer in secret ; but being little accustomed to that exercise of the heart, and having very childish notions of religion, I found it a difficult and painful task ; and was even tken frightened at my own insensibility. This difficulty, though it did not subdue my good purposes, till the ceremony of confirma- tion was past, soon after entirely conquered them ; I relapsed into a total forgetfulness of God, with the usual disadvantage of being more hardened, for having been softened to no purpose. | At twelve or thirteen I was seized with the smdl-pox. I only mention this to show that, at that early age, my heart was become proof against the ordinary means which a gracious God employs for our chastisement. Though I was severely handled by the disease, and in imminent dunger, yet neither in the course of it, nor during my recovery, had I any senti- ment of contrition, any thought of God or eternity. On the contrary, I was scarcely raised from the bed of pain and sickness, be- fore the emotions of sin became more violent in me than ever ; and Satan seemed rather to have gained than lost an advantage ; so readily did I admit his suggestions, and so passive was I under them. LIFE OF COWPER. 46) By this time I became such an adept in falsehood that I was seldom guilty of a fault for which I could not, at a very short notice, invent an apology, capable of deceiving the wisest. These I know are called school-boys' tricks ; but a sad depravity of principle, ;>nd the work of the father of lies, are universally at the bottom of them. At the age of eighteen, being tolerably fur- nished with a grammatical knowledge, but as ignorant in all points of religion as the satchel at my back, I was taken from Westminster; and, having spent about nine months at home, was sent to acquire the practice of the law with an attorney. There I might have lived and died wilL:ut hearing or seeing anything that might remind me of a single Christian duty, had it not been that I was at liberty to spend my leisure time (which was well nigh ad my time) at my uncle's,* in Southampton Row. By this means I had indeed an op- portunity of seeing the inside of a church, whither I went with the family on Sundays, which probably I should otherwise never have seen. At the expiration of this term, I became, in a manner, complete master of myself; and took possession of a complete set of chambers in the Temple, at the age of twenty-one. This being a critical season of mv life, and one upon which much depended, it pleased my all-merciful Father in Jesus Christ to give a check to my rash and ruin- ous career of wickedness at the very onset. / was struck, not long after my settlement in \he Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, as none but they who have felt the same can have ihe least conception of Day and night I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, and rising up in despair.f I presently lost all relish for those studies to which I had be- fore been closely attached : the classics had no longer any charms for me ; I had need of something more salutary than amuse- ment, but I had no one to direct me where to find it. At length I met with Herbert's Poems ; and gothic and uncouth as they were, I yet found in them a strain of piety which I could not but admire. This was the only author I had any delight in reading. I pored over him all day long ; and though I found not here, what I might have found, a cure for my malady, yet it never seemed so much al- leviated as while I was reading him. At length I was advised by a very near and iear relative, to lay him aside ; for he thought nich an author more likely to nourish my disorder than to remove it.} * Ashley Cowper, Esq. \ Here we first observe the ground-work of Cowper's malady, originating in constitutional causes, and morbid temperament. t A relative of Cowper's ought to have been the last to orohibit the pe usal of Herbert's Poems, because Dr, John In this state of mind I continued near 9 twelvemonth ; when, having experienced the inefficacy of all human means, I at length betook myself to God in prayer; such is the rank which our Redeemer holds in out esteem, never resorted to but in the last in stance, when all creatures have failed to sue cor us. My hard heart was at length soft- ened; and my stubborn knees brought to bow. I composed a set of prayers, and made frequent use of them. Weak as my faith was, the Almighty, who will net break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax, was graciously pleased to hear me. A change of scene was recommended to, me ; and I embraced an opportunity of going with some friends to Southampton, where I spent several months. Soon after our ar- rival, we walked to a place called Freeman- tie, about a mile from the town : the morn- ing was clear and calm ; the sun shone bright upon the sea ; and the country on the bor- ders of it was the most beautiful I had ever seen. We sat down upon an eminence, at the end of the arm of the sea, which runs between Southampton and the New Forest. Here it was, that, on a sudden, as if another sun had been kindled that instant in the heavens, on purpose to dispel sorrow and vexation of spirit, I felt the weight of all my misery taken off; my heart became light and joyful in a moment ; I could have wept with transport had I been alone. I must needs believe that nothing less than the Almighty fiat could have filled me with such inexpres- sible delight ; not by a gradual dawning of peace, but as it were with a flash of his life- giving countenance. I think I remember something like a glow of gratitude to the Father of mercies for this unexpected bless- ing, and that I ascribed it to his gracious ac- ceptance of my prayers. But Satan, and my own wicked heart, quickly persuaded me that I was indebted for my deliverance to nothing but a change of scene and the amus- ing varieties of the place. By this means he turned the blessing into a poison ; teach- ing me to conclude, that nothing but a con- tinued circle of diversion, and indulgence of appetite, could secure me from a relapse.* Donne, the pious and eminent Dean of St. Paul's, one of Cowper's ancestors, was the endeared friend of that holj man, to whom, not long before his death, he sent a seal* representing a Harare of Christ extended upon an anchor, the emblem of Hope, to be kept as a memorial. Izaak Walton bears the following expressive testimony to Herbert's Temple, or Sacred Poems " A book, in which by declaring his own spiritual con- flicts, he hath comforted and raised many a dejected and discomposed soul, and charmed them into sweet and' quiet thoughts; a book, by the frequent reading whereof, and the assistance of that Spirit that seemed to inspire the author, the reader may attain habits of peace and piety, and all the gifts of the Holy Ghost and Heaven ; and may, by still" reading, still keep those sacred Area burning' upon the altar of so pure a heart, as shall free it from the anxieties of this world, and keep it fixed upon things that are above." See Walton's Lives. * W 3 do not know a state of mmd more to be dlpro *70 COWPER'S WORKS Upon this false principle, as soon as I re- turned to London, I burnt my prayers, and away went all thoughts of devotion and de- pendence upon God my Saviour. Surely it was of his mercy that I was not consumed ; glory be to his grace ! Two deliverances from danger not making any impression, having spent about twelve years in the Tem- ple, in an uninterrupted course of sinful in- dulgence, and my associates and companions being either, like myself, professed Chris- tians, or professed infidels, I obtained, at length, so complete a victory over my con- science, that all remonstrances from that quarter were in vain, and in a manner silenced ; though sometimes, indeed, a ques- tion would arise in my mind, whether it were safe to proceed any farther in a course so plainly and utterly condemned in the word of God. I saw clearly that if the gos- pel were true, such a conduct must inevitably end in my destruction ; but I saw not by what means I could change my Ethiopian complexion, or overcome such an inveterate habit of rebelling against God. The next thing that occurred to me was a doubt whether the gospel were true or false. To this succeeded many an anxious wish for the decision of this important question; for I foolishly thought, that obedience would presently follow, were I but convinced that it was worth while to attempt it. Having no reason to expect a miracle, and not hoping to be satisfied with anything less, I acqui- esced, at length, in the force of that devilish conclusion, that the only course I could take to secure my* present peace was to wink hard against the prospect of future misery, and to resolve to banish all thoughts of a subject, upon which I thought to so little purpose. Nevertheless, when I was in the company of deists, and heard the gospel blasphemed, I never failed to assert the truth of it with much vehemence of disputation ; for which I was the better qualified, having been always an industrious and diligent in- quirer into the evidences by which it was externally supported. I think I once went so far into a controversy of this kind, as to assert, that I would gladly submit to have my right hand cut off, so that I might but be enabled to live according to the gospel. Thus have I been employed, when half in- cated than what is indicated in this passage. It is the science of self-tormenting, that withers every joy, and blights all our happiness. That Saian tempts is a scrip- ural truth ; but the same divine authority also informs as, that ' k every man is tempted when he is drawn away of hi* own lus*t and enticed," James i. 14: that Cod suf- fereth no man to be tempted above what he is able, and that if we resist Satan he will flee from us. The mind that feels itself harassed by these mental temptations must take refuge in the promises of God, such as Isaiah xli. 10; xliii. 2; lix. 19; 2 Cor. xii. 9. and plead them in prayer. Resistance to temptation will weaken ;t, faith will overcome it, and the panoply of Heaven, .i we be careful to gird ourselves with it, will secure us against all its inroads. ■ toxicated, in vindicating the truth of scrip, ture, while in the very act of rebellion againsl its dictates. Lamentable inconsistency of a convinced judgment with an unsanctified heart ! An inconsistency, indeed, evident to others as well as to myself, inasmuch as a deistical friend of mine, with whom I was disputing upon the subject, cut short the matter, by alleging that, if what I said were true, I was certainly lost by my own showing. By this time, my patrimony being well nigh spent, and there being no appearance that I should ever repair the damage by a fortune of my own getting, I began to be ^ little apprehensive of approaching want. It was, I imagine, under some apprehensions of this kind, that I one day said to a friend of mine, if the clerk to the journals of the House of Lords should die, I had some hopes that my kinsman, who had the place in his disposal, would appoint me to succeed him. We both agreed that the business of that place, being transacted in private, would exactly suit me. Thus did I covet what God had commanded me not to covet. It pleased the Lord to give me my heart's desire, and with it an immediate punishment for my crime. The man died, and, by his death, not only the clerkship of the journals became vacant, but it became necessary to appoint officers to two other places, jointly, as depu- ties to Mr. De Grey,* who at this time re- signed. These were the office of reading clerk, and the clerkship of the committees, of much greater value than that of the jour- nals. The patentee of these appointments (whom I pray to God to bless for his benev- olent intention to serve me) called on me at my chambers, and, having invited me to take a turn with him in the garden, there made me an offer of the two most profitable places; intending the other for his friend Mr. A. Dazzled by so splendid a proposal, and not immediately reflecting upon my in- capacity to execute a business of so public a nature, I at once accepted it ; but at the same time (such was the will of Him whoso hand was in the whole matter) seemed to receive a dagger in my heart. The wound was given, and every moment added to the smart of it. All the considerations, by which I endeavored to compose my mind to its for- mer tranquillity, did but torment me the more ; proving miserable comforters and counsellors of no value. I returned to my chambers thoughtful and unhappy ; my coun- tenance fell ; and my friend was astonished, instead of that additional cheerfulness he might so reasonably expect, to find an air of deep melancholy in all I said or did. Having been harassed in this manner by day and night, for the space of a week, perplexed * Afterwards Lord Chief Justice of the Court of Co» mon Pleas, and created Lord Walsingham. LIFE OF COWPER. 47 i oetween the apparent folly of casting away the only visible chance I had of being w.ell provided for and the impossibility of retain- ing it, I determined at length to write a let- ter to my friend, though he lodged in a manner at the next door, and we generally spent the day together. I did so, and therein begged him to accept my resignation, and to appoint Mr. A. to the places he had given me ; and permit me to succeed Mr. A. I was well aware of the disproportion between the value of his appointment and mine ; but my peace was gone ; pecuniary advantages were not equivalent to what I had lost; and flattered myself, that the clerkship of the ournals would fall fairly and easily within the scope of my abilities. Like a man i . a fever, I thought a change of posture would relieve my pain ; and, as the event will show T , was equally disappointed. At length I car- ried my point; my friend, in this instance, preferring the gratification of my desires to his own interest ; for nothing could be so likely to bring a suspicion of bargain and sale upon his nomination, which the Lords would not have endured, as his appointment of so near a relative to the least profitable office, while the most valuable was allotted to a stranger. The matter being thus settled, something like a calm took place in my mind. I was, indeed, not a little concerned about my char- acter ; being aware, that it must needs suffer by the strange appearance of my proceeding. This, however, being but a small part of the anxiety I had labored under, was hardly felt, when the rest was taken off. I thought my path to an easy maintenance was now plain and open, and for a day or two was toler- ably cheerful. But, behold, the storm was giithering all the while ; and the fury of it was not the less violent for this gleam of sunshine. In the beginning, a strong opposition to my friend's right of nomination began to show itself. A powerful party was formed among the lords to thwart it, in favor of an old enemy of the family, though one much indebted to its bounty; and it appeared plain that, if we succeeded at last, it would only be by fighting our ground by inches. Every advantage, I was told, woul 1 be sought for, and eagerly seized, to disconcert us. I was bid to expect an examination at the bar of the house, touching my sufficiency for the post I had taken. Being necessarily igno- rant of the nature of that business, it became expedient that I should visit the office daily, in order to qualify myself for the strictest scrutiny. All the horror of my fears and perplexities now returned. A thunderbolt would have been as welcome to me as this fitelligence. I knew, to demonstration, that fipon these terms the clerkship of the jour- nals was no place for me. To require my attendance at the bar of the house, that I might there publicly entitle myself to the office, was, in effect, to exclude me .from it. In the meantime, the interest of my friend, the honor of his choice, my own reputation and circumstances, all urged me forward; all pressed me to undertake that which I saw to be impracticable. They whose spirits are formed like mine, to whom a public exhibition of themselves, on any occasion, is mortal poisoi^ may have some idea of the horrors of my sit- uation; others can have none. My continual misery at length brought on a nervous fever : quiet forsook me by day, and peace by night; a finger raised against me was more than I could stand against. In this posture of mind, I attended regularly at the office ; where, instead of a soul upon the rack, the most active spirits were essentially necessary for my purpose. I expected no assistance from anybody there, all the infe- rior clerks being under the influence of my opponent; and accordingly I received none. The journal books were indeed thrown open to me, a thing which could not be refused; and from which, perhaps, a man in health, and with a head turned to business, might have gained all the information he wanted; but it was not so with me. I read without perception, and was so distressed, that had every clerk in the office been my friend, it could have availed me little ; for I was not in a condition to receive instruction, much less to elicit it out of manuscripts, without direc- tion. Many months went over me thus em ployed; constant in the use of means, df» spairing as to the issue. The feelings of a man when he arrives at the place of execution, are probably much like mine every time I set my foot in the office, which was every day for more than half a year together. At length, the vacation being pretty far advanced, I made a shift to get into the coun- try, and repaired to Margate. There, by the help of cheerful company, a new scene, and the intermission of my painful employment, I presently began to recover my spirits; though even here, for some time after my ar- rival (notwithstanding, perhaps, that the pre- ceding day. had been spent agreeably, and without any disturbing recollection of my circumstances), my first reflections, when I awoke in the morning, were horrible and full of wretchedness. I looked forward to the approaching winter, and regretted the flight of every moment which brought it nearer; like a man borne away by a rapid torrent into a stormy sea, whence he sees no possibility of returning, and where he knows he cannot subsist. At length, indeed, I acquired such a facility of turning away my thoughts from the ensuing crisis, that for weeks together, 1 472 COWPER'S WORKS. hardly adverted to it at all; but the stress of the tempest was yet to come, and was not to be avoided by any resolution of mine to look another way. " How wonderful are the works of the Lord, and his ways past finding out!" Thus was he preparing me for an event which I least of all expected, even the reception of his blessed gospel, working by means which, in all human contemplation, must needs seem directly opposite to that purpose, but which, in his wise and gracious disposal, have, I trust, effectually accomplished it. About the beginning of October, 1763, I was again required to attend the office and prepare for the push. ' This no sooner took place, than all my misery returned ; again I visited the scene of ineffectual labors ; again I felt myself pressed by necessity on either side, with nothing but despair in prospect. To this dilemma was I reduced, either to keep possession of the office to the last ex- tremity, and by so doing expose myself to a public rejection for insufficiency (for the little knowledge I had acquired would have quite forsaken me at the bar of the house) ; or else to fling it up at once, and by this means run the hazard of ruining my benefactor's right of appointment, by bringing his discretion into question. In this situation, such a tit of passion has sometimes seized me, when alone in my chambers, that I have cried out aloud, and cursed the hour of my birth; lifting up my eyes to heaven, at the same time, not as a supplicant, but in the spirit of reproach against my Maker. A thought would some- times come across my mind, that my sins had perhaps brought this distress upon me, that the hand of divine vengeance was in it; but in the pride of my heart, I presently acquit- ted myself, and thereby implicitly charged God with injustice, saying, " What sins have I committed to deserve this V I saw plainly that God alone could deliver me ; but was firmly persuaded that he would not, and therefore omitted to ask it. Indeed, athis hands, I would not; but as Saul sought to the witch, so did I to the physician, Dr. Heberden; and was as diligent in the use of drugs, as if they would have healed my wounded spirit, or have made the rough places plain before me. I made, indeed, one effort of a devotional kind; for, having found a prayer or two, I said them a few nights, but with so little expectation of prevailing that way, that I soon laid aside the book, and with it all thoughts of God and hopes of a remedy. I no; v began to look upon madness as the only chance remaining. I had a strong kind of fcreboding that so it would one day fare with me; and 1 wished for it earnestly, and kooked forward to it with impatient expecta- "u'on My chief fear >^as, that my senses would not fail me time enough to excuse ml appearance at the bar of the House of Lords, which was the only purpose I wanted it to answer. Accordingly, the day of decision drew near, and I was still in my senses ' though in my heart I had formed many wish- es, and by word of mouth expressed many expectations to the contrary. Now came the grand temptation; the point to which Satan had all the while been driving me. I grew more sullen and reserved, fled from society, even from my most intimate friends, and shut myself up in my chambers. The ruin of my fortune, the contempt of my relations and acquaintance, the prejudice I should do to my patron, were all urged on me with irresistible energy. Being recon- ciled to the apprehension of madness, I be- gan to be reconciled to the apprehension of death. Though formerly, in my happiest hours, I had never been able to glance a single thought that w T ay, without shuddering at the idea of dissolution, I now wished for it, and found myself but little shocked at the idea of procuring it myself. I considered life as my property, and therefore at my own dis- posal. Men of great name, I observed, had destroyed themselves; and the world still retained the profoundest respect for their memories. [An imperative sense of duty compels me to throw a veil over the afflicting details which' follow. Respect for the known wishes of my departed brother-in-law, a desire not to wound the feelings of living characters, and a consciousness that such disclosures are not suited to meet the public eye, confirm me in this resolution. It maybe said, that the facts are accessible, and may be known; why make a mystery of communicating them ? My an- swer is, I am a lather; I will not inflict a shock on the youthful minds of my own children, neither, will I be instrumental in conveying it to those of others. I will make such use of the Memoir as may answer the purpose I have in view, buf I will not be the medium of revealing the secrets of the pris- on-house. It is sufficient to state that Cow- per meditated the crime of self-destruction, and that he was arrested in his purpose by an Almighty arm. To quote his own em- phatic words, "Unless my Eternal Father in Christ Jesus had interposed to disannul my covenant with death, and my agreement with hell, that I might hereafter be admitted into the covenant of mercy, I had by this time been the just object of his boundless ven- geance." All expectations of being able to hold the office in parliament being now at an end, h». despatched a friend to his relative at the coffee-house.] As soon, he observes, as the .atter arrived LIFE OF COWPER. 473 t apprised him of the attempt I had been making. His words were, "My dear Mr. Cowper, you terrify me ; to be sure you can- not hold the office at this rate. Where is the deputation ?" I gave him the key of the drawers where it was deposited; and, his business requiring his immediate attendance, he took it away with him ; and thus ended all my connexion with the parliament house. To this moment I had felt no concern of a spiritual kind. Ignorant of original sin, in- sensible of the guilt of actual transgression, I understood neither the law nor the Gospel; the condemning nature of the one, nor the restoring mercies of the other. I was as much unacquainted with Christ, in all his saving offices, as if his blessed name had never reached me. Now, therefore, a new scene opened upon me. Conviction of sin took place, especially of that just committed; the meanness of it, as well as its atrocity, were exhibited to me in colors so inconceiv- ably strong, that I despised myself, with a contempt not to be imagined or expressed, for having attempted it. This sense of it secured me from the repetition of a crime, which I could not now reflect on without ab- horrence. A sense of God's wrath, and a deep despair of escaping it, instantly succeeded. The fear of death became much more prevalent in me than ever the desire of it had been. A frequent flashing, like that of fire, before my eyes, and an excessive pressure upon the brain, made me apprehensive of an apoplexy. By the advice of my dear friend and bene- factor,, who called upon me again at noon, I sent for a physician, and told him the fact, and the stroke I apprehended. He assured me there was no danger of it, and advised me by all means to retire into the country. Being made easy in that particular, and not knowing where to better myself, I continued in my chambers, where the solitude of my situation left me at full liberty to attend to my spiritual state ; a matter I had till this day never sufficiently thought of. At this time I wrote to my brother, at Cambridge, to inform him of the distress I had been in, and the dreadful method I had taken to deliver myself from it; assuring him, as I faithfully might, that I had laid aside all such horrid intentions, and was de- sirous to live as long as it would please the Almighty to permit me. My sins were now set in array against me, and I began to see and feel that I had lived without God in the world. As I walked to and fro in my chamber, I said within myself, u There never was so abandoned a wretch, so great a sinner." All my worldly sorrows seemed as though they had never been ; thp terrors which succeeded them seemed so ^preat and so much more afflicting. One moment I thought myself shut out from mercy by one chapter ; the next by another. The sword of the Spirit seemed to guard the tree of life from my touch, and to flame against me in every avenue by which I at- tempted to approach it. I particularly re- member, that the parable of the barren fig tree was to, me an inconceivable source of anguish ; and I applied it to myself with a strong persuasion in my mind that, when the Saviour pronounced a curse upon it, he had me in his eye, and pointed that curse directly at me. I turned over all Archbishop Tillotson's sermons, in hopes of finding one upon the subject, and consulted my brother upon the true meaning of it ; desirous, if possible, to obtain a different interpretation of the mattei than my evil conscience would suffer me to fasten on it. " O Lord, thou didst vex me with all thy storms, all thy billows went over me; thou didst run upon me like a giant in the night season, thou didst scare me with visions in the night season." In every book I opened, I found something that struck me to the heart. I remember tak- ing up a volume of Beaumont and Fletcher, which lay upon the table in my kinsman's lodgings, and the first sentence which I saw was this : " The justice of the gods is in it." My heart instantly replied, "It is a truth;" an i I cannot but observe, that as I found something in every author to condemn me, so it was the first sentence, in general, I pitched upon. Everything preached to me, and everything preached the curse of the law. I was now strongly tempted to use lauda- num, not as a poison, but as an opiate, to compose my spirits ; to stupefy my awakened and feeling mind, harassed with sleepless nights and days of uninterrupted misery. But God forbad it, who would have nothing to interfere with the quickening work he had begun in me ; and neither the want of rest, nor continued agony of mind, could bring me to the use of it : I hated and abhorred the very smell of it. Having an obscure notion about the effi- cacy of faith, I resolved upon an experiment to prove whether I had faith or not. For this purpose, I resolved to repeat the Creed : when I came to the second period of it, all traces of the former were struck out of my memory, nor conld I recollect one syllable of the matter. While I endeavored to recover it, and when just upon the point, I perceived a sensation in my brain, like a tremulous vi- bration in all the fibres of it. By this means I lost the words in the very instant when I thought to have laid hold of them. This threw me into an agony ; but growing a little calmer, I made an attempt for the third time here again I failed in the same m inner as before. 474 COWPER'S WORKS. In this condition my brother found me, and the first words I spoke to him were, " Oh ! brother, I am lost! think of eternity, and then think what it is to be lost !" I had, in- deed, a sense of eternity impressed upon my mind, which seemed almost to amount to a full comprehension of it. My brother, pierced to the heart with the sight of my misery, tried to comfort me, but all to no purpose. T refused comfort, and my mind appeared to me in such colors, that to administer it to me was only to exasperate me, and to mock my fears. At length, I remembered my friend Martin Madan, and sent for him. I used to think him an enthusiast, but now seemed convinced that, if there was any balm in Gilead, he must administer it to me. On former occa- sions, when my spiritual concerns had at any time occurred to me, I thought likewise on the necessity of repentance. I knew that many persons had spoken of shedding tears for sin ; but when I asked myself, whether the time would ever come when I should weep for mine, it seemed to me that a stone might sooner do it. Not knowing that Christ was exalted to give repentance, I despaired of ever attaining to it. My friend came to me ; we sat on the bed-side together, and he began to declare to me the gospel. He spoke of original sin, and the corruption of every man born into the world, whereby every one is a child of wrath. I perceived something like hope dawning in my heart. This doctrine set me more on a level with the rest of mankind, and made my condition appear less desperate. Next he insisted on the all-atoning efficacy of the blood of Jesus, and his righteousness, for our justification. While I heard this part of his discourse, and the scriptures on which he founded it, my heart began to burn within me, my soul was pierced with a sense of my bitter ingratitude to so merciful a Saviour; and those tears, which I thought impossible, burst forth freely. I saw clearly that my case required such a remedy, and had not the least doubt within me but that this was the gospel of salvation. Lastly, he urged the necessity of a lively faith in Jesus Christ ; not an assent only of the understanding, but a faith of application, an actual laying hold of it, and embracing it as a salvation wrought out for ne personally. Here I failed, and deplored my want of such a faith. He told me it was the gift of God, Vhich he trusted he would bestow upon me. I could only reply, " I wish he would :" a very irreverent petition ;* but a very sincere one, and such as the blessed God, in his due time, was pleased to answer. My brother, finding that I had received * It could hardly be called irreverent, unless the man- ner in which it was uttered rendered it such. consolation from Mr. Madan, was very anx- ious that I should take the earliest opportu- nity of conversing with him again ; and, foi this purpose, pressed me to go to him imme- diately. I was for putting it off, but my brother seemed impatient of delay; and, at length, prevailed on me to set out. I men- tion this, to the honor of his candor and hu- manity ; which would suffer no difference o, sentiments to interfere with them. My wel- fare was his only object, and all prejudices fled before his zeal -to procure it. May he receive, for his recompense, all that happiness the gospel, which I then first became ac- quainted with, is alone able to impart ! Easier, indeed, I was, but far from easy. The wounded spirit within me was les« in pain, but by no means healed. What I nad experienced was but the beginning of sor- rows, and a long train of still greater terrors was at hand. I slept my three hours well, and then awoke with ten times a stronger alienation from God than ever. f At eleven o'clock my brother called upon me, and, in about an hour after his arrival, that distemper of mind, which I had so ar- dently wished for, actually seized me. While I traversed the apartment, expect- ing every moment the earth would open her mouth and swallow me, my conscience scar- ing me, and the city of refuge out of reach and out of sight, a strange and horrible dark- ness fell upon me. If it were possible that a heavy blow could light on the brain, with- out touching the skull, such was the sensa- tion I felt. I clapped my hand to my fore- head, and cried aloud through the pain it gave me. At every stroke my thoughts and ex- pressions became more wild and incoherent; all that remained clear was the sense of sin, and the expectation of punishment. These kept undisturbed possession all through my illness, without interruption or abatement. My brother instantly observed the change, and consulted with my friends on the best mode to dispose of me. It was agreed among them, that I should be carried to St. Alban's, where Dr. Cotton kept a house for the reception of such patients, and with whom I was known to have a slight ac- quaintance. Not only his skill as a physi- cian recommended him to thei choice, but his well-known humanity and sweetness of temper. It will be proper to draw a vei. over the secrets of my prison-house : let it suffice to say, that the low state of body and mind to which I was reduced was perfectly well calculated to humble the natural vain- glory and pride of my heart. These are the efficacious means which In- finite Wisdom thought meet to make use of for that purpose. A sense of self-loathing and abhorrence ran through all my insanity. Conviction of sin, and expectation of instant LIFE OF COWPER. 47* iudgmenl, never left me, from the 7th of De- cember 1763, until the middle of July fol- owing. The accuser of the brethren was ever busy with me night and day, bringing to myjecollection in dreams the commission of long-forgotten sins, and charging upon my conscience things of an indifferent nature as atrocious crimes. All that passed in this long interval of eight months may be classed under two heads, con- i viction of sin,- and despair of mercy. But blessed be the God of my salvation for every sigh I drew, for every tear I shed ; since thus it pleased him to judge me here, that I might not be judged hereafter. After five months of continual expectation that the divine vengeance would overtake me, I became so familiar with despair as to have contracted a sort of hardiness and indiffer- ence as to the event. I began to persuade myself that, while the execution of the sen- tence was suspended, it would be for my in- terest to indulge a less horrible train of ideas than I had been accustomed to muse upon. By the means I entered into conversation with the doctor, laughed at his stories, and told him some of my own to match them ; still, however, carrying a sentence of irrevo- cable doom in my heart. He observed the seeming alteration with pleasure. Believing, as well he might, that my smiles were sincere, he thought my re- covery well-nigh completed ; but they were, in reality, like the green surface of a morass, pleasant to the eye, but a cover for nothing but rottenness and filth. The only thing that could promote and effectuate my cure was yet wanting ; an experimental knowledge of the redemption which is in Christ Jesus. In about three months more (July 25, 1764) my brother came from Cambridge to visit me. Dr. C. having told him that he thought me greatly amended, he was rather disappointed at finding me almost as silent and reserved as ever ; for the first sight of him struck me with many painful sensations both of sorrow for my own remediless con- dition and envy of his happiness. As soon as we were left alone, he asked me how I found myself; I answered, "As much better as despair can make me." We went together into the garden. Here, on expressing a settled assurance of sudden judgment, he protested to me that it was all a delusion; and protested so strongly, that I could not help giving some attention to him. I burst into tears, and cried out, " If it be a delusion, then am I the happiest of be- ings." *Something like a ray of hope was shot into my heart ; but still I vas afraid to -ndulge it. ■ We dined together, and I spent the afternoon in a more cheerful manner. Something seemed to whisper to me every woment, " Still there is mercy." Even after he left me, this change of sen timent gathered ground continually; yet my mind was in such a fluctuating state, that 1 can only call it a vague presage of better things at hand, without being able to assign a reason for it. The servant observed a sudden alteration in me for the better ; and the man, whom I have ever since retained in my service,* expressed great joy on the oc- casion. I went to bed and slept well. In the morning, I dreamed that the sweetest boy I ever saw came dancing up to my bedside ; he seemed just out of leading-strings, yet I took particular notice of the firmness and steadiness of his tread. The sight affected me with pleasure, and served at least to har- monize my spirits ; so that I awoke for the first time with a sensation of delight on my mind. Still, however, I knew not where to look for the establishment of the comfort I felt ; my joy was as much a mystery to my- self as to those about me. The blessed God was preparing for me the clearer light of his countenance, by this first dawning of that light upon me. Within a few days of my first arrival at St. Alban's, I had thrown aside the word of God, as a book * in which I had no longer any interest or portion. The only instance, in which I can recollect reading a single chapter, was about two months before my recovery. Having found a Bible on the bench in the garden, I opened upon the 11th of St. John, where Lazarus is raised from the dead ; and saw so much benevolence, mercy, goodness, and sympathy with misei able man, in our Saviour's conduct, that I almost shed tears even after tb^ relation ; little thinking that it was an exact type of the mercy which Jesus was on the point of extending towards myself. I sighed, and said, " Oh, that I had not rejected so good a Redeemer, that I had not forfeited all his favors!" Thus was my heart softened, though not yet enlightened. I closed the book, without intending to open it again. Having risen with somewhat of a more cheerful feeling, I repaired to my room, where breakfast waited for me. While I sat at table, I found the cloud of horror, which had so long hung over me, was every moment passing away; and every moment came fraught with hope. I was continually more and more persuiided that I was not ut- terly doomed to destruction. The way of salvation was still, however, hid from my eyes ; nor did I see it at all clearer than be- fore my illness. I only thought that if it would please God to spare me, I would lead a better life; and that I would yet escape hell, if a religious observance of my duty would secure me from it. * Samuel Roberta. 476 COWl^ER'S WORKS, Thus may the terror of the Lord make a vharisee ; but only the sweet voice of mercy in the gospel can make a Christian. [We are now arrived at the eventful crisis of Cowper's conversion and restoration, which is thus recorded in his own words.] But the happy period which was to shake off my fetters, and afford me a clear opening of the free mercy of God in Christ Jesus, was now arrived. I flung myself into a chair near the window, and, seeing a Bible there, ventured once more to apply to it for comfort and instruction. The first verse I saw was the 25th of the 3rd of Romans; "Whom God hath set forth to be a propitiation through faith in his blood, to declare his righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the forbearance of God." Immediately I received strength to believe it, and the full beams of the Sun of Right- eousness shone upon me. I saw the suffi- ciency of the atonement he had made, my pardon sealed in his blood, and all the fulness and completeness of his justification. In a moment I believed, and received the gospel. Whatever my friend Madan had said to me, long before, revived in all its clearness, with demonstration of the Spirit and with power. Unless the Almighty arm had been under me, I think I should have died with gratitude and joy. My eyes fiMed with tears, and my voice choked with transport, I could only look up to heaven in silent fear, overwhelmed with love and wonder. But the work of the Holy Ghost is best described in his own words, it is "joy unspeakable, and full of glory." Thus was my heavenly Father in Christ Jesus pleased to give me the full assurance of faith, and out of a strong, stony, unbe- lieving heart to raise up a child unto Abra- ham. How glad should I now have been to have spent every moment • in prayer and thanksgiving ! I lost no opportunity of repairing to a throne of grace * but flew to it wifrh an ear- nestness irresistible, and never to be satis- fied. Could I help it? Could I do other- wise than love and rejoice in my reconciled Father in Christ Jesus ? The Lord had en- larged my heart, and I ran in the way of his commandments. For many succeeding weeks tears were ready to flow, if I did but speak of the gospel, or mention the name of Jesus. To rejoice day and night was all my employ- ment. Too happy to sleep much, I thought it was but lost time that was spent in slum- ber. O that the ardor of wy first love had continued! B»it I have knr wn many a life- less and unhallowed hour since ; long inter- vals of darkness, interrupted by short returns of peace and joy in believing. My physician, ever watchful and apprehen- Bive for my welfare, was now alarmed lest the sudden transition from despair to jo} should terminate in a fatal frenzy. But " the Lord was my strength and my song, and was become m) salvation." I said, " I shall not die, but live, and declare the works of the Lord ; he has cha&tened me sore, but not given me over unto death. O give thanks un- to the Lord, for his mercy endureth forever." In a short time, Dr. C. became satisfied, and acquiesced in the soundness of my cure : and much sweet communion I had with him. concerning the things of our salvation. He visited me every morning while I stayed with him, which was near twelve months after my recovery, and the gospel was the delightftf theme of our conversation. No trial has befallen me since, but what might be expected in a state of warfare. Satan, indeed, has changed his battery. Be- fore my conversion, sensual gratification was the weapon with which he sought to destroy me. Being naturally of an easy, quiet dis- position, I was seldom tempted to anger ; yet that passion it is which now gives me the most disturbance, and occasions the sharpest conflicts. But Jesus being my strength, I fight against it; and if I am not conqueror yet I am ,not overcome. I now employed my brother to seek out an abode for. me in the neighborhood of Cambridge, being determined by the Lord's leave, to see London, the scene of my former abominations, no more. I had still one place of preferment left, which seemed to bind me under the necessity of returning thither again.. But I resolved to break the bond, chiefly because my peace of conscience was in question. I held, for some years, the office of commissioner of bankrupts with about 60/. per annum. Conscious of my ignorance of the law, I could not take the accustomed oath, and resigned it ; thereby releasing myself from an occasion of great sin, and every obligation to return to Lon- don. By this means, I reduced myself to an income scarcely sufficient for my mainten- ance ; but I would rather have starved in reality than deliberately offend against my Saviour; and his great mercy has since raised me up such friends, as have enabled me to enjoy all the comforts and conveniences of life. I am well assured that, while I live, " bread shall be given me, and water shall be sure," according "to his gracious promise. After my brother had made many unsuc- cessful attempts to procure me a dwelling near him, I one day poured out my soul in prayer to God, beseeching him that, wherever he should be pleased, in his fatherly mercy to lead me, it might be in the society of those, who feared his name, and loved the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity ; a prayer of which I have good reason to scknowledge h s gra- cious acceptance. LIFE OF COWPER. «: In the beginning of June, 1765, 1 received a letter from my brother, to say he had taken lodgings for me at Huntingdon, which he believed would suit me. Though it was six- teen miles from Cambridge, I was resolved to take them ; for I had been two months in perfect health, and my circumstances required a less expensive way of life. It was with great reluctance, however, that I thought of leaving the place of my second nativity ; I had so much leisure there to study the bless- ed word of God, and had enjoyed so much happiness ; but God ordered everything for me like an indulgent Father, and had pre- pared a more comfortable place of residence than I could have chosen for myself. On the 7th of June, 1765, "having spent more than eighteen months at St. Alban's, partly in bondage, and partly in the liberty wherewith Christ had made me free, I took my leave of the place at four in the morning, and set out "for Cambridge. The servant, whom I lately mentioned as rejoicing in my recovery, attended me. He had maintained such an affectionate watch- fulness over me durir r my whole illness, and waited on me with so much patience and gentleness, that I could not bear to leave him behind, though it was with some difficulty the Doctor was prevailed on to part with him. The strongest argument of all was the earnest desire he expressed to follow me. He seemed to have been providentially thrown in my way, having entered Dr. C.'s service just time enough to attend me; and I have strong ground to hope, that God will use me as an instrument to bring him to a knowledge of Jesus. It is impossible to say with how delightful a sense of his protection and fatherly care of me, it has pleased the Almighty to favor me, during the whole journey. I remembered the pollution which is in the world, and the sad share I had in it myself; and my heart ached at the thought of enter- ing it again. The blessed God had endued me with some concern for his glory, and I was fearful of hearing it traduced by oaths and blasphemies, the common language of this highly favored, but ungrateful country.* But " fear not, I am with thee,'Mvas my com- fort, I passed the whole journey in silent 2ommunion with God ; and those hours are unongst the happiest I have known. I repaired to Huntingdon the Saturday after my arrival at Cambridge. My brother, who had attended me thither, had no sooner left me than, finding myself surrounded by strangers and in a strange place, my spirits began to sink, and I felt (such were the back- * There is considerable improvement in public man- ners since this period, and oaths and blasphemies would not be tolerated in well-bred society. May the hallowed nfluence of the Gospel be instrumental in producing a still happier change 1 slidings of my heart) like a traveller in the midst of an inhospitable desert, without a friend to comfort or a guide to direct me. I walked forth, towards the close of the day in this melancholy frame of mind, and, hav- ing wandered about a mile from the town, I found my heart, at length, so powerfully drawn towards the Lord, that, having gained a retired and secret nook in the corner ot a field, I kneeled down under a bank, and poured forth my complaints before him. It pleased my Saviour to hear me, in that this oppression was taken off, and I was enabled to trust in him that careth for the stranger to roll my burden upon him, and to rest as- sured that, wheresoever he might cast my lot, the God of all consolation would still be with me. But this was not all. He did for me more than either I had asked or thought. The next day, I went to church for the first time after my recovery. Throughout the whole service, I had much to do to re- strain my emotions, so fully did I see the' beauty and the glory of the Lord. My heart was full of love to all the congregation, e* pecially to them in whom I observed an air oi sober attention. A grave and sober person sat in the pew with me; him I have since seen and often conversed with, and have found him a pious man, and a true servant of the blessed Redeemer. While he was singing the psalm, I looked at him, and, ob- serving him intent on his holy employment I could not help saying in my heart, witr much emotion, " Bless you, for praising Him whom my soul loveth !" Such was the goodness of the Lord to me that he gave me "the oil of joy for mourn, ing, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;" and though my voice was silent, being stopped by the intenseness of what I felt, yet my soul sung within me, and even leaped for joy. And when the gospel for the day was read, the sound of it was more than I could well support. Oh, what a word is the word of God, when the Spirit quickens us to receive it, and gives the hear- ing ear, and the understanding heart ! The harmony of heaven is in it, and discovers its author. The parable cf the prodigal son was the portion. I saw myself in that glass so clearly, and the loving-kindness of my slighted and forgotten Lord, that the whole scene was realized to me, and acted over in my heart. I went immediately after church to the place where I had prayed the day before, and found the relief I had there received was but the earnest of a richer blessing. How shall I express what the Lord did for me, except by saying, that he made all his goodness to pass before me ! I seemed to speak to him face to face, as a man conversing with his friend, except that my speech was only in tears of joy, and groanings which cannot be uttered. I could say, indeed, with Jacob, not w how dreadful," but how lovely, " is this place! This is none other than the house of God." Four months I continued in my lodging. Some few of the neighbors came to see me, but. their visits were not very frequent; and, in general, I had but little intercourse, ex- cept with my God in Christ Jesus. It was he who made my solitude sweet, and the wil- derness to bloom and blossom as the rose; and my meditation of him was so delightful that, if I had few other comforts, neither did I want any. One day, however, towards the expiration of this period, I found myself in a state of desertion. That communion which I had so long been able to maintain with the Lord was suddenly interrupted. I began to dis- like my solitary situation, and to fear I should never be able to weather out the winter in so lonely a dwelling. Suddenly a thought struck me, which I shall not fear to call a suggestion of the good providence which had brought me to Huntingdon. A few months before, I had formed an acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Unwin's family. His son, though he had heard that I rather declined society than sought it, and though Mrs. Unwin her- self dissuaded him from visiting me on that account, was yet so strongly inclined to it, that, notwithstanding all objections and ar- guments to the contrary, he one day engaged himself, as we were coining out of church, after morning prayers, to drink tea with me that afternoon. To my inexpressible joy, I found him one whose notions of religion were spiritual and lively; one whom the Lord had been training up from his infancy for the service of the temple. We opened our hearts to each other at the first inter- view, and, when we parted, I immediately retired to my chamber, and prayed the Lord, who had been the author, to be the guardian of our friendship, and to grant to it fervency and perpetuity even unto death ; and I doubt not that my gracious Father heard this prayer also. The Sunday following I dined with him. That afternoon, while the rest of the family was withdrawn, I had much discourse with Mrs. Unwin. I am not at liberty to describe the pleasure I had in conversing with her, because she will be one of the first who will have the perusal of this narrative. Let it suffice to s^y, I found we had one faith, and had been baptized with the same baptism. When I returned home, I gave thanks. to God, who had so graciously answered my prayer.-, by bringing me into the society of Christians. She has since been a means in the hand of God of supporting, quickening, ind strengthening me, in my walk with him. It was long before I thought of any othel connexion with this family than as a friend and neighbor. On the day, however, above mentioned, while *l was revolving in my mind the nature of my situation, and beginning, for the first time, to find an irksomeness in such retirement, suddenly it occurred to me that I might probably find a place in Mr Unwin's family as a boarder. A young gen- tleman, who had lived with him as a pupil, was the day before gone to Cambridge. It appeared to me, at least, possible, that I might be allowed to succeed him. From the mo- ment this thought struck me, such a tumult of anxious solicitude seized me, that for two or three days I could not divert my mind to any other subject. 1 blamed and condemned myself for want of submission to the Lord's will ; but still the language of my mutinous and disobedient heart was, "Give me the blessing, or else I die." About the third evening after I had deter- mined upon the measure, I, at length, made shift to fasten my thoughts upon a theme which had no manner of connexion with it. While I was pursuing my meditations, Mr. Unwin and family quite out of sight, my at- tention was suddenly called home again by the words which had been continually play- ing in my mind, and were, at length, repeated with such importunity that I could not help re- garding them : — " The Lord God of truth will do this." I was effectually convinced, that they were not of my own production, and accordingly I received from them some as- surance of success; but my unbelief and fearfulness robbed me of much of the com- fort they were intended to convey ; though I have since had many a blessed experience of the same kind, for which I can never be suf- ficiently thankful. 1 immediately began to negotiate the affair, and in a few days it was entirely concluded. I took possession of my new abode, Nov. 11, 1765. I have found it a place of rest prepared for me by God's own hand, where he has blessed me with a thousand mercies, and instances of his fatherly protection ; and where he has given me abundant means of furtherance in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus, both by the study of his own word, and communion with his dear disciples. May nothing but death interrupt our union ! Peace be with the reader, through faith in our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen ! Painful as this memoir is in some of its earlier details, yet we know nothing more simple andbeauiiful in narrative, more touch ing and ingenuous in sentiment than its happy sequel and consummation. It resembles the storm that desolates the plain, but which is afterwards succeeded by the glowing beauties LIFE OF COWPER. 47* of the renovated landscape. No document ever furnished an ampler refutation of the remark that ascribes his malady to the oper- ation of religious causes. On the contrary, it appears that his :rst relief, under the tyranny of an unfeeling school-boy, was in the exer- cise of prayer, and that some of his happiest moments, in the enjoyment of the Divine piesence, were experienced in the frame of mind which he describes, when at Southamp- ton — that in proportion as he forgot the heavenly Monitor, his peace vanished, his passions resumed the ascendency, and he presented an unhappy compound of guilt and wretchedness. The history of his malady is developed in his own memoir with all the clearness of the most circumstantial evidence. A morbid temperament laid the foundation; an extreme susceptibility exposed him to- con- tinual nervous irritation ; and early disap- pointments deepened the impression. At length, with a mind unoccupied by study, and undisciplined by self-command — contemplat- ing a " public exhibition of himself as mortal poison," he sank under an offer which a more buoyant spirit would have grasped as an object of honorable ambition. In this state religion found him, and administered the happy cure. That a morbid temperament was the origi- nating cause of his depression, is confirmed by an affecting passage in one of his poems. Jn the beautiful and much admired lines on his mother's picture, there is the following pathetic remark : My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed 1 Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? In dwelling on these predisposing causes, the Editor thinks it right to state, in the most unequivocal manner, that there is not the re- motest reason for supposing that any heredi- tary malady existed in the family of Covvper sufficient to account for this afflicting dispen- sation. There was an inflammatory action of bis blood, and peculiar irritability of the nervous system, which a wise and salutary self-contro. and the early influence of relig- ious principles might have subdued, or at least modified. Employment, also, or the active- exercise of the faculties, seems indis- pensable to health and happiness.* He who lives without an allotted occupation is sel- dom either wise, virtuous, or happy. The mind recoils upon itself, and is consumed by its own fires. Providence, after the Fall, in mercy, not less than in justice, decreed that man should live by the sweat of his brow ; that, in the same moment that he was re- minded of his punishment, he might find the * Cowper adopted a profession, but never pursued it ■rith perseverance. toil itself a powerful alleviation to his suf- ferings, and the exercise of all his faculties the road to competency, to usefulness, and honor. Two events contributed to exercise a most injurious influence on the morbid mind of Cowper, not recorded in his' own Memoir. We allude to the death of his friend, Sir William Russel,and his hopeless attachment to- Miss Theodora Cowper. Sir Vyilliam was the contemporary of Cow per at Westminster, and his most intimate friend. This intercourse was continued in their riper years, on the footing of the most en- dearing friendship. Unhappily, young Rus- sel was cut off by a premature death,* while bathing in the Thames, amidst all the open- ing prospects of life, and with accomplish- ments and virtues that adorned his rank and station. This occurrence inflicted a great moral shock on the sensitive mind of Cowper. But it was his attachment to Miss Theo dora Jane Cowper that formed the eventful era in his early life, and clouded all his future prospects. The relation of this fact is wholly omitted by Hayley^ in compliance, 'we pre- sume, with the express wishes of the family. it was, indeed, understood to be a prohibited subject, and involved in much mystery. The name of this lady was never uttered by Cowper, nor mentioned in his presence; and, after his death, delicacy towards the sur vivor equally imposed the duty of silence. The brother-in-law of the Editor, the Rev. Dr. Johnson, conscious that a correspond- ence mast have existed between the poet and the fair object of his attachment, re- quested to know whether he could be fur- nished with any documents, and permitted, without a violation of delicacy, to lay them before the public. The writer was also com- missioned by him to solicit an interview, and to urge the same request, but without suc- cess. An intimation was at length conveyed that no documents could see the light till after the decease of the owner. The death of this lady, in the year 1824, at a very ad- vanced age, removed the veil of secrecy, though the leading facts were known by a small circle of friends, through the confiden- tial communications of Lady Hesketh and Dr. Johnson. We now proceed to the de- * Shortness of life seems to have been peculiar to this family. The writer well remembers the two last baro« nets, viz., Sir John Russel, whose form was so weak and fragile, that, when resident at the University of Ox ford, he was supported by instruments of steel. He died at the early age of twenty-one. 2ndly. Sir George Russel, his brother, who survived only till his twenty-second year. The editor followed him to his graze. The familj residence was at Chequers, in Buckinghamshire, an an cient seat, and restored at great expense by these last direcl descendants of their race. Chequers was formerly noted as the place where Hampden, Cromwell, and a fe\» others, held their secret meetings, and concerted theii measures of opposition against the government of Charles I. The estate afterwards devolved to Rober Greenhill, Esq. 480 COWPER'S WORKS. tails of this transaction. Miss Theodora Cowper was the second daughter of Ashley Cowper, Esq., the poet's uncle, and sister to Lady Hesketh ; she was, consequently, own cousin to Cowper. She is described as hav- ing been a young lady possessed of great per- sonal attractions, highly accomplished, and distinguished by the qualities that engage affection and regard. It is no wonder that a person of Cowper's susceptibility yielded to so powerful an influence. She soon became the theme of his poetical effusions, which have since been communicated to the public* They are juvenile compositions, but interest- ing, as forming the earliest productions of his muse, and recording his attachment to his cousin. Miss Theodora Cowper was by no means insensible to the regards of her ad- mirer, and the father w r as eventually solicited to ratify her choice. But Mr. Ashley Cow- per, attached as he was to his nephew, and anxious to promote the happiness of his daughter, could by no means be induced to listen to the proposition. His objections were founded, first, on the near degree of relationship in which they stood to each other; and secondly, on the inadequacy of Cowper's fortune. From this resolution no entreaty could induce him to depart. The poet, therefore, was compelled to cherish a hopeless passion, which no lapse of time was capable of effacing; and his fair cousin, on her part, discovered a corresponding fidelity. The subsequent melancholy event, record- ed in the Memoir, at once extinguished all further hopes on the subject. How 7 powerfully his feelings were affected by the death of his friend, Sir William, and by his disappointment in love, may be seen by the following pathetic lines, referring to Miss Theodora Cowper : — Doom'd as I am. in solitude to waste The present moments, and regret the past; Depriv'd of every joy I valued most, My friend torn from me and my mistress lost; Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien, The dull effect of humor, or of spleen ! Still, still, I mourn with each returning day, Him. snatch'd by fate in early youth away ; And her — through tedious years of doubt and pain Fix'd in her choice and faithful — but in vain ! O prone to pity, generous, and sincere, Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear; Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes; See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown! See me neglected on, the world's rude coast, Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! Such were the preparatory causes that weakened and depressed the mind of Cow- per. The immediate and exciting cause of lis unhappy derangement has already been * Poems, the Early Productions of William Cowper. faithfully disclosed as well as the occasion that ministered to its cure. Pursuing this interesting and yet painful subject in the order of events, it appears that, after spending nearly ten years in the enjoy- ment of much inward peace, he was visited in the year 1773, at 01ney,with a return, not of his original derangement, but with a severe nervous fever, and a settled depression of spirits. This attack began to subside at th«i close of the year 1776, though his full pow- ers were not recovered till some time after What he suffered is feelingly expressed in a letter to Mr. Hill. " Other distempers only batter the walls; but they (nervous fevers) creep silently into the citadel, and put the garrison to the sword."* The death of his brother, the Rev. John Cowper, may have been instrumental to this long indisposition. At the same time we think that his situation at Olney was by no means favorable to his health ; and that more time should have been allotted for relaxation and exercise. • In January, 1787, he experienced a fresh attack, though surrounded by the beautifu scenery of Weston ; which ' seems to prove that local causes were not so influential as some have suggested. A much better reason may be assigned in the lamented death of his endeared friend, Mr. Unwin. This illness continued eight months, and greatly enfee- bled his health and spirits. "This last tem- pest," he remarks, in a letter to Mr. Newton, " has left my nerves in a worse condition than it found them ; my head, especially, though better informed, is more infirm than ever."f In December, 1791, Mrs. Unwin ex- perienced her first attack: and in May, 1792, it was renewed with aggravated symptoms, dur- ing Hayley's visit to Weston. He describes its powerful effect on Cowper's nerves in ex- pressive language, and none can be more expressive than his own, at the close of the same year. " The year ninety-two shall stand chronicled in my remembrance as the most melancholy that I have ever known, ex- cept the fewweeks that I spent at Eartham."| Cowper's mental depression kept pace with the spectacle of her increasing imbecility, till at length, yielding to the pressure of these accumulating sorrows, he sank under the violence of the shock. The coincidence of these facts is worthy of observation, as they seem to prove that the embers of the original constitutional malady never became extinct, and required only some powerful stimulant to revive the flame. Re- ligious feelings unquestionably concurred, because whatever predominates in the mind furnishes the materials 'of excitement; but it was not the religion of a creed, for what * See p. 58. t See p. 284. t See Letter Dec. 26 1792. LIFE OF COWPER. 481 creed ever proclaimed the delusion under which Cowper labored?* His persuasion was in opposition to his creed, for he knew that he was once saved, and yet believed that he should be lost, though his creed assured him that, where divine grace had once re- vealed its saving power, it never failed to perfect its work in mercy — that the Saviour's love is unchangeable, and that whom he hath loved he loveth unto the end (John xiii. 1). His case, therefore, was an exception to his creed, and consequently must be imputed to the operation of other causes. We trust we have now succeeded in tracing to its true source the origin of Cowper's mal- ady, and that the numerous facts which have been urged must preclude the possibility of future misconception. There are some distinguishing features in this mysterious malady which are too extraor- dinary not to be specified. We notice the fol- lowing : — 1st. The free exercise of his mental pow- ers continued during the whole period of his depression, with the exception of two inter- vals, from 1773 to 1776, and a season of eight months in the year 1787. With these intermissions of study, all his works were written in moments of depression and un- ceasing nervous excitement. It still further shows the singular mechan- ism of his wonderful mind, that his Montes Glaciales, or Ice Islands, exhibiting decided marks of vigor of genius, were composed in the last stage of his malady — within five weeks of his decease — when his heart was lacerated by sorrow, his imagination scared by dreams, and the heavens over his head were as brass. The public papers had announced a phenomenon, which the voyages of Cap- tains Ross and Parry have now made more familiar, viz., the disruption of- immense masses of ice in the North Pole, and their appearance in the German Ocean. Cowper seized this incident as a fit subject for his poetic powers, and produced the poem from which we make the following extract : — What portents, from what distant region, ride, Unseen till now in ours, th' astonish d tide 1 — What view we now 1 more wondrous still ! Be- hold ! Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold ; A.nd all around the pearl's pure splendor show. 4nd all around the ruby's fiery glow. Come they from India, where che burning earth. All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth ; And where the costly gems, that beam around The brows of mightiest potentates, are found 1 No. Never such a countless, dazzling store Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore — Whence sprang they then % * Cowper believed that he had incurred the Divine displeasure, because he did not commit the crime of self- destruction ; a persuasion so manifestly absurd as to afford undeniable proof of derangement. -Par hence, where most severe Bleak Winter well-nigh saddens all the year, Their infant growth began. He bade arise Their uncouth forms, potentous in our eyes. Oft, as dissolv'd by transient suns the snow Left the tall cliff to join the flood below, He caught and curdled with a freezing blast The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile And long successive ages roll'd the while, Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand Tall as its rival mountains on the land. Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill Or force of man, had stood the structure still; But that though firmly fixt supplanted yet By pressure of its own enormous weight, It left the shelving beach — and, with a sound That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, As if instinct with strong desire to lave, Down went the pond'rous mass. See Poems. 2ndly. His malady, however oppressive to himself, was not perceptible to others. The Editor is enabled to state this remark- able fact on the authority of Dr. Johnson, confirmed by the testimony of Lady Throck- morton, and John Kiggins, Esq., of Turvey Abbey, formerly of Weston. There was nothing in his general manner, or intercourse with society, to excite the sus- picion of the wretchedness that dwelt within. Among strangers he was at all times reserved and silent, but in the circle of familiar friends, where restraint was banished, not only did he exhibit no marks of gloom, but he could par. ticipate in the mirth of others, or inspire it from his own fertile resources of wit and hu- mo' . The prismatic colors, so to speak, were discernible through the descending shower. The bow in the heavens was not only em- blematic of his imagination, but might be in- terpreted as the pledge of promised mercy. For it seemed to be graciously ordered that his lively and sportive imagination should be a relief to the gloomy forebodings of his mind ; and that, in vouchsafing to him this alleviation, God proclaimed, " Behold, I do set my bow in the cloud, it shall be for a covenant between me and thee." 3rdly. The rare union, in the same mind, of a rich vein of humor with a spirit of pro- found melancholy was never perhaps so strik- ingly exemplified as in the celebrated pro- duction of John Gilpin. The town resounded with its praises. Henderson recited it to over- flowing auditories ; Mr. Henry Thornton ad- dressed it to a large party of friends at Mr. Newton's. Laughter might be said to hold both his sides, and the gravest were compelled to acknowledge the power of comic wit. We scarcely know a more extraordinary phenom- enon than what is furnished by the history . of this performance. For it appears, by tho author's own testimony, that it was written " in the saddest mood, and but for that saddest 31 482 COWPER'S WORKS. mood, perhaps, had never been written at all."* It is also known that this depression was not incidental or temporary, but a fixed and settled feeling ; that he was in fact ab- sorbed, for the most part, in the profoundest melancholy ; that he considered himself to be cut off from the mercy of his God, though his life was blameless and without reproach; and that, finally, having enlightened his coun- try with strains of the sublimest morality, he died the victim of an incurable despair. As a contrast to the inimitable humor of John Gilpin, let us now turn to that most affecting- representation which the poet draws of his own mental sufferings, occasioned by the painful depression which has been the subject of so many remarks. Look where he comes — in this embowered alcove Stand close concealed, and see a statue move ; L ; ps busy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow, Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped below, Interpret to the marking eye distress, Such as its symptoms can alone express. That tongue is silent now ; that silent tongue . Could argue once, could jest or join the song, Could give advice, could censure or commend, Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. Renounced alike its office and its sport, Its brisker and its graver strains fall short; Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway, And like a summer- brook are pa^t away. This is a sight for pity to peruse, Till she resemble faintly what she views; Till sympathy contract a kindred pain, Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain. This, of all maladies that man infest, Claims most compassion, and receives the least. See Poem on Retirement. The minute and mournful delineation of mental trouble here submitted to the eye of the reader, and the fact of this living image of woe being a portrait of Cowper drawn by his own hand, impart to it a character of in- imitable pathos, and of singular and indescrib- able interest. The physical and moral solution of this evil, and its painful influence on the mind, till the cure is administered by an almighty Phy- sician, are beautifully and affectionately de- scribed. Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, Each yielding harmony, disposed aright ; The screws reversed (a task which if he please God in a moment executes with ease). Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose, Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use. Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair As ever recompensed the peasant's care, Nor soft declivities, with tufted hills, Nor view of waters turning busy mills, Parks in which 'art preceptress nature weds, Nor garden* interspersed with /lowery beds, * See p. 143. Nor gales, that catch the scent o e blooming grove^ And waft it to the mourner as he roves — Can call up life into his faded eye, That passes all he sees unheeded by ; No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, No cure for such, till God, who makes than, heals. Retirement. The lines which follow are important, as proving by his own testimony that, so far from his religious views being the oceas ; cn of his wretchedness, it was to this source alorw that he looked for consolation and support, And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill, That yields not to the touch of human skill; Improve the kind occasion, understand A Father's frown, and kiss his chastening hand To thee the day-spring and the blaze of noon, The purple evening and resplendent moon, The stars, that, sprinkled o'er the vault of night Seem drops descending in a shower of light, Shine not. or undesired and hated shine, Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine' Yet seek Him, in his favor life is found, All bliss beside, a shadow or a sound : Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull earth Shall seem to start into a second birth! Nature, assuming a more lovely face. Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, Shall be despised and overlooked no more, Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before, Impart to things inanimate a voice, And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice ; The sound shall run along the winding vales, And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. Retirement. The Editor has entered thus largely into the consideration of Cowper's depressive malady, because it has been least understood, and subject to the most erroneous misrepre- sentations, affecting the character of Cowper and the honor of religion. One leading ob- ject of the writer's, in engaging in the present undertaking, has been to vindicate both from so injurious an imputation. We have now to lay before the reader another most interesting document, of which Cowper is the acknowledged author. Tt con- tains the affecting account of the last illness and peaceful end of his brother, the Rev. John Cowper, Fellow of Bennet College, Cam- bridge. The original manuscript was faith- fully transcribed by Newton, and then pub- lished with a preface, which we have thought proper to retain. It cannot fail to be read with deep interest and edification ; and, while it is a monument of Cowper's pious zeal and fraternal love, it is a striking record of the power of divine grace in producing that great change of heart which we deem to be essen- tial to every professing Christian. This docu- ment is now extremely scarce, and not acces- sible but through private sources.* * We are indebted for this copy to a mv.ch esteemed and highly valued friend, the Rev. Charles Bridges, ADELPH1. tSKETCH OF THE CHARACTER, AND AN ACCOUNT OF THE LAST ELNE8S. OF THE LATE REV. JOHN COWPER, A.M. FELLOW OF BENNET COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, WHO FINISHED HIS COURSE WITH JOY, 20th MARCH, 1770. WRITTEN BY HIS BROTHER, THE LATE WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. OF THE INNER TEMPLE, AUTHOR OF "THE TASK," ETC. FAITHFULLY TRANSCRIBED FROM HIS ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT, BY JOHN NEWTON, RECTOR OF ST. MARY, WOOLNOTH, AND ST MARY, WOOLCHURCH Tu supplicanti protinus admoves Aurem, benignus : pro lachrimis mini Risura reducis, pro dolore Laetitiamque, alacremque plausum. Buchanan, Ps. xxx. NEWTON'S ORIGINAL PREFACE. The Editors motives, which induce him to publish the following narrative, are chiefly two. First, that so striking a display of the power and mercy of God may be more gen- erally known to the praise and glory of his grace and the instruction and comfort of his people. Secondly, the boasted spirit of refinement, the stress laid upon unassisted human reason, and the consequent scepticism to which they lead, and which so strongly mark the charac- ter of the present times, are not now confined merely to the dupes of infidelity ; but many persons are under their influence, who would be much offended if we charged them with having renounced Christianity. While no theory is admitted in natural history, which is not confirmed by actual and positive exper- iment, religion is the only thing to which a trial by this test' is refused. The very name of vital experimental religion excites con- empt and scorn, and provokes resentment. The doctrines of regeneration by the pewer* ful operation of the Holy Spirit, and the ne- cessity of his continual agency and influence to advance the holiness and comforts of those in whose hearts he has already begun a work of grace, are not only exploded and contra- dicted by many who profess a regard for the Bible, and by some who have subscribed to the articles and liturgy of our established church, but they who avow an attachment to them are, upon that account, and that account only, considered as hypocrites or visionaries, knaves or fools. The Editor fears that many unstable persons are misled and perverted by the fine words and fair speeches of those who lie in wait to deceive. But he likewise hopes that, by the blessing of God, a candid perusal of what is here published, respecting the character, sen- timents, and happy death of the late Rever- end John Cowper, may convince them, some of them at least, of their mistake, and break the snare in which they have been entangled John Newton. A SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE LAI E REV. JOHN COWPER, A.M. As soon as it had pleased God, after a long and sharp season 'of conviction, to visit me with the consolations of his grace, it became one of my chief concerns, that my relations might be made partakers of the same mercy. In the first letter I wrote to my brother,* I took occasion to declare what God had done for my soul, and am not conscious that from that period down to his last illness I wilfully neglected an opportunity of engaging him, if it were possible, in conversation of a spiritual kind. When I left St. Alban's, and went to visit him at Cambridge, my heart being fall of the subject, I poured it out before him without reserve ; and, in all my subsequent dealings with him, so far as I was enabled, took care to show that I had received, not merely a set of notions, but a real impression of the truths of the gospel. At first I found him ready enough to talk with me upon these subjects; sometimes he would dispute, but always without heat or animosity ; and sometimes would endeavor to reconcile the difference of our sentiments, by supposing that, at the bottom, we were both of a mind and meant the same thing. He was a man of a most candid and in- genuous spirit ; his temper remarkably sweet, and in his -behavior to me he had always manifested an uncommon affection. His out- ward conduct, so far as it fell under my notice, or I could learn it by the report of others, was perfectly decent and unblameable. There was nothing vicious in any part of his practice, but, being of a studious, thoughtful turn, he placed his chief delight in the acquisition of learning, and made such acquisitions in it that he had but few rivals in that of a classical kind. He was critically skilled in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages, was beginning to make himself master of the Syriac, and perfectly understood the French and Italian, the latter of which he could speak fluently. These attainments, however, and many others in the literary way, he lived heartily to de- spise, not as useless when sanctified and em- * " . . . .1 had a brother once," &c. Tke Task, book ii. ployed in the service of God, but when sought after for their own sake, and with a view to the praise of men. Learned however as he was, he was easy and cheerful in his conver- sation, and entirely free from the stiffness which is generally contracted by men devoted to such pursuits. Thus we spent about two years, conversing as occasion offered, and we generally visited each other once or twice a week,,aslongas I continued at Huntingdon, upon- the leading truths of the gospel. By this time, however he began to be more reserved ; he would hear me patiently but never reply ; and this I found, upon his own confession afterward, was the effect of a resolution he had taken, in order to avoid disputes, and to secure the continu- ance of that peace which had always subsisted between us. When our family removed to Olney, our intercourse became less frequent. We exchanged an annual visit, and, whenever he came amongst us, he observed the same conduct, conforming to all our customs, at- tending family worship with us, and heard the preaching, received civilly whatever passed in conversation upBn the subject, but adhered strictly to the rule he had prescribed to him self, never remarking upon or objecting to anything he heard or saw. This, through the goodness of his natural temper, he was ena- bled to carry so far that, though some things unavoidably happened which we feared would give him offence, he never took any ; for it was not possible to offer him the pulpit, noi when Mr. Newton was with us once at the time of family prayer, could we ask my bro- ther to officiate, though, being himself a min- ister, and one of our own family for the time, the office seemed naturally to fall into his hands. In September 1769, I learned by letters from Cambridge that he was dangerously ill. I set out for that place the day after I received them, and found him as ill as I expected. He had taken cold on his return from a journey into Wales ; and, lest he should be laid up at a distance from home, had pushed forwa/d as far as he could from Bath with a fever upon LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 48* him. Soon after his arrival at Cambridge he discharged, unknown to himself, such a pro- digious quantity of blood, that the physician ascribed it only to, the strength of his consti- tution that he was still alive ; and assured me, that if the discharge should be repeated, he must inevitably die upon the spot. In this state of imminent danger, he seemed to have no more concern about his spiritual interests than when in perfect health. His couch was strewed with volumes of plays, to which he had frequent recourse for amusement. I learned indeed afterwards, that, even at this time, the thoughts of God and eternity would often force themselves upon his mind ; but, not ap- prehending his life to be in danger, and trust- ing in the morality of his past conduct, he found it no difficult matter to thrust them out again. As it pleased God that he had no relapse. ne presently began to recover strength, and in ten days' time I left him so far restored, that he could ride many miles without fa- tigue, and had every symptom of returning health. It is probable, however, that though his recovery seemed perfect, this illness was the means which God had appointed to bring down his strength in the midst of his jour- ney, and to hasten on the malady which proved his last. On the 16th of February, 1770, 1 was again summoned to attend him, by letters which represented him as so ill that the physician entertained but little hopes of his recovery. I found him afflicted with asthma and dropsy, supposed to be the effect of an imposthume in his liver. He was, however, cheerful when I first arrived, expressed great joy at seeing me, thought himself much better than he had been, and seemed to flatter himself with hopes that he should be well again. My situation at this time was truly distressful. I learned from the physician, that, in this instance, as in the last, he was in much greater danger than he suspected. He did not seem to lay his illness at all to heart, nor could I find by his conversation that he had one serious thought. As often as a suitable occasion offered, when we were free from company and interruption, I endeavored to give a spiritual turn to the discourse; and, the day after my arrival, asked his permission to pray with him, to which he readily consented. I renewed my attempts in this way as often as I could, though without any apparent success : still he seemed as careless and unconcerned as ever; yet I could not but consider- his will- ingness in this instance as a token for good, jmd observed with pleasure, that though at other times he discovered no mark of seri- ousness, yet when I spoke to him of the Lord's dealings with myself, he received what I said with affection, would press my hand, and look kindly at me, and seemed to love me the better for it. On the 21st of the same month he had a violent fit of the asthma, which seized hirr when he rose, about an hour before noon, and lasted all the day. His agony was dread ful. Having never seen any person afflicted in the same way, I could not help fearing that he would be suffocated ; nor was the physi- cian himself without fears of the same kind. This day the Lord was very present with me and enabled me, as I sat by the poor suffer- er's side, to wrestle for a blessing upon him. I observed to him, that though it had pleased God to visit him with great afflictions, yet mercy was mingled with the dispensation. 1 said, " You have many friends, who love you, and are willing to do all they can to serve you ; and so perhaps have others in the like circumstances ; but it is not the lot of every sick man, how much soever he may be be- loved, to have a friend that can pray for him." He replied, " That is true, and I hope God will have mercy upon me." His love for me from this time became very remarkable ; there was a tenderness in it more than was merely natural ; and he generally expressed it by calling for blessings upon me in the most affectionate terms, and with a look and manner not to be described. At-night, when he was quite worn out with the fatigue of laboring for breath, and could get no rest, his asthma still continuing, he turned to me and said, with a melancholy air, " Brother, I seem to be marked out for misery ; you know some people are so." That moment I felt my heart enlarged, and such a persuasion of the love of God towards him was wrought in my soul, that I replied with confidence, and, as if I had authority given me to say it, " But that is not your case; you are marked out for mercy." Through the whole of this most painful dis- pensation, he was blessed with a degree of patience and resignation to the will of God, not always seen in the behavior of established Christians under sufferings so great as his. I never heard a murmuring word escape him ; on the contrary, he would often say, when his pains were most acute, " I only wish it may please God to enable me to suffer without complaining ; I have no right to complain." Once he said, with a loud voice, " Let thy rod and thy staff support and comfort me :" and " Oh that it were with me as in times past, when the candle of the Lord shone upon my tabermu !e !" One evening, when I had been expressing my hope that the Lord would show him mercy, he replied, " I hope he will ; I am sure I pretend to nothing." Many times he spoke of himself in terms of the greatest self-abasement, which I cannot now particu- larly remember. I thought I could discern, in these expressions, the glimpses of ap- proaching day, and have no doubt at present but that the Spirit of God was gradually preparing him, in a way of true humiliation. 486 COWPER'S WORKS, fon that bright display of gospel-grace which he was soon after pleased to afford him.* On Saturday the 10th of March, about three in the afternoon, he suddenly burst into tears, and said, with a loud cry, " Oh, forsake me not !" I went to his bed-side, when he grasped my hand, and presently, by his eyes and countenance, I found that' he was in prayer. Then turning to me, he said. " Oh, brother, I am full of what I could say to you." The nurse asked him if he would have any hartshorn or lavender. He replied, " None of these things will serve my pur- pose." I said, "But I know what would, my dear, don't I ?" He answered, " You do, brother." Having continued some time silent, he said, " Behold, I create new heavens, and a new earth," — then, after a pause, " Ay, and he is able to do it too." I left him for about an hour, fearing lest he should fatigue himself with talking, and because my surprise and joy were so great that I could hardly bear them. When I re- turned, he threw his arms about my neck, and, leaning his head against mine, he said, " Brother, if I live, you and I shall be more .ike one another than we have been. But whether I live or live not, all is well, and will be so ; I know it will ; I have felt that which I never felt before ; and am sure that God has visited me with this sickness to teach me what I was too proud to learn in health. I never had satisfaction till now. The doc- trines I had been used to referred me to my- self for the foundation of my hopes, and there I could find nothing to rest upon. The sheet-anchor of the soul was wanting. I thought you wrong, yet wished to believe as you did. I found myself unable to believe, vet always thought that I should one day be Drought to do so. You suffered more than I have done, before you believed these truths ; but our sufferings, though different in their kind and measure, were directed to the same end. I hope he has taught me that which he teaches none but his own. I hope so. These things were foolishness to me once, but now I have a firm foundation, and am satisfied." In the evening, when I went to bid him good night, he looked steadfastly in my face, and, with great solemnity in his air and man- ner, taking me by the hand, resumed the discourse in these very words : " As empty, and yet full ; as having nothing, and yet pos- sessing all things — I see the rock upon which I once split, and I see the rock of my salva- tion. I have peace in myself, and if I live, I hope it will be that I may be made a mes- senger of peace to others. I have heard that * There is a beautiful illustration of this sudden and bappy change in Cowper's poem entitled " Hope." " As when a felon whom his country's laws," &.c. in a moment, which I could not have learned by reading manj* books for many years. I have often studied these points, and studied them with great attention, but was blinded by prejudice ; and, unless He, who alone is worthy to unloose the seals, had opened the book to me, I had been blinded still. Now they appear so plain, that though I am con- vinced no comment could ever have made me understand them, I wonder T did not see them before. Yet, great as my doubts and difficulties were, they have only served to pave the way, and being solved, they make it plainer. The light I have received comes late, but it is a comfort to me that I never made the gospel-truths a subject of ridicule. Though I dissented from the persuasion and the ways of God's people, I ever thought them respectable, and therefore not proper to be made a jest of. The evil I suffer is the consequence of my descent from the corrupt original stock, and of my own personal trans- gressions ; the good I enjoy comes to me as the overflowing of his bounty; but the crown of all his mercies is this, that he has given me a Saviour, and not only the Saviour of man- kind, brother, but my Saviour. "I should delight to see the people at 01- ney, but am not worthy to appear amongst them." He wept at speaking these words, and repeated them with emphasis. " I should rejoice in an hour's conversation with Mr. Newton, and, if I live, shall have much .dis- course with him upon these subjects, but am so weak in body, that at present I could not bear it." At the same time he gave me to understand, that he had been five years inquir- ing after the truth, that is, from the time of my first visit to him after I left St. Alban's, and that, from the very day of his ordination, which was ten years ago, he had been dissat- isfied with his own views of the Gospel, and sensible of their defect and obscurity; that he had always had a sense of the importance of the ministerial charge, and Had used to consider himself accountable for his doctrine no less than his practice ; that he could ap- peal to the Lord for his sincerity in all that time, and had never wilfully erred, but al- ways been desirous of coming to the knowl- edge of the truth. He added, that the mo- ment when he sent forth that cry* was the moment when light was darted into his soul ; that he had thought much about these things in the course of his illness, but never till that instant was able to understand them. It was remarkable that, from the very in- stant when he was first enlightened, he was also wonderfully strengthened in body, so that from the tenth to the fourteenth of March we all entertained hopes of his recov- ery. He was himself very sanguine in his * On the 10th of March, vide supra. LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 48^ expectations of it, but frequently said that his desire of recovery extended no farther than his hope of usefulness ; adding, '' Un- less I may live to be an instrument of good to others, it were better for me to die now." As his assurance was clear and unshaken, »o he was very sensible of the goodness of the Lord to him in that respect. On the day when his eyes were opened, he turned to me, and, in a low voice, said, " What a mercy it is to a man in my condition, to know his accept- ance ! I am completely satisfied of mine." On another occasion, speaking to the same purpose, he said, " This bed would be a bed of misery, and it is so — but it is likewise a bed of joy and a bed of discipline. Was I to die this night, I know I should be happy. This assurance I hope is quite consistent with the word of God. It is built upon a sense of my own utter insufficiency, and the all-sufficiency of Christ." At the same time he said, " Brother, I have been building my glory upon a sandy foundation; I have la- bored night and day to perfect myself in things of no profit; I have sacrificed my health to these pursuits, and am now suffer- ing the consequence of my misspent labor. But how contemptible do the writers I once highly valued now appear to me ! ' Yea, doubtless, I count all things loss and dung for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord.' I must now go to a new school. I have many things to learn. I suc- ceeded in my former pursuits. I wanted to be highly applauded, and I was so. I was flattered up to the height of my wishes: now, I must learn a new lesson." On the evening of the thirteenth, he said, " What comfort have I in this bed, miserable as I seem to be ! Brother, I love to look at you. I see now who was right, and who was mistaken. But it seems wonderful that such a dispensation should be necessary to enforce what seems so very plain. I wish myself at Olney ; you have a good river there, better than all the rivers of Damascus. What a scene is passing before me ! Ideas upon these subjects crowd upon me faster than I can give them utterance. How plain do many texts appear, to which, after consulting all the com- mentators, I could hardly affix a meaning: and now I have their true meaning without any comment at all. There is but one key to the New Testament; there is but one inter- preter. I cannot describe to you, nor shall ever be able to describe, what I felt in the moment when it was given to me. May I make a good use of it ! How I shudder when I think of the danger I have just escaped ! I had made up my mind upon these subjects, and was determined to hazard all upon the iustness of my own opinions." Speaking of his illness, he said, he had been followed night and day from the very begin- ning of it with this text; J shall not die, bu\ live, and declare the works of the Lord. Thia notice was fulfilled to him, though not in such a sense as my desires of his recovery prompted me to put upon it. His remarkable amendment soon appeared to be no more than a present supply of strength and spirits, that he might be able to speak of the better life which God had given him, which was no sooner done than he relapsed as suddenly as he had revived. About this time he formed a purpose of receiving the sacrament, induced to it principally by a desire of setting his seal to the truth, in presence of those who were strangers to the change which had taken place in his sentiments. It must have been admin- istered to him by the Master of the College, to whom he designed to have made this short declaration, " If I die, I die in the belief of the doctrines of the Reformation, and of the Church of England, as it was at the time of the Reformation." But, his strength declining apace, and his pains becoming more severe, he could never find a proper opportunity of doing it. His experience was rather peace than joy, if a distinction may be made between joy and that heartfelt peace which he often spoke of in the most comfortable terms ; and which he expressed by a heavenly smile upon his coun- tenance under the bitterest bodily distress. His words upon this subject once were these, " How wonderful is it that God should look upon man, especially that he should look upon me ! Yet he sees me, and takes notice of all that I suffer. I see him too ; he is present before me, and I hear him say, Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden and I will give you restP Matt. xi. 28. On the fourteenth, in the afternoon, I per- ceived that the strength and spirits which had been afforded him were suddenly withdrawn, so that by the next day his mind became weak, and his speech roving and faltering. But still, at intervals, he was enabled to speak of di- vine things with great force and clearness. On the evening of the fifteenth, he said, t: ' There is more joy in heaven over one sin- ner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance.' That text has been sadly misunderstood by i.:; 3 as well as by others. Where is that justperoon to be found 1 Alas ! what must have become of me, if I had died this day, se'nnight? What should I have had to plead? My own righteousness! That would have been of great service to me, to be sure. Well, whithei next ? Why, to the mountains to fall upon us, and to the hills to cover us. I am not duly thankful for the mercy I have received. Per haps I may ascribe some part of my insensi- bility to my great weakness of body. I hope at least that if I was better in health, it would be better with me in these respects also." The next day, perceiving that his under 488 COWPER'S WORKS. Btanding began to suffer by the extreme weak- ness of his body, he said, " I have been vain of my understanding and of my acquirements in this place ; and now God has made me little better than an idiot, as much as to say, now be proud if you can. Well, while I have any senses left, my thoughts will be poured out in the praise of God. I have an interest in Christ, in his blood and sufferings, and my sins are forgiven me. Have I not cause to praise dm ? When my understanding fails me quite, is I think it will soon, then he will pity my weakness." Though the Lord intended that his warfare .should be short, yet a warfare he was to have, aid to be exposed to a measure of conflict with his own corruptions. His pain being extreme, his powers of recollection much im- paired, and the Comforter withholding for a season his sensible support, he was betrayed into a fretfulness and impatience of spirit which had never been permitted to show itself before. This appearance alarmed me, and, having an opportunity afforded me by every- body's absence, I said to him, " You were happier last Saturday than you are to-day. Are you entirely destitute of the consolations you then spoke of? And do you not some- times feel comfort flowing into your heart from a sense of your acceptance with God?" He replied, "Sometimes I do, but sometimes I am left to desperation." The same day, in the evening, he said, " Brother, I believe you are often uneasy, lest what lately passed should come to nothing." I replied by asking him, whether, when he found his patience and his temper fail, he endeavored to .pray for power against his corruptions ? He answered, " Yes, a thousand times in a day. But I see myself odiously vile and wicked. If I die in this illness, I beg you will place no other in- scription over me than such as may just men- tion my name and the parish where I was minister; for that I ever had a being, and what sort of a being I had, cannot be too soon forgot. I was just beginning to be a deist, and had long desired to be so ; and I will own to you what I never confessed before, that my function and the duties of it were a weari- ness to me which I could not bear. Yet, wretched creature and beast as I was, I was esteemed religious, though I lived without God in the world." About this time, I re- minded, him of the account of Jane way, which he once read at my desire. He said he had laughed at it in his own mind, and accounted it mere madness and folly. " Yet base as I am," said he, " I have no doubt now but God has accepted me also, and forgiven me all my Bins," I then asked him what he thought of my narrative ?* He replied, " I thought it strange, * Cowper s Memoir of Himself. and ascribed much of it to the state in whicti you had been. When I came to visit you in London, and found you in that deep distress, I would have given the universe to have ad. ministered some comfort to you. You may remember that I tried every method of doing it. -When I found that all my attempts were vain, I was shocked to the greatest degree. I began to consider your sufferings as a judg- ment upon you, and my inability to alleviate them, as a judgment upon myself. When Mr. M.* came, he succeeded in a moment. This surprised me ; but it does not surprise me now'. He had the key to your heart, which I had not. That which filled me with disgust against my office as a minister, was the same ill success which attended me in my own parish. There I endeavored to soothe the afflicted, and to reform the unruly by warning and reproof; but all that I could say in either case, was spoken to the wind, and attended with no effect." There is that in the nature of salvation by grace, when it is truly and experimentally known, which prompts every person to think himself the most extraordinary instance of its power. Accordingly, my brother insisted upon the precedence in this respect ; and upon comparing his case with mine, would by no means allow my deliverance to have been so wonderful as his own. He observed that, from the beginning, both his manner of life and his connexions had been such as had a natural tendency to blind his eyes, and to confirm and rivet his prejudices against the truth. Blameless in his outward conduct, and having no open immorality to charge himself with, his acquaintance had been with men of the same stamp, who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and despised the doc- trines of the cross. Such were all who, from his earliest days, he had been used to proposo to himself as patterns for his imitation. Not to go farther back, such was the clergyman under whom he received the first rudiments of his education ; such was the schoolmaster, under whom he was prepared for the Univer- sity; and such were all the most admired characters there, with whom he was most am- bitious of being connected. He lamented the dark and Christless condition of the place where learning and morality were all in all, and where, if a man was possessed of these qualifications, he neither doubted himself, nor did anybody else question, the safety of his state. He concluded, therefore, that to show the fallacy of such appearances, and to root out the prejudices which long familiarity with them had fastened upon his mind, required a more than ordinary exertion of divine power and that the grace of God was more clearly manifested in such a work than in the con * The Rev. Martin Madao. LIFE OF REV. JOHN COWPER. 489 version of one like me, who had no outside righteousness to boast of, and who, if I was ignorant of the truth, was not, however, so desperately prejudiced against it. His thoughts, I suppose, had been led to this subject, when, one afternoon, while I was writing by the fire-side, he thus addressed himself to the nurse, who sat at his bolster. " Nurse, I have lived three-and-thirty years, and I will tell you how I have spent them. When I was a boy, they taught me Latin ; and because I was the son of a gentleman, they taught me Greek. These I learned un- der a sort of private tutor ; at the age of fourteen, or thereabouts, they sent me to a public school,' where I learned more Latin and Greek, and, last of all, to this place, where I have been learning more Latin and Greek still. Now has not this been a blessed life, and much to the glory of God ?" Then directing his speech to me, he said, "Brother, I was going to say I was born in such a year; but I correct myself : I would rather say, in such a year I came into the world. You know when I was born." As long as he expected to recover, the souls committed to his care were much upon his mind. One day, when none was present but myself, he prayed thus : — " O Lord, thou art good ; goodness is thy very essence, and thou art the fountain of wisdom. I am a poor worm, weak and foolish as a child. Thou has entrusted many souls unto me ; and I have not been able to teach them, be- cause I knew thee not myself. t Grant me ability, O Lord, for I can do nothing without thee, and give me grace to be faithful." In a time of severe and continual pain, he smiled in my face, and said, " Brother, I am as happy as a king." And, the day before he died, when I asked him what sort of a night he had had, he replied, a " sad night, not a wink of sleep." I said, "Perhaps, though, your mind has been composed, and you have been enabled to pray 2" " Yes," said he, "I have endeavored to spend the hours in the thoughts 'of God and prayer ; I have been much comforted, and all the com- fort I got came to me in this way." The next morning I was called up to be witness of his last moments. I found him in a deep sleep, lying perfectly still, and seemingly free from pain. I stayed with him till they pressed me to quit his room, and in about five minutes after I had left him he died ; sooner, indeed, than I expected, though for some days there had been no hopes of his recovery. His death at that time was rather extraordinary ; at least, I thought it so ; for, when I took leave of him the night before, he did not seem worse or weaker than he had been, and, for aught that appeared, might have lasted many days ; but the Lord, in whose sight the' death of hi s saints is pre- cious, cut short his sufferings, and gave him a speedy and peaceful departure. . He died at seven in the morning, on the 20th of March, 1770. Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove At random, without honor, hope, or peace. From Thee is all that soothes the lite of man His high endeavor and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. But, oh ! Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown. Give what Thou canst, without. Thee we are poor, And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away. The Task, book v. The fraternal love and piety of Cowper are beautifully illustrated in this most inter- esting document. No sooner had he experi- enced the value of religion, and its inward peace and hope, in his own heart, than he feels solicitous to communicate the blessing to others. True piety is always diffusive. It does not, like the sordid miser, hoard up the treasure for self-enjoyment, but is en- riched by giving, and impoverished only by withholding. Friends, parents, kindred, first it will embrace. Our country next, and next all human race. The prejudices of his brother, and yet his mild and amiable spirit of forbearance ; the zeal of Cowper, and its final happy result, impart to this narrative a singular degree of interest. Others would have been deterred by apparent difficulties ; but true zeal is full of faith, as well as of love, and does not con- template man's resistance, but God's mighty power. The example of John Cowper furnishes also a remarkable evidence that a man may be distinguished by the highest endowments of human learning, and yet be ignorant of that knowledge which is emphatically called life eternal. The distinction between the knowledge that is derived from books, and the wisdom that cometh from above, is drawn by Cowper with a happy and just discrimination. Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connexion — knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which wisdom builds, 'Tillsmooth'd, and squar'd, and fitted to its place Does but encumber whom it seems t" enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. The Task, book vi. It is important to know how far the powers of human reason extend in matters of re ligion, and where they fail. Reas Dn can ex 490 COWPER'S WORKS. amine the claims of a tiie following verses, which, emanating from such a man., and not having met the public eye, will, we are per- suaded, be considered as a literary curiosity, and of no mean merit. " Send me the precious bit of oak, Which your own hand so fondly took From off the consecrated tree, A relic dear to you and me. To many 'twould a bauble prove Nor worth the keeping.— Those who love The teeming grand poetic mind, Which God thought fit in chains to bind, < Of dreadful, dark despairing gloom ; Yet left within such ample room, For coruscations strong and bright : Such beams of everlasting light, As make men envy, love, and dread, The structure of that wondrous head, Must prize a bit of Judith's stem, That brought to light that precious gem — The fragment: which in verse sublime Records her honors to all time." t These lines were written prophetically, and previ- ously to the event. X The late Lord Erskine was a frequent reciter of pa* &00 COWPER'S WORKS. We have mentioned how little Cowper was elated by praise. We shall now state now much he was depressed by unjust cen- sure. His first volume of poems had been severely criticised by the Analytical Review. His feelings are recorded in the following (hitherto unpublished) letter to John Thorn- ton, Esq. Olney, May 21, 1782. Dear Sir, — You have my sincere thanks for your obliging communication, both of my book to Dr. Franklin, and of his opinion of it to me. Some of the periodical critics, I understand have spoken of it with contempt enough ; but, while gentlemen of taste and candor have more favorable thoughts of it, I see reason to be less concerned than I have been about their judgment, hastily framed perhaps, and certainly not without prejudice against the subjects of which it treats. Your friendly intimation of the Doctor's sentiments reached me very seasonably, just when, in a fit of despondence, to which no man is naturally more inclined, I had begun to regret the publication of it, and had con- sequently resolved to write no more. For if a man has the fortune to please none but his friends and their connexions, he has rea- son enough to conclude that he is indebted for the measure of success he meets with, not to the real value of his book, but to the par- tiality of the few that approve it. But I now feel myself differently affected towards my favorite employment; for which sudden change in my sentiments I may thank you and your correspondent in France, his entire unacquaintedness with me, a man whom he never saw, nor will see, his character as a man of sense and condition, and his acknow- ledged merit as an ingenious and elegant writer, and especially his having arrived at an age when men are not to be pleased they know not why, are so many circumstances sages from Cowper's poems. The Editor is indebted to E. H. Barker, Esq., of Thetford, for the following anec- dote which was communicated to him by Joseph Jekyll, Esq., the eminent counsellor. Mr. Jekyll was dining with Lord Oxford, and among the company were Dr. Parr, Home Tooke, Lord Erskine, and Mr. W. Scott (brother to Lady Oxford). Lord Er- Bkine recited, in his admirable manner, the verses of Oowper about the Captive, without saying whose they Were; Dr. Parr expressed great admiration of the verses, and said that he had never heard of them or seen them Oefore; he inquired whose they were? H. Tooke said, •'Why, Cowper's." Dr. Parr said he had never read Cowper's poems. " Not read Cowper's poems ?" said Home Tooke, " and you never will, I suppose, Dr. Parr, till they are turned into Greek?" When the company went into the drawing-room. Lady Oxford presented Dr. Parr with a small edition of Cowper's Poems, and Mr. Jekyll was desired by her ladyship to write in the book, "From the Countess of Oxford to Dr. Parr." Home Tooke wrote also underneath, " Who never read the book," and signed his name to it: all present signed their names and added some remark, and among the rest VV. Scott. At the sale of Dr. Parr's books, this volume fetched about five pounds, beirg considered valuable and curious, as the W. Scott sign 3d was supposed to have been Sir W. Scott (since Lor 1 Stowell). Lord Stowell afterwards took great pains k contradict the report. that give a value to his commendations, and make them the most flattering a poor poet could receive, quite out of conceit with himself, and quite out of heart with hi?: occupations. If you think it worth your while, when yon write next to the Doctor, to inform him how much he has encouraged me by his approba- tion, and to add my respects to him, you will oblige me still further ; for next to the plea- sure it would afford me to hear that it has been useful to any, I cannot have a greater so far as my volume is in question, than to hear it has pleased the judicious. Mrs. Unwin desires me to. add her respect, ful compliments. I am, dear sir, Your affectionate and most obedient servant, W. C. To John Thornton, Esq. Clapham, Surrey. Through this harsh and unwarrantable ex- ercise of criticism, the world might never have possessed the immortal poem of " The Task," if an American Philosopher had not awarded that honorable meed of just praise and commendation, which an English critic thought proper to withhold. But it is not merely the poetic claims of Cowper which have earned for him so just a j title to public gratitude and praise. It would be unjust not to bestow particular notice on a talent, in which he singularly excelled, and i one that friendship ought especially to honor, | as she is indebted to it for a considerable J portion of her happiest sources of delight — I we mean the talent of writing letters. Those of Pope are generally considered to I be too labored, and deficient in ease. Swift | is frequently ill-natured and offensive. Gray j is admirable, but not equal to Cowper either l in the graces of simplicity, or in the warmth ; of affection. The letters of Cowper are not distinguished i by any remarkable superiority of thought or j diction: it is rather the easy and graceful flow of sentiment and feeling, his enthusiastic , love of nature, his touching representations i of common and domestic life, and above all, the ingenuous disclosure of the recesses of his own heart, that constitute their charm ! and excellence. They form a kind of bio- | graphical sketch, drawn by his own hand. j His poetry proclaims the author, his corre- | spondence depicts the man. We see him in his walks, in the privacy of his- study, in his daily occupations, amid the endearments of home, and with all the qualities that inspire friendship, and awaken confidence and love. We learn what he thought, what he said, his views of men and manners, lis personal habits and history. His ideas usually flow without premeditation. All is natural and LIFE OF COWPER 501 easy. There is no display, no evidence of conscious superiority, no concealment of his real sentiments. He writes as he feels and thinks, and with such an air of truth and frankness, that he seems to stamp upon the letter the image of his mind, with the same fidelity of resemblance that the canvass re- presents his external form and features. We see in them the sterling good sense of a man, the playfulness and simplicity of a child, and the winning softness and, delicacy of a wo- man's feelings. He can write upon any sub- ject, or write without one. He can 'embellish what is real by the graces of his imagination, )r invest what is imaginary with the sem- olance of reality. He can smile or he can weep, philosophize or trifle, descant with fervor on the loveliness of nature, talk about his tame hares, or cast the overflow- ings of an affectionate heart at the shrine of friendship. His correspondence is a wreath of many flowers. His letters will always be read with delight and interest, and by many, perhaps, will be considered to be the rivals of his poems. They are justly entitled to the eulogium which we know to have 'been pronounced upon them by Charles Fox, — that of being " the best specimens of episto- lary excellence in the English language." Among men distinguished by classical taste and acquirements, his Latin poems will ever be considered as elegant specimens of com- position, and formed after the best models of antiquity. There is one exquisite little gem, in Latin haxameters, entitled "Votum," beginning thus : O matutini rores, auraeque salubres, which we believe has never received an Eng- lish dress. A gentleman of literary taste has kindly furnished us with a pleasing version, which we are happy to subjoin in a note.* We trust the author will excuse the insertion of his name. We have thus endeavored to exhibit the lingular versatility of Cowper's genius, and * THE WISH. u Ye verdant hills, ye soft umbrageous vales, Fann'd by light Zephyr's health-inspiring gales ; VTe woods, whose boughs in rich luxuriance wave ; Ye sparkling rivulets, whose waters lave Those meads, where erst, at morning's dewy prime, (Reckless of shoals beneath the stream of Time,) My vagrant feet your flowery margin press'd, Whilst Heaven gave back the sunshine in my breast :— - O, would the powers that rule my wayward lot Restore me to the lone paternal cot ! There, far from folly, fraud's ensnaring wiles, The world's dark frown, or still more dangerous smiles, Let peaceful duties peaceful hours engage ; Till, winding gently down the slope of age, Tranquil I mark life's swift declining day Fling deeper shades athwart ray lessening way And pleased, at last put off this mortal coil, 4gain to mirfgle with it kindred soil Beneath 1 he grassy turf, or silent stone ; Unseen tl e path I trod, my resting-place unknown." T. Ostler. the combination of powers not often united in the same mind. All that now remains it to consider the consecration of these fac tltiei to high and holy ends; and the influence of his writings on the literary, the moral, and religious character of his age. The great end and aim which he proposed to himself as an author has already been illustrated from his writings ; we add one more passage to show the sanctity of his character. Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot And cut up all my tollies by the root, I never trusted in an arm but thine, Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine. My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled, Were but the feeble efforts of a child ; Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part, That they proceeded from a grateful heart. Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood, Forgive their evil, and accept their good. I cast them at thy feet — my only plea Is what it was — dependence upon thee : While struggling in the v.ale of tears below, Tliat never failed, nor shall it fail me now. Truth. We confess that we are edified by this simple, yet sublime and holy piety. It was from this source that Cowper drew the materials that have given to his writings the character of so elevated a morality. Too seldom, alas! have poets consecrated their powers to the cause of divine truth. In mod- ern times, especially, we have witnessed a voluptuous imagery and appeal to the pas- sions, in some highly-gifted writers, which have contributed to undermine public moral ity, and to tarnish the purity of female minds. But it is the honorable distinction of Cow- per's poetry, that nothing is to be found to excite a blush on the cheek of modesty, nor a single line that requires to be blotted out. He has done much to introduce a purer and more exalted taste; he is the poet of nature, the poet of the heart and conscience, and, what is a still higher praise, the poet of Christianity. He mingled the waters of Helicon with the hallowed streams of Siloam, and planted the cross amid the bowers of the muses. Johnson, indeed, has remarked, that religion is not susceptible of poetry* If this * The reasons which he assigns, in justification of this opinion, are thus specified. "Let no pious ear be offended if I advance, in opposi- tion to many authorities, that poetical devotion cannot often please. The doctrines of religion may indeed b*' defended in a didactic poem; and he who has the happy power of arguing in verse will not lose it because his sub- ject is sacred. A poet may describe the beauty and the grandeur of nature, the flowers of the spring, and the harvests of autumn, the vicissitudes of the tide, and the revolutions of the sky, and praise the Maker for his works, in lines which no reader shall lay aside. The subject of the disputation is not piety, but the motives to piety ; that of the description is not God, but the works of God. "Contemplative piety, or the intercouse between God and tha human soul, cannot be poetical. Man, admitted to implore the mercy of his Creator, and plead the merit* 502 COWPER'S WORKS. be true, it can arise only from the want of religious authors and religious readers. But we venture to deny the position, and to maintain that religion ennobles whatever it touches. In architecture, what building ever rivalled the magnificence of the temple of Jerusalem, St. Peter's in Rome, or the im- posing grandeur of St. Paul's ? In painting, what power of art can surpass the Transfig- uration of a Raphael, the Ecce Homo of a Guido, or the Elevation and Descent of the Cross in a Rubens ? In poetry, where shall we find a nobler production of human genius than the Paradise Lost ? Again, let us listen to the language of the pious Fenelon : " No Greek or Latin poetry is comparable to the Psalms. That which begins, ' The God of gods, the Lord hath spoken, and hath called up the earth,' exceeds whatever human imagination has produced. Neither Homer, nor any other poet, equals Isaiah, in describ- of his Efedeemer, is already in a higher state than poetry can confer. " The essence of poetry is invention ; such invention a9, by producing something unexpected, surprises and delights. The topics of dev6tion are few, and being few are universally known ; but, few as they are, they can be made no more ; they can receive no grace from nov- elty of sentiment, and very little from novelty of ex- pression. ' k Poetry pleases by exhibiting an idea more grateful to the mind than the things themselves afford. This effect proceeds from the display of those parts of nature which attract, and the concealment of those which repel the im- agination. But Religion must be shown as it is : sup- pression and addition equally corrupt it ; and such as it is. it is known already. " From poetry the reader justly expects, and from good poetry always obtains, the enlargement of his compre- hension and elevation of his fancy ; but this is rarely to be hoped by Christians from metrical devotion. What- ever is great, desirable, or tremendous, is comprised in the name of the Supreme Being. Omnipotence cannot be exalted ; Infinity cannot be amplified ; Perfection can- uot be improved. "The employments of pious meditation are Faith, Thanksgiving, Repentance, and Supplication. Faith, in- variably uniform, cannot be invested by fancy with dec- orations. Thanksgiving, the most joyful of all holy effusions, yet addressed to a Being without passions, is confined to a few modes, and is to be felt, rather than expressed. Repentance, trembling in the presence of the Judge, is not at leisure for cadences and epithets. Supplication of man to man may diffuse itself through many topics of persuasion; but supplication to God can only cry for mercy. "Of sentiments purely religious it will be found that the most simple expression is the most sublime. Poetry loses its lustre and its power, because it is applied to the decoration of something more excellent than itself. All that pious verse can do is to help the memory and delight the ear, and for these purposes it may he very useful : but it supplies nothing to the mind. The ideas of Christian theology are too simple for eloquence, too gacred for fiction, and too majestic for ornament ; to re- commend them by tropes and figures, is to magnify by a roncave mirror the sidereal hemisphere."— See Life of A r aller. These remarks seem to be founded on very erroneous principles ; but having already offered our sentiments, we forbear any further comment, oxcept to state that we Drofess to belong to the school ol Cow per ; that we par- ticipate in the expression of his regret, m "Pity that Religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground :" ind that we cordially share in his conviction, u The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to stray, \nd every Muse attend her on her way." Table Talk. ing the majesty of God, in whose presencl empires are as a grain of sand, and the whole universe as a tent, which to-day is set up, and removed to-morrow. Sometimes, as when he paints the charms of peace, Isaiah has the softness and sweetness of an eclogue; at others, he soars above mortal conception. But what is there in profane antiquity com- parable to the wailings of Jeremiah, when he mourns over the calamities of his people? or to Nahum, when .he foresees in spirit the downfall of Nineveh, under the assault of an innumerable army ? We almost behold the formidable host, and hear the arms and the chariots. Read Daniel, denouncing to Bel- shazzar the vengeance of God, ready to fall upon him ; compare it with the most sublime passages of pagan antiquity; you find noth- ing comparable to it. It must be added that, in the Scriptures, everything sustains itself; whether we consider the historical, the legal, or the poetical part of it, the proper character appears in all." It would be singular, if a subject which unveils to the eye of faith the glories of the invisible world, and which is to be a theme of gratitude and praise throughout eternity, could inspire no ardor in a poet's soul ; and if the wings of imagination could take flight to every world save to that which is eternal. We leave our Montgomeries to refute so gross an error, and appeal with confidence to the page of Cowper. We quote the following passage, to show that religion can not only supply the noblest theme, but also communicate a corresponding sublimity of thought and language. It is the glowing and poetical description of the mil- lennial period, commencing with — Sweet is the harp of prophecy. We have room only for the concluding por* tion : — One song employs all nations, and all cry, " Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us !" The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Shout to each other, and the mountain tops From distant mountains catch the flying joy ; Till, nation after nation taught the strain, Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. Behold the measure of the promise fill'd ; See Salem built the labor of a God ! Bright as a sun the sacred city shines ; All kingdoms and all princes of the earth Flock to that light ; the glory of all lands Flows into her ; unbounded is her joy, And endless her increase. Thy rams are there Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there ; The looms of Ormus. and the mines of Ind, And Saba's spicy groves pay tribute there. Praise is in all her gates : upon her walls, And in her streets, and in her spacious courts Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there Kneels with the native of the farthest west; And Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand, And worships. Her report has travell'd forth LIFE OF COWPER. 50 Into all lands. Prom every clime they come To see thy beauty, and to share thy joy, Sion ! An assembly such as Earth ••law never, such as Heaven stoops down to see. Task, book vi. By this devotional strain of poetry, so adapted to the spirit of the present age, Cow- per is rapidly accomplishing- a revolution in the public taste, and creating a new race of readers. He is purifying the literary atmo- sphere from its noxious vapors. The muse has too long taken her flight downwards ; Cowper leads her to hold communion with the skies. He has taught us that literary celeb- rity, acquired at the cost of public morals, is but an inglorious triumph, and merits no better title than that of splendid infamy. His page has fully proved that the varied Held of nature, the scenes of domestic life, and the rich domain of moral and religious truth, are sufficiently ample for the exercise of poetic taste and fancy; while they never £iil to tranquillize the mind, to invigorate the princi- ples, and to enlarge the bounds of virtuous pleasure. The writings of Cowper have also been highly beneficial to the church of England. If he has been a severe, he has also been a faithful monitor. We allude to such passages as the following — There stands the messenger of truth : there stands The legate of the skies ! — His theme divine, His office sacred, his credentials clear. By him the violated law speaks out Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the gospel whispers peace. He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, Reclaims the wand'rer, binds the broken heart, And, arra'd himself in panoply complete Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms Bright as his own. and trains, by every rule Of holy discipline, to glorious war, The sacramental host of God's elect ! [were ! Are all such teachers 1 Would to heaven all Task, book ii. 1 vpnprnte the man, whose heart is warm, vViiosc hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause. To such I render more than mere respect, Whose actions say that they respect themselves. But, loose in morals, and in manners vain, In conversation frivolous, in dress Extreme — From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, Preserve the church ! and lay not careless hands On skulls that cannot teach and will not learn. There was a period when the chase was not considered to be incompatible with the func- tions of the sacred office. On this subject Cowper exclaims, with just and indignant feeling — Is this the path of sanctity 1 Is this To stand a way-mark in the road to bliss 1 Go, cast your oi'ders at your bishop's feet, Send your dishonor'd gown to Monmouth-street The sacred function in your hands is made — Sad sacrilege ! no function, but a trade ! The Progress of Error. The danger of popular applause : O popular applause ! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms 1 The wisest and the best feel urgent need Of all their caution in the gentlest gales; But, swell'd into a gust — who then, alas ' With all his canvas set, and inexpert, And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power Ah, spare your idol ! think him human still. Charms he may have, but he has frailties too! Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. These rebukes, pungent as they are, were needed. The works of Mrs. Hannah More bear unquestionable testimony to this fact. But we may now record with gratitude a very perceptible change, and appeal to the eviden- ces of reviving piety among all classes of the clergy. Though the singular and mysterious malady of Cowper has been the occasion of repeated "remark, yet we cannot dismiss the subject without a few concluding reflections. In contrasting with his other letters the correspondence with Newton, the chosen de- positary of all his secret woe, it is difficult to recognise in the writer the same identity of character. His mind appears to have under- gone some transforming process, and the gay and lively tints of his sportive imagination to be suddenly shrouded in the gloom of a mys- terious and appalling darkness. We seem to enter into the regions of sorrow and despair, and to trace the terrific inscription so finely drawn by the poet, in his celebrated "Inferno;" ' : Voi ch' entrate lasciate ogni speranza."* Ye who enter here leave all hope behind. In contemplating this afflicting dispensa- tion, and referring every event, as we must, to the appointment or permissive providence of God, we feel constrained to exclaim with the patriarch, " The thunder of his power who can understand?"^ But life, as Bishop Hall observes, is made up of perturbations ; and those seem most subject to their occurrence who are distinguished by the gifts of rank fortune, or genius. Such is the disciplin which the moral Governor of the world sees fit to employ for the purification of their pos- sessors! In recording the lot of genius, Milton, it is known, was blind, Pope was af- flicted with sickness, and Tasso, Swift, Smarts and Collins, were exposed to the aberrations of reason. "Moralists," says Dr. Johnson " talk of the uncertainty of fortune, and of * See the " Inferno" of Dante, where this motto is in scribed over the entrance into the abodes of won. t Job xxvi. 14. 504 COWPER'S WORKS. the transitoriness of beauty; but it is yet more dreadful to consider that the powers of the mind are equally liable to change — that understanding may make its appearance and depart, that it may blaze and expire." It seems as if the mind were too ethereal to be confined within the bounds of its earthly prison, or that the too frequent and intense exercise of thought disturbs the digestive or- gans, and lays the foundation of hypochon- drical feelings, which cloud the serenity of the soul. It is painful to reflect how much our sensations of comfort and happiness depend on the even flow and circulation of the blood. But the connexion of physical and moral causes has been the subject of philosophical remark in all ages. The somewhat analogous case of the celebrated Dr. Johnson seems to have been overlooked by the preceding biog- raphers of Cowper. "The morbid melan- choly," observes Boswell, " which was lurking in his constitution, and to which we may as- cribe those peculiarities, and that aversion to regular life, which, at a very early period, marked his character, gathered such strength in his twentieth year, as to afflict him in a dreadful manner. While he was at Lichfield, in the college vacation, in 1729, he felt him- self overwhelmed with a horrible hypochon- dria, with perpetual irritation, fretfulness, and impatience ; and with a dejection, gloom, and despair, which made existence misery. From this dismal malady he never afterwards was perfectly relieved ; and all his labors, and all his enjoyments, were but temporary interrup- tions of its baleful influence." Let those to whom Providence has assigned a humbler path, learn the duty of content- ment, and be thankful that if they are enied the honors attendant on rank and genius, they are at least exempted from its trials. For where there are heights, there are depths ; and he who occupies the summit is often seen de- scending into the valley of humiliation. That a similar morbid temperament may be traced in the case of Cowper is indisputable ; nor can a more conclusive evidence be ad- duced than the words of his own memoir : — "I was struck, not long after my settlement in the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, as none but they who have felt the same can have the least conception of. Day and night I was upon the rack, lying down in horror, and rising up in despair."* In his subsequent attack, religion became an adjunct, not a cause, for he describes himself at that period as having lived without religion. The impres- sion under which he labored was therefore manifestly not suggested by a theological creed, but was the delusion of a distempered fancy. Every other view is founded on mis- conception, and must inevitably tend to mis- ead the public. * See page 469. Before we conclude the life of Cowper, there are some important reflections, arising from his unhappy malady, which we beg to impress on the attention of the reader. The fruitful source of all his misery was the indulgence of an over-excited state of feeling. His mind was never quiescent. Oc- currences, which an ordinary degree of self- possession would have met with calmness, or passive indifference, were to him the subject of mental agony and distress. His imagina- tion gave magnitude to trifles, till what was at first ideal, at length assumed the character of a terrible reality. He was always antici- pating evil ; and so powerful is the influence of fancy, that what we dread, we seldom fail to realize. Thus Swift lived in the constant fear of mental imbecility, and at length in- curred the calamity. We scarcely know a spectacle more pitiable, and yet more repre- hensible. For what is the use of reason, if we reject its dictates ? or the promise of the Spirit to help our infirmities, if we neverthe- less yield to their sway ? How important in the education of youth to repress the first symptoms of nervous irritability, to invigo- rate the principles, and to train the mind to habits of self-discipline, and firm reliance upon God ! The far greater proportion of human trials originate not in the appointment of Providence, but may be traced to the want of a well-ordered and duly regulated mind; to the ascendency of passion, and to the ab- sence of mental and moral energy. It is possible to indulge in a state of mind that shall rob every blessing of half its enjoyment, and give to every trial a double portion o? bitterness. We turn with delight to a more edifying feature in his character — His submission under this dark dispensation. It is easy to exhibit the triumphs of faith in moments of exultation and joy ; but the vivid energy of true faith is never more powerfully exemplified, than when it is left to its own naked exercise, unaided by the influ- ence of exciting causes. It is amid the deso- lation of hope, and when the iron enters into the soul — it is amid pain, depression, and sorrow, when the eye is suffused with tears and every nerve vibrates with emotion — to b6 able to exclaim at such a moment, " Here I am, let him do with me as seemeth him good ;"* this is indeed the faith which is of the operation of the Spirit, which none but God can give, and which will finally lead to a triumphant crown. That the mind should still indulge its sor- rows, in moments of awakened feeling, is natural. On this subject we know nothing more touching than the manner in which Cowper parodies and appropriates to himseli * Letter to Newton, May 20, 1786. LIFE OF COWPER. 50t Milton's affecting lamentation over his own blindness :* Seasons return, but not to me returns God, or the sweet approach of heavenly day, Or sight of cheering truth, or pardon seal'd, Or joy, or hope, or Jesus' face divine ; But cloud. &c. To this quotation we might add the affecting conclusion of the poem of "The Castaway." We perish'd each alone ; But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.f The overruling Providence of God is no less discernible in this event. The severest trials are not without their alleviation, nor the accompaniment of some gracious purpose. Had it not been for Cow- per's visitation, the world might never have been presented with The Task, nor the Church of Christ been edified with the Olney Hymns. He was constrained to write, in order to di- vert his melancholy. " Despair," he observes, "made amusement necessary, and I found poetry the mosi agreeable amusement."^ " In such a situation of mind, encompassed by the midnight of absolute despair, and a thousand times filled with unspeakable horror, I first commenced an author. Distress drove me to it; and the impossibility of subsisting with- out some employment, still recommends it."§ How wonderful are the ways of God, and what a powerful commentary on Cowper's own celebrated hymn — ■ God moves in a mysterious way, &c. [t will probably be found,. at the last great day, that the darkest dispensations were the most essential links in the chain of provi- dential dealings ; and that what we least un- derstood, and often contemplated with solemn awe on earth, will form the subject of never- ceasing praise in eternity. Whatever were ihs trials of Cowper, they are now terminated. It will be remembered that his kinsman saw, or thought he saw, in the features of his deceased friend, " an expression of calm- ness and composure, mingled, as it were, with holy surprise."|| We would not attach too much importance to a look, but rather rest our hopes of Cowper's happiness on the covenanted mercy and faithfulness of God. Still the supposition is natural and soothing; and we by no means think it improbable that the disembodied spirit might communicate to the earthly lineaments, in the moment of de- parture, the impression of its own heavenly oy. And O! what must have been the ex- * Paradise Lost, book iii. t See p. 464. j Letter to Newton, Aug. 6, 1785. § Letter to Newton, May 20, 1780. Q See page 465. pression of that surprise and joy, when^as his immortal spirit ascended to him that gave it, instead of beholding the averted eye of an offended God, he recognized the radian*, smiles of his reconciled countenance, and the caresses of his tenderness and love — when all heaven burst upon his astonished view ; and when, amid angels, and archangels, and the spirits of just men made perfect, he was invited to bear his part in the glorious song of the redeemed, Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory, and honor, and power ; for thou hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, and hast made us unto our God kings and priests forever and ever. But it is time to close our remarks on the Life and Writings of Cowper. It is a name that has long entwined itself around the affections of our heart, and appealed, from early days, both to conscience and feeling. We lament our inadequacy to fulfil all the duties of the present important undertaking bqt the motives which have powerfully urged us to engaged in it are founded on a wish to exhibit Cowper in accordance with his own Christian character and -principles ; to vindi- cate him from prevailing misconceptions ; and in imputing the gloom of depression, under which he labored, to its true causes, so to treat this delicate subject as to make it the occasion of sympathizing interest, and not of revolting and agonized feelings. The private correspondence, in this respect, is invaluable, and absolutely essential to the clear elucida tion of his case. Other documents have also been inserted that never appeared in any previous biography of Cowper; and private sources of information have been explored, not easily accessible to other inquirers. We trust this object has been attained, and the hope of so important a result is- a source of cheering consolation. The history of Cow- per is fruitful in the pathetic, the sublime and the terrible, so as to produce an effect that seems almost to realize the fictions of romance. A life composed of such materials cannot fail to command attention. It pos- sesses all the bolder lineaments of character, relieved by the familiar, the tender, the sport- ive, and the gay. Emotions art thus excited in which the heart loves to indulge ; for who does not delight alternately in the calmness of repose, and in the excitement of awakened feeling ? But, independently of the interest created by the events of Cowper's life, there is some- thing singularly impressive in the mechanism of his mind. It is so curiously wrought, and wonderfully made, as to form a subject for contemplation to the philosopher, the Chris- tian, and the medical observer. The union of these several qualifications seems neces- sary to analyze the interior springs of thought and action, to mark the character of God's 606 COWPER'S WORKS. providential dealings, and to trace the influ- ence of morbid temperament on the powers of the intellect and the passions of the soul. His mind presents the most wonderful com- binations of the grave and the gay, the social und the retired, ministering to the spiritual joy of others, yet enveloped in the gloom of darkness, enchained with fetters, yet vigorous and free, soaring to the heights of Zion, yet precipitated to the depths below. It resem- bles a beautiful landscape, overshadowed by a dark and impending cloud. Every moment we expect the cloud to burst on the head of the devoted sufferer ; and the awful anticipa- tion would be fulfilled, were it not that a divine hand, which guides every event, and without which not even a sparrow falls to the ground, interposes and arrests the shock. Upwards of twenty years expired, during which he was thus graciously upheld. He then began to sink under his accumulated sorrows. But it is worthy of observation, that during this period his mind never suf- fered a total alienation. It was a partial eclipse, not night, nor yet day. He lived .oiuf enough, both "for himself and others, sufficient to discharge all the claims of an affectionate* friendship, and to raise to him- self an imperishable name on the noble foun- dation of moral virtue. At length, when he stood alone, as it were, like a column in the melancholy waste ; when he was his own world, and the solitary agent, around which clung the sensations of a heart always full and the reflections of a mind unconscious of a pause — he died. But his last days and moments were soothed by the offices of Christian kindness and the most disinterested regard. His beloved kinsman never left him till he had closed his eyes in death, and till the disembodied spirit, at length, found the rest in heaven, which forever obliterated all its earthly sorrows. And there shall be no more curse, hut the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it ; and his servants shall serve him. And they shall see his face ; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night there ; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun ; for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign foreve* *nd *trr*~ Rev. xxii. 3 — 5. ON THE GENIUS AND POETRY OF COWPER BY THE REV. J. W. CUNNINGHAM, A.M., Vicar op Harrow. In presetting to the public the first Com- plete Edition of the Works of Cowper, it is thought desirable to prefix to the Poems a short dissertation on his Genius and Poetry. It is true that criticisms abound which have nearly the same object. It is true also that some of these criticisms are of a very high order of excellence. But perhaps their very number and merit supply a reason for adding at least one to the catalogue. The observa- tions of the different Reviewers are scattered over so large a number of volumes, and these volumes are, many of them, either of so ex- pensive or so ephemeral a character, that an essay which endeavors to collect these criti- cisms into a focus, and present them at once to the eye of the reader, is tar from superflu- ous. And the present critique pretends to little more than the accomplishment of this object. The writer is not ashamed to profit from the lab >r and genius of his predecessors in the same course, and to let them say for him, what he could not say so well for him- self. With this apology for what might other- wise be deemed a work of supererogation, ve enter upon the proposed undertaking. And here we must begin by observing that v is impossible not to be struck with certain peculiarities in the history of Cowper, as con- nected with his poetical productions. Al- though, as it has been truly said of him — * born a poet, if ever there was one," — think- ing and feeling upon all occasions as none but a poet could, expressing himself in verse with almost incredible facility, it does not ap- pear that Cowper, between the ages of four- teen and thirty-three, produced anything be- yond the most trifling specimens of his art. The only lines characteristic of his genius and peculiarities as a poet, and which, though composed at a distance of more than thirty years from the publication of " The Task," have so intimate a resemblance to it as to seem to be a page out of the same volume, are those written at the age of eighteen, on finding the heel of an old shoe. " This ponderous heel of perforated hide, Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, Haply (Tor such its massy form bespeaks) The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown Upbore : on ihis supported, oft he stretched, With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, Flattening the stubborn clod ; till cruel time, (What will not cruel time 1) or a wry step, Sever'd the strict cohesion ; when, alas ! He who could erst, w'th even, equal pace, Pursue his destin'd way, with symmetry, And some proportion form'd, now, on one side, Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boya Cursing his frail supporter, treach'rous prop ! With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on." A few light and agreeable poems, two hymns written at Huntingdon, with about sixty others composed at Olney, are almost the only known poetical productions of his pen between the years 1749 and 1782, at which last period he committed his volume of poems in rhyme to the press. There are ex. amples in the physical world, of mountains reposing in coldness and quietness for ages ; and, at length, without any apparently new stimulus, awaking from their slumber, and deluging the surrounding vineyards with streams of fire. But it is, we believe, an un heard-of poetical phenomenon, for a mind teeming with such tendencies and capabilities as that of Cowper, to sleep through so long a period, and, at length, suddenly to awake, when illness and age might seem to have laid their palsying hand upon its energies, and at once to erect itself into poetical life and supremacy. In general, the poet either ' lisp* in numbers,' or begins to put forth his hidden powers under the exciting influence of some new passion or emotion — such as love, fear, hope, or disappointment. But how wide of this was the history of Cowper ! In his case, the muse had no infancy, but sprang full armed from the brain of the poet. But, if the tardy development of the poet- ical powers of our author was one peculi- arity in his case, the suddenness and com- pleteness of the development, when it did take place, was, under his circumstances, a 508 COWPER'S WORKS, BtiJl greater subject of surprise. In the ac- count of his life we learn, that, after quitting Westminster school, at the age of eighteen, he spent three years in a solicitor's office; and passed from thence, at' the age of twen- ty-one, into chambers in the Inner Temple. Soon after this event, he says of himself, " I was struck, riot long after my settlement in the Temple, with such a dejection of spirits, as none but they who have felt the same can nave the least conception of. Day and night I was upon the rack,, lying down in horror, rising up in despair. I presently lost all rel- ish for the studies to which before I had been closely attached. The classics had no longer any charm for me. I had need of something more salutary than amusement, but I had no one to direct me where to find it." This de- jection of mind, as our readers are aware, led nim onward from depth to depth of misery and despair, till at length he was borne away, helpless and hopeless, in the year*1768, to an asylum for insane patients at St. Albans. Released from the awful grasp of a perverted imagination, chiefly by the power of that re- ligion, which, in spite of every fact in his his- tory, has been, with malignant hatred to Christianity, charged as the cause of his mad- ness, he spent the two happiest years of his life at Huntingdon. After this he retired with the Unwin family to Olney, in Bucking- hamshire ; and there, after passing through the most tremendous mental conflicts, sank again into a state of despondency ; from which he at length awoke, (if it might be called awaking,) not indeed to be freed from his de- lusions, butj whilst under their dominion, to delight, instruct, and astonish mankind, with some of the most original and enchanting poems in any language. The philosophical work of Browne, dedicated to Queen Caro- line, and composed, as the author says, by a man who had lost his " rational soul," has been always reputed the miracle of literature. But Browne's case is scarcely more remarka- ble than that of Cowper. That a work sparkling with the most childlike gayety and brilliant wit; exhibiting the most cheerful riews of the character of God, the face of na- ture, and the circumstances of man, should roceed from a writer who at the time re- garded God as an implacable enemy; the earth we live on as the mere porch to a world of punishment ; and human life, at least in his own case, as the cloudy morning of a day of interminable anguish — all this is to be ex- plained only by the fact that madness dis- dains all rules, and reconciles all contrarie- ties. His history supplies an example, not without its parallel, of a mind — like some weapon drawn from its sheath to fight a par- ticular battle, and then suspended on the walls again — called forth to accomplish an Important end, and then sent back again into obscurity. And it is no less . an evidence, amongst a thousand other instances, that oui heavenly Father "in judgment remembers mercy," and bestows this mitigation of the heaviest of all maladies, that those exposed to . its deadliest influence and themselves de- nied all access to the bright sources of happiness, are sometimes privileged to pour the streams of consolation over the path of others. How truly may it be said of such persons, " Sic vos, non vobis, mellificatis apes" But whilst we speak of certain peculiari- ties in the case of Cowper, as calculated to destroy all reasonable expectation of such poems as he has given to the public, we are not sure that these very peculiarities have not assisted to supply his poetry with some of its characteristic and most valuable features Among the qualities, for example, by which his compositions are distinguished, are those of strong sense — moderation on all the sub- jects most apt to throw the mind off its bal- ance — maturity in thought, reasoning and imagination — fulness without inflation — the " strength of the oak without its nodosities" — the " inspiration of the Sybil without her contortions" — the most profound and exten- sive views of human nature. But perhaps every one of these qualities is oftener the growth of age than of youth ; and is rather the tardy fruit of patient experience than the sudden shoot of untrained and undisciplined genius. In like manner, the poetry of Cowper is characterized by the most touching tender- ness, by the deepest sympathy with the suf- ferings of others, by a penetrating insight into the dark recesses of a tempted and troub- led heart. But where are qualities such as these so likely to be cultivated as in the shady places of a suffering mind, and in the school of that stern mistress who teaches us " from our own to melt at others' woe," and to administer. to others the medicines which have healed ourselves? A celebrated physi- cian is said to have inoculated himself with the virus of the plague, in order to practise with mere efficacy in the case of others, Such voluntary initiation in sorrow was needless in the case of Cowper ; — another hand had opened the wound which was to familiarize him with the deepest trials of suffering hu- manity. It is time, however, that we should pro- ceed to consider some of the claims of Cow per to the character of a poet. Large multi tudes have found an almost irresistible charm in his writings. In what peculiarities does this powerful influence mainly reside ? In order to reply to this question, we would first direct the attention of our readers to the constitution of his mind. And here we may enter on our work by observtog, that almost a 1 ! critics have regarded an ardent love of nature as a sine qua non in the constitution of a poet. And nature, surely, never had a more enthusiastic admirer than the autho • of the Task. How feelingly does he write on this subject ! " I have loved the rural walk through lanes Of grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling sheep, And skirted thick with intertexture firm Of thorny boughs ; have loved the rural walk O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink, E'er since, a truant bov, I pass'd uiy bounds, T' enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames." When Homer describes his shepherd as contemplating the heavens and earth by the light of the moon and stars, and says, with his accustomed simplicity and grace, — " The heart of the shepherd is glad;" our author might seem to have sat for the portrait. Al- though unacquainted with nature in her sub- limest aspect, every point in creation appears to have a charm for him. To no lips would the strain of another poet be more appro- priate. " I care not, fortune, what you me deny ; You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, [face ; Through which Aurora shows her brightening You cannot bar my constant feet" to trace The woods and lawns by living stream at eve." It is true, that every enthusiastic lover of nature is not a poet : but a man can scarcely rise to the dignity of that high office who has not a touch of this enthusiasm. Poetry is essentially an imitative art; and he who is no lover of nature loses all the finest sub- iects of imitation. On the contrary, this at- tachment, especially if it be of an ardent character, supplies subjects to the muse everywhere. Winter or summer, the wilder- ness and the garden, the cedar of Libanus, and the hyssop on the wall ; all that is dull and ineloquent to another has a voice for him, and rouses him to think, to feel, to ad- mire, and to speak. The following lines are said to have been introduced into " The Task," to gratify Mrs. Unwin, after the first draught of the poem was finished. But what language can exhibit a more genuine attachment to nature ? ' And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive Past lock'd in mine Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not conjur'd up To serve occasion of poetic pomp, But genuine ; and art partner of them all." Nor was the delight which he derived from nature confined, in the case of our poet, to one sense. " All the sounds,-'' he writes, " that nature utters are delightful, at least in this country. I should not perhaps- find the roarings of lions in Africa, or of bears in Russia, very pleasing; but I know of no beast in England, whose voice I do not ac- count musical, save and • except only the braying of an ass. The notes of all oiir birds and fowls please me, without one ex- ception. I should not indeed think of keep. ing a goose in a cage, that I might hang him up in the parlor for the sake of his melody, but the goose upon a common, or in a farm- yard, is no bad performer. Seriously, how ever, it strikes me as a very observable in stance of providential kindness to man, that such an exact accord has been contrived be- tween his ear and the sounds with which, at least in a rural situation, it is almost every moment visited. The fields, the woods, the gardens, have each their concerts; and the ear of man is forever regaled by creatures who seem only to please themselves. Eve i the ears that are deaf to the Gospel are con tinually entertained, though without knowing it, by sounds for which they are solely in- debted to its Author."* It is interesting to compare with this the poetical expression of the same thought. " Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature . . . Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, But animated nature sweeter still, To soothe or satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night. Nor those alone whose notes Nice finger'd art must emulate in vain ; But cawing rooks, and kites, that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud ; The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl, That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Another poetical quality in the mind ol Cowper is his ardent love of his species — a love which led him to contemplate, with the most solicitous regard, their wants, tastes, passions ; their diseases, and the appropriate remedies for them. It has been justly ob- served, that, if there are some who have little taste for the poetry which delineates only in- animate beings or objects, there is hardly any one who does not listen, with sympathy and delight, to that which exhibits the for- tunes and feelings of man. The truth is, we suppose, that this last order of topics is most easily brought home to our own busi ness and bosoms. Aristotle considers that the imitation or delineation of human action is one of the main objects of poetry. But if this be true, if the " proper study of mankind is man," and one of the highest offices of poetry be to exhibit, as upon the stage, the fortunes and passions of his fellow beings- few have attained such eminence in his art as Cowper. His hymns are the close tran- * Letter to Mr. Newton. 010 COWPER'S WORKS. Bcripts of his own sou'i. His rhymed poems have more of a didactic character ; but they are for the most part exhibitions of man in all his attitudes of thought and action. They are mirrors in which every man may contem- plate his own mind. In^ the " Task," he passes every moment from the contempla- tion of nature to that of the being who in- habits this fair, though fallen, world. He iashes the vices, laughs at the follies, mourns over the guilt of his species; he spares no pains to conduct the guilty to the feet of their only true Friend, and to land the mis- erable amidst the green pastures and still waters of heavenly consolation. Another property in the mind of Copper, which has given birth to some of the noblest passages in his poems, is his intense love of freedom. The political state of this country was scarcely ever more degraded than at the period when he began to write; and every real patriot who could wield the pen, or lift the voice in the cause of legitimate and regu- lated freedom, had plenty to do at home. At the same period also the profligacy and ty- ranny of the privileged orders in France, and other of the old European dynasties, were such as to provoke the indignation of every lover of liberty. And lastly, at this time, that horrible traffic in human flesh, that cap- ital crime, disgrace, and curse of the human species, the Slave Trade, prevailed in all its horrors. How splendid are many of the passages scattered so prodigally through his poems, in which the author rebukes the crimes of despotism and cruelty at home or abroad, and claims for mankind the high privileges with which God, by an everlasting charter, had endowed them. What lines can breathe a deeper indigna- tion than those quoted with such admiration by Mr. Fox, in the House of Commons, on theBastile? " Ye horrid towers, th' abode of broken hearts, Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair. That raonarchs have supplied, from age to age, With music such as suits their sovereign ears, The sighs and groans of miserable men ; There's not an English heart that would not leap To hear that ye were fallen at last." f And what passage in any uninspired writer is more noble and heart-stirring, than that on the decision in the case tried by the illustri- ous Granville Sharpe, to establish the liberty of all who touched the soil of England — a passage confessedly the foundation of the noblest effort of Curran, in his great speech on the liberty of the subject ! " I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation priz'd above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home — then why abroad J And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free ; They touch our country, and their shackles fall That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through ev'ry vein Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's pow'i Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too." But after all, perhaps, the peculiarity in the mind of Cowper, which gives the chief charm to his poetry, is the depth and ardor of his piety. It is impossible not to be aware of the severance which critics have labored to effect between religion and poetry, — between the character of the prophet and the poet : and that Johnson's decision is thought by some to be final on the subject. Cowper himself admits that the connection has been rare be- tween the two characters — as witness the following lines — " Pity religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground ! [to stray, For flow'rs would spring where'er she deigned And ev'ry muse attend her in her way. Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, And many a compliment politely penn'd ; But, unattir'd in that becoming vest Religion weaves for her, and half undrest, Stands in the desert, shiv'ring and forlorn, A wintry figure like a wither'd thorn.'' But he does not despair of seeing some " Bard all fire, Touch'd with a coal from heaven assume the lyre And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, With more than mortal music on his tongue, That he who died below, and reigns above. Inspires the song, and that his name is ' Love.' " Indeed no theory can have less foundation either in philosophy or in fact, than that po- etry and religion have too little in common, for either to gain by an attempt to unite them. They seem to us born for each other. And, so important is this topic, that, although at the risk of repeating what has been said else- where, it may be well for a moment, to dwell upon it. The theory which endeavors to secure a perpetual divorce between religion and po- etry has not the authority of the great critics of antiquity. Longinus maintains, in one place, that " he who aims at the reputation of a sublime writer must spare no labor to educate his soul to grandeur, and to impreg- nate it with great and generous ideas." And he affirms, in another, that " the faculties of the soul will grow stupid, the spirit be lost, and good sense and genius lie in ruins, when HIS GLNIUS AND POETRY, 511 the care and study of man is engaged about the mortal and worthless part of himself, and he has ceased to cultivate virtue, and polish up the nobler part, his soul." Quin- tilian has a whole chapter to prove that a great writer must be a good man. And the greatest modern critics hold the same lan- guage. But, perhaps, in no passage is the truth upon this subject more nobly expressed, and a difficulty connected with it more ably explained, than in the following verses of a poem now difficult of access : 11 But, of our souls ' the high-born loftier part, TY ' ethereal energies that touch the heart; Ct nceptions ardent, laboring thought intense, Creative fancy's wild magnificence; And all the dread sublimities of song — These Virtue, these to thee alone belong. ChhTd by the breath of Vice, their radiance dies, And brightest burns, when lighted at the skies ; Like vestal lamps, to purest bosoms giv'n, And kindled only by a ray from heav'n."* Nor does this sentiment stand on the mere authority of critics ; but appears to be founded on just views of the constitution of our na- ture. Lighter themes can be expected to awaken only light and transient feelings in the bosom. The profounder topics of relig- 'on sink deeper; touch all the hidden springs of thought and action ; and awaken emotions, which have all the force and permanence of the great principles and interests in which they originate. To us, no assertion would seem to have less warrant, than that taste suffers by its al- liance with religion. The proper objects of taste are beauty and sublimity ; and if (as a modern critic seems to us to have incontro- vertibly established) beauty and sublimity do not reside in the mere forms and colors of the objects we contemplate, but in the asso- ciations which they suggest to the mind, it cannot be questioned that the associations suggested to a man of piety, exceed both in beauty and sublimity those of every other class. God, as a Father, is the most lovely of all objects — God, as an avenger, is the most terrible; and it is to the religious man exclusively, that this at once most tender and most terrible Being is disclosed, in all the beauty and majesty of holiness, by every ob- iect which he contemplates — " Prsesentiorem conspicimus Deum Per invias rupes. fera per juga, Clivosque praeruptos sonantes, Inter aquas, neinorumque noctem." Or, as the same sentiment is expressed by Cowper, " His are the mountains, and the valleys his And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy * Grunt's (now Lord Glenelg) prize poem on " Resto- «Sion of Learning in the East.'' With a propriety that none can feel, But who, with filial confidence inspired, Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say, — ' My Father made them all !' It is striking to what an extent the great* est poets of all ages and countries have called in religion, under some form or other, to their assistance. How are the Iliad and Odyssey ennobled by their mythological machinery ; by the scales of Fate, the frown of Jove, and the intercession of Minerva ! How anxiously- ■ does Virgil labor to give a moral and relig ious character to his GeorgLcs and ^Eneid ' And how nobly do these kindred spirits, by a bold fiction bordering upon truth, display the eternal mansions of joy and of misery, of reward and of punishment; thus disclos- ing, not by the light of revelation, but by the blended flashes of genius and tradition, the strongest incentives to virtue, and the most terrific penalties of crime. The same may be affirmed of many of our own most distinguished poets ; of " the sage and serious Spenser," and the immortal au- thor of "the Paradise Lost" himself. Noi can we hesitate to trace the deep interest continually excited by the poetry of Cowper in great measure, to the same source. Though ofcen careless in the structure of his verse ; though sometimes lame, and lengthy, and prosaic in his manner; though frequently employed about unpopular topics ; he is per- haps the most popular, with the exception of one, of all the English poets: and we be- lieve that the main source of his general ac- ceptance is the fact that he never fails to in- troduce the Creator into the scenes of his own universe; that," by the soarings of his own mind, he lifts us from earth to Ijeaven, and " makes us familiar with a world unseen ;" that he draws largely from the mine of Scrip- ture, and thus exhibits the majesty and love of the Divine Being, in words and imagery which the great object of his wonder and love Himself provides. It is wholly needless for us to refer to any particular parts of the works of our author, as illustrative of his deep and sanguine spirit of piety. That spirit breathes through every line and letter. It is, if we may so speak, the animating soul of his verses. The mind of the Christian reader is refreshed, in every step of- his progress, by the conviction that the songs thus sung on earth were taught from Heaven ; and that, in resigning himself to the sweetest associate for this world, he is choosing the very best guide to another. Indeed, few have been disposed to deny to Cowper the highest of all poetical titles — that of The Poet of Christianity. In this field he has but one rival, the author of the " Paradise Lost." And happily the provinces which they have chosen for themselves within the sacred enclosure are, for the most par* 612 COWPER'S WORKS. so distinct, that it is scarcely necessary to bring them into comparison. The distin- guishing qualities of Milton are a surpassing elevation of thought and energy of expres- sion, which leave the mind scarcely able to breathe under the pressure of his majesty, courage, and sublimity. The main defect of his poetry, as has been justly stated by an anonymous critic, is " the absence of a charm neither to be named nor defined, which would render the whole as lovely as it is beautiful, and as captivating as it is sublime." " His poetry," it is added by the same critic, "will be ever praised by the many, and read by the few. The weakest capacity may be offeaded by its faults, but it requires a genius equal to his own to comprehend and enjoy all his merits. " Cowper rarely equate Milton in sublimity, to which his subjects but seldom led; he ex- cels him in easy expression, delicate pleas- antry, and generous satire ; and he resembles him in the temperate use of all his transcend- ent abilities. He never crushes his subject by falling upon it, nor permits his subject to crush him by falling beneath it. Invested with a sovereign command of diction, and en- ■oying unlimited freedom of thought, he is never prodigal of words, and he never riots amidst the exuberance of his conceptions; his economy displays his wealth, and his mod- eration is the proof of his power ; "his richest phrases seem the most obvious expression of his ideas, and his mightiest exertions are made apparently without toil. This, as we have already observed, is one of the grandest char- acteristics of Milton. It would be difficult to name a third poet of our country who could claim a similar distinction. Others, like Cowley, overwhelm their theme with their eloquence, or, like Young, sink exhaust- ed beneath it, by aiming at magnificent, but unattainable compression ; a third class, like Pope, whenever they write well, write their best, and never win but at full speed, and with all their might; while a fourth, like Dryden and Churchill, are confident of their strength, yet so careless of their strokes, that when they conquer, it seems a matter of course, and when they fall, a matter of no consequence, for they can rise again as soon as they please. Milton and Cowper alone appear always to walk within the limits of their genius, yet up to the height of their great argument. We are not pretending to exalt them above all other British poets ; we nave only compared them together on one point, wherein they accord with each other, md differ from the rest. But there is one feature of resemblance between them of a nobler kind. These good and faithful ser- vants, who had received ten talents each, nei- ther buried them in the earth, nor expended Jiem for their own glory, nor lavished them in profligacy, but occupied them for their Mas. ter's service ; and we trust have both entered into his joy. Their unfading labors, (not sub- ject to change, from being formed according to the fashion of this world, but being of equal and eternal interest to man in all ages,) have disproved the idle and impious position which vain philosophy, hating all godliness, has endeavored to establish, — that religion can neither be adorned by poetry, nor poetry ennobled by religion."* Having thus noticed some of those grand peculiarities in the mind of Cowper, which appear to have mainly contributed to place him among the highest order of poets, we proceed to point out some subordinate quali- fications, without which, those already re- ferred to would have failed to raise him to his present elevation. Even the buoyant spir- it of a poet has certain inferior members by which it is materially assisted in its upward flight. In the first place, then, he was one of the most simple and natural of all writers. With the exception of the sacred volume, it would perhaps be impossible to name any composi- tions with so large a proportion of simple ideas and Saxon monosyllables. He began to be an author when Pope, with his admira- ble critic Johnson, had established a taste for all that was most ornate, pompous, and com- plicated in phraseology. But, with due re- spect for the genius and power of this class of writers, he may be said to have hewn out for himself a new path to glory. It has been justly said by an accomplished modern critic and poet, that, " between the school of Dry- den and Pope, with their few remembered successors, not one of whom ranks now above a fourth-rate poet; for Young, Thomson, Goldsmith, Gray, and Collins, though flour- ishing in the interval, were not of their school, but all, in their respective ways, originals;— between the school of Dryden and Pope, and our undisciplined, independent contempora- ries, Cowper stands as having closed the age of the former illustrious masters, and com- menced that of the eccentric leaders of the modern fashions in song. We cannot stop to trace the affinity which he bears to either of these generations, so dissimilar from each other; but it would be easy to show how lit- tle he owed to his immediate forerunners, and how much his immediate followers have been indebted to him. All the cant phrases, all the technicalities, of the former school he utterly threw away, and by his rejection of them they became obsolete. He boldly adopted caden- ces of verse unattempted before, which though frequently uncouth, and sometimes scarcely * Eclectic Review. This criticism it has been ascer lained is from the pen of Mr. James Montgomery ; and the desire inseparably to connect what, is so just and ftbla with the works of Cowper has been the inducement notwithstanding its length, to introduce it lure. HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 513 reducible to rhythm, .vere not seldom ingeni- ously significant, and signally energetic. He feared not to employ colloquial, philosophi- cal, judicial idioms, and forms of argument, and illustrations, which enlarged the vocabu- lary of poetical terms, less by recurring to obsolete ones, (which has been too prodigally done since,) than by hazardous, and generally happy innovations of more recent origin, which have become graceful and dignified by usage, though Pope and his imitators durst not have touched them. The eminent adventurous re- vivers of English poetry about thirty years ago, Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, in their blank verse, trod directly in the steps of Cowper, and, in their early productions at least, were each, in a measure, what he made them. Our author may be legitimately styled the father of this triumvirate, who are, in truth, the living fathers of the innumerable race of moderns, whom no human ingenu- ity could well classify into their respective schools."* The simplicity of Cowper as a thinker, ex- aminer, and writer, is unquestionably one of his greatest charms. He constantly reminds us of a highly-gifted and intelligent child. In all that he says and does, there is a total absence of all plot and stratagem, of all pre- tensions to think profoundly, or write finely ; though, without an effort, he does both. His manner is to invite you to walk abroad with him amidst the glories of nature ; to fix at random on some point in the landscape; to display its beauties or its peculiarities — to touch on some feature which has, perhaps, altogether escaped your own eye — to pour out the simplest thoughts in the simplest language — and to make you feel that never man before had so sweet, so moral, so de- vout, so affectionate, so gifted, so musical a companion. The simplicity of his style is, we believe, considering its strength, without a parallel. No author, perhaps, has done more to recover the language of our country from the grasp and tyranny of a foreign idiom, and to teach English people to speak in Eng- lish accents. In some instances, it may be granted, that he is somewhat more colloquial and homely than the dignity of his subject warrants. But for offences of this kind he makes the amplest compensation, by leading us to those " wells of undefiled English," at which he had drunk so deeply, and whence alone the pure streams of our national com- position are to be drawn. It is next to be noticed, as to the style of Cowper, that it is as nervous as it is clear and unpretending. It is impossible to compare the works of Addison, and others of the sim- ple class of writers, with Johnson, and those of the opposite class, without feeling that what they gain in simplicity they often lose * Montgomery's E9say on Cowper's Poems. in strength and power. But the language of Cowper is often to the full as vigorous and masculine as that of Sbakspeare. Bring a tyrant or a skive-driver before him for judg- ment ; and the a.\c of the one and the scourge of the other are not keener weapons than the words of the poet. It would be difficult co find in any writer a more striking example of nervous phrase ology than we have in the well-known lines '■ But hark — the doctor's voice ! — fast wedged be- tween ; Two empirics he stands, and with swoll'n cheekf Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far Than all invective, is his bold harangue. While through that public organ of report He hails the clergy ; and defying shame. Announces to the world his own and theirs ! He teaches those to read, whom schools di« missed And colleges, untaught : sells accent, tone And emphasis in soore, and gives to pray'J Th' ada°Uo and andante it demands. He grinds divinity of other days Down into modern use ; transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts. Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware 1 O name it not in Gath ! — It cannot be. [akl. That grave and learned clerks should need such He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll ; Assuming thus a rank unknown before — Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church !" In the next place, it will not be questioned, we think, by any reader of the preceding let- ters, that Cowper was a ivii. of the very high- est order — and this quality is by no means confined to his prose, but enters largely into everything that he writes. No author sur- prises us more frequently with rapid turns and unexpected coincidences. The mock sublime is one of his favorite implements; and he employs it with almost unrivalled success. There is also a delicacy of touch in his witticisms which is more easily felt than described. And his wit has this noble singularity, that it is never derived from wrong sources, or directed to wrong ends. It never wounds a feeling heart, or deepens the blush upon a modest cheek. Other wits are apt to dip tdieir vessels in any stream which presents itself; Cowper draws only from the purest fountains. It has been said of Steme, that he hides his pearls in a ditch, and forces his readers to dive for them ; but the witticisms of Cowper are as well calcu- lated to instruct as to delight. This last topic is intimately connected with another, whieh, in touching on the excellen- ces of Cowper as a poet, cannot be passed over, — we mean, the astonishing fertility of Ids imagination. It was observed to the writer of these pages by the late Sir James Mackintosh, of the friend and ornament of his species, William Wilberforce, that " he 33 514 COWPER'S WORKS, was perhaps the finest of all orators of his own particular order — that the wealth of his imagination was such, that no idea seemed to present itself to his mind without its accom- panying image or ghost, which he could pro- duce at his pleasure, and which it was a mat- ter of self-denial if he did not produce." And the latter part of this criticism might seem to be made for Cowper. His mind appears never to wait for an image, but to be over- run by them. In argument or description — in hurling the thunders of rebuke, or whis- pering the messages of mercy — he does but wave his wand, and a host of spiritual es- sences descend to darken or brighten the scenes at his bidding ; to supply new weap- ons of rebuke, or new visions of love and joy. Some of his personifications are among the finest specimens in any language. What, for example, has more of the genuine spirit of poetry, than the personification of Famine, in the following lines ? — " He calls for Famine .... and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips And taints the golden ear." What is more lively or forcible than his description of Time ? — " Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound ; But the world's Time is Time in masquerade ! Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged With motley plumes ; and where the peacock shows His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red With spots quadrangular of diamond form. Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, And spades, the emblems of untimely graves. What should be and what was an hour-glass Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace [once v Well does the work of his destructive scythe." What, again, is superior in this way to his address to Winter % — " O Winter ! ruler of the inverted year ! Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows [clouds, Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in A lifeless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, Bit urged by storms along its slippery way." But the examples of this species of per- sonification are without number : and we are not afraid to bring many of them into com- parison with the Discord of Homer, the Fame of Virgil, or the Famine of Ovid — passages of so powerful a cast as at once, and without any assistance, to establish the poetical au- thority of their inventors. It may seem strange to some, that we should assign a place, among the poetical claims of Cowper, to his strong sense. He appears to us to be one of the most just, natural, and rational of all writers; an^ however poetry may seem to appropriate to herself rather the remote and visionary re- gions of fiction than that of dull reality, we are disposed to think, that, even in her wild- est wanderings, she will maintain no real and permanent ascendency over the mind, if she widely deviates from nature and good sense. " Monstrous sights," sayb Beattie, and he might have added, monstrous conceptions, " please but for a moment, if they please at all ; for they derive their charm merely from the beholders' amazement. I have read in- deed of a man of rank in Sicily who chooses to adorn his villa with pictures and statues of the most unnatural deformity. But it is a singular instance ; and one would not be much more surprised to hear of a man living without food, or growing fat upon poison. To say of anything that it is 'contrary to nature,' denotes censure and disgust on the part of the speaker ; as the epithet ' natural' intimates an agreeable quality, and seems, for the most part, to imply that a thing is as it ought to be, suitable to our own taste, and congenial to our own disposition. . . Think how we should relish a painting in which there was no regard to colors, propor- tions, or any of the physical laws of nature ; wliere the eyes and ears of animals were placed in their shoulders; where the sky was green, and the grass crimson." Such distortions and anomalies would not be less offensive in poetry than in the sister art. And it is one of the main sources of delight in Cowper, that all is in its due proportion, and wears its right colors ; that the " eyes and ears" are in " their proper places ;" that his skies are blue, and his grass is green ; and that every reflection of the poet has, what he, himself calls the " Stamp and clear impression of good sense." The very passage in the sixth book of " The Task," from which this line is taken, and which furnishes perhaps the most perfect un- inspired delineation of a true Christian, sup- plies, at the same time, an admirable exam- ple of the quality we mean ; and shows, that even where his feelings were the most in- tensely interested, his passions were under the control of hjs reason; that, when he mounted the chariot of the sun, he took care not to approach too near the flaming lumi- nary. It would be impossible, in a sketch such as this, not to advert to the powers of the author as a satirist. And here, we think the most partial critic will be scarcely disposed to deny, that he sometimes handles his knife a little at random and with too much sever- ity. He had early in life been intimate with Churchill ; and, with scarcely a touch of the temper of that right English poet, had plain) v HIS GENIUS AND POETRY. 51 caught something of his manner. There is this wide distinction between him and his master — that his irony and rebuke are never the weapons of party, or personality, but of truth, honor, and the public good. The strong, though homely image, applied by Churchill to another critic, — " Like a butcher, doom'd for life In his mouth to wear his knife," — is too just a picture of its author, but is infi- nitely far from being that of Cowper. It was well said of his satire, that " it was the off- spring of benevolence ; and that, like the Pe- lian spear, it furnishes the only cure for the wound it inflicts. When he is obliged to blame, he pities; when he condemns, it is with regret. His censures display no tri- umphant superiority; but rather express a turn of feeling such as we might suppose an- gels to indulge in at the prospect of human frailty." But, if his satirical powers were sometimes indulged to excess, it is impossible to deny that he was, generally and habitually, of all poets, the most sympathizing and tender. Nothing in human composition can surpass the tenderness of the poem on receiving his mothers picture, or of those exquisite lines addressed to a lady in France suffering under deep calamity, of which last we shall quote a few for the ornament of our page : — " The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown : No trav'Iler ever reach'd that blest abode. Who found not thorns and briers in his road. The world may dance along the flowery plain, Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread With unshod feet they yet securely tread, Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend, Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. But He. who knew what human hearts would prove. How slow to learn the dictates of his love, That hard by nature, and of stubborn will, A life of ease would make them harder still, In pity to the souls his grace design'd To rescue from the ruins of mankind, Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, And said, ' Go spend them in the vale of tears.' O balmy gales of soul-reviving air! O salutary streams that murmur there ! These flowing from the fount of grace above, Those breathed from lips of everlasting love." The Hymns are almost uniformly of the same character. Drawn from the deep re- cesses of a broken heart, they find a short and certain way to the bosom of others. And this leads to the notice of another pe- culiarity in his writings. It is said to have been a favorite maxim with Lord Byron, " that every writer is interesting to others in proportion as he is able and willing to seize vni to display to them the hidden workings of his own soul." The noble rritic is him- self a strong exemplification of the truth of his own rule. Not merely his heroes and his heroines, but his rocks, mountains, and rivers, are a sort of fac simile of himself. The blue lake reposing among the mountains is the b:ird in a state of repose. The thunder leap ing from rock to rock is the same mind under the strong excitement of passion. But per- haps of all writers Cowper is the most habit- ually what may be termed an experimentalist in poetry. He sought in " the man within," the secret machinery by which to touch and to control the world without. He felt deeply ; and caught the feeling as it arose, and trans- ferred it, warm from the heart, to his own pa- per. Hence one great attraction of his writ- ings. " As face answereth to face in water, so the heart of man to man." The sensations of other men are to a great degree our own ; and the poetical exhibition of these sensations is the presenting to us a sort of illuminated mirror in which we see ourselves, and are, according to the view, moved to sorrow or to joy. Preachers as well as poets will do well to remember this law of our nature, and will endeavor to analyze and to delineate their own feelings, if they mean to reach those of others. Unhappily, the noble author of this canon in philosophy and literature had no very profitable picture of this kind to display to his fellow men. He speaks, however, of " unmasking the hell that dwelt within." And he has taught no unimportant lesson to his species, if he has instructed us in the utter wretchedness of those who, gifted with the noblest powers, refuse to consec^te them to the glorious Giver. But, however unprofita- ble his own application of the rule, the rule itself is valuable ; and, in the case of Cowper, we have the application of it, both on the largest scale and to the best possible purpose. There is one other feature in the mind of Cowper on which, before quitting the subject of this examination, we must be permitted to say a few words. It has been the habit with many, while freely conceding to our poet most of the humbler claims to reputation for which we have contended, to assign him only a sec- ond or third place in the scale of po^s, on the ground that he is, according to their t\-> i- mate, altogether " incapable of the true sub- lime." Now, it must be admitted that, if the only true sublimity in writing be to write like ^Milton, Cowper cannot be ranked in the same class as a poet. Of Milton it may be said, in the words of a poet as great as himself — " He doth bestride the world Like a Colossus : and we petty men Walk under his nuge legs." Nothing can be more astonishing than tht-. composure and dignity with which, like his own Satan, he climbs the " empyreal height" — sails between worlds and worlds — and M6 COYVPER'S WORKS. moves among thrones and principalities, as if in his natural element. " The genius of ( low- per." as it has been justly said, " did not lead him to emulate the songs of the seraphim :" but though, in one respect, he moves in a tower region than his great master in what may be termed the " moral sublime," he is by no means inferior to him. Scarcely any po- etry awakens in the mind more of those deep emotions of " pity and terror," which the great critic of antiquity describes as the main sour- ces of the sublime ; and by which poetry is said to '■'"purge the mind of her votaries.'* In this view of the sublime we know of few pas- sages which surpass the description of " lib- erty of soul," in the conclusion of the 5th book of " The Task." " Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul ; and, by a flash from heav'n, Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not, Till Thou hast touch'd them ; 'tis the voice of A loud hosanna sent from all thy works ; [song, Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, And adds his rapture to the gen'ral praise. In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile The Author of her beauties ; who, retir'd Behind His own creation, works unseen By the impure, and hears his pow'r denied. Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove At random, without honor, hope, or peace. From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, His high endeavor, and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. But, O Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown ! Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor ; And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away !" In iike manner the Millennium of Cowper is at least not inferior to the Messiah of Pope. The corresponding passage in the latter writ- er is greatly inferior to that in which our poet says, — " No foe to man Lurks in the serpent now — the mother sees, And smiles to see, her infant's hand Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, To stroke his azure neck, and to receive The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue." And few passages in any poem have more of me true sublime than that which follows soon, after the last extract : — " One song employs all nations, and all cry 'Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us !' the dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Shout to each other, and the mountain tops From distant mountains catch the flying joy : Till, nation after nation taught the strain, Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round." Having offered these general observations " on the Genius and Poetry" of Cowper, and having so largely drawn from his sweet and instructive pages, it is not thought necessary to supply any more specific notice of his sev- eral poems. It is superfluous to enter upon a detailed proof that his poems in rhyme, though occasionally brightened by passages of extraordinary merit, are often prosaic in their character, and halting and feeble in the versification ; that his shorter poems, whether of a gay or of a devotional cast, are, for pa- thos, wit, delicacy of conception, and felicity of expression, unequalled in our language ; that his Homer is an evidence, not of his in- capacity as a translator, but of the impossi- bility of transmuting into stiff unyielding English monosyllables the rich compounds of the Greek, without a sacrifice both of sound and sense ; that " The Task" outruns in power, variety, depth of thought, fertility of imagin- ation, vigor of expression, in short, in all- which constitutes a poet of the highest ordec every hope which his earlier poems had al- lowed his readers to indulge. The dawn gave little or no promise of such a day. The porch was in no sense commensurate to the temple afterwards to be erected. On the whole, his " Poems" will always be considered as one of the richest legacies which genius and virtue have bequeathed to mankind ; and will be welcomed wherever the English lan- guage is known, and English minds, tastes, and habits prevail ; wherever the approbation of what is good and the abhorrence of what is evil are felt; wherever truth is honored, and God and his creatures are loved. With these observations we bring our im- perfect criticisms on the Poems of Cowper to a conclusion. The writer of them does not hesitate to say that he has been amply re- warded for his own critical labors, by the privilege of often escaping from his own page to that of his author. And the reader of them will be still more largely compensated if, when weary of the critic, he will turn aside to breathe an ardent supplication to the Giver of all that was good and great in Cowper, that he himself may drink deeply of the spirit, without participating in the sorrows of this most holy, most distinguished, most suffer- ing, t ut now most triumphant, servant of the God and Saviour to whom he so nobly and habitually dedicated all his powers. PREFACE TO THE POEMS When an author, by appearing in print, re- quests an audience of the public, and is upon the point of speaking for himself, whoever presumes to step before him with a preface, and to say, " Nay, but hear me first," should have something worthy of attention to offer, or he will be justly deemed officious and im- pertinent. The judicious reader has proba- bly, upon other occasions, been beforehand with me in this reflection ; and I am not very willing it should now be applied to me, how- ever I may seem to expose myself to the dan- ger of it. But the thought of having my own name perpetuated in connection with the name in the title-page is so pleasing and flattering to the feelings of my heart, that I am content to risk something for the gratification. This Preface is not designed to commend the Poems to which it is prefixed. My testi- mony would be insufficient for those who are not qualified to judge properly for themselves, and unnecessary to those who are. Besides, the reasons which render it improper and un- seemly for a man to celebrate his own per- formances, or those of his nearest relatives, will have some influence in suppressing much of what he might otherwise wish to say in favor of a friend, when that friend is indted an alter idem, and excites almost the same emotions of sensibility and affection as he feels for himself. It is very probable these Poems may come into the hands of some persons, in whom the sight of the author's name will awaken a re- collection of incidents and scenes, which through length of time they had almost for- gotten. They will be reminded of one who was once the companion of their chosen hours, and who set out with them in early life in the paths which lead to literary honors, to influ- ence and affluence, with equal prospects of success. But he was suddenly and power- fully withdrawn from those pursuits, and he left them without regret ; yet not till he had sufficient opportunity of counting the cost, and of knowing the value of what he gave ap. If happiness could have been found in classical attainments, in an elegant taste, in the exertions of wit, fancy, and genius, and in the esteem and converse of such persons, is in these respects were most congenial with himself, he would have been happy. But he was not — he wondered (as thousands in a similar situation still do) that he should con tinue dissatisfied, with all the means appa« rently conducive to satisfaction within hia reach — But in due time the cause of his dis- appointment was discovered to him — he had lived without God in the world. In a memo- rable hour, the wisdom which is from above visited his . heart. Then he felt himself a wanderer, and then he found a guide. Upon this change of views, a change of plan and conduct followed of course. When he saw the busy and the gay world in its true ight. he left it with as little reluctance as a prisoner, when called to liberty, leaves his dungeon. Not that he became a Cynic or an Ascetic — • a heart filled with love to God will assuredly breathe benevolence to men. But the turn of his temper inclining him to rural life, he indulged it, and, the providence of God evi- dently preparing his way and marking out his retreat, he retired into the country. By these steps, the good hand of God, unknown to me, was providing for me one of the principal blessings of my life ; a friend and a counsel- lor, in whose company for almost seven years, though we were seldom seven successive wak- ing hours separated, I always found new pleas- ure — a friend who was not only a comfort to myself, but a blessing to the affectionate poor people among whom I then lived. Some time after inclination had thus re- moved him from the hurry and bustle of life, he was still more secluded by a long indis- position, and my pleasure was succeeded by a proportionable degree of anxiety and con- cern. But a hopQ, that the God' whom he served would support him under his affliction, and at length vouchsafe him a happy deliver- ance, never forsook me. The desirable crisis, I trust, is now nearly approaching. The dawn, the presage of returning day, is already ar- rived. He is again enabled to resume his pen, and some of the first fruits of his recov- ery are* here presented to the public. In his principal subjects, the same acumen, which distinguished hirn in the early period of life, is happily employed in illustrating and enforc- ing the truths of which he received such deep and unalterable impressions in his mature! years. His satire, if it may be called so, ia benevolent, (like the operations of the skilful and humane surgeon, who wounds only to heal,) dictated by a just regard for the honor of God, an indignant grief excited by the profligacy of the age, and a tender compas- sion for the souls of men. His favorite topics are least insisted on in the piece entitled Table Talk ; which there- fore, with some regard to the prevailing taste, and that those, who are governed by it, may not be discouraged at the very threshold from proceeding farther, is placed first. In most of the large poems which follow, his leading design is more explicitly avowed and pursued. He aims to communicate his own perceptions of the truth, beauty, and influence of the re- ligion of the Bible — a religion, which, how- ever discredited by the misconduct of many, who have not renounced the Christian name, proves itself, when rightly understood, and cordially embraced, to be the grand desidera- tum, which alone can relieve the mind of man from painful and unavoidable anxieties, in- spire it with stable peace and solid hope, and furnish those motives and prospects which, in the present state of things, are absolutely ne- cessary to produce a conduct worthy of a ra- tional creature, distinguished by a vastness of capacity which no assemblage of earthly good can satisfy, and by a principle and pre- intimation of immortality. At a time when hypothesis and conjecture m philosophy are so justly exploded, and lit- tle is considered as deserving the name of knowledge, which will not stand the test of experiment, the very use of the term experi- mental* in religious concernments is by too many unhappily rejected with disgust. But we well know, that they, who affect to despise the inward feelings which religious persons speak of, and to treat them as enthusiasm and folly, have inward feelings of their own, which, though they wou.d, they cannot, suppress. We have been too .ong in the secret our- selves, to account the proud, the ambitious, or the voluptuous, happy. We must lose the remembrance of what we once were, be- fore we can believe that a man is satisfied with himself, merely because he endeavors to appear so. A smile upon the face is often, but a mask worn occasionally and in com- pany, to prevent, if possible, a suspicion of what at the same time is passing in the heart. We know that there are people who seldom smile wiien they are alone, who therefore are glad to hide themselves in a throng from the violence of their own reflections : and who, while by their looks and their language they wish to persuade us they are happy, would be glad to change their condition with a dog. But in 'defiance of all their efforts tl*ey con- tinue to think, forbode, and tremble. This w T e know, for it has been our own state, and there- fore we know how to commiserate it in others. — From this state the Bible relieved us — when we were led to read it with atten- tion, we found ourselves described. We learned the causes of our inquietude — we were directed to a method of relief — we tried, and we were not disappointed. Deus nobis haec otia fecit. We are now certain that the gospel of Christ is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth. It has reconciled us to God, and to ourselves, to our duty and our situation. It is the balm and cordial of the present life, and a sovereign antidote against the fear of death. Sed hactenus hsec. Some smaller pieces upon less important subjects close the vol- ume. Not one of them, I believe, was writ, ten with a view to publication, but I was un- willing they should be omitted. John Newton. Charles Square, Hoxton> Fehruary 18, 1782. TABLE TALK Si te forte meae gravis uret sarcina chartae, Abjicito. HOR. LIB. i., kp. L~ THE ARGUMENT. true and false glory — Kings made fpr man — Attributes of royalty in England — Quevedo's satire on kings- Kings objects of pity — Inquiry concerning the cause of Englishmen's scorn of arbitrary rule— Character of the Englishman and the Frenchman— Charms of freedom — Freedom sometimes needs the restraint of discipline — Reference to the riots in London — Tribute to Lord Chatham— Political state of England— The vices that debase her portend her downfall — Political events the instruments of Providence — The -poet disclaims pro- phetic inspiration— The choice of a mean subject de- notes a weak mind — Reference to Homer, Virgil, and Milton— Progress of poesy— The poet laments that re- ligion is not more frequently united with poetry. A. You told me, I remember, glory, built On selfish principles is shame and guilt : The deeds that men admire as half divine, Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. Strange doctrine this ! that without scruple tears The laurel that the very lightning spares ; Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, And eats into his bloody sword like rust. B. I grant that, men continuing' what they are, Fierce, avaricious. proud : there must be war, And never meant the rule should be applied To him that fights with Justice on his side. Let laurels drench'd in pure Parnassian dews Reward his memory, dear to every muse, Who, with a courage of unshaken root, In honor's field advancing his firm foot, Plants it upon the line that Justice draws, And will prevail or perish in her cause. 'Tis to the virtues of such men man owes His portion in the good that Heaven bestows. And when recording History displays Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died. Where duty placed them, at their country's side ; The man that is not moved with what he reads, That takes not fire at their heroic deeds, Unworthy of the blessings of the brave. Is base in kind, and born to be a slave. But let eternal infamy pursue The wretch to nought but his ambition true, Who. for the sake of filling with one blast The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste. Think yourself stationed on a towering rock. To see a people scattered like a flock, Some royal mastiff panting at their heels, With all the savage thirst a tiger feels ; Then view him self-proclaim'd in a gazette Chief monster that has plagued the nations yet. The globe and sceptre in such hands misplaced. Those ensigns of dominion, how disgraced ! The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour | And Death's own scythe, would better speak hil power ; Then grace the bony phantom in their stead '■ With the king's shoulder-knot and gay cockade . Clothe the twin brethren in each other's dress, | The same their occupation and success. A. 'Tis your belief the world wasmade forman ; '■ Kings do but reason on the self-same plan ; Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, | Who think, or seem to think, man made for them B. Seldom alas ! the power of logic reigns ! With much sufficiency in royal brains ; ' Such reasoning falls like an inverted cone, I Wanting its proper base to stand upon. i Man made for kings ! those optics are but dim i That tell you so — say. rather, they for him. ! That were indeed a king-ennobling thought, Could they, or would they, reason as they ought The diadem with mighty projects lined, To catch renown by ruining mankind, Is worth, with all its gold and glittering sto.e, Just what the toy will sell for. and no "mcie. Oh ! bright occasions of dispensing good, How seldom used, how little understood ! To pour in Virtue's lap her just reward ; Keep Vice restrain'd behind a double guard ; To quell the faction that affronts the throne By silent magnanimity alone; To nurse with tender care the thriving arts ; Watch every beam Philosophy imparts ; To give religion her unbridled scope, Nor judge by statute a believer's hope ; With close fidelity and love unfeign'd To keep the matrimonial bond unstain'd ; Covetous only of a virtuous praise ; j His life a lesson to the land he sways ; j To touch the sword with conscientious aw«, Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw - To sheath it in the peace-restoring close With joy beyond what victory bestows — Blest country, where these kingly glories shine Blest England, if this happiness be thine I A. Guard what you say : thi patriotic tribe Will sneer and charge you w;:h a bribe. — B. bribe 1 The worth of his three kingdoms I defy, To lure me to the baseness oi a lie ; And. of all lies, (be that one poet's ooast,) The lie that flatters I abhor the most. Those arts be theirs who hate his gentle reign, But he that loves him has no need to feign. A. Your smooth eulogium, to one crown ad- Seems to imply a censure on the rest fdress'd 520 COWPER'S WORKS. B. Q.uevedo, as he tells his sober tale, Ask'd when in hell, to see the royal jail ; Approv'd their method in all other things ; But where, good sir, do you confine your kings 1 There — said his guide — the group is in full view. Indeed ! — replied the don — there are but few. His black interpreter the charge disdain'd — Few, fellow 1 — there are all that ever reign'd. Wit, undistinguishing. is apt to strike The guilty and not guilty both alike : I grant the sarcasm is too severe, And we can readily refute it here ; While Alfred's name ; the father of his age. And the Sixth Edward's grace the historic page. A. Kings then at last have but the lot of all: By their own conduct they must stand or fall. B. True. While they five, the courtly laureate, j pays His quitrent ode. his peppercorn of piaise. And many a dunce, whose lingers itch to write, Adds, as he can, his tributary mite : A subject's faults a subject may proclaim, A monarch's errors are forbidden game ! Thus, free from censur§, overawed by fear, And prais'd for virtues that they scorn to wear, The fleeting forms of majesty engage Respect, while stalking o'er life's narrow stage : Then leave their crimes for history to scan, And ask with busy scorn, Was this the man 1 I pity kings whom worship waits upon, Obsequious from the cradle to the throne ; Before whose infant eyes the flatterer bows, And binds a wreath about their baby brows; Whom education stiffens into state, And death awakens fiom that dream too late. Oh ! if servility with supple knees. Whose trade it is to smile, to crouch, to please ; If smooth dissimulation, skill'd to grace A devil's purpose with an angel's face; If smiling peeresses and simpering peers, Encompassing his throne a few short years ; If the gilt carriage and the pamper'd steed, That wants no driving and disdains the lead; If guards, mechanically form'd in ranks. Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks, Shouldering and standing as if stuck to stone. While condescending majesty looks on — If monarchy consist in such base things, Sighing, I say again, I pity kings ! To be suspected, thwarted, and withstood. E'en when he labors for his country's good ; To see a band call'd patriot for no cause, But that they catch at popular applause, Careless of all the anxiety he feels, Hook disappointment on the public wheels ; With all their flippant fluency of tongue. .Most confident, when palpably most wrong — If this be kingly then farewell for me All kingship and may I be poor and free ! To be the Table Talk of clubs up stairs, To which the unwash'd artificer repairs, To indulge his genius after long fatigue, By diving into cabinet intrigue ; (For what kings deem a toil, as well they may. To him is relaxation, and mere play:) [vail, To win no praise when well- wrought plans pre- But to be rudely censur'd when they fail ; To doubt the love his favorites may pretend, And in reality to find no friend ; If he indulge a cultivated taste, His galleries with the works of art well graced, To hear it call'd extravagance and waste ; If these attendants, and if such as these, Must follow royalty, then welcome ease ; However humble and confined the sphere, Happy the state that has not these to fear ! A. Thus men, whose thoughts contemplative have dwelt On situations that they never felt, Start up sagacious cover'd with the dust Of dreaming study and pedantic rust, And prate and preach about what others prove As if the world and they were hand and glove. Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares ; They have their weight to carry, subjects theirs Poets, of all men, ever least regret Increasing taxes and the nation's debt. Could you contrive the payment, and rehearse The mighty plan, oracular, in verse, No bard, howe'er majestic, old or new, Should claim my fix'd attention more than you. B. Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would essay To turn the course of Helicon that way : Nor would the Nine consenl the sacred tide Should purl amidst the traffic of Cheapside, Or tinkle in 'Change Alley, to amuse The leathern ears of stockjobbers and Jews. A. Vouchsafe, at least, to pitch the key of rhyme To themes more pertinent, if less sublime. When ministers and ministerial arts ; Patriots, who love good places at their hearts ; When admirals, extoll'd for standing still, Or doing nothing with a deal of skill ; Generals ; who will not conquer when they may Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good pay ; When Freedom, wounded almost to despair, Though discontent alone can find out where — When themes like these employ the poet's tongue I hear as mute as if a syren sung. Or tell me, if you can, what power maintains A Briton's scorn of arbitrary chains % That were a theme might animate the dead, And move the lips of poets cast in lead. B. The cause, though worth the search, ma^ yet elude Conjecture and remark, however shrewd. They take, perhaps, a well-directed aim, Who seek it in his climate and his frame. Liberal in all things else, yet Nature here With stern severity deals out the year. Winter invades the spring, and often pours A chilling flood on summer's drooping flowers ; Unwelcome vapors quench autumnal beams, Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams: The peasants urge their harvest, ply the fork With double toil, and shiver at their work; Thus with a rigor, for his good design'd, She rears her favorite man of all mankind. His form robust and of elastic tone, Proportion'd well, half muscle and half bone, Supplies with warm activity and force A mind well lodged, and masculine of course Hence Liberty, sweet Liberty inspires And keeps alive his fierce but noble fires. Patient of constitutional control, He bears it with meek manliness of soul ; But, if authority grow wanton, woe To him that treads upon his free-born toe ; One step beyond the boundary of the laws Fires him at once in Freedom's glorious cause Thus proud Prerogative, nat much rever'd, Is seldom felt, though sometimes seen and heard : TABLE TALK 52i A.nd in his cage, like parrot fine and gay, Is kept to strut, look big, and talk away. Born in a climate softer far than ours, Not form'd like us. with such Herculean powers, The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, Is always happy, reign whoever may, And laughs the sense of misery far away : He drinks his simple beverage with a gust ; And : feasting on an onion and a crust, We never feel the alacrity and joy With which he shouts and carols. Vive le Roi ! Filled with as much true merriment and glee As if he heard his king say — Slave, be free. Thus happiness depends, as Nature shows, Less on exterior things than most suppose. Vigilant over all that he has made, Kind Providence attends with gracious aid ; Bids equity throughout his works prevail, And weighs the nations in an even scale ; He can encourage slavery to a smile, And fill with discontent a British isle. A. Freeman and slave then, if the case be such, Stand on a level ; and you prove too much : If all men indiscriminately share His fostering power, and tutelary care. As well be yoked by Despotism's hand. As dwell at large in Britain's charter d land, [show, B. No. Freedom has a thousand charms to That slaves, howe'er contented, never know. The mind attains beneath her happy reign The growth that Nature meant she should attain ; The varied fields of science, ever new, Opening and wider opening on her view. She ventures onward with a prosperous force, While no base fear impedes her in her course : Religion, richest favor of the skies, Stands most reveal'd before the freeman's eyes ; No shades of superstition blot the day, Liberty chases all that gloom away. The soul, emancipated, unoppress'd, Free to prove all things and hold fast the best, Learns much ; and to a thousand listening minds Communicates with joy the good she finds ; Courage in arms, and ever prompt to show His manly forehead to the fiercest foe ; Glorious in war, but for the sake of peace, His spirits rising as his toils increase. Guards well what arts and industry have won, And Freedom claims him for her firstborn son. Slaves fine sends his arrow to the mark in view, Whose hand is feeble, or h's aim untrue. For though, er ret the shaft is on the wing, Or when it fir forsakes the elastic string, It err but lit''., from the intended line, It falls at last far wide of his design ; So he who seeks a mansion in the sky, Must watch his purpose with a steadfast eye ; That prize belongs to none but the sincere, The '.ast obliquity is fatal here. W;th caution taste the sweet Circean cup; He that sips often, at last drinks it up. Habits are soon assumed ; but when we strive To strip them off. 'tis being flay'd alive. Call'd to the temple of impure delight, He that abstains and he alone, does right. If a wish wander that way. call it home; He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam. But if you pass the threshold you are caur^xt; Die then, if power Almighty save you not. There hardening by degrees, till double steel'd, Take leave of nature's God. and God reveal'd; Then laugh at all you trembled at before ; And. joining the freethinkers' brutal roar, Swallow the two grand nostrums they dispense- That Scripture lies, and blasphemy is sense. If clemency revolted by abuse Be damnable, then damn'd without excuse. Some dream that they can silence, when they will, The storm of passion, and say. Peace, be still But • Thus far and no farther," when addr d To the wild wave, or wilder human breast, Implies authority that never can, That never ought to be the lot of man. But, muse, forbear ; long flights forebode a fall; Strike on the deep-toned chord the sum of all. Hear the just law — the judgment of the skies He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies ; And he that will be cheated to the last, Delusions strong as hell shall bind him fast. But if the wanderer his mistake discern, Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return, Bewilder'd once, must he bewail his loss Forever and forever 1 No — the cross ! There and there only (though the deist rave, And atheist, if Earth bear so base a slave); There and there only is the power to save. There no delusive hope invites despair; No mockery meets you, no deception there, The "spells and charms that blinded you before, All vanish there and fascinate no more. I am no preacher, let this hint suffice- - The cross once seen is death to every vir.e; Else He that hung there suffei'd all his pain, Bled, groan'd. and agonized, and died, *n vain 9 4 TRUTH. Pensantur trutina. Hop., lib. ii. Ep. THE ARGUMENT. I*he pursuit of error leads to destruction— Giaco leads the right way— Its direction despised— The self-suffi- cient Pharisee compared with the peacock— The pheas- ant compared with the Christian— Heaven abhors af- fected sanctity— The hermit and his penances— The self-torturing Bramin— Pride the ruling principle of both— Picture of a sanctimonious prude— Picture of a saint— Freedom of a Christian- Importance of motives, illustrated by the conduct of two servants— The trav- eller overtaken by a storm likened to the sinner dread- ing the vengeance of me Almighty— Dangerous sune of those who are jusi ic. their own conceit— The LEti moments of the infidel— Content of the ignorant but believing cottager— The rich, the wise, and the great, neglect the means of winning heaven— Poverty the best soil for religion— What man really is, and what in his own esteem — Unbelief often terminates in suicide — Scripture the only cure of woe— Pride the passion most hostile to truth— Danger of slighting the mery offered by the Gospel— Plea for the virtuous heathen— Com- mands given by God on Sinai— The judgment-day — Plea of the believer. Man, on the dubious waves of error toss'd, His ship half founder'd, and hfs compass lost, Sees, far as human optics may command, A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land ; Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies ; Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies ! Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes, His well-built systems, philosophic dreams; Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell ! He reads his sentence at the names of hell. Hard lot of man — to toil for the reward Of virtue, and yet lose it ! Wherefore hard 1 — He that would win the race must guide his horse Obedient to the customs of the course ; Else, though unequall'd to the goal he Hies, A meaner than himself shall gain the prize. Grace leads the right way ; if you choose the wrong, Take it and perish ; but restrain your tongue ; Charge not, with light suilicient and left free, Your wilful suicide on God's decree. Oh how unlike the complex works of man, Heav'n's easy, artless, unencumber'd plan ! No meretricious graces to beguile, No clustering ornaments to clog the pile ; From ostentation, as from weakness, free, It stands like the cerulian arch we see, Majestic in its own simplicity. Inscribed above the portal from afar Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, Legible only by the light they give, Stand the soul-quickening words — believe, >nd l ve. [most, Too many, shock'd at what should charm them Despise the plain direction, and are lost, [dain) Heaven on such terms ! (they cry with proud dis- Incredihle, impt ssible, and vain ! — Rebel, because 'tis easy to obey; And ?corn, for its own sake, the gracious way These are the sober, in whose cooler brains Some thought of immortality remains ; The rest too busy or too gay to wait On the sad theme, their everlasting state, Sport for a day, and perieh in a night; The foam upon the waters not so light. Who j udged the Pharisee ! What odious cause Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws 1 Had he seduc'd a virgin, wre ./d a friend, Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end 1 Was blasphemy his sin 1 Or did he stray Prom the strict duties of the sacred day/? Sit long and late at the carousing board ? j (Such were the sins with which he charged his Lord.) No — the man's morals were exact. What then 1 'Twas his ambition to be seen of men ; His virtues were his pride ; and that one vice Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price ; He wore them as fine tr£ ppings for a show, A praying, synagogue-frequenting beau. The self- applauding bird, the peacock, see — Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he ! Meridian sunbeams tempt him to unfold His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold : He treads as if. some solemn music vear, His measured step was govern'd by nis ear; And seems to say — Ye meaner fowl give place ; I am all splendor, dignity, and grace ! Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes, Though he. too has a glory in his plumes. He, Christian-like, retreats with modest mien To the close copse or far sequester'd green, And shines without desiring to be seen. The plea of works, as arrogant and vain, Heaven turns from with abhorrence and dis- dain; Not more affronted by avowed neglect, Than by the mere dissembler's feign'd respect. What is all righteousness that men devise % What — but a sordid bargain for the skies 1 But Christ as soon would abdicate his own, As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne His dwelling a recess in some rude rock ; Book, beads and maple dish, his meagre stock ; In shirt of hair and weeds of canvas dress'd, Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has bless'd ; Adust with stripes told out for every crime, And sore tormented, long before his time ; His prayer preferr'd to saints that cannot aid, His praise postponed, and never to be paid ; See the sage hermit, by mankind admired, With all that bigotry adopts inspired, Wearing out life in his reugious whim, Till his religious whimsy wears out him. His works, his abstinence, his zeal allow'd, Vou think him humble — God accounts him proud. High in demand, though lowly in pretence, Of all his conduct this the genuine sense — My penitential stripes my streaming blood, Have purchased heaven, and proved my title good. Turn eastward now, and fancy shall apply To your weak sight her telescopic eye. The bramin kind Its on his own bare head The sacred tire self-torturing his trade! His voluntary pains severe and long vVould give a barbarous air to British song; No grand inquisitor could worse invent Than he contrives to suffer well content. Which is the saintlier worthy of the two I Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you. Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name 1 I say the bramin has the fairer claim. If sufferings scripture nowhere recommends, Devised by self to answer selfish ends Give saintship, then all Europe must agree Ten starveling hermits suffer less than he. The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear, And prejudice have left a passage clear) Pride has attained a most luxuriant growth, And poison'd every virtue in them both, [lean ; Pride may be pamper d while the flesh grows Humility may clothe an English dean; That grace was Cowper's — his confess'd by all — Though placed in golden Durham's second stall. Not all the plenty of a bishop's board, His palace, and his lacqueys and " My Lord," More nourish pride that condescending vice, Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice ; It thrives in misery, and abundant grows : In misery fools upon themselves impose. But why before us protestants produce An Indian mystic, or a French recluse 1 Their sin is plain ; but what have we to fear. Reform'd and well-instructed 1 You shall hear. Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features She might be young some forty years ago [show Her elbows pinioned close upon her hips, Her head erect, her fan upon her lips Her eyebrows arched, her eyes both gone astray To watch yon amorous couple in* their play. With bony and unkerchief'd neck defies The rude inclemency of wintry skies. And sails wit'a lappet head and mincing airs Duly at clink of bell to morning prayers. To thrift and parsimony much inclined, She yet'allows herself that boy behind ; The shivering urchin, bending as he goes With slipshod heels and dewdrop at his nose, His predecessor's coat advanced to wear. Which future pages yet are doom'd to share, Carries her Bible tuck'd beneath his arm, And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm. She half an angel in her own account Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount. Though not a grace appears on strictest search, But that she fasts, and item, goes to church. Conscious of age she recollects her youth, And tells, not always with an eye to truth, [came, ♦Vho spann'd her waist, and who. where'er he Scrawl'd upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name ; Who stole her slipper fill'd it with tokay, Afcd drank the little bumper every day. Of temper as envenom'd as an asp, Ccnso "ious, and her every word a wasp > In faithful memory she records the crimes Or real, or fictitious, of the times ; Laugfrs at the reputations she has torn, And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn. Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride, Of malice fed while flesh is mortified : Take madam the reward of all your prayers, Where hermits and where bra minsmeetwith theirs, Your portion is with them. — Nay, never frown, But. if you please, some fathoms lower down. Artist, attend — your brushes and your paint — Produce them take a chair — now draw a saint. Oh sorrowful and sad ! the streaming tears Channel her cheeks — a Niobe appears! Is this a saint ? Throw tints and all away — True piety is cheerful as the day. Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan For others' woes but smiles upe'n her own. What purpose has the King of saints in view 1 Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew *? To call up plenty from the teeming earth. Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth 1 Is it that Adam's offspring may be saved From servile fear, or be the more enslaved 1 To loose the links that gall'd mankind before, Or bind them taster on, and add still more 1 The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove, Or. if a chain the golden one of love : No fear attends to quench his glowing fires, What fear he feels his gratitude, inspires. Shall he. for such deliverance freely wrought, Recompense ill 1 He trembles at the thought. His Master's interest and his own combined Prompt every movement of his heart and mind Thought word, and deed his liberty evince, His freedom is the freedom of a prince. Man's obligations infinite, of course His life should prove that he perceives their force ; His utmost he can render is but small — The principle and motive all in all. You nave two servants — Tom, an arch, sly rogue From top to toe the Geta now in vogue, Genteel in figure, easy in address, Moves without noise and swift as an express, Reports a message with a pleasing grace, Expert in all the duties of his place; Say on what hinge does his obedience move 1 Has he a world of gratitude and love 1 No, not a spark — 'tis all mere sharper's play ; He likes your aouse your housemaid, and youi Reduce his wages, or get rid of her. [p a J> Tom quits you. with — Your most obedient, sir. The dinner served. Charles takes his usual Watches your eye, anticipates command ; ["stand, - Sijiis it' perhaps your appetite should fail; And if lie but suspects a frown, turns pale; Consults all day yoar interest and your ease, Richly rewarded if he can but please ; And proud to make his firm attachment known, To save your life would nobly risk his own. Now which stands highest hi your serious thought 1 Charles, without doubt say you — and so he ought; One act. that from a thankful heart proceeds, Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds. Thus Heaven approves as honest and sincere The work of generous love and filial fear; But with averted eyes the omniscient Judge Scorns the base hireling and the slavish drudge. Where dwell these matchless saints 1 old Curio E'en at your side, sir and before your eyes, [cries. The favor'd few — the enthusiasts you despise. 632 COWPER'S WORKS. And, pleased at heart because on holy ground, Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found, Reproach a people with his single fall, And cast his filthy raiment at them all. Attend ! an apt similitude shall show « Whence springs the conduct that offends you so. See where it smokes along the sounding plain, Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain, Peal upon peal redoubling all around, Shakes it again and faster to the ground; Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play, • Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away. Ere yet it came the traveller urged his steed, And hurried, but with unsuccessfulspeed ; Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case. He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace. Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude. Long hid by interposing hill or wood, Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd, By some kind hospitable heart possess'd, Offer him warmth, security, and rest; Think with what pleasure, safe, and at his ease, He hears the tempest howling in the trees ; What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ. While danger past is turn'd to present joy. So fares it with the sinner, when he feels A growing dread of vengeance at his heels: His conscience like a glassy lake before, Lash'd into foaming waves, begins to roar; The law, grown clamorous, though silent long, Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong — ■ Asserts the right of his offended Lord, And death, or restitution, is the word : The last impossible-, he fears the first, And. having well deserved, expects the worst. Then welcome refuge and a peaceful home ; Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come ! Crush me. ye rocks ; ye falling mountains, hide, Or bury me in ocean's angry tide ! — The scrutiny of those all-seeing eyes I dare not — And you need not, God replies ; The remedy you want I freely give ; The book shall teach you — read, believe and live ! 'Tis .done — the raging storm is heard no more, Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore : And Justice, guardian of the dread command, Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand. A soul redeem'd demands a life of praise ; Hence the complexion of his future days, Hence a demeanor holy and unspeck'd, And the world's hatred, as its sure effect. Some lead a life unblameable and just, Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust : They never sin — or if (as all offend) Some trivial slips their daily walk attend, The poor are near at hand, the charge is small, A slight gratuity atones for all. For though the pope has lost his interest here, And pardons are not sold as once they were, No papist more desirous to compound, Than some grave sinners upon English ground. That plea refuted, other quirks they seek — Mercy is infinite, and man is weak; The future sball obliterate the past, And heaven, no doubt, shall be their home at last. Come then — a -still, small whisper in your ear — He has no hope who never had a fear ; And he that never doubted of his state. Be may perhaps — perhaps he may — too late. The path to bliss abounds with many a snare ; Learning is one, and wit, however rare. The Frenchman, first in literary fame, [same) (Mention him, if you please. Voltaire 1 — Th« With spirit, genius, eloquence supplied, [died ■ Lived long, wrote much, laugh d heartily, and The Scripture was his jest book, whence he drew Bon-mots to gall the Christian and the Jew ; An infidel in health, but what when sick % Oh — then a text would touch him at the quick i View him at Paris in his last career, Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere ; Exalted on his pedestal of pride, And fumed with frankincense on every side, He begs their flattery with his latest breath, And, smother'd in't at last, is praised to death ' Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, Pillow and bobbins all her little store ; Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay Shuffling her threads about the live-long day, Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light ; i She. for her humble sphere by nature fit, I Has little understanding, and no wit, j Receives no praise ; but though her lot be such, j (Toilsome and indigent.) she renders much; | Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true— A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ; And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes, Her title to a treasure in the skies. Oh, happy peasant ! Oh. unhappy bard ! His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward ; He praised perhaps for ages yet to come, She never heard of half a mile from home : He, lost in errors, his vain heart prefers, She, safe in the simplicity of hers. Not many wise, rich noble, or profound In science win one inch of heavenly ground. And is it not a mortifying thought The poor should gain it, and the rich should not 1 No — the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget One pleasure lost, lose heaven without regret ; Regret would rouse them, and give birth to prayer. Prayer would add faith, and faith would fix theit Not that the Former of us all in this, [there. Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice ; The supposition is replete with sin, And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in. Not so — the silver trumpet's heavenly call Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all: Kings are invited and would kings obey, No slaves on earth more welcome were than they; But royalty, nobility, and state, Are such a dead preponderating weight, That endless bliss, (how strange soe'er it seem,) In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam. 'Tis open, and ye cannot enter — why 1 Because ye will not, Conyers would reply — And he says much that many may dispute And cavil at with ease, but none refute. Oh, bless'd effect of penury and want, The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant No soil like poverty for growth divine, As leanest land supplies the richest wine. Earth gives too little, giving only bread, To nourish pride, or turn tile weakest head : To them the sounding jargon of the schools Seems what it is — a cap and bells for fools : The light they walk by. kindled from above, Shows them the shortest way to life and love : They, strangers to the controversial field, Where deists, always foil'd, yet scorn to yield, And never check'd by what impedes the wise, Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize. TRUTH 533 Envy, ye great.* the dull unletter'd small : Ve have much cause for envy — but not all. We boast some rich ones whom the Gospel sways, And one who wears a coronet and prays ; Like gleanings oi" an olive tree they* show Here and there one upon the topmost bough. How readily, upon the Gospel plan. That question has its answer — What is man 1 Sinful and weak in every sense a wretch ; An instrument whose chords upon the stretch, A.nd strain'd to the last screw that he can bear, Field only discord in his Maker's ear : Once the blest residence oi' truth divine, Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine, Where, in his own oracular abode, Dwelt visibly the light-creating God ; But made long since, like Babylon of old, A den oi" mischiefs never to be told : And she. once mistress of the realms around, Now scattered wide and nowhere to be found, As soon shall rise and re-ascend the throne, By native power and energy her own, As nature, at her own peculiar cost, Restore to man the glories he has lost. Go — bid the winter cease to chill the year, Replace the wandering comet in his sphere, Then boast (but wait for that unhoped for hour) The self-restoring arm of human power. But what is man in his own proud esteem 1 Hear him — himself the poet and the theme : A monarch clothed with majesty and awe, His mind his Iftngdom. and his will his law ; Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes, Supreme on earth, and worthy of the skies, Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod, And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God ! So sings he, charm'd with his own mind and form, The song magnificent — the theme a worm ! Himself so much the source of his delight, His Maker has no beauty in his sight. See where he sits, contemplative and fix'd, Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd, His passions tamed and all at his control. How perfect the composure of his soul ! Complacency has breathed a gentle gale O'er all his thoughts, and swell'd his easy sail: His books well trimm'd. and in the gayest style. Like regimental coxcombs, rank and file. Adorn his intellects as well as shelves, ' And teach him notions splendid as themselves : The Bible only stands neglected there, Though that of all most worthy of his care ; And. like an infant troublesome awake, Is left to sleep for peace and quiet sake. What shall the man deserve of human kind, Whose happy skill and industry combined Shall prove (what argument could never yet) The Bible an imposture and a cheat 1 The praises or' the libertine profess'd, The worst of men arid curses of the best. Where should the living, weeping o'er his wo^s; The dying, trembling at the awful close ; Where the betray 'd forsaken, and oppress'd ; The thousands whom the world forbids to rest; Where should they find, (those comforts at an end, The Scripture yields.) or hope to find, a friend 1 Sorrow might muse herself to madness then, And«> seeking exile from the sight of men, Bury herseK in solitude profound, Srrow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground. Thus often Unbelief grown sick of life, Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife. The jury meet, the coroner is short, And lunacy the verdict of the, court. Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known, Such lunacy is ignorance, alone ; They knew not what some bishops may not know. That Scripture is the only cure of woe. That field of promise how it flings abroad Its odor o'er the Christian's thorny road ! . The soul, reposing on assured relief, Feels herself happy amidst all her grief, Forgets her labor as she toils along, Weeps tears of joy : and bursts into a song. But trie same word, that, like the polish d share, Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care, Kills too the flowery weeds, where'er they grow, That bind the sinner's Bacchanalian brow. Oh that unwelcome voice of heavenly love, Sad messenger of mercy from above ! How does it grate upon his thankless ear, Crippling his pleasures with the cramp of fear ! His will and judgment at continual strife, ' That civil war embitters all his life ; In vain he points his powers against the skies, In vain he closes or averts his eyes, Truth will intrude— she bids him yet beware ; And shakes the sceptic in the scorner's chair. Though various foes against the Truth combine. Pride above all opposes her design ; Pride, of a growth superior to the rest, The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest, Swells at the thought, and, kindling into rage. Would hiss the cherub Mercy from the stage. And is the soul indeed so lost 1 — she cries, Fallen from her glory, and too weak to rise 1 Torpid and dull beneath a frozen zone, Has she no spark that may be deem'd her own 1 Grant her indebted to what zealots call Grace undeserved, yet surely not for all ! Some beams of rectitude she yet displays, Some love of virtue, and some power to praise; Can lift herself above corporeal things, And. soaring on her own unborrowu wings, Possess herself of all that's good or true, Assert the skies, and vindicate her due. Past indiscretion is a venial crime ; And if the youth, unmellowed yet by time, Bore on his branch, luxuriant then and rude. Fruits of a blighted size austere and crude, Maturer years shall happier stores produco And meliorate the well-concocted juice. Then conscious of her meritorious zeal To Justice she may make her bold appeal; And leave, to Mercy, with a tranquil mind, The worthless and unfruitful of mankind. Hear then how Mercy, slighted and defied, Retorts the affront against the crown of pride. Perish the virtue, as it ought, abhorr'd, And the fool with it who insults his Lord. The atonement a Redeemer's love has wrought Is not for you — the righteous need it not. Seest thou yon harlot, wooing all she meets, The worn-out nuisance of the public streets, Herself from morn to night, from night to morn, Her own abhorrence, and as much your scorn! The gracious shower, unlimited and free, Shall fall on her. when Heaven denies it thee. Of all that wisdom dictates, this the drift - That man is dead in sin, and life a gilV r>64: COWPER'S WORKS. Is # virtue, then, unless of Christian growth, Mere fallacy, or foolishness, or both 1 Ten thousand sages lost in endless woe, For ignorance of what they' could not know 1 — That speech betrays at once a bigot's tongue, Charge not a God with such outrageous wrong! Truly, not I — the partial light men have, My creed persuades me, well employ 'd, may save ; While he that scorns the noon-day beam, per- verse, Shall rind the blessing, unimproved, a curse. Let heathen worthies, whose exalted mind Lett sensuality and dross behind Possess, for me, their undisputed lot, And take, unenvied, the reward they sought. But still in virtue of a Saviour's plea, ' Not blind by choice, but destined not lo see. Their fortitude and wisdom were a flame Celestial, though they knew not whence it came, Derived from the same source of light and grace, That guides the Christian in his swifter race ; Their judge was conscience, and her rule their law: That rule, pursued with reverence and with awe, Led them, however faltering, faint and slow, From what they knew to what they wish'd to know. But let not him that shares a brighter day Traduce the splendor of a noontide ray, Prefer the twilight of a darker time, And deem his base stupidity no crime ; The wretch, who slights the bounty of the skies, And sinks, while favor'd with the means to rise, Shall find them rated at their full amount, The good he scorn'd all carried to account. Marshalling all his terrors as he came, Thunder, and earthquake, and devouring flame, From Sinai's top Jehovah gave the law — Life for obedience — death for every flaw. When the great Sovereign would his will expi isg He gives a perfect rule, what can he less 1 And guards it with a sanction as severe As vengeance can inflict or sinners fear: j Else his own glorious rights he would disclaim, I And man might safely trifle with his name: I He bids them glow with unremitting love ■ To all on earth, and to himself above ; [tongue I Condemns the injurious deed the slanderoui ! The thought that meditates a brother's wrong : ! Brings not alone the more conspicuous part, I His conduct, to the test but tries his heart. I Hark! universal nature shook and groan'd, ! 'Twas the last trumpet — see the Judge enthron'd : ! Rouse all your courage at your utmost need, I Now summon every virtue stand and plead. | What ! silent 1 Is your boasting heard no more 1 ; That self-renouncing wisdom, learn'd before, Had shed immortal glories on your brow, That all your virtues cannot purchase now. All joy to the believer ! He can speak — Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek, [foot Since the dear hour that brought me to thy And cut up all my follies by the root, I never trusted in an arm but thine, Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine : My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled, j Were but the feeble efforts of a child ! j Howe'er performed, it was their brightest part, : That they proceeded from a grateful heart : Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood, Forgive their evil and accept their good : I cast them at thy feet — my only plea Is what it was, dependence upon thee : ; While struggling in the vale of tears below, j That never fail'd nor shall it fail me now. i Angelic gratulations rend the skies, i Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise, | Humility is crow n'd, and Faith receives the prize EXPOSTULATION. Tantane, tarn .patiens, nullo certamine tolli Dona sines '? Virg. THE ARGUMENT. Expostulation with the Muse weeping for England— Her apparently prosperous condition— State of Israel when the prophet wept over it— The Babylonian Captivity— When nations decline, the evil commences in the Church— State of the Jews in the time of our Saviour- Evidences of their having been the most favored of na- tions — Causes of their downfall — Lesson taught by it — Warning to Britain— The hand of Providence to be traced in adverse events— England's trangressions— Her vain-glory — Her conduct towards India — Abuse of the sacrament— Obduracy against repentance— Futility of fasts— Character of the Clergy— The poet adverts to the state of the ancient Britons — Beneficial influence of the Roman power— England under papal suprem- acy — Favors since bestowed on her by Providence — Reasons for gratitude to God and for seeking to se- cure his favor — With that she may lefy a world in arms— The poet anticipates little effect Irom his warning. Wn y weeps the muse for England 7 What appears [n England's case to move the muse to tears 1 From side to side of her delightful isle Is she not clothed with a perpetual smile 1 Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer A new-found luxury, not seen in her 1 Where under heaven is pleasure more pursued Or where does cold reflection less intrude 7 Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn, Pour'd out from Plenty's overflowing horn ; Ambrosial gardens, in which art supplies The iervor and the force of Indian skies : Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce wait! To pour his golden tide through all her gates ; Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spice Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice, Forbid in vain to push his daring way To darker climes, or climes of bnghter day ; Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll, From the World's girdle to the frozen pole j ; EXPOSTULATION. 53d The chariots bounding in uer wheel- worn streets, Her vaults below, where every vintage meets ; Her theatres, her revels, and her sports ; The scenes to which not youth alone resorts, But age in spite of weakness and of pain, Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again ; All speak her happy ; let the muse look round From East to Weit. no sorrow can be found ; Or only what, in cottages confined. Sighs unregarded to the passing wind. Then wherefore weep for England ] What ap- pears In England's case to move the muse to tears 1 The prophet wept for Israel; wish'd his eyes Were fountains fed with infinite supplies ; For Israel dealt in robbery and wrong; There were the scorner's and the slanderer's tongue ; Oaths, used as playthings or convenient tools, As interest biass'd knaves, or fashion fools ; Adultery, neighing at his neighbor's door ; Oppression laboring hard to grind the poor ; The partial balance and deceitful weight ; The treacherous smile, a mask for secret hate ; Hypocrisy, formality in prayer, And the dull service of the lip were there. Ber women, insolent and self-caress'd, By Vanity's unwearied finger dress'd, Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart To modest cheeks and borrow'd one from art; Were just such trifles, without worth or use, As silly pride and idleness produce ; Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd. and flounced around. With feet too delicate to touch the ground [eye. They streteh'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton And sigh'd for every fool that flutter'd by. He «aw his people slaves to every lust, Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjust; He heard the wheels of an avenging God Groan heavily along the distant road ; Saw Babylon set wide her two-leaved brass To let the military deluge pass ; Jerusalem a prey, her glory soil'd. Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil'd ; Wept till all Israel heard his bitter cry, Stamp'd with his foot, and smote upon his thigh ; But wept, and stamp'd, and smote his thigh in vain, Pleasure is deaf when told of future pain. And sounds prophetic are too rough to suit Ears long accustom'd to the pleasing lute : They scorn 7 d his inspiration and his theme, Pronounc'd him frantic, and his fears a dream ; With sell-indulgence wing'd the fleeting hours. Till the foe found them, and down fell the towers. Long time Assyria bound them in her chain, Till penitence had purged the public stain, And Cyrus with relenting pity moved, Return'd them happy to the land they loved ; There, proof against prosperity, awhile They stood the test of her ensnaring smile, And had the grace in scenes of peace to show The virtue they had learn'd in scenes of woe. But man is frail and can but ill sustain A long immunity from grief and pain ; And, after all the joys thah Plenty leads, With tiptoe step Vice silently succeeds [rod, When he that ruled them with a shepherd's In form a man. in dignity a God, Came, not expected in that humble guise, To sift and search them with unerring eyes, He found, conceal'd beneath a fair outside, The filth of rottenness and worm of pride ; Their piety a system of deceit, Scripture employ'd to sanctify the cheat ; The Pharisee the dupe of his own art, Self-idolized, and yet a knave at heart. When nations are to perish in their ^ins, 'Tis in the church the leprosy begins ; The priest, whose office is with zeal sincere, To watch the fountain, and preserve it clear, Carelessly nods and sleeps upon the brink, W T hile others poison what the flock must drink ; Or waking at the call of lust alone, Infuses lies and errors of his own : His unsuspecting sheep believe it pure ; And. tainted by the very means of cure, Catch from each, other a contagious -spot, The foul forerunner of a general rot. Then truth is hush'd. that Heresy may preach ; And all is trash that reason cannot reach ; Then God's own image on the soul impress'd Becomes a mockery, and a standing jest ; And faith, the root whence only can arise The graces of a life that wins the skies, Loses at once all value and esteem, Pronounced by graybeards a pernicious dream ; Then Ceremony leads her bigots forth, Prepared to fight for shadows of no worth ; While truths, on which eternal things depend, Find not or hardly find, a single friend : As soldiers watch the signal of command, They learn to bow. to kneel, to sit, to stand ; Happy to fill religion's vacant place ; With hollow form and gesture, and grimace. Such when the Teacher of his church waJ there. People and priest the sons of Israel were ; Stiff in the letter, lax in the design And import of their oracles divine ; Their learning legendary, false, absurd, And yet exalted above God's own word ; They drew a curse from an intended good, Puff'd up with gifts they never understood. He judg'd them with as terrible a frown, As if not love but wrath, had brought him down Yet he was gentle as soft summer airs, Had grace for others' sins, but none for theirs ; Through all he spoke a noble plainness ran — Rhetoric is artifice the work of man ; And tricks and turns that fancy may devise, Are far too mean for Him that rules the skies. The astonish'd vulgar trembled while he tore The mask from faces never seen before ; He stripp'd the impostors in the noonday sun, Show'd that they follow'd all they seem'd tz shun ; Their prayers made public, their excesses kept As private as the chambers where they slept ; The temple and its holy rites profaned By mu;r. neries He that dwelt in it disdain 'd; Uplifted hands, that at convenient times Could act extortion and the worst of crimes, Wash'd with a neatness scrupulously nice, And free from every taint but that of vice. Judgment however tardy, mends her pace When obstinacy once has conquered grace. They saw distemper heal'd. and life restor'd, In answer to the fiat of his word \ Confessed the wonder, and with daring tongue Blasphemed the authority from which it sprung They knew, by sure prognostics seen on high, The future tone and temper of the sky ; 536 COWPER'S WORKS. But, grave dissemblers ! could not understand That sin let loose speaks punishment at hand. Ask now of history's authentic page, And call up evidence from every age ; Display with busy and laborious hand The blessings of the most indebted land ; What nation will you find whose annals prove So rich ah interest in Almighty love 1 Where dwell they now. where dwelt in ancient day A people planted, water'd, bl'est as they'? Let Egypt's plagues and Canaan's woes proclaim The favors pour'd upon the Jewish name ; Their freedom purchased for them at the cost Of all their hard oppressors valued most : Their title to a country not their own Made sure by prodigies till then unknown ; For them the states they left made waste and void ; For them the states to which they went destroy'd ; A cloud to measure out their march by day, By night a fire to cheer the gloomy way ; That moving signal summoning, when best, Their host to move, and, when it stay'd, to rest. For them the rocks dissolved into a flood, The dews condensed into angelic food, Their very garments sacred, old yet new, And Time forbid to touch them as he flew ; Streams, swell'd above the bank, enjoin'd to stand While they pass'd through to their appointed land ; Their leader arm'd with meekness, zeal, and love, And graced with clear credentials from above; Themselves secured beneath the Almighty wing ; Their God their captain,* lawgiver, and king ; Crown'd with a thousand victories, and at last Lords of the conquer'd soil, there rooted fast, In peace possessing what they won by war, Their name far publish'd, and revered as far ; Where will you find a race like theirs, endow'd With all that man e'er wish'd. or Heaven be- stow'd 1 They, and they only, amongst all mankind, Received the transcript of the Eternal Mind : Were trusted with his own engraven laws, And constituted guardians of his cause ; Theirs were the prophets, theirs the priestly call, And theirs by birth the Saviour of us all. In vain the nations that had seen them rise With fierce and envious, yet admiring eyes, Had sought to crush them, guarded as they were By power divine and skill that could not err. Had they maintain'd allegiance firm and sure, And kept the faith immaculate and pure, Then the proud eagles of all-conquering Rome Had found one city not to be o'ercome ; And the twelve standards of the tribes unfurl'd Had bid defiance to the warring world. But grace abused brings forth the foulest deeds, As richest soil the most luxuriant weeds. Cured of the golden calves, their fathers' sin, They set up self that idol god within ; View'd a Deliverer with disdain and hate, Who left them still a tributary state ; Seized fast his hand, held out to set them free From a worse yoke, and nail'd it to the tree : There was the consummation and the crown, The flower of Israel's infamy full blown ; Thence date their sad declension, and their fall, Their woes, not yet repeal'd, thence date them Thus fell the best instructed in her day, [all. knd the most favor'd land, look where we may. * Vide Josh. v. 14. Philosophy indeed on Grecian eyes [skies : Had pour'd the day, and clear'd the Roman In other climes perhaps creative art, With power surpassing theirs, performed ner part ; Might give more life to marble, or might fill The glowing tablets with a juster skill, Might shine in fable, and grace idle themes With all the embroidery of poetic dreams ; 'Twas theirs alone to dive into the plan That truth and mercy had reveal'd to man ; And, while the world beside, that plan unknowi Deified useless wood or.senseless stone, They breathed in faith their well-directed prayers And the true God. the God of truth, was theirs Their glory faded, and their race dispersed, The last of nations now, though once the first, They warn and teach the proudest, would the) learn — Keep wisdom, or meet vengeance in your turn : If we escaped. not, if Heaven spared not us, Peel'd, scatter'd and exterminated thus; If vice received her retribution due, When we were visited, what hope for you 1 When God arises with an awful frown, To punish lust, or pluck presumption down . When gifts perverted or not duly prized, Pleasure o'ervalued. and his grace despised, Provoke the vengeance of his righteous hand, To pour down wrath upon a thankless land He will be found impartially severe, Too just to wink, or speak the guilty clear. / Oh Israel, of all nations most undone ! Thy diadem displaced, thy sceptre gone ; Thy temple, once thy glory, fallen and rased. And thou a worshipper e'en where thou mayst ; Thy services, once holy without spot, Mere shadows now, their ancient pomp forgot Thy Levites, once a consecrated host, No longer Levites, and their lineage lost, And thou thyself o'er every country sown, With none on earth that thou canst call thine Cry aloud, thou that sittest in the dust, [own ; Cry to the proud, the cruel, a'nd unjust ; Knock at the gates of nations, rouse their fears ; Say wrath is coming, and the storm appears; But raise the shrillest cry in British ears. What ails thee restless as the waves that roai And fling their foam against thy chalky, shore 1 Mistress, at least while Providence shall please, And trident-bearing queen of the wide seas — Why, having kept good faith, and often shown Friendship and truth to others find'st thou non<> Thou that hast set the persecuted free, None interposes now to succor thee. Countries indebted to thy power, that shine . With light derived from thee, would smother thine Thy very children watch for thy disgrace, A lawless brood, and curse thee to thy face. Thy rulers load thy credit year by year, With sums Peruvian mines could never clear ; As if, like arches built with skilful hand The more 'twere press'd, the firmer it would stand The cry in all thy ships is still the same, Speed us away to battle and to fume. Thy mariners explore the wild expanse, Impatient to descry the flags of France : But though they fighi, as thine have evet fought Return ashamed without the wieaths they sought Thy senate is a scene of civil jar, Chaos of contrarieties at war ; Where sharp and solid, phlegmatic and light Discordant atoms meet, ferment and fight ; EXPOSTULATION. 537 Where obstinacy takes his sturdy stand, To disconcert what policy lias plann'd; Where policy is busied all night long In setting right what taction has set wrong ; Where Mails of oratory thresh the tloor. [more. That yields them chaff and dust, and nothing Thy rack'd inhabitants repine, complain, Tax'd till the brow of labor sweats in vain ; War lays a burden on the reeling state. And peace does nothing to relieve the weight ; Successive loads succeeding broils impose, And sighing millions prophesy the close. Is adverse Providence, when ponder'd well, So dimly writ or difficult to spell. Thou canst not read with readiness and ease Providence adverse in events like these ! Know then that heavenly wisdom on this ball Creates, gives birth to. guides consummates all ; That, while laborious anil quiek-thoughted man Snuffs up the praise of what he seems to plan, He first conceives then perfects his design, As a mere instrument in hands divine : Blind to the working of that secret power, That balances the wimrs of every hour, The busy trifler dreams himself alone. Frames many a purpose, and God works his own. States thrive or wither as moons wax and wane E'en as his will and his decrees ordain ; While honor, virtue, piety bear sway, They flourish; and. as these -decline, decay: In just resentment of his injured laws He pours contempt on them and on their cause ; Strikes the rough thread of error right athwart The web of every scheme they have at heart; Bids rottenness invade ami brino; to dust T'he pillars of support in which they trust. And do his errand of disgrace and shame On the chief strength and glory of the frame. None ever yet impeded what he wrought, None bars him out from his most secret thought; Darkness itself before his eye is light, And hell's close mischief naked in his sight. Stand now and judge thyself — Hast thou in- curr'd His anger who can waste thee with a word, Who poises and proportions sea and land. Weighing thvm in the hollow of his hand, And in whose awful sight all nations seem As grasshoppers, as dust, a drop, a dream ] Hast thou (a sacrilege his soul abhors) Claim'd all the i trifle howsoever short it seem. And, howsoever shadowy, no dream ; Its value, what no thought can ascertain, Nor all an angel's eloquence explain. Mc deal with life as children with their play, Who first misuse, then cast their toys away ; Live to no sober purpose, and contend That their Creator had no serious end. When God and man stand opposite in view, Man's disappointment must, of course, ensue. The just Creator condescends to write, [n beams of inextinguishable light, His names of wisdom goodness power, and love, On all that blooms below, or shines above ; To catch the wandering notice of mankind, And teach the world, if not perversely blind, His gracious attributes, and prove the share His offspring hold in his paternal care. If, led from earthly things to things divine. His creature thwart not his august design, Then praise is heard instead of reasoning pride. And captious cavil and complaint subside Nature, employ'd in her allotted place, Is handmaid to the purposes of grace ; By good vouchsafed makes known superior good, And bliss not seen by blessings understood: That bliss, reveal'd in scripture, with a glow Bright as the covenant-ensuring bow, Fires all his feelings with a noble scorn Of sensual evil, and thus Hope is born. Hope sets the stamp of vanity on all That men have deem'd substantial since th fall, Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe From emptiness itself a real use ; And while she takes, as at a father's hand, What health and sober appetite demand, From fading good derives, with chemic art, That lasting happiness, a thankful heart. Hope, with uplifted foot, set free from earth, Pants for the'place of her ethereal birth, On steady wings sails through the immense abyss Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss. And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here, With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear Hope, as an anchor, firm and sure, holds fast The Christian vessel, and defies the blast. Hope ! nothing else can nourish and secure His new-born virtues, and preserve him pure. Hope ! let the wretch, once conscious of the joy Whom now despairing agonies destroy, Speak, for he can, and none so well as he, What treasures centre, what delights, in thee. Had he the gems, the spices, and the land, That boasts the treasure, all at his command ; The fragrant grove, the inestimable mine, Were light, when weigh'd against one smile of thine. Though clasp'd and cradled in his nurse's armi He shines with all a cherub's artless charms,- Man is the genuine offspring of revolt, Stubborn and sturdy, a wild ass's colt ; His passions, like the watery stores that sleep Beneath the smiling surface of the deep, Wait but the lashes of a wintry storm, To frown and roar, and shake his feeble form. From infancy through childhood's giddy maze, Froward at school, and fretful in his plays, The puny tyrant burns to subjugate The free republic of the whip-gig state. If one his equal in athletic frame, Or, more provoking still, of nobler name, Dare step across his arbitrary views, An Iliad, only not in verse, ensues : The little Greeks look trembling at the scales, Till the best tongue or heaviest hand prevails. Now see him launch'd into the world at large ; If priest, supinely droning o'er his charge, Their fleece his pillow, and his weekly drawl, Though short, too long, the price he pays for all If lawyer, loud whatever cause he plead, But proudest of the worst, if that succeed. Perhaps a grave physical, gathering fees, Punctually paid for lengthening out disease ; No Cotton, whose humanity sheds rays, That make superior skill his second praise. If arms engage him. he devotes to sport His date of life so likely to be short ; 542 COWPER'S WORKS. A soldier may be anything if brave, So may a tradesman, if not quite a knave. Such stuff the world is made of; and mankind, To passion, interest, pleasure, whim, resign'd, Insist on, as if each were his own pope, Forgiveness, and the privilege of hope ; But conscience, in some i wrul silent hour, When captivating lusts have lost their power, Perhaps when sickness, or some fearful dream, Reminds him of religion, hated theme ! Starts from the down, on which she lately slept, And tells of laws despised, at least not kept ; Shows with a pointing finger, but no noise, A pale procession of past sinful joys, All witnesses of blessings foully scorn'd, And life abused, and not to be suborn'd. Mark these, she says ; these, summon'd from afar, Begin their march to meet thee at the bar ; There find a Judge inexorably just. And perish there as all presumption must. Peace be to those (such peace as earth can give) Who live in pleasure, dead e'en while they live ; Born capable indeed of heavenly truth ; But down to latest age, from earliest youth, Their mind a wilderness through want of care, The plough of wisdom never entering there. Peace (if insensibility may claim A right to the meek honors of her name) To men of pedigree, their noble race, Emulous always of the nearest place To any throne, except the throne of grace. Let cottagers and unenlighten'd swains Revere the laws they dream that Heaven ordains ; Resort on Sundays to the house of prayer, And ask, and fancy they find, blessings there. Themselves, perhaps, when weary they retreat To enjoy cool nature in a country seat, To exchange the centre of a thousand trades, For clumps, and lawns, and temples, and cas- cades, May now and then their velvet cushions take, And seem to pray for good example sake ; Judging, in charity no douht, the town • Pious enough, and having need of none. Kind souls ! to teach their tenantry to prize What they themselves, without remorse, despise : Nor hope have they, nor fear, of aught to come, As well for them had prophecy been dumb ; They could have held the conduct they pursue, Had Paul of Tarsus lived and died a Jew ; And truth proposed to reasoners wise as they, Is a pearl cast — completely cast away. They die. — Death lends them, pleased, and as in sport, All the grim honors of his ghastly court. Fir other paintings grace the chamber now, $\ here late we saw the mimic landscape glow : V\ e busy heralds hang the sable scene With mournful 'scutcheons, and dim lamps be- tween ; Proclaim their titles to the crowd around, But they that wore them move not at the sound ; The coronet, placed idly at their head, A.dds nothing now to the degraded dead. And e'en the star, that glitters on the bier, Can only say — Nobility lies here. Peace to all such — 'twere pity to offend, By useless censure, whom we cannot mend ; Life whhout hope can close but in despair, *Pwas there we found them, and must leave them there As when two pilgrims in a forest stray, Both may be lost, yet each in his own way ; So fares it with the multitudes beguiled In vain opinion's waste and dangerous wild ; Ten thousand rove the brakes and thorns among, Some eastward, and some westward, ara ail But here, alas ! the fatal difference lies, [wrong Each man's belief is right in his own eyes; And he that blames what they have blindly chose Incurs resentment for the love he shows. Say, botanist within whose province fall The cedar and the hyssop on the wall, Of all that deck the lanes, the fields, the bowe-9 What parts the kindred tribes of weeds and flowers 1 Sweet scent, or lovely form, or both combined, Distinguish every cultivated -kind ; The want of both denotes a meaner breed, And Chloe from her garland picks the weed. Thus hopes of every sort whatever sect Esteem them, sow them rear them, and protect, If wild in nature, and not duly found, Gethsemane ! in thy dear hallow'd ground, That cannot bear the blaze of Scripture light, Nor cheer the spirit, nor refresh the sight, Nor animate the soul to Christian deeds, [weeds. (Oh cast them from thee !) are weeds, arrant Ethelred's house, the centre of six ways Diverging each from each, like equal rays, Himself as bountiful as April rains, Lord paramount of the surrounding plains, Would give relief of bed and board to none, But guests that sought it in the appointed One And they might enter at his open door, E'en till his spacious hall would hold no more. He sent a servant forth by every road, To sound his horn and publish it abroad, That all might mark — knight, menial, high and low — An ordnance it concern'd them much to know. If, after all. some headstrong hardy lout Would disobey, though sure to be shut out, Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace ! No ! the decree was just and without flaw ; And he that made had right to make the law ; His sovereign power and pleasure unrestrain'd. The wrong was his who wrongfully complain'd. Yet half mankind maintain a churlish strife With him the Donor of eternal life, Because the deed, by which his love confirms The largess he bestows, prescribes the terms. Compliance with his will your lot ensures, Accept it only, and the boon is yours. And sure it is as kind to smile and give, As with a frown to say, Do this, and live. Love is not pedlar's trumpery, bought and sold ; He will give freely, or he will withhold ; His soul abhors a mercenary thought, And him as deeply who abhors it not ; He stipulates indeed, but merely this, That man will freely take an unbought bliss, Will trust him for a faithful generous part, Nor set a price upon a willing heart. Of all the ways that seem to promise fair, To place you where his saints his presence share This only can ; for this plain cause, express'd In terms as plain — himself has shut the rest. But oh the strife, the bickering, and debate, The tidings of unpurchased heaven create ! The flirted fan, the bridle, and the toss, All speakers, yet al ^nguage at a loss HOPE. 543 From stucco'd walls smart arguments rebound ; And beaus, adepts in everything profound, Die of disdain, or whistle off the sound. Such is the clamor of rooks, daws, and kites, The explosion of the Ievell'd tube excites, [glade, Where mouldering abbey walls o'erhang the And oaks coeval spread a mournful shade, The screaming nations, hovering in mid air, Loudly recent the stranger's freedom there, And seem to warn him never to repeat His bold intrusion on their dark retreat. Adisu : Vinosa cries, ere yet he sips The purple bumper trembling at his lips, Adieu to all morality ! if grace Make works a vain ingredient in the case. The Christian hope is — Waiter, draw the cork — If I mistake not — Blockhead ! with a fork ! — Without good works, whatever some may boast. Mere folly and delusion — Sir, your toast. My firm persuasion is. at least sometimes, That Heaven will weigh man's virtues and his crimes With nice attention in a righteous scale, And save or damn as these or those prevail. I plant my foot upon this ground of trust, And silence every fear with — God is just. But if perchance, on some dull drizzling day, A thought intrude, that says, or seems to say. [f thus the important cause is to be tried, Suppose the beam should dip on the wrong side; I soon recover from these needless frights. And — God is merciful — sets all to rights. Thus between justice, as my prime support, And mercy, fled to as the last resort, I glide and steal along with heaven in view, And, — pardon me, the bottle stands with you. I never will believe, the Colonel cries, The sanguinary schemes that some devise, Who make the good Creator, on their plan, A being of less equity than man. If appetite, or what divines call lust, Which men comply with, e'en because they must, Be punish'd with perdition, who is pure 1 Then theirs, no doubt, as well as mine, is sure. If sentence of eternal pain belong To every sudden slip and transient wrong. Then Heaven enjoins the fallible and frail A hopeless task, and damns them if they fail. My creed, (whatever some creed-makers mean By Athanasian nonsense, or Nicene.) My creed is. he is safe that does his best, And death's a doom sufficient for the rest. Right, says an ensign ; and for aught I see, Your faith and mine substantially agree ; The best of every man's performance here Is to discharge the duties of his sphere. A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair, Honesty shines with great advantage there. Fasting and prayer sit well upon a priest, A decent caution and reserve at least. A soldier's best is courage in the field, With nothing here that wants to be conceal'd ; Manly deportment, gallant, easy, gay ; A hand as liberal as the light of day. The soldier thus endow'd. who never shrinks, Nor closets up his thoughts, whate'er he thinks, Who scorns to do an injury by stealth, Must go to heaven — and I must drink his health. Sir Smug, he cries, (for lowest at the board, T ust made fifth chaplain of his patron lord, fhs shoulders witnessing by many a shrug lew much his feelings suffer id, sat Sir Smug,) Your office is to winnow false from true ; [you 1 Come, prophet, drink, and tell us, What think Sighing and smiling as he takes his glass, Which they that woo preferment, rarely pass, Fallible man the church-bred youth replies, Is still found fallible, however wise ; And differing judgments serve but to declare, That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where. Of all it ever was my lot to read, Of critics now alive or long since dead, The book of all. the world that charm'd me mnrt Was, — well-a-day. the title-page was lost ; The writer well remarks, a heart that knows To take with gratitude what Heaven bestows, With prudence always ready at our call, To guide our use of it, is all in all. Doubtless it is. To which, of my own store, I superadd a few essentials more ; But these, excuse the liberty I take, I waive just now, for conversation's sake. Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim, [name. And add Right Reverend to Smug's honor'd And yet our lot is given us in a land Where busy arts are never at a stand ; Where science points her telescopic eye, Familiar with the wonders of the sky ; .Where bold inquiry, diving out of sight, Brings many a precious pearl of truth to light ■ Where nought eludes the persevering quest. That fashion, taste, or luxury suggest. But above all, in her own fight array'd, See Mercy's grand apocalypse display'd ! The sacred book no longer suffers wrong, Bound in the fetters of an unknown tongue; But speaks with plainness art could never mend. What simplest minds dan soonest comprehend. God gives the word, the preachers throng around^ Live from his lips, and spread the glorious sound ; That sound bespeaks salvation on her way ; The trumpet of a life-restoring day ; 'Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines And in the gulfs of her Cornubian mines. And still it spreads. See Germany send fort) Her sons* to pour it on the farthest north : Fired with a zeal peculiar, they defy The rage and rigor of a polar sky, And plant successfully sweet Sharon's rose On icy plains, and in eternal snows. O blest within the inclosure of your rocks, Not herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks ■ • Nor fertilizing streams your fields divide, That show, reversed, the villas on their side ; No groves have ye ; no cheerful sound of bird, Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard ; Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell Of those that walk at evening where ye dwell ; But Winter, arm'd with terrors here unknown, Sits absolute on his unshaken throne ; Piles up his stores amidst the frozen waste, And bids the mountains he has built stand fast : Beckons the legions of his storms away From happier scenes to make your land a prey Proclaims the soil a conquest he has won, And scorns to share it with the distant sun. — Yet truth is yours, remote, unenvied isle ! And peace the genuine offspring of her smile ; The pride of letter'd ignorance that binds In chains of error our accomplish'd minds, That decks, with all the splendor of the true, A false religion, is unknown to you. * The Moravian missionaries in Greenland.— Sea Kxsniz. 644 COWPER'S WORKS. Nature indeed vouchsafes for our delight The sweet vicissitudes of day and night ; Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer Field, fruit, and flower, and every creature here ; But brighter beams than his who fires the skies Have risen at length on your admiring eyes, That shoot into your darkest caves the day, From which our nicer optics turn away. Here see the encouragement grace gives to vice, The dire effect of mercy without price ! [art, What were they 1 what some fools are made by They were by nature, athoists, head and heart. The gross idolatry blind heathens teach Was too refined for them, beyond their reach. Not e'en the glorious sun, though men revere The monarch most that seldom will appear, And though his beams, that quicken where they shine, May claim some right to be esteem'd divine, Not e'en tne sun, desirable as rare, Could bend one knee, engage one votary there ; They were, what base credulity believes [thieves. True Christians are, dissemblers, drunkards, The full gorged savage, at his nauseous feast Spent half the darkness, and snored out the rest, Was one, whom justice, on an equal plan, Denouncing death upon the sins of man, Might almost have indulged with an escape, Chargeable only, with a human shape. What are they now 1 — Morality may spare Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there ; The wretch, who once sang wildly, danced, and laugh'd, And suck'd in dizzy madness with his draught, Has wept a silent flood, reversed his ways, Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays, Feeds sparingly, communicates his store, Abhors the craft he boasted of before, And he that stole has learn'd to steal no more. Well spake the prophet, Let the desert sing, Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shall spring, And where unsightly and rank thistles grew, Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew. Go now, and with important tone demand On what foundation virtue is to stand, If self-exalting claims be turn'd adrift, And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift ; The poor reclaim'd inhabitant, his eyes Glistening at once with pity and surprise, Amazed that shadows should obscure the sight Of one whose birth was in a land of light, Shall answer. Hope, sweet Hope, has set me free, And made all pleasures else mere dross to me. These, amidst scenes as waste as if denied The common care that waits on all beside, Wild as if nature there, void of all good, Play'd only gambols in a frantic mood, (Yet charge not heavenly skill with having plann'd A plaything world, unworthy of his hand ;) Can see his love, though secret evil lurks In all we touch, stamp'd plainly on his works ; Deem life a blessing with its numerous woes, Nor spurn away a gift a God bestows. Hard task indeed o'er arctic seas to roam ! Is hope exotic 1 grows it not at home 1 Yes, but an object, bright as orient morn, May press the eye too closely to be borne ; A distant virtue we can all confess, It hurts our pride, and moves our envy, less. Leuconomus (beneath well-sounding Greek slur a name a poet must not speak) Stood pilloried on infamy's high stage, And bore the pelting scorn of half an age ; The very butt of slander, and the blot For every dart that malice ever shot. The man that mention'd him at once dismiss'd AH mercy from his lips, and sneer'd and hiss'd , His crimes were such as Sodom never knew, And perjury stood up to swear all true ; His aim was mischief and his zeal pretence, His speech rebellion against common sense ; A knave, when tried on honesty's plain rule ; And when by that of reason, a mere fool ; The world's best comfort was. his doom was pass'd Die when he might, he must be damm'd at last. Now, Truth, perform thine office ; waft aside The curtain drawn by prejudice and pride, Reveal (the man is dead) to wondering eyes This more than monster in his proper guise. He lov'd the world that hated him ; the tear That dropp'd upon his Bible was sincere ; Assail'd by scandal and the tongue of strife, His only answer was a blameless life ; And he that forged, and he that threw the dart. Had each a brother's interest in his heart. Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbribed, Were copied close in him, and well transcribed, He followed Paul ; his zeal a kindred flame. His apostolic charity the same. Like him, cross'd cheerfully tempestuous seas, Forsaking country, kindred, friends, and ease ; Like him he labor'd, and like him content To bear it, suffered shame where'er he went. Blush/calumny ! and write upon his tomb, If honest eulogy can spare thee room. Thy deep repentance of thy thousand lies, [skies ; Which, aim'd at him, have pierced the offended And say, Blot out my sin, confess'd. deplored, Against thine image, in thy saint, O Lord ! No blinder bigot, I maintain it still,. [will. Than he who must have pleasure, come whal He laughs, whatever weapon Truth may draw, And deems her sharp artillery mere straw ; Scripture indeed is plain ; but God and he On scripture ground are sure to disagree ; Some wiser rule must teach him how to live, Than this his Maker has seen fit to give ; Supple and flexible as Indian cane, To take the bend his Appetites ordain ; Contrived to suit frail nature's crazy case, And reconcile his lusts with saving grace. By this, with nice precision of design, He draws upon life's map a zig-zag line, That shows how far 'tis safe to follow sin, And where his danger and God's wrath begin. By this he forms, as pleased he sports along, His well-poised estimate of right and wrong ; And finds the modish manners of the day, Though loose, as harmless as an infant's play. Build by whatever plan caprice decrees, With what materials, on what ground you please . Your hope shall stand unblamed. perhaps ad- mired, If not that hope the scripture has required. The strange conceits, vain projects, and wild dreams, With whicr. hypocrisy forever teems, (Though other follies strike the public eye, And raise a laugh) pass unmolested by ; But if, unblameable in word and thought, A man arise, a man whom God has taught, With all Elijah's dignity of tone, And all the love of the beloved John HOPE. 545 To storm the citadels they build in air, [spare ; And smite the untemper'd wall 'tis death to To sweep away all refuges of lies, And place, instead of quirks themselves devise, Lama sabacthani before their eyes, To prove that without Christ all gain is loss, All hope despair, that stands not on his cross ; Except the few his God may have impressd. A tenfold frenzy seizes all the rest. [least, Throughout mankind, the Christian kind at There dwells a consciousness in every breast, That folly ends where genuine hope begins. And he that finds his heaven must lose his sins. Nature opposes with her utmost force. This riving stroke, this ultimate divorce : And, while Religion seems to be her view, Hates with a deep sincerity the true : For this of all that ever influenced man. Since Abel worshipp'd, or the world began, This only spares no lust, admits no plea, But makes him. if at all, completely free ; Sounds forth the signal, as she mounts her car. Of an eternal, universal war ; Rejects all treaty, penetrates all wiles, Scorns with the same indifference frowns and smiles ; Drives through the realms of sin. where riot reels. And grinds his crown beneath her burning wheels ! Hence all that is in man, pride, passion, art, Powers of the mind, and feelings of the heart, Insensible of truth's almighty charms, Starts at her first approach, and sounds to arms ! While Bigotry, with well dissembled fears. His eyes shut fast, his fingers in his ears. Mighty to parry and push by God's word With senseless noise, his argument the sword, Pretends a zeal for godliness and grace, And spits abhorrence in the Christian's face. Parent of Hope, immortal Truth ! make known Thy deathless wreaths and triumphs all thine own : The silent progress of thy power is such, Thy means so feeble, and despised so much, That few believe the wonders thou hast wrought, And none can teach them but whom thou hast taught. Oh see me sworn to serve thee, and command A painter's skill into a poet's hand ! That, while I trembling trace a work divine. Fancy may stand aloof from the design. And hght and shade, and every stroke, be thine. If ever thou hast felt another's pain. If ever when he sighed hast sighed again, If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear That pity had engender'd, drop one here. This man was happy — had the world's good word, And with it every joy it can afford ; Friendship and love seem'd tenderly at strife, Which most should sweeten his untroubled life ; Politely learn'd, and of a gentle race. Good breeding and good sense gave all a grace, And whether at the toilette of the fair He laugh'd and trifled, made him welcome there, Or, if in masculine debate he shared, Ensured him mute attention and regard. Alas, how changed ! Expressive of his mind, His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclined ; Those awful syllables, hell, death, and sin, [in ; Though whisper'd, plainly tell what works with- That conscience there performs her proper part, And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart ! Forsaking and forsaken of all friends, He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends ; Hard task ! for one who lately knew no care, And harder still as learnt beneath despair ! His hours no longer pass unmarked away, A dark importance saddens every day ; He hears the notice of the clock perplex'd And cries Perhaps eternity strikes next ! Sweet music is no longer music here, And laughter sounds like madness in his ear: His grief the world of all her power disarms; Wine has no taste and beauty has no charms : God's holy word, once trivial in his view, Now by the voice of his experience true, Seems, as it is, the fountain whence alone Must spring that hope he pants to make his own. Now let the bright reverse be known abroad ; Say man's a worm, and power belongs to God. As when a felon, whom his country's laws Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause, Expects, in darkness and heart-chilling fears, The shameful close of all his misspent years; If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne, A tempest usher in the dreaded morn. Upon his dungeon walls the lightning play, The thunder seems to summon him away ; The warder at the door his key applies, Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies: If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost, When Hope, long lingering, at last yields the ghost. The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear, He drops at once his fetters and his fear; A transport glows in all he looks and speaks, And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks. Joy, far superior joy. that much outweighs The comfort of a few poor added days, Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul Of him, whom Hope has with a touch made whole. 'Tis heaven, all heaven, descending on the wings Of the glad legions of the King of kings ; 'Tis more — 'tis God diffused through every part, 'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart. O welcome now the sun's once hated light, His noonday beams were never half so bright. Not kindred minds alone are call'd to employ Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy; Unconscious nature, all that he surveys. Rocks, groves, and streams must join him in his praise. These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth, The scoff of wither'd age and beardless youth; These move the censure and illiberal grin Of fools that hate thee and delight in sin: But these shall last when night has quench'd the pole, And heav'n is all departed as a scroll. And wh a n, as justice has long since decreed, This earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed,, Then these thy glorious works, and they who share That hope which can alone exclude despair, Shall live exempt from weakness and decay, The brightest wonders of an endless day. Happy the bard (if that fair name belong To him that blends no fable with his song) Whose lines uniting, by an honest art, The faithful monitor's and poet's part, Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind, And, while they captivate inform the mind : 35 546 COWPER'S WORKS. Still happier, if he till a thankful soil. And fruit reward his honorable toil : But happier far, who comfort those that wait To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate : Their language simple, as their manners meek, No shining ornaments have they to seek ; Nor labor they, nor time, nor talents, waste, In sorting flowers to suit a fickle taste ; But, while they speak the wisdom of the skie^ Which art can only darken and disguise, The abundant harvest, recompense divine, Repays their work — the gleaning only mine CHARITY. Qua nihil raajus meliuave terris Fata donavere, bonique divi; Nee dabunt, quamvis redeant in aurum Tempora priscum. Hor. lib. iv. Ode 2. THE ARGUMENT. Invocation to Charity— Social ties— Tribute to the hu- manity of Captain Cook — His character contrasted with that of Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico — Degradation of Spain — Purpose of commerce — Gifts of art — The slave-trade and slavery — Slavery unnatural and un- christian — The duty of abating tne woes of that state, and of enlightening the mind of the slave, enforced — Apostrophe to Liberty— Charity of Howard— Pursuits of philosophy — P».eason learns nothing aright without the lamp of Revelation — True charity the offspring of divine truth — Supposed case of a blind nation and an optician — Portrait of Charity— Beauty of the Apostle's definition of it — Alms as the means of lulling con- science — Pride and ostentation motives of charity — Character of satire— JVue charity inculcated — Chris- tian charity should be universal — Happy effects that would result from universal charity. Fairest and foremost of the train that wait On man's most dignified and happiest state, Whether we name thee Charity or Love, Chief grace below, and all in all above, Prosper (I press thee with a powerful plea) A task I venture on, impell'd by thee : Oh never seen but in thy blest effects. Or felt but in the soul that heaven selects ; Who seeks to praise thee, and to make thee known To other hearts, must have thee in his own. Come, prompt me with benevolent desires, Teach me to kindle at thy gentle fires. And, though disgraced and slighted, to redeem A poet's name, by making thee the theme. God. working ever on a social plan, By various ties attaches man to man : He made at first, though free and unconfined, One man the common father of the kind ; That every tribe, though placed as he sees best, Where seas or deserts part them from the rest, Differing in language, manners, or in face, Might feet themselves allied to all the race. When Cook — lamented, and with tears as just As ever mingled with heroic dust — Steer'd Britain's oak into a world unknown, And in his country's glory sought his own, Wherever he found man to nature true, The rights of man were sacred in his view : He soothed with gifts and greeted with a smile. The simple native of the new-found isle ; He spurn'd the wretch that slighted or withstood Vhe tender argument of kindred blood ; Nor would endure that any should control His freeborn brethren of the southern pole. But. though some nobler minds a law respect, That none shall with impunity neglect, In baser souls unnumber'd evils meet, To thwart its influence, and its end defeat. While Cook is loved for savage lives he saved, See Cortez odious for a world enslaved ! [then, Where wast thou then, sweet Charity 1 where. Thou tutelary friend of helpless men 1 Wast thou in monkish cells and nunneries found, Or building hospitals on English ground % No. — Mammon makes the world his legatee Through fear, not love ; and Heaven abhora the fee. Wherever found (and all men need thy care,) Nor age nor infancy could find thee there. The hand that slew till it could slay no more W T as glued to the sword-hilt with Indian gore. Their prince, as justly seated on his throne As vain imperial Philip on his own, Trick'd out of all his royalty by art. That stripp'd him bare, and broke his honest heart. j Died, by the sentence of a shaven priest, I For scorning what they taught him to detest. j How dark the veil that intercepts the blaze Of Heaven's mysterious purposes and ways ! God stood not. though he seem'd to stand, aloof • And at this hour the conqueror feels the proof; The wreath he won drew down an instant curse The fretting; plague is in the public purse, The canker'd spoil corrodes the pining state, Starved by that indolence their mines create. Oh could, their ancient Incas rise again, How would they take up Israel's taunting strain Art thou too fallen. Iberia 1 Do we see The robber and the murderer weak as we 1 Thou, that hast wasted earth, and dared despise Alike the wrath and mercy of the skies, Thy pomp is in the grave, thy glory laid Low in the pits thine avarice has made. We come with joy from our eternal re,st To see the oppressor in his turn oppress'd. Art thou the ffod the thunder of whose hand Roll'd over all our desolated land, Shook principalities and kingdoms down. And made the mountains tremble at his frown 1 CHARITY. 54 The sword shall light upon thy boasted powers, And waste them, as thy sword has wasted ours. 'Tis thus Omnipotence his law fulfils, And vengeance executes what justice wills. Again — the band of commerce was designed To associate all the branches of mankind ; And if a boundless plenty be the robe, Trade is the golden girdle of the globe. Wise to promote whatever end he means, God opens fruitful Nature's various scenes : Each climate needs what other climes produce. And offers something to the general use ; No land but listens to the common call, And in return receives supply from all. This genial intercourse, and mutual aid, Cheers what were else a universal shade, Calls nature from her ivy-mantled den, And softens human rock-work into men. Ingenious Art with her expressive face, Steps forth to fashion and refine the race ; Not only fills necessity's demand, But overcharges her capacious hand : Capricious taste itself can crave no more Than she supplies t'rom her abounding store : She strikes out all that luxury can ask. And gains new vigor at her endless task. Hers is the spacious arch the shapely spire, The painter's pencil and the poet's lyre ; From her the canvas borrows light and shade, Ind verse more lasting, hues that never fade. She guides the finger o'er the dancing keys. Gives difficulty all the grace of ease And pours a torrent of sweet notes around Fast as the thirsting ear can drink the sound. These are the gifts of art ; and art thrives most Where Commerce has enrich'd the busy coast ; He catches all improvements in his flight, Spreads foreign wonders in his country's sight, Imports what others have invented well. And stirs his own to match them or excel. 'Tis thus reciprocating each with each. Alternately the nations learn and teach ; While Providence enjoins to every soul A union with the vast terraqueous whole. Heaven speed the canvas gallantly unfurl'd To furnish and ace mmodate a world, To give the pole the produce of the sun, And knit the unsocial climates into one. Soft airs and gentle heavings of the wave Impel the fleet whose errand is to save. To succor wasted regions, and replace The smile of opulence in sorrow's face. Let nothing adverse, nothing unforeseen, Impede the bark that ploughs the deep serene. Charged with a freight transcending in its worth The gems of India. Nature's rarest birth. That flies, like Gabriel on his Lord's commands, A herald of God's love to pagan lands ! But ah ! what wish can prosper, or what prayer. For merchants rich in cargoes of despair. Who drive a loathsozne traffic, gauge, and span. And buy the muscles and the bones of man I The tender ties of father, husband friend, All bonds of nature in that moment end ; And each endures, while yet he draws his breath, A stroke as fatal as the scythe of death. The sable warrior, frantic with regret Of her he loves, and never can forget, Loses in tears the far-receding shore. [more ; But not the thought that they must meet no Deprived of her and freedom at a blow. What has he left that he can yet forego 1 Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resign'd, He feels his body's bondage in his mind ; Puts off his generous nature, and, to suit His manners with his fate puts on the brute. Oh most degrading of all ills that wait On man, a mourner in his best estate ! All other sorrows virtue may endure, And find submission more than half a cure; Grief is itself a medicine, and bestow'd To improve the fortitude that bears the load ; To teach the Wanderer, as his woes increase, The path of wisdom, all whose paths are peace But slavery — Virtue dreads it as her grave : Patience itself is meanness in a slave ; Or if the will and sovereignty of God Bid suffer it awhile, and kiss the rod, Wait for the dawning of a brighter day, And snap the chain the moment when you may Nature imprints upon whate'er we see, That has a heart and life in it, Be free ! The beasts are charter'd — neither age nor force Can quell the love of freedom in a horse : He breaks the cord that held him at the rack ; And conscious of an unincumber'd back, Snuffs up the morning air. forgets the rein ; Loose fly his forelock and his ample mane ; Responsive to the distant neigh he neighs ; Nor stops, till overleap ; ng all delays He finds the pasture where his fellows graze. Canst thou, and honor'd with a Christian name, Buy what is woman-born, and feel no shame 1 Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead Expedience as a warrant lor the deed 1 So may the wolf whom famine has made bold To quit the forest and invade the fold : So may the ruffian who with ghostly glide, Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside ; Not he, but his emergence forced the door, He found it inconvenient to be poor. Has God then given its sweetness to the cane, Unless his laws be trampled on — in vain 1 Built a brave world, which cannot yet subsist, Unless his right to rule it be dismiss'd ? Impudent blasphemy ! So folly pleads, And, avarice being judge, with ease succeeds. But grant the plea, and let it stand for just, That man make man his prey, because he must ; Still there is room for pity to abate And soothe the sorrows of so sad a state. A Briton knows, or if he knows it not. The scripture placed within his reach, he ought, That souls have no discriminating hue, Alike important in their Maker's view : That none are free from blemish since the fall, And love divine has paid one price for all. The wretch that works and weeps without relief Has One that notices his silent grief. He, from whose hand alone all power proceeds, Ranks its abuse among the foulest deeds, Considers all injustice with a frown, But marks the man that treads his fellow down Begone ! — the whip and bell in that hard hand Are hateful ensigns of usurped command. Not Mexico could purchase kings a claim To scourge him. weariness his only blame. Remember. Heaven has an avenging rod, To smite the poor is treason against God ! Trouble is grudgingly and hardly brook'd. While life's sublimest joys are overlook'd : We wander o'er a sun- burnt thirsty soil, Murmuring and weary of ( ur daily toil, 548 COWPER'S WORKS. Forget to enjoy the palm-tree's offered shade, Or taste the fountain in the neighboring glade ; Else who would lose, that had the power to im- The occasion of transmuting fear to love 1 [prove Oh 'tis a godlike privilege to save ! And he that scorns it is himself a slave. Inform his mind ; one flash of heavenly day Would heal his heart and melt his chains away. " Beauty for ashes" is a gift indeed, And slaves, by truth enlarged, are doubly freed. Then would he say. submissive at thy feet, While gratitude and love made service sweet. My dear deliverer out of hopeless night, Whose bounty bought me but to give me light, I was a bondman on my native plain, Sin forged and ignorance made fast, the chain ; Thy lips have shed instruction as the dew, Taught me what path to shun, and what pursue ; Farewell my former joys ! I sigh no more For Africa's once loved, benighted shore ; Serving a benefactor, I am free ; At my best home, if not exiled from thee, [ceeds Some men make gain a fountain whence pro- A stream of liberal and heroic deeds ; The swell of pity, not to be confined Within the scanty limits of the mind. Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands, A rich deposit, on the bordering lands : These have an ear for his paternal call, Who makes some rich for the supply of all ; God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ ; And Thornton is familiar with the joy. Oh could I worship aught beneath the skies That earth has seen, or fancy can devise, Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand, Built by no mercenary vulgar hand, With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair As ever dress'd a bank, or scented summer air. Duly, as ever on the mountain's height The peep of morning shed a dawning light, Again, when evening in her sober vest Drew the grey curtain of the fading west, [praise My soul should yield thee willing thanks and For the chief blessings -of my fairest days : But that were sacrilege — praise is not thine. But his who gave thee, and preserves thee mine : Else I would say, and as I spake bid fly A captive bird into the boundless sky, This triple realm adores thee — thou art come From Sparta hither, and art here at home. We feel thy force still active, at this hour Enjoy immunity from priestly power, While conscience, happier than in ancient years, Owns no superior but the God she fears. Propitious spirit ! yet expunge a wrong Thy rights have suffer'd, and our land, too long. Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share The fears and hopes of a commercial care. Prisons expect the wicked, and were built To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt; But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood, Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood ; (\.nd honest merit stands on slippery ground. Where covert guile and artifice abound. Let just restraint for public peace design'd, Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind ; The foe of virtue has no claim to thee, But let insolvent innocence go free. Patron of else the most despised of men, Accept the tribute of a stranger's pen ; Verse, like the laurel, its immortal meed, Should be the guerdon of a noble deed ; I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame (Charity chosen as my theme and aim) I must incur, forgetting Howard's name. Blest with all wealth can give thee, to resign Joys doubly sweet to feelings quick as thine, To quit the bliss thy rural scenes bestow, To seek a nobler amidst scenes of woe, [home, To traverse seas, range kingdoms, and brinj Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome. But knowledge such as only dungeons te?ich, And only sympathy like /thine could reach , That grief, sequester'd from the public stage. Might smooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage ; Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal, The boldest patriot might be proud to feel. Oh that the voice of clamor and debate, That pleads for peace till i,t disturbs the state Were hush'd in favor of thy generous plea, The poor thy clients and Heaven's smile thy fee Philosophy, that does not dream or stray Walks arm in arm with nature all his way ; Compasses earth, dives into it, ascends Whatever steep inquiry recommends, Sees planetary wonders smoothly roll 4 Round other systems under her control, Drinks wisdom at the milky stream of light, That cheers the silent journey of the night, And brings at his return a bosom charged With rich instruction and a soul enlarged. The treasured sweets of the capacious plan, That Heaven spreads wide before the view or man, All prompt his pleased pursuit, and to pursue Still prompt him. with a pleasure always new ; He too has a connecting power, and draws Man to the centre of the common cause, Aiding a dubious and deficient sight With a new medium and a purer light. All truth is precious, if not all divine ; And what dilates the powers must needs refine. He reads the skies, and, watching every change, Provides the faculties an ampler range ; And wins mankind, as his attempts prevail, A prouder station on the general scale. But reason still, unless divinely taught, Whate'er she learns, learns nothing as she ought ; The lamp of revelation only shows, What human wisdom cannot but oppose, That man. in nature's richest mantle clad, And graced with all philosophy can add, Though fair without, and luminous within, Is still the progeny and heir of sin. Thus taught down falls the plumage of his pride; He feels his need of an 'unerring guide, And knows that falling he shall rise no more, Unless the power that bade him stand restore. This is indeed philosophy ; this known Makes wisdom, worthy of the name, his own; And without this, whatever he discuss; Whether the space between the stars and us ; Whether he measure earth, compute the sea, Weigh sunbeams, carve a fly, or spit a flea ; The solemn trifler with his boasted skill Toils much, and is a solemn trifler still : Blind was he born, and his misguided eyes Grown dim in trifling studies, blind he dies. Self-knowledge truly learned of course impliet The rich possession of a nobler prize ; For self to self, and God to man, reveal'd, (Two themes to nature's eye forever seal'd,) Are taught by ra ys, that fly with equal pace From the same csntre of enlightening grace. CHARITY. 548 Here alay thy foot ; how copious and how clear, The o'trhowing well of Charity springs here ! Hark ! 'tis the music of a thousand rills, Some through the groves, some down the sloping hills, Winding a secret or 'an open course, And all supplied fro in an eternal source. The ties of nature do but feebly bind. And commerce partially reclaims mankind ; Philosophy, without his heavenly guide, May blow up self-conceit, and nourish pride; But, while his province is the reasoning part, Hau still a veil of midnight on his heart : 'Tis truth divine exhibited on earth, Gives Charity her being and her birth. [flows, Suppose (when thought is warm, and fancy Wl. at will not argument sometimes suppose '?) An isle possessed by creatures of our kind, Endued with reason yet by nature blind. Let supposition lend her aid once more, And land some grave optician on the shore : He claps his lens, if hapiy they may see, Close to the part where vision ought to be ; But finds that, though his tubes assist the sight, They cannot give it, or make darkness light. He reads wise lectures, and describes aloud A sense they know not to the wondering crowd ; He talks of light and the prismatic hues, As men of depth in erudition use ; But all he gains for his harangue is — Well, What monstrous lies some travellers will tell ! The soul, whose sight all-quickening grace renews, Takes the resemblance of the good she views, As diamonds, stripp'd of their opaque disguise, Reflect the noon-day glory of the skies. She speaks of Him, her author, guardian, friend, Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end, [n language warm as all that love inspires ; And, in the glow of her intense desires, Pants to communicate her noble fires. She sees a world stark blind to what employs Her eager thought and feeds her flowing joys ; Though wisdom hail them, heedless of her call. Plies to save some, and feels a pang for all : Herself as weak as her support is strong, She feels that frailty she denied so long ; And, from a knowledge of her own disease, Learns to compassionate the sick she sees. Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence, The reign of genuine Charity commence. Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears, She still is kind, and still she perseveres; The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme, 'Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream ! The danger they discern not they deny: Laugh at their only remedy, and die. But still a soul thus touch'd can never cease, Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace. Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild, Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child : She makes excuses where she might condemn, Reviled by those that hate her, prays for them ; Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast, The worst suggested, she believes the best ; Not soon provoked, however stung and teased, And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeased ; She rather waives than will dispute her right ; And, injured, makes forgiveness her delight. Such was the portrait an apostle drew, The bright original was one he knew ; Heaven held h'.s hand, the likeness must be true. When one, that holds communion with th« , skies, Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner thinos, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings ; Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. So when a ship, well freighted with the stores The sun matures on India's spicy sbores, Has dropp'd.her anchor, and her canvas furl'd, In some safe haven of our western world, 'Twere vain inquiry to what port she went, The gale informs us laden with the scent. Some seek, when queasy conscience has it» qualms, To lull the painful malady with alms ; But charity not feign'd intends alone Another's good — theirs centres in their own ; And, too short-lived to reach the realms of peace, Must cease forever when the poor shall cease. Flavia, most tender of her own good name, Is rather careless of her sister's fame : Her superfluity the poor supplies, But, if she touch a" character, it dies. The seeming virtue weigh'd against the vice, She deems all sate, for she has paid the price : No charity but alms aught values she, Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree How many deeds, with which the world has rung, From pride, in league with ignorance, hav« sprung ! But God o'errules all human follies still, And bends the tough materials to his will A conflagration, or a wintry flood, Has left some hundreds without home or food : Extravagance and avarice shall subscribe, While fame and self-complacence are the bribe : The brief proclaimed, it visits every pew, But first the squire's, a compliment but due • With slow deliberation he unties His glittering purse, that envy of all eyes ! And, while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm. Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm; Till rinding, what he might have found before, A smaller piece amidst the precious store, Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb, He half exhibits, and then drops the sum. Gold, to be sure ! — Throughout the town 'tis toLf How the good squire gives never less than gold. From motives such as his. though not the best, S prings in due time supply lor the distress'd ; Not less effectual than what love bestows, Except that office clips it as it goes. But lest I seem to sin against a friend, And wound the grace I mean to recommend. (Though vice derided with a just design Implies no trespass against love divine,) Once more I would adopt the graver style, A teacher should be sparing ox' his smile. Unless a love oi virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame He hides behind a magisterial air His own offences, and strips others bare ; Affects indeed a most humane concern, That men, if gently tutor'd, will not learn; That mulish lolly, not to be reclaim'd By softer methods, must be made ashamed ; But (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean") Too often rails to gratify his spleen. Most satirists are indeed a 'public scourge , Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge ; !>50 COWPER'S WORKS. Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd. The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse, . The wild assassins start into the street. Prepared to poniard whomsoe'er they meet. No skill in swordmanship, however just, Can be secure against a madman's thrust ; And even virtue, so unfairly match'd, Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd. When scandal has new minted an old he, Or taxed invention for a fresh supply, 'Tis called a satire, and the world appears Gathering around it with erected ears : A thousand names are toss ; d into the crowd : Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud, Just as the sapience of an author's brain Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain. Strange ! how the frequent interjected dash Quickens a market, and helps off the trash ; The important letters that include the rest Serve as a key to those that are suppress'd ; Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw The world is charm'd, and Scrib escapes the law. So. when the cold damp shades of night prevail Worms may be caught by either head or tail ; Forcibly drawn from many a close recess, They meet with little pity, no redress ; Plung'd in the stream they lodge upon the mud, Food for the famish'd rovers of the flood. All zeal for a reform; that gives offence To peace and charity, is mere pretence : A bold remark; but which, if well applied, Would humble many a towering poet's pride. Perh?fps the man was in a sportive fit. And had no other play-place for his wit ; Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame, He sought the jewel in his neighbor's shame ; Perhaps — whatever end he might pursue, The cause of virtue could not be his view. At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes, The turns are quick the polish'd points surprise, But shine with cruel and tremendous charms, That, while they please, possess us with alarms ; So have I seen, (and hasten'd to the sio-ht On all the wings of holiday delight,) Where stands that monument of ancient power. Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower, [small, Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and In starry forms disposed upon the wall : We wonder as we gazing stand below, That brass and steel should make so fine a show ; But. though we praise the exact designer's skill, Account them implements of mischief still. No works shall find acceptance in that day, When all disguises shall be rent awav. That square not truly with the scripture plan, Nor spring from love to God, or love to man. As he ordains things sordid in their birth To be resolved into their parent earth ; And though the soul shall seek' superior orbs. Whate'er this world produces, i( absorbs; So self starts nothing, but what tends apace Home to the goal, where it began the race. Such as our motive is our aim must be ; If this be servile, that can ne'er be free : If self employ us. whatsoe'er is wrought, VVe glorify that self, not Him we ought ; Such virtues had need prove freir own reward, The Judge of all men owes tht>m no regard. True Charity, a plant divinely nursed, Fed by the love from which it rose at first, Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest scene. Storms but enliven its unfading green ; Exuberant is the shadow it supplies, Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies. To look at Him, who form'd us and redeem'd, So glorious now. though once so disesteem'd ; To see a God stretch forth his human hand, To uphold the boundless scenes of his command To recollect that, in a form like ours, He bruised beneath his feet the infernal powers Captivity led captive, rose to claim The wreath he won so dearly in our name ; That, throned above all height, he condescends To call the few that trust in him his friends ; That, in the heaven of heavens, that space h< deems Too scanty for the exertion of his beams, And shines as if impatient to bestow Life and a kingdom upon worms below ; That sight imparts a never-dying flame. Though feeble in degree, in kind the same. Like him the soul, thus kindled from above Spreads wide her arms of universal love ; And, still enlarged as she receives the grace, Includes creation in her close embrace. Behold a Christian ! — and without the fires The Founder of that name alone inspires, Though all accomplishment, all knowledge meet, To make the shining prodigy complete, W 7 hoever boasts that name — behold a cheat ! Were love, in these the world's last doting years. As frequent as the want of it appears, The churches warm'd, they would no longei hold Such frozen figures, stiff as they are cold ; Relenting forms would lose their power, or cease ; And e'en the dipp'd and sprinkled live in peace : Each heart would quit its prison in the breast, And flow in free communion with the rest. The statesman, skill'd in projects dark and deep Might burn his useless Machiavel, and sleep : His budget often fill'd, yet always poor, Might swing at ease behind his study door, No longer prey upon our annual rents, Or scare the nation with its big contents : Disbanded legions freely might depart, And slaying man would cease to be an art. No learned disputants would take the field, Sure not to conquer and sure not to yield , • Both sides deceived, if rightly understood, Pelting each other for the public good. Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth and love ; And I might spare myself the pains to show What few can learn and all suppose they know Thus have I sought to grace a serious lay With many a wild, indeed, but flowery spray, In hopes to gain, what else I must have lost, The attention pleasure has so much engross'd. But if unhappily deceived I dream, And prove too weak for so divine a theme, Let Charity forgive me a mistake, ' That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make, And spare the poet for his subject's sake. CONVERSATION Nam neque me tantum venientis sibilus auS ,ri, Nco percussa juvant fiuctu tam litora, nee quae Saxosas inter decurrunt flumina valles. Virg. Eel. 5. THE ARGUMENT. n conversation much depends on culture— Its results frequently insignificant— Indecent language and oaths reprobated— The author's dislike of the clash of argu- ments — The noisy wrangler — Dubius an example of in- decision— The positive pronounce without hesitation — The point of honor condemned — Duelling with fists in- stead of weapons proposed — Effect of long tales — The retailer of prodigies and lies— Qualities of a judicious tale— Smoking condemned— The emphatic speaker— The perfumed beau — The grave coxcomb — Sickness made a topic of conversation— Picture of a fretful tem- per—The bashful speaker— An English company— The sportsman — Influence of fashion on conversation— Con- verse of the two disciples going to Emmaus— Delights of religious conversation— Age mellows the speech- True piety often branded as fanatic frenzy — Pleasure of communion with the good — Conversation should be un- constrained—Persons who make the B'ible their com- panion, charged with hypocrisy by the world- The charge repelled — The poet sarcastically surmises that his censure of the world may proceed from ignorance of its reformed manners — An apology for digression — Religion purifies and enriches conversation. Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense To every man his modicum of sense, And Conversation in its better part May be esteem'd a gift, and not ari art. Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil. On culture, and the sowing of the soil. Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, But talking is not always to converse ; Not more distinct from harmony divine, The constant creaking of a country sign. As alphabets in ivory employ, Hour after hour, the yet unletter'd boy, Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee Those seeds of science call'd his a b c ; So language in the mouths of the adult, Witness its insignificant result, Too often proves an implement of play, A toy to sport with, and pass time away. Collect at evening what the day brought forth, Compress the sum into its solid worth, And if it weigh the importance of a fly, The scales are false, or algebra a lie. Sacred interpreter of human thought, How few respect or use thee as they ought ! But all shall give account of every wrong, Who dare dishonor or defile the tongue ; Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, Or sell their glory at a market-price ; Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon, The dear-bought pmceman, and the cheap buf- foon. There is a prurience in the speech of some, Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them dumb: His wise forbearance has their end in view, They fill their measure, and receive their due. The heathen lawgivers of ancient days, Names almost worthy of a Christian's praise, Would drive them forth from the resort of men, And shut up every satyr in his den. Oh come not ye near innocence and truth, Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth ! Infectious as impure, your blighting power Taints in its rudiments the promised flower , Its odor perish'd and its charming hue, Thenceforth 'tis hateful, for its smells of you. Not e'en the vigorous and headlong rage Of adolescence, or a firmer age, Affords a plea allowable or just For making speech the pamperer of lust; But when the breath of age commits the fault 'Tis nauseous as the vapor of a vault. So wither'd stumps disgrace the sylvan scene No longer fruitful, and no longer green ; The sapless wood, divested of the bark, Grows fungous, and takes fire at every spark. Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife-* Some men have surely then a peaceful life ! Whatever subject occupy discourse, The feats of Vestris, or the naval force, Asseveration blustering in your face Makes contradiction stich a hopeless case : In every tale they tell, or false or true, Well known, or such as no man ever knew, They fix attention, heedless of your pain, With oaths like rivets forced into the brain ; And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout, They swear it. till affirmance breeds a doubt. A Persian, humble servant of the sun, Who though devout, yet bigotry had none, Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address, W r ith adjurations every word impress, Supposed the man a bishop, or at least, God's name so much upon his lips, a priesf Bow'd at the close with all his graceful airs, And begg'd an interest in his frequent prayers. Go, quit the rank to which ye stood preferr'd, Henceforth associate in one common herd ; Religion, virtue, reason, common sense, Pronounce your human form a false pretence ■ A mere disguise in which a devil lurks, Who yet betrays his secret by his works. Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such then are, And make colloquial happiness your care, Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate. A duel in the form of a debate. The clash of arguments and jar of words, Worse than the mortal brunt of rival s words, 552 COWPER'S WORKS. Decide no question with their tedious length, For opposition gives opinion strength, . Divert the champions prodigal of breath, And put the peaceably disposed to death. thwart me not, Sir Soph, at every turn, Nor carp at every flaw you may discern ; Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue, f am not surely always in the wrong ; Tis hard if all is false that I advance, A fool must now and then be right by chance. Not that all freedom of dissent I blame ; No — there I grant the privilege I c'laim. A disputable point is no man's ground ; Rove where you please, 'tis common all around. Discourse may want an animated — No, To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; But still remember, if you mean to please. To press your point with modesty and ease. The mark, at which my juster aim I take, Is contradiction for its own dear sake. Set your opinion at whatever pitch, Knots and impediments make something hitch ; Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain. Your thread of argument is snapp'd again ; The wrangler, rather than accord with you. Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too. Vociferated logic kills me quite, A noisy man is always in the right, 1 twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare, And, when I hope his blunders are all out. Reply discreetly — To be sure — no doubt ! Dubius is such a scrupulous good man — Yes — you may catch him tripping if you can. He would not, with a peremptory tone, Assert the nose upon his face his own ; With hesitation admirably slow, He humbly hopes — presumes — it may be so. His evidence, if he were call'd by law To swear to sozne enormity he saw, For want of prominence and just relief, Would hang an honest man and save a thief. Through constant dread of giving truth offence, He ties up all his hearers in suspense ; Knows what he knows as if he knew it ntjt ; What he remembers seems to have forgot ; His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall. Centring at last in having none at all. Yet, though he tease, and balk your listening ear, He makes one useful point exceeding clear ; Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme A sceptic in philosophy may seem, Reduced to practice, his beloved rule Would only prove him a consummate fool ; Useless in him alike both brain and speech, Fate having placed all truth above his reach, His ambiguities his total sum. He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumb. Where men of judgment creep and feel their The positive pronounce without dismay ; [way, Their want of light and intellect supplied By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride. Without the means of knowing right from wrong, They always are decisive, clear, and strong. Where others toil with philosophic force, Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course ; Flings at your head conviction in the lump, And gains remote conclusions at a jump : Their own defect, invisible to them. ■ Seen in another, they at once condemn ; And, though sell-idolised in every case, Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. The cause is plain, and not to be denied, The proud are always most provoked by pride. Few competitions but engender spite ; And those the most where neither has a right The point of honor has been deem'd of use. To teach good manners, and to curb abuse : Admit it true, the consequence is clear, Our polish'd manners are a mask we wear, And at the bottom barbarous still and rude ■ We are restrain'd indeed, but not subdued. The ver}^ remedy, however sure, Springs from the mischief it intends to cure And savage in its principle appears. Tried, as it should be, by the fruit it bears. 'Tis hard, indeed, if nothing will defend Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end ; That now and then a hero must decease, That the surviving world may live in peace. \ Perhaps at last close scrutiny may show The practice dastardly, and mean, and low ; That men engage in it compell'd by force ; And fear, not courage, is its proper source. The fear of tyrant custom, and the fear Lest fops should censure us, and fools should sneel At least to trample on our Maker's laws, And hazard life for any or no cause, To rush into a fix'd eternal state Out of the very flames of rage and hate. Or send another shivering to the bar With all the guilt of such unnatural war, Whatever use may urge, or honor plead, On reason's verdict is a madman's deed. Am I to set my life upon a throw, Because a bear is rude and surly 1 No — A moral, sensible, and well-bred man Will not affront me, and no other can. Were I empower'd to regulate the lists, They should encounter with well loaded fists ; A Trojan combat would be something new, Let Dares beat Entellus black and blue ; Then each might show to his admiring friends. In honorable bumps his rich amends, And carry, in contusions of his skull, A satisfactory receipt in full. A story, in which native humor reigns, Is often useful always entertains : A graver fact enlisted on your side, May furnish illustration, well applied; But sedentary weavers of long tales Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails. 'Tis the most asinine employ on earth, To hear them tell of parentage and birth, And echo conversations dull and dry, Embellish'd with — He said, — and, So said 1. At every interview their route the same, The repetition makes attention lame : We bustle up with unsuccessful speed, And in the saddest part cry — Droll indeed S The path of narrative with care pursue, Still making probability your clue ; On all the vestiges of truth attend, And let them guide you to a decent end. Of all ambitions man may entertain. The worst that can invade a sickly brain, Is that which angles hourly for surprise. And baits its hook with prodigies and lies. Credulous infancy, or age as weak, Are fittest auditors for such to seek. Who to please others will themselves disgrace. Yet please not. but affront you to your face. A great retailer of this curious ware, Having unloaded and made many stare, CONVERSATION. 553 Can this be true 1 — an arch observer cries ; Yes (rather moved), I saw it with these eyes ! Sir ! I believe it on that ground alone ; I could not, had I seen it with my own. A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct ; The language plain, the incidents well link'd ; Tell not as new what everybody knows, And, new or old still hasten to a close ; There, centring in a locus round and neat, Let all your rays of information meet. What neither yields us profit nor delight Is like a nurse's lullaby at night ; Guy Earl of Warwick and fair Eleanore, Or giant-killing Jack, would please me more. The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, Makes half a sentence at a time enough ; The dozing sages drop the drowsy strain, [again. Then pause, and puff — and speak, and pause Such often, like the tube they so admire, Important triflers ! have more smoke than fire. Pernicious weed ! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys, Thy worst effect is banishing tor hours The sex whose presence civihzes ours ; Thou art indeed the drug a gardener wants To poison vermin that infest his plants ; But are we so to wit and beauty blind, As to despise the glory of our kind, And show the softest minds and fairest forms As little mercy as the grubs and worms 1 They dare not wait the riotous abuse Thy thirst-creating steams at length produce, When wine has given indecent language birth, And forced the floodgates of licentious mirth ; For seaborn Venus her attachment shows Still to that element from which she rose, , And, with a quiet which no fumes disturb, Sips meek infusions of a milder herb. The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose, In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, As if the gnomon on his neighbor's phiz, Touch'd with the magnet, had attracted his. His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large, Proves after all a wind-gun's airy charge, An extract of his diary — no ( more," A tasteless journal of the day before. He walk'd abroad, o'ertaken in the rain, Call'd on a friend, drank tea,stepp'd home again, Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk, With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk. , I interrupt him with a sudden bow, Adieu, dear sir ! lest you should lose it now. I cannot talk with civet in the room, A fine puss gentleman that's all perfume ; The sight's enough — no need to smell a beau — Who thrusts his head into a raree-show 1 His odoriferous attempts to please Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees ; But we that make no honey, though we sting. Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing. 'Tis wrong to bring into a mix'd resort, What makes some sick, and others d-la-mort, An argument of cogence, we may say, Why such a one should keep himself away. A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see, Htuite as absurd, though not so light as he : A shallow brain behind a serious mask, An oracle within an empty cask, The solemn fop ; significant and budge ; A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge. He says but little, and that little said Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead. His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock it never is at home : 'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage, Some handsome present, as your hopes presage, 'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove An absent friend's fidelity and love, But when unpack'd your disappointment groani To find it stuff 'd with brickbats, earth, and stones. Some men employ their health, an ugly trick, In making known how oft they have been sick, And give us. in recitals of disease, A doctor's trouble, but without the fees ; Relate how many weeks they kept their bed, How an emetic or cathartic sped ; Nothing is slightly touch'd. much less forgot, Nose, ears and eyes, seem present on the spot. Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill, Victorious seemed, and now the doctor's skill ; And now — alas for unforeseen mishaps ! They put on a damp nightcap and relapse ; They thought they must have died, they were m bad: Their peevish hearers almost wish they had. Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, You always do too little or too much : You speak with life, in hopes to entertain, Your elevated voice goes through the brain •, You fall at once into a lower key, That's worse — the drone-pipe of an humble be©. The southern sash admits too strong a light. You rise and drop the curtain — now 'tis night. He shakes with cold — you stir the fire and strive To make a blaze — that's roasting him alive. Serve him with venison, and he wishes fish ; With sole — that's just the sort he would no wish. He takes what he at first professed to loathe, And in due tune feeds heartily on both ; Yet still, o'erclouded with a constant frown, He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. Your hope to please him vain on every plan, Himself should work that wonder if he can- Alas ' his efforts double his distress. He likes yours little, and his own still less. Thus always teasing others, always teased, His only pleasure is to be displeased. I pity bashful men. who feel the pain Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, And bear the marks upon a blushing face Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace. Our sensibilities are so acute, The fear of being silent makes us mute. We sometimes think we could a speech produce Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose But, being tried, it dies upon the lip, Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip : Our wasted oil unprofitably burns, Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns. Few Frenchmen of this evil have complain d ; It seems as if we Britons were ordain'd, By way of wholesome curb upon our pride, To fear each other, fearing none beside. The cause perhaps inquiry may descry, Self-searching with an introverted eye, Conceal'd within an unsuspected part The vainest corner of our own vain heart : Forever aiming at the world's esteem, Our self-importance ruins its own scheme ; In other eyes our talents rarely shown, Become at length so splendid in our own, We dare not risk them into public view, Lest they miscarry of what seems their due. 654 COWPER'S WORKS. True modesty is a discerning grace, And only blushes in the proper place ; But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed to appear : Humility the parent of the first. The last by vanity produced and nursed. The circle form'd. we sit in silent state, Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate; Yes, ma'am, and No ma'am, utter'd softly, show Every five minutes how the minutes go ; Each individual, suffering a constraint Poetry may, but colors cannot, paint ; And, if in close committee on the sky, Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ; And finds a changing clime a happy source Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse. We next inquire, but softly and by stealth, Like conservators of the public health, Of epidemic throats, if such there are, [tarrh. And coughs, and rheums, and phthisic, and ca- That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues, Fill'd up at last with interesting news. Who danc'd with whom, and who are like to wed, And who is hang'd, and who is brought to bed : But fear to call a more important cause, As if 'twere treason against English laws. The visit paid, with ecstacy we come, As from a seven years' transportation, home, And there resume an umembarrass'd brow, Recovering what we lost, we know not how, The faculties that seem'd reduced to nought, Expression and the privilege of thought. The reeking, roaring hero of the chase, I give him over as a desperate case. Physicians write in hopes to work a cure, Never, if honest ones, when death is sure ; And though the fox he follows may be tamed, A mere fox-follower never is reclaim'd. Some farrier should prescribe a proper course, Whose only fit companion is his horse, Dr if, deserving of a better doom. The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom. Yet e'en the rogue that serves him, though he stand To take his honor's orders, cap in hand, Prefers his fellow grooms with much good sense, Their skill a truth, his master's a pretence. If neither horse nor groom affect the 'squire, Where can at last his jockeyship retire \ Oh, to the club, the scene of savage joys, The school of coarse good fellowship and noise ; There, in the sweet society of those Whose friendship from his boyish years he chose, Let him improve his talent if he can, Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man. Man's heart had been impenetrably seal'd, Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field, Had not his Maker's all-bestowing hand Given him a soul, and bade him understand ; The reasoning power vouchsafed, of course in- ferr'd The power to clothe that reason with his word ; For all is perfect that God works on earth, And he that gives conception aids the birth. If this be plain, 'tis plainly understood, What uses of his boon the Giver would. The mind despatch'd upon her busy toil, [soil ; Should range where Providence has bless'd the Visiting every flower with labor meet, \nd gathering all her treasures sweet by sweet, She should imbue the tongue with what she sips, And shed the balmy blessing on the lips, That good diffused may more abundant grow, And speech may praise the power that bids it flow Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night, That fills the listening lover with delight, Forget his harmony, with rapture heard, To learn the twittering of a meaner bird 1 Or make the parrot's mimicry his choice, That odious libel on a human voice 1 No — nature, unsophisticate by man, Starts not aside from her Creator's plan ; The melody, that was at first design'd To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind, Is note for note deliver'd in our ears, In the last scene of her six thousand years. Yet Fashion, leader of a chattering train, Whom man, for his own hurt, permits to reign, Who shifts and changes all things but his shape And would degrade her votary to an ape, The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong, Holds a usurp'd dominion o'er his tongue ; There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace And, when accomplish'd in her wayward school Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool. 'Tis an unalterable fix'd decree, That none could frame or ratify but she, That heaven and hell, and righteousness and sin Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within, God and his attributes (a field of day Where 'tis an angel's happiness to stray,) Fruits of his love, and wonders of his might. Be never named in ears esteem'd polite ; That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave, Shall stand proscribed, a madman or a knave, A close designer not to be believed, Or, if excused that charge, at least deceived. Oh folly worthy of the nurse's lap, Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap ! Is it incredible, or can it seem A dream to any except those that dream, That man should love his Maker, and that fire. Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire 1 Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes, And veil your daring crest that braves the skies: That air of insolence affronts your God, % You need his pardon, and provoke his rod : Now, in a posture that becomes you more Than that heroic strut assumed before, Know, your arrears with every hour accrue For mercy shown, while wrath is justly due. The time is short, and there are souls on earth, Though future pain may serve for present mirth, Acquainted with the woes that fear or shame*, By fashion taught, forbade them once to name, And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest, Have proved them truths too big to be express'd. Go seek on revelation's hallow'd ground, Sure to succeed, the remedy they found ; [mock, Touched by that power that you have dared to That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock, Your heart shall yield a life-renewing stream, That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream. It happen'd on a solemn eventide, Soon after He that was our surety died, Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined, The scene of all those sorrows left behind, Sought their own village, busied as they went In musings worthy of the great event : They spake of him they loved, of him whose life, Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife. Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, A deep memorial graven on their hearts CONVERSATION. 55t The recollection, like a vein of ore. The farther traced, enrich'd them still the more ; They thought him, and they justly thought him, one Sent to do more than he appear'd to have done ; To exalt a people, and to place them high Above all else, and wonder'd he should die. Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend, And ask'd them, with a kind, engaging air, What their affliction was, and begg d a share. Inibrm'd, he gather'd up the broken thread, And, truth a*nd wisdom gracing all he said, Explain'd, illustrated, and search'd so well The tender theme on which they chose to dw r ell, That, reaching home, the night they said, is near, We must not now be parted, sojourn here — The new acquaintance soon became a guest, And made so welcome at their simple feast, He bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word. And left them both exclaiming, 'Twas the Lord ! Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd to say, Did they not burn within us by the way 1 Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves Man to maintain, and such as God approves : Their views indeed were indistinct and dim, But yet successful, being aim'd at him. Christ and his character their only scope, Their object, and their subject, and their hope, They felt what it became them much to feel, And, wanting hini to loose the sacred seal. Found him as prompt as their desire was true, To spread the new-born glories in their view. W T ell— what are ages and the lapse of time Match'd against truths, as lasting as sublime 1 Can length of years on God himself exact 1 Or make that fiction which was once a fact 1 No — marble.and recording brass decay, And, like the graver's memory pass away ; The works of man inherit, as is just. Their author's frailty, and return to dust : But truth divine forever stands secure, Its head is guarded as its base is sure ; Fix'd in the rolling flood of endless years, The pillar of the eternal plan appears, The raving storm and dashing wave defies, Built by that Architect who built the skies. Hearts may be found, that harbor at this hour That love of Christ, and all its quickening power ; And lips unstained by folly or by strife, Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of life, Tastes or* its healthful origin, and flows A Jordan for the ablution of our woes. O days of heaven, and nights of equal praise, Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days, When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat, Discourse, as if released and safe at home, Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come, And spread the sacred treasures of the breast Upon the lap of covenanted rest ! What, always dreaming over heavenly things. Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon-wings T Canting and whining out all day the word, And fcalf the night 1 fanatic and absurd ! Mine be the friend less frequent in his prayers, Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs, Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day, And chase the splenetic dull hours away ; Content on earth in earthly things to shine, Who waits for heaven ere he becomes divine, Leaves saints to enjoy those altitudes they teach, And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame, Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. Is sparkling wit the world's exclusive right'? The fix'd fee-simple of the vain and light 1 Can hopes of heaven, bright prospects of an hour That come to waft us out of sorrow's power, Obscure or quench a faculty that finds Its happiest soil in the serenest minds 1 Religion curbs indeed its wanton play, And brings the trifler under rigorous sway, But gives it usefulness unknown before, And purifying, makes it shine the more. A Christian's wit is inoffensive light, A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight ; Vigorous in age as in the flush of youth ; 'Tis always active on the side of truth ; Temperance and peace ensure its healthful state. And make it brightest at its latest date. Oh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain, Ere fife go down, to see such sights again) A veteran warrior in the Christian field, Who never saw the sword he could not wield ; Grave without dulness, learned without pride, Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-eye'd ; A man that would have foil'd at their own play A dozen would-be's of the modern day ; Who, when occasion justified its use, Had wit as bright as ready to produce, Could fetch from records of an earlier age, Or from philosophy's enlighten 'd page, His rich materials, and regale your ear With strains it was a privilege to hear : Yet above all his luxury supreme, And his chief glory, was the gospel theme ; There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, His happy eloquence seem'd there at home, Ambitious not to shine or to excel, But to treat justly what he loved so well. « It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, When some green heads, as void of wit as thought. Suppose themselves monopolists of sense, And wiser men's ability pretence. Though time will wear us, and we must grow old, Such men are not forgot as soon as cold, Their fragrant memory will outlast their tomb, Embalm'd forever in its own perfume. And to say truth, though in its early prime, And when unstain'd with any grosser crime, Youth has a sprightliness and fife to boast, That in the valley of decline are lost, And virtue with peculiar charms appears, Crown'd with the garland of life's blooming years Yet age, by long experience well inform'd, Well read, well temper'd, with religion warm'd, That fire abated which impels rash youth, Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth, As time improves the grape's authentic juice, Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use, And claims a reverence in its shortening day, That 'tis an honor and a joy to pay. The fruits of age, less fair, are yet more sound Than those a brighter season pours around ; And, like the stores autumnal suns mature, Through wintry rigors unimpair'd endu-e. What is fanatic frenzy, scorn 'd so much, And dreaded more than a contagious touch 1 I grant it dangerous, and approve your fear, That fire is catching, if you draw too near ; But sage observers oft mistake the flame, And give true piety that odious name. 556 COWPER'S WORKS. To tremble (as the creature of an hour Ought at the view of an almighty power) Before his presence, at whose awful throne All tremble in all worlds, except our own. To supplicate his mercy, love his ways. And prize them above pleasure, Wealth, or praise, Though common sense, allow'd. a casting voice, And free from bias, must approve the choice, Convicts a man fanatic in the extreme, And wild as madness in the world's esteem! But that disease, when soberly defined, Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind ; It views the truth with a distorted eye, And either warps or lays it useless by ; 'Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws Its sordid nourishment from man's applause ; And, while at heart sin unrelinquish'd lies, Presumes itself chief favorite of the skies. 'Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds In fly-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds, Shines in the dark, but, usher'd into day, The stench remains, the lustre dies away. True bliss, if man may reach it, is composed Of hearts in union mutually disclosed ; And, farewell else all hope of pure delight, Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, up- right. Bad men, profaning friendship's hallow'd name, Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame. A dark confederacy against the laws Of virtue, and religion's glorious dause : They build each other up with dreadful skill, As bastions set point-blank against God's will ; Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt, Deeply resolved to shut a Saviour out ; Call legions up from hell to back the deed ; And, cursed^with conquest, finally succeed. But souls, that carry on a blest exchange Of joys they meet with in their heavenly range, •And with a fearless confidence make known The sorrows sympathy esteems its own, Daily derive increasing light and force From such communion in their pleasant course. Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, Meet their opposers with united strength, And, one in heart, in interest, and design, Gird up each other to the race divine. But Conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when Religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer showers, Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers. The Christian, in whose soul, though now dis- tress'd, Lives the dear thought of joys he once possess'd, When all his glowing language issued forth With God's deep stamp upon its current worth, Will speak without disguise, and must impart, Sad as it is, his undissembling heart, Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal, Or seem to boast a fire, he does not feel. The song of Zion is a tasteless thing, Unless, when rising on a joyful wing, The soul can mix with the celestial bands, And give the strain the compass it demands. Strange tidings these to tell a world, who treat A*ll but their own experience as deceit ! Will they believe, though credulous enough To swallow much upon much weaker proof, That there are blest inhabitants on earth, Partakers of a new ethereal birth, Their hopes, desires, and purposes estranged Frdm things terrestrial, and divinely changed, Their very language of a kind that speaks The soul's sure interest in the good she seeks, Who deal with scripture, its importance felt, As Tully with Philosophy once dealt, And, in the silent watches of the night, And through the scenes of toil-renewing light, The social walk, or solitary ride, Keep still the dear companion at their side 1 No — shame upon a self-disgracing age, God's work may serve an ape upon a stage With such a jest as fill'd with hellish glee Certain invisibles as shrewd as he ; But veneration or respect finds none, Save from the subjects of that work alone. The World grown old her deep discernmen Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose, [shows Peruses closely the true Christian's face, And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace ; Usurps God's office, lays his bosom bare, And finds hypocrisy close lurking there ; And, serving God herself through mere constraint Concludes his unfeign'd love of him a feint. And yet, God knows, look human nature through (And in due time the world shall know it too) That since the flowers of Eden felt the blast, That after man's defection laid all waste, Sincerity towards the heart-searching God Has made the new-born creature her abode, Nor shall be found in unregenerate souls Till the last fire burn all between the poles. Sincerity ! why 'tis his only pride, Weak and imperfect in all grace beside, He knows that God demands his heart entire, And gives him all his just demands require. Without it, his pretensions were as vain As, having it, he deems the world's disdain ; That great defect would cost him not alone Man's favorable judgment but his own ; His birthright shaken, and no longer clear Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere Retort the charge, and let the world be told She boasts a confidence she does not hold ; That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead A cold misgiving and a killing dread : That while in health the ground of her support Is madly to forget that life is short ; That sick she trembles, knowing she must die, Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie ; That while she dotes and dreams that she believes She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives, Her utmost reach historical assent, The doctrines warp'd to what they never meant That truth itself is in her .head as dull And useless as a candle in a skull, And all her love of God a groundless claim, A trick upon the canvas, painted flame. Tell her again, the sneer upon her face, And all her censures of the work of grace, Are insincere, meant only to conceal A dread she would not, yet is forced to feel : That in her heart the Christian she reveres, And, while she seems to scorn him, only fears A poet does not work by square or line, As smiths and joiners perfect a design ; At least we moderns, our attention less, Beyond the example of our sires digress. And claim a right to scamper and run wide, Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide. The world and I fortuitously met ; I owed a trifle, and have paid the debt ; She did me wrong, I recompensed the deed,, And, having struck the balance, now proceed CONVERSATION. 65\ Perhaps, however, as some years have pass'd Since she and I conversed together last, And I have lived recluse in rural shades, Which seldom a distinct report pervades, Great changes and new manners have occurr'd, And blest reforms that I have never heard, And she may now be as discreet and wise, As once absurd in all discerning eyes. Sobriety perhaps may now be found, Where once intoxication press'd the ground ; The subtle and injurious may be just, And he grown chaste that was the slave of lust ; Arts once esteem'd may be with shame dismiss'd ; Charity may relax the miser's fist ; The gamester may have cast his cards away, Forgot to curse, and only kneel to pray. It has indeed been told me (with what weight, How credibly, 'tis hard for me to state,) That fables old. that seem'd forever mute, Revived, are hastening into fresh repute, And gods and goddesses, discarded long, Like useless lumber or a stroller's song. Are bringing into vogue their heathen train, And Jupiter bids fair to rule again ; That certain feasts are instituted now. Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow; That all Olympus through the country roves, To consecrate our few remaining groves, And Echo learns politely to repeat The praise of names ibr ages obsolete ; That having proved the weakness, it should seem. Of revelation's ineffectual beam. To bring the passions under sober sway, And give the moral springs their proper play. They mean to try what may at last be done, By stout substantial gods of wood and stone, And whether Roman rites may not produce The virtues of old Rome for English use. May such success attend the pious plan, May Mercury once more embellish man, Grace him asrain with long forgotten arts. Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts. Make him athletic, as in days of old. Learned at the bar, in the palaestra bold, Divest the rougher sex of female airs. And teach the softer not to copy theirs: The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught, Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought. 'Tis time, however, if the case stands thus. For us plain folks, and all who side with us, To build our altar confident and bold, And say, as stern Elijah said of old, The strife now stands upon a fair award, If Israel's Lord be God, then serve the Lord : If he be silent, faith is all a whim, Then Baal is the God, and worship him. Digression is so much in modern use, Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse, Some never seem so wide of their intent, As when returning to the theme they meant j As mendicants, whose business is to roam, Make every parish but their own their home. Though such continual zigzags in a book, Such drunken reelings have an awkward look. And I had rather creep to what is true, Than rove and stagger with no mark in view; Yet to consult a little seem'd no crime, The freakish humor of the present time : But now to gather up what seems dispersed, And touch the subject I design'd at first, May prove, though much beside the rules of axt Best for the public, and my wisest part. And first, let no man charge me that I mean To clothe in sable every social scene, And give good company a face severe, As if they met around a father's bier; For tell some men that, pleasure all their bent, And laughter all their work, is life misspent, Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply, Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry. To find the medium asks some share of wit, And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit. But though life's valley be a vale of tears, A brighter scene beyond that vale appears, Whose glory, with a fight that never fades, [shades. Shoots between scatter'd rocks and opening And while it shows the land the soul desires, The language of the land she seeks inspires. Thus touch'd. the tongue receives a sacred cure Of all that was absurd, profane, impure ; Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech Pursues the course that truth and nature teach , No longer labors merely to produce The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use : Where'er it winds, the salutary stream, Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme, While all the happy man possess'd before, The gift of nature or the classic store, Is made subservient to the grand design, For which Heaven formed the faculty divine. So, should an idiot, while at large he strays, Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays, With rash and awkward force the chords h« shakes. And grins with wonder at the jar he makes; But let the wise and well-instructed hand, Once take the shell beneath his just command, In gentle sounds it seems as it complain'd Of the rude injuries it late sustain'd, Till, tuned at length to some immortal song, It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his pravtc along. RETIREMENT. &\ udiis florens ignobilis oti. Virg. Georg. lib. iv. THE ARGUMENT. the busy universally desirous of retirement — Important purpose for which this desire was given to man — Mus- ing on the works of the creation, a happy employment —The service of God not incompatible, however, with a life of business — Human life ; its pursuits — Various motives for seeking retirement — The poet's delight in the study of nature — The lover's fondness for retire- ment — The hypochondriac — Melancholy, a malady that claims most compassion, receives the least — Sufferings of the melancholy man— The statesman's retirement— His new mode of life and company — Soon weary of re- tirement, he returns to his former pursuits — Citizens' villas — Fashion of frequenting watering-places — The ocean — The spendthrift in forced retirement — The sportsman ostler — The management of leisure a diffi- cult task — Man will be summoned to account for the employment of life — Books and friends requisite for the man of leisure ; and divine communion to fill the remaining void— Religion not adverse to innocent pleasures— The poet concludes with reference to. his own pursuit. Hackney'd in business, wearied at that oar, Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no more, But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low, All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego ; The statesman . lawyer, man of trade, Pants for the refuge of some rural shade, Where, all his long anxieties forgot Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot, Or recollected only to gild o'er, And add a smile to what was sweet before, He may possess the joys he thinks he sees, Lay his old age upon the lap of ease, Improve the remnant of his wasted span, And, having lived a trifler, die a man. [breast, Thus conscience pleads her cause within the Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd, And calls a creature form'd for God alone, For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own, Calls him away from selfish ends and aims, From what debilitates and what inflames, From cities humming with a restless crowd, Sordid as active, ignorant as loud. Whose highest praise is that they live in vair. , The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain. Where works of man are cluster'd close around. And works of God are hardly to be found, To regions where, in spite of sin and woe, traces of Eden are still seen below, Where mountain, river, forest field, and grove, Remind him of his Maker's power and love. 'Tis well if, look'd for at so late a day, In the last scene of such a senseless play, True wisdom will attend his feeble call. And grace his action ere the curtain fall, [birth. Souls that have long despised their heavenly T.\eir wishes all impregnated with earth, For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless In catching smoke and feeding upon air. [care Conversant only with the ways of men, Rarely redeem the short remaining ten. Inveterate habits choke the unfruitful heart, Their fibres penetrate its tenderest part, And, draining its nutritious powers to feed Their noxious growth, starve every better seed. Happy, if full of days — but happier far, If, ere we yet discern life's evening star, Sick of the service of a world, that feeds Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds, We can escape from custom's idiot sway, To serve the sovereign we were born to obey. Then sweet to muse upon his skill display'd (Infinite skill) in all that he has made ! To trace in nature's most minute design The signature and stamp of power divine, Contrivance intricate express'd with ease, Where unassisted sight no beauty sees, The shapely limb and lubricated joint, Within the small dimensions of a point, Muscle and nerve miraculously spun, His mighty work, who speaks and it is done, The invisible in things scarce * en reveal'd, To whom an atom is an ample n 'd : To wonder at a thousand insect fonns, These hatch'd and those resuscitated worms, New life ordain 'd and brighter scenes to share, Once prone on earth now buoyant upon air, Whose shape would make them, had they bulk and size, More hideous foes than fancy can devise ; With helmet-heads and dragon-scales adorn'd. The mighty myriads, now securely scorn'd, Would mock the majesty of man's high birth, Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth: Then with a glance of fancy to survey, Far as the faculty can stretch away, Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command, From urns that never fail, through every land ; These like a deluge with impetuous force, Those winding modestly a silent course ; The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales ; Seas, on which every'nation spreads her sails ; The sun, a world whence other worlds drink The crescent moon the diadem of night ; [light, Stars countless each in his appointed place, Fast anchor'd in the deep abyss of space — At such a sight to catch the poet's flame, And with a rapture like his own exclaim These are thy glorious works, thou Source ©/ Good, How dimly seen, how faintly understood ! Thine and upheld by thy paternal care, This universal frame, thu? wondrous fair; RETIREMENT 559 Thy power divine, and bounty beyond 'thought, Adored and praised in all that thou hast wrought. Absorb'd in that immensity I see. I shrink abashed and yet aspire to thee ; Instruct me. £uide me to that heavenly day Thy words more clearly than thy works display, That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine I may resemble thee, and call thee mine. O blest proficiency ! surpassing all That men erroneously their glory call, The recompense that arts or arms can yield, The bar. the senate, or the tented field. Compared with this sublimest life below, Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show % Thus studied used, and consecrated thus, On earth what is seems form'd indeed for us ; Not as'the plaything of a froward child, Fretful unless diverted and beguiled, Much less to feed and fan the fatal fires, Of pride, ambition, or impure desires, But as a scale, by which the soul ascends From mighty means to more important erup. Securely, though by steps but rarely trod, Mounts from interior beings up to God, And sees, by no fallacious light or dim. Earth made for man. and man himself for him. Not that I mean to approve, or would enforce, A superstitious and monastic course : Truth is not local, God alike pervades And fills the world of traffic and the shades. And may be fear'd amidst the busiest scenes. Or scorn'd where business never intervenes. But, 'tis not easy with a mind like ours, Conscious cf weakness in its noblest powers, And in a world where, other ills apart, The roving eye misleads the careless heart To limit thought, by nature prone to stray Wherever freakish fancy points the way ; To bid the pleadings of self-love be still, Resign our own and seek our Maker's will ; To spread the page of scripture, and compare Our conduct with the laws engraven there ; To measure all that passes in the breast, Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test ; To dive into the secret deeps within, To spare no passion and no favorite sin, And search the themes, important above all, Ourselves, and our recovery from our fall. But leisure silence, and a mind released From anxious thoughts how wealth may be in- creased, flow to secure, in some propitious hour, The point of interest or the post of power, A soul serene, and equally retired From objects too much dreaded or desired, Safe from the clamors of perverse dispute, At least are friendly to the great pursuit. Opening the map of God's extensive plan, We find a little isle, this life of man ; Eternity's unknown expanse appears Circling around and limiting his years. The»busy race examine and explore Each creek and cavern of the dangerous shore. With care collect what in their eyes excels, Some shining pebbles, and some weeds and shells. Thus laden, dream that they are rich and great, And happiest te that groans beneath his weight. The waves o'ertake them in their serious play. And every hour sweeps multitudes away ; They shriek and sink, survivors start and weep, Pursue their sport, and follow to the deep. A few forsake the throng ; with lifted eyes Ask wealth of Heaven and gain a real prize, Truth, wisdom, grace, and peace like that above Seal'd with his signet, whom they serve and love ; Scorn'd by the rest, with patient hope they wai A kind release from their imperfect state, And unregretted are soon snatch'd away From scenes of sorrow into glorious day. Nor these alone prefer a life recluse, Who seek retirement for its proper use ; The love of change that lives in every breast, Genius, and temper, and desire of rest, Discordant motives in one centre meet, And each inclines its votary to retreat. Some minds by nature are averse to noise, And hate the tumult half the world enjoys, The lure of avarice, or the pompous prize That courts display before ambitious eyes ; The fruits that hang on pleasure's flowery stem, Whate'er enchants them, are no snares to them To them th -. deep recess of dusky groves, Or forest, wiiere the deer securely roves, The^fall of waters, and the song of birds, And hills that echo to the distant herds. Are luxuries excelling all the glare [share The world can boast and her chief favorite. With eager step, and carelessly array 'd, For such a cause the poet seeks the shade, From all he sees he catches new delight, Pleased Fancy claps her pinions at the sight. The rising or the setting orb of day, The clouds that flit, or slowly float away, Nature in all the various shape's she wears, Frowning in storms, or breathing gentle airs, The snowy robe her wintry state assumes, Her summer heats, her fruits, and herperfumes All. all alike transport the glowing bard, Success in rhyme his glory and reward. O Nature ! whose Elysian scenes disc-lose His bright perfections at whose word they rose, Next to that power who form'd thee, and sustains, Be thou the great inspirer of my strains. Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expand Thy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand, That I may catch a fire but rarely known, Give useful light, though I should miss renown, And, poring on thy page, whose every line Bears proof of an intelligence divine, May feel a heart enrich'd by what it pays, That builds its glory on its Maker's praise. Woe to the man whose wit disclaims its use, Glittering in vain, or only to seduce, Who studies nature with a wanton eye, Admires the work, but slips the lesson by ; His hours of leisure and recess employs In drawing pictures of forbidden joys, •Retires to blazon his own worthless name, Or shoot the careless with a surer aim. The lover too shuns business and alarms, Tender idolater of absent charms. Saints offer nothing in their warmest prayers That he devotes not with a zeal like theirs ; 'Tis consecration of his heart, soul, time, And every thought that wanders is a crime. In sighs he worships his supremely fair, And weeps a sad libation in despair ; Adores a creature, and. devout in vain, Wins in return an answer of disdain. As woodbine weds the plant within her reach, Rough elm, or smooth-grain'd ash, or gloss* beech. *60 COWPER'S WORKS. In spiral rings ascends the trank, and lays Her golden tassels on the leafy sprays, But does a mischief while she lends a grace, Straitening its growth hy such a strict embrace ; So love, that clings around the noblest minds Forbids the advancement of the soul he binds ; The suitor's air indeed he soon improves, And forms it to the taste of her he loves, Teaches his eyes a language, and no less Xefines his speech, and fashions his address ; But farewell* promises of happier fruits, Manly designs, and learning's grave pursuits ; Girt with a chain he cannot wish to break, His only bliss is sorrow for her sake ; Who will may pant for glory and excel. Her smile his aim. all higher aims farewell ! Thyrsis. Alexis, or whatever name May least offend against so pure a flame, Though sage advice of friends the most sincere Sounds harshly in so delicate an ear, And lovers, of all creatures, tame or wild. Can least brook management, however mild, Yet let a poet (pottry disarms The fiercest animals with magic charms) Risk an intrusion on thy pensive mood, And woo and win thee to thy proper good. Pastoral images and still retreats, Umbrageous walks and solitary seats, Sweet birds in concert with harmonious streams, Soft airs, nocturnal vigils, and day-dreams, Are all enchantments in a case like thine, Conspire against thy peace with one design, Soothe thee to make thee but a surer prey, And feed the fire that wastes thy powers away. Up — God has formed thee with a wiser view, Not to be led in chains, but to subdue ; Calls thee to cope with enemies, and first Points out a conflict with thyself, the worst. Woman indeed, a gift he would bestow When he design'd a Paradise below, The richest earthly boon his hands afford, Deserves to be beloved, but not adored. Post away swiftly to more active scenes, Collect the scatter'd truth that study gleans, Mix with the world, but with its wiser part, No longer give an image all thine heart ; Its empire is not hers, nor is it thine, 'Tis God's just claim, prerogative divine. Virtuous and faithful Hkbghden, whose skill Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil, Gives melancholy up to nature's care, And sends the patient into purer air. Look where he comes — in this embower'd alcove Stand close conceal'd and see a statue move: Lips busy, and eyes fix'd, foot falling slow, Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp'd below, Interpret to the marking eye distress. Such as its symptoms can alone express. That tongue is silent now ; that silent tongue Could argue once, could jest, or join the soncr. Could give advice, could censure or commend, Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. Renounced alike its office and its sport, Its brisker and its graver strains fall short ; Both fail beneath a fever's secret pway, And like a summer-brook are past away. This is a sight for pity to peruse. Till she resemble jaintly what she views, till sympathy contract a kindred pain, Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain. This, of all maladies that man infest, Claims most compassion, and receives the least : Job felt it, when he groan'd beneath the rod And the barb'd arrows of a frowning God; And such emollients as his friends could spare, Friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare. Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never feel, Kept snug in caskets of close-hammer'd steel, With mouths made only to grin wide and eat, And minds that deem derided pain a treat, With limbs of British oak, and nerves of wire And wit that puppet prompters might inspire, Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke On pangs enforced with God's severest stroke. But. with a soul that ever felt the sting Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing: Not to molest, or irritate, or raise, A laugh at his expense, is slender praise ; He that has not usurp'd the name of man Does all, and deems too little all, he can, To assuage the throbbings of the fester'd part, And staunch the bleedings of a broken heart. 'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes ; Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, Each yielding harmony disposed aright ; The screws reversed (a task which if he please God in a moment executes with ease,) Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use. Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair As ever recompensed the peasant's care, Nor soft declivities with tufted hills, Nor view of waters turning busy mills, Parks in which art preceptress nature weds, Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds, Nor gales that catch the scent of blooming grove^ And waft it to the mourner as he roves, Can call up life into his faded eye, That passes all he sees unheeded by ; No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, No cure for such, till God who makes them heaia And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill That yields not to the touch of human skill, Improve the kind occasion, understand A Father's frown, and kiss his chastening hand To thee the day-spring, and the blaze of noon, The purple evening and resplendent moon, The stars that, sprinkled o'er the vault or nignt Seem drops descending in a shower of light, Shine not or undesired and hated shine, Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine: Yet seek him, in his favor life is found, All bliss beside, a shadow or a sound : Then heaven eclipsed so long, and this dull eartl Shall seem to start into a second birth; Nature, assuming a more lovely face, Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, Shall be despised and overlook'd no more, Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before Impart to things inanimate a voice, And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice The sound shall run along the winding vale* And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. Ye groves, (the statesman at his desk exclaim* Sick of a thousand disappointed aims.) My patrimonial treasure and my pride, Beneath your shades your grey possessor hide, Receive me. languishing for that repose The servant of the public never knows. Ye saw me once (ah, those regretted days, When bovish innocence was all my praise l"> Hour after hour delightfully allot, To studies then familiar, since forgot, RETIREMENT. 561 And cultivate a taste for ancient song, Catching its ardor as I mused along ; Nor seldom, as propitious Heaven might send, What once I valued and could boast a friend, Were witnesses how cordially I press'd His undissembliug virtue to my breast : Receive me now. not uncorrupt as then Nor guiltless of corrupting other men, But versed in arts that, while they seem to stay A falling empire, hasten its decay. To the fair haven of my native home. The wreck of what I was fatigued. I come ; For once I can approve the patriot's voice, And make the course he recommends my choice : We meet at last in one sincere desire, His wish and mine both prompt me to retire. 'Tis done, he steps into the welcome chaise, Lolls.at his case behind four handsome bays, That whirl away from business and debate The disencumber'd Atlas of the state. Ask not the boy. who. when the breeze of morn First shakes the glittering drops from every thorn, Unfolds his flock, then under bank or bush Sits linking cherry-stones or platting rush, How fair is freedom '{ — he was always free : To carve his rustic name upon a tree. To snare the mole, or with ill-fashion'd hook To draw the incautious minnow from the brook, Are life's prime pleasures in his simple view, His flock the chief concern he ever knew ; She shines but little in his heedless eyes, The good we never miss we rarely prize : But ask the noble drudge in state affairs, Escaped from office, and its constant cares. What charms he sees in Freedom's smile express'd, In freedom lost so long, now repossess'd ; [mands. The tongue whose strains were cogent as corn- Revered at home, and felt in foreign lands, Shall own itself a stammerer in that cause, Or plead its silence as its best applause. He knows indeed that, whether dress'd or rude, Wild without art, or artfully subdued, Nature in every form inspires delight, But never mark'd her with so just a sight. Her hedge-row shrubs, a variegated store, With woodbine and wild roses mantled o'er, Green balks and furrow'd lands, the stream that Its cooling vapor o'er the dewy meads [spreads Downs, that almost escape the inquiring eye, That melt and fade into the distant sky, Beauties he lately slighted as he pass'd, Seem all created since he travell'd last. Master of all the enjoyments he design'd, No rough annoyance rankling in his mind.^ What early philosophic hours he keeps, How regular his meals how sound he sleeps . Not sounder he that on the mainmast head, While morning kindles with a windy red, Begins a long look-out for distant land. Nor quits till evening watch his giddy stand. Then, swift descending with a seaman's haste, Slips to his hamaiock, and forgets the blast. He chooses company, but not the squire's, Whose wit is rudeness, whose good breeding tires ; Nor yet the parsons, who would gladly come, Obsequious when abroad, though proud at home; Nor can he much affect the neighboring peer, Whose toe of emulation treads too near ; But wisely seeks a more convenient friend, With whom, dismissing forms, he may unbend. A maa, whom marks of condescending grace, Teach, while they flatter him, his propef place; Who comes when call'd, and at a word withdraws, Speak' with reserve, and listens with applause : Some plain mechanic, who. without pretence, To birth or Wit, nor gives nor takes offence ; On whom he rests well pleased his weary powers, And talks and laughs away his vacant hours. The tide 01 life, *wift always in its course, May run in cities with a brisker force. But nowhere with a current so serene, Or hah' so clear, as in the rural sceme. Vet how fallacious is all earthly bliss, What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss; Some pleasures live a month, and some a year, But short the date of all we gather here ; No happiness is felt, except trie true, That does not charm thee more for being new. This observation, as it chanced, not made, Or if the thought occurr'd, not duly wcigh'd, He sighs — for after all by slow degrees The spot he loved has lost the power to please; To cross his ambling pony day by day Seems at the best but dreaming life away ; The prospect, such as might enchant despair, He views it not or sees no beauty there ; With aching heart, and discontented looks, Returns at noon to billiards or to books, But feels, while grasping at his faded joys, A secret thirst of his renounced employs. He chides the tardiness of every post, Pants to be told of battles won or lost, Blames his own indolence, observes though late, 'Tis criminal to leave a sinking state, Flies to the levee, and, received with grace. Kneels kiss.es hands, and shines again in place. Suburban villas, highway-side retreats [streets, That dread the encroachment of our growing Tight boxes, neatly sash'd. and in a blaze With all a July sun's collected rays. Delight the citizen, who gasping there, Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air. O sweet retirement, who would balk the thought That could afford retirement, or could not ? 'Tis such an easy walk, so sinoota and straight. The second milestone fronts the garden gate ; A step if fair and. if a shower approach. You find safe shelter in the next stage-coach. There, prison'd in a parlor snug and small, Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall. The man of business, and his friends compress'd Forget their labors, and yet find no rest ; But still 'tis rural — trees are to be seen From every window, and the fields are green ; Ducks paddle in the pond before the door, And what could a remoter scene show more 1 A sense of elegance we rarely find The portion of a mean or vulgar mind, And ignorance of better things makes man, Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can ; And he, that deems his leisure well bestow'd In contemplation of a turnpike-road. Is occupied as well, employs his hours As wisely, and as much improves his powers, As he that slumbers in pavilions graced With all the charms of an accomplish'd taste. Yet hence, alas ! insolvencies ; and hence The unpitied victim of ill-judged expense, From all his wearisome engagements freed, Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed Your prudent grandmammas, ye modern belles, Content with Bristol. Bath, and Tunbridge Wells, When health required it, would consent to roam, Else more attach'd to pleasures found at home j 36 662 COWPER'S WORKS. But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife, Ingenious to diversify dull life. In coaches, chaises, caravans and hoys Fly to the coast for daily nightly joys, And all impatient of dry land, agree With one consent to rush into the sea. Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad, Much#of the power and majesty of God. He swathes about the swelling of the deep, That shines and rests, as infants smile and sleej ; Vast as it is. it answers as it flows The breathings of the lightest air that blows ; Curling and whitening over all the waste, The rising waves obey the' increasing blast, Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars. Thunder and flash upon the steadfast shores, Till he that rides the whirlwind checks the rein, Then all the world of waters sleeps again. Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads, Now in the floods now panting in the meads, Votaries of pleasure still where'er she dwells, Near barren rocks, in palaces or cells, grant a poet leave to recommend (A poet fond of nature, and your friend) Her slighted works to your admiring view ; Her works must needs excel, who fashion'd you. Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride, With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side, Condemn the prattler for his idle pains, To waste unheard, the music <»f his strains, And, deaf to all the impertinence of tongue, That, while it courts, affronts and does you wrong, Mark well the finish'd plan without a fault, The seas globose and huge, the o'erarching vault. Earth's millions daily ted, a world employ'd In gathering plenty yet to be enjoy'd, Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise Of God, beneficent in all his ways ; [shine ! Graced with such wisdom how would beauty Ye want but that to seem indeed divine. Anticipated rents and bills unpaid, Force many a shining youth into the shade, Not to redeem his time, but his estate, And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate. There, hid in loathed obscurity, removed From pleasures left but never more beloved, He just endures, and with a sickly spleen Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene. Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme ; Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime ; The warb lings of the blackbird, clear and strong, Are musical enough in Thomson's song; And Cobham's groves, and Windsor's green re- treats, When Pope describes them, have a thousand sweets ; He likes the country, but in truth must own, Most likes it when he studies it in town. Poor Jack — no matter who — for when I blame, 1 pity, and must therefore sink the name, Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse. The estate, his sires had own'd in ancient years, Was quickly distanced, match'd against a peer's. Jack vanish'd, was regretted, and forgot; 'Tis wild good-nature's never failing lot. At length, when all. had long supposed him dead, By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead, My lord, alighting at his usual place, The Crown, took notice of an ostler's face. Jack knew his friend, but hoped in that disguise He mipfif escape the most observing oyes, And whistling, as if unconcern'd and gay, Curried his nag and look'd another way ; . Convinced at last, upon a nearer view, 'Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew, O'erwhelm'd at once with wonder, grief, and joy He prcss'd him much to quit his base employ ; His countenance, his purse, his hea t, his hand, Influence and power, were all at his command : Peers are not always generous as well bred, But Granby was meant truly what he said. Jack bow'd, and was obliged — confess'd 'twa« strange, That so retired he should not wish a change, But knew no medium between guzzling beer, And his old stint — three thousand pounds a-year Thus some retire to nourish hopeless woe ; Some seeking happiness not found below; Some to comply with humor, and a mind To social scenes by nature disinclined ; Some sway'd by fashion, some by deep disgust; Some self-impoverish'd, and because they must; But few, that court Retirement, are aware Of half the toils they must encounter there Lucrative offices are seldom lost For want of powers proportion'd to the post: Give e'en a dunce the employment he desires, And he soon finds the talents it requires ; A business with an income at its heels Furnishes always oil for its own wheels. But in his arduous enterprise to close His active years with indolent repose, He finds the labors of that state exceed His utmost faculties, severe indeed. 'Tis easy to resign a toilsome place, But not to manage leisure with a grace ; Absence of occupation is not rest, A mind quite vacant is a mind distress'd. The veteran steed, excused his task at length, In kind compassion of his failing strength, And turn'd into the park or mead to graze, Exempt from future service all his days, There feels a pleasure perfect in its kind, Ranges at liberty, and snuffs the wind : But when his lord would quit the busy road, To taste a joy like that he has bestow'd, He proves, less happy than his favor'd brute, A life of ease a difficult pursuit. [seem Thought, to the man that never thinks, may As natural as when asleep to dream; But reveries (Tor human minds will act) Specious in show, impossible in fact, Those flimsy webs, that break as soon as wrought, Attain not to the dignity of thought : Nor yet the swarms that occupy the brain, Where dreams of dress, intrigue, and pleasure reign ; Nor such as useless conversation breeds, Or lust engenders and indulgence feeds, [dain'd 1 Whence, and what are we 1 to what end or- What means the drama by the world sustain'd ' Business or vain amusement, care or mirth, Divide the frail inhabitants of earth. Is duty a mere sport, or an employ 1 Life an entrusted talent, or a toy % Is there, as reason, conscience, Scripture say, Cause to provide for a great future day, When, earth's assign 'd duration at an end, Man shall be summon'd and the dead attend 1 The trumpet — will it sound 1 the curtain rise "< And show the august tribunal of the skies, Where no prevarication shall avail, Where eloquence and artifice shall fail. \L M IP I IE RETIREMENT. 563 The pride of arrogant distinctions fall, And conscience and our conduct judge us all 1 Pardon me, ye that give the midnight oil To learned cares or philosophic toil, Though I revere your honorable names, if our useful labors and important aims. And hold the world indebted to your aid, Enrich'd with the discoveries ye have made; Yet let me stand excused, if I esteem A mind employ 'd on so sublime a theme. Pushing her bold inquiry to the date And outline of the present transient state, And after poising her adventurous wings, Settling at last upon eternal things, Far more intelligent, and better taught The strenuous use of profitable thought. Than ye. when happiest and enlighten'd most, And highest in renown, can justby boast. A mind unnerved, or indisposed to bear The weight of subjects worthiest of her care, Whatever hopes a change of scene inspires, Must change her nature, or in vain retires. An idler is a watch that wants both hands; As useless if it goes as when it stands Books, therefore, not the scandal of the shelves. In which lewd sensualists print out themselves; Nor those, in which the stage gives vice a blow. With what success let modern manners show; Nor his who, for the bane of thousands born. Built God a church, and laugh'd his words to Skilful alike to seem devout and just. [scorn, And stab religion with a sly side-thrust ; Nor those of learn'd philologists, who chase A panting syllable through time and space Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, To Gaul to Greece, and into Noah's ark ; But such as learning without false pretence,- The friend of truth -the associate of sound sense, And such as in the zeal of good design. Strong judgment laboring in the scripture mine, All such as manly and great souls produce. Worthy to live, and of eternal use : Behold in these what leisure hours demand, Amusement and true knowledge hand in hand. Luxury gives the mind a childish cast, And, while she polishes, perverts the taste ; Habits of close attention, thinking heads, , Become more rare as dissipation spreads. Till authors hear at length one general cry, Tickle and entertain us, or we die. The loud demand, from year to year the same, Beggars invention, and makes fancy lame; Till farce itself most mournfully jejune, Calls for the kind assistance of a tune ; And novels (witness every month's review) Belie their name, and offer nothing new. The mind relaxing into needful sport, Should turn to writers of an abler sort. Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style, Give truth a lustre and make wisdom smile. Friends (for I cannot stint as some have done, Too rigid in my view, that name to one; Though one. I grant it. in the generous breast Will stand advanced a step above the rest ; Flowers by that name promiscuously we call, But one, the rose, the regent of them all.) — friends, not adopted with a schoolboy's haste, But chosen with a nice discerning taste. Well born, well disciplined, who placed apart From vulgar minds, have honor much at heart, Ard, though the world may think the ingredients The love of virtue, and the fear of God ! [odd, Such friends prevent what else would soon A temper rustic as the life we 'lead, [succeed, And keep the polish of the manners clean, As theirs who bustle in the busiest scene; • For solitude, however some may rave, Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave, A sepulchre, in which the living lie, Where all good qualities grow sick and die. I praise the Frenchman * his remark was shrewd How sweet how passing sweet is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, Whorn-I may whisper — Solitude is sweet. Yet neither these delights nor aught beside, That appetite can ask or wealth provide, Can save us always from a tedious day, Or shine the dulness of still life away; Divine communion, carefully enjoy'd, Or sought with energy, must fill the void. Oh sacred art ! to which alone life owes Its happiest seasons and a peaceful close, Scorn'd in a world indebted to that scorn For evils daily felt and hardly borne, Not knowing thee, we reap with bleeding hands, Flowers of rank odor upon thorny lands, And. while experience cautions us in vain, Grasp seeming happiness and find it pain Despondence self-deserted in her grief. Lost by abandoning he- own relief Murmuring and ungrateful discontent, That scorns afflictions mercifully meant, Those humors, tart as wines upon the fret, Which idleness and weariness beget ; [breast, These, and a thousand plagues that haunt tne Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest, Divine communion chases, as the day Drives to their dens the obedient beasts of prev See Judah's promised king bereft of all. Driven out an exile from the face of Saul. To distant caves the lonely wanderer flies, To seek that peace a tyrant's frown denies. Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice, Hear him, o'erwhelm'd with sorrow, yet rejoice No womanish or wailing grief has part. No, not a moment, in his royal heart ; 'Tis manly music, such as martyrs make. Suffering with gladness for a Saviour's sake. His soul exults hope animates his lays. The sense of mercy kindles into praise, And wilds, familiar with the lion's roar, Ring with ecstatic sounds unheard before : 'Tis love like his that can alone defeat The foes of man or make a desert sweet. Religion does not censure or exclude Unnuinber'd pleasures harmlessly pursued; To study culture and with artful toil To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil ; To give dissimilar yet fruitful lands The grain, or herb, or plant that each demands To cherish virtue in an humble state, And share the joys your bounty may create ; To mark the matchless workings of the power That shuts within its seed the future flower, Bids these in elegance of form excel, In color these, and those delight the smell, Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies, To dance on earth and charm all human eyei To teach the canvas innocent deceit. Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet — These these are arts pursued without a crime, That leave no stain upon the wing of time * Bruy^re. 664 COWPER'S WORKS Me poetry (or, rather, notes that aim Feebly and vainly at poetic fame) Employs, shut out from more important views, Fast bv the banks of the slow -winding Ouse ; Content if, thus sequester'd, I re ay raise A moniDr's, though not a poet's praise, And, while I teach an art too little known, To close life wisely, may not waste my own. THE TASK ADVERTISEMENT. The history of the following production is briefly this : A lady, fond of blank verse, demanded a poem of that kind from the au- thor, and gave him the Sofa for a subject. He obeyed ; and having maeh leisure, con- nected another subject with it ; .and, pursuing the train of thought to which his situation and turn of mind led him, brought forth at length, instead of the trifle which he at first intended, a serious affair — a volume. In the poem on the subject of Education he would be very sorry to stand suspected of having aimed his censure at any particular school. His objections are such as naturally apply themselves to schools in general. If there were not, as for the most part there is. wilful neglect in those who manage them, and an omission even of such discipline as they are susceptible of, the objects are yet too numerous for minute attention ; and the aching hearts of ten thousand parents, mourn- ing under the bitterest of all disappointments, attest the truth of the allegation. His quar- rel therefore is with the mischief at large, and not with any particular instance of it. BOOK I. THE SOFA. THE ARGUMENT. Historical deduction of seats, from the stool to the sofa — A schoolboy's ramble— A walk in the country— The scene described — Rural sounds as well as sights delightful — Another walk — Mistake concerning the charms of solitude corrected — Colonnades commended —Alcove, and the view from it— The wilderness— The Grove — The Thresher — The necessity and the benefits of exercise — The works of nature superior to, and in BOine instances inimitable by, art — The wearisomeness of what is commonly called a life of pleasure— Change of scene sometimes expedient — A common described, and the character of crazy Kate introduced — (iipsies — The blessings of civilized life— That state most favor- able to virtue — The South Sea islanders compassion- ated, but chiefly Omai — His present state of mind sup- posed—Civilized life friendly to virtue, but not great .cities — Great cities, and London in particular, allowed their due praise, but censured — Fete champetre — The book concludes with a reflection on the effects of dis- sipation and effeminacy upon our public measures. I sing the Sofa. I who lately sang truth, Hope, and Charity,* and touch'd with awe * See Poems. The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand. Escaped with pain from that adventurous flight Now seek repose upon an humbler theme ; The theme though humble, yet august and prou:l The occasion — ibr the fair commands the song. Time was when clothing sumptuous or for use, Save their own painted skins our sires had none As yet black breeches were not ; satin smooth, Or velvet soft or plush with shaggy pile : The hardy chief upon the rugged rock, VVash'd by the sea or on the gravelly bank Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud, Fearless of wrong reposed his weary strength. Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next The birthday of Invention ; weak at first, Dull in design, and clumsy to perform. Joint-stools were then created ; on three legs Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding fira A massy slab in fashion square or round. On such a stool immortal Alfred sat, And sway'd the sceptre of his infant realms : And such in ancient halls and mansions drear May still be seen ; but perforated sore, And drill'd in holes the solid oak is found, By worms voracious eating through and througn At length a generation more refined Improved the simple plan ; made three legs four Gave them a twisted form vermicular, And o'er the seats with plenteous wadding stuff'd, Induced a splendid cover, green and blue, Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought And woven close, or needlework sublime. There might ye see the piony spread wide, The full blown rose, the shepherd and his lass, Lapdbg and lambkin with black staring eyes, And parrots with twin cherries in their beak. Now came the cane from India, smooth and With Nature's varnish sever'dinto stripes [bright That interlaced each other, these supplied Of texture firm a lattice work, that braced The new machine, and it became a chair. But restless was the chair ; the back erect Distress'd the weary loins that felt no ease ; The slippery seat betray'd the sliding part That press'd it and the feet hung dangling down, Anxious in vain to find the distant floor, [placed These for the rich ; the rest, whom Fate had In modest mediocrity, content With base materials, sat on well tann'd hides, Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth, With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn, Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fix'd, If cushion might be call'd what harder seem'd Than the firm oak of which the frame was form'd No want of timber then was felt or fear'd In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood Ponderous and fix'd by its own massy weight. But elbows still were wanting ; these, some say THE TASK— THE SOFA. 565 A.n alderman of Cripplegate contrived ; And some inscribe the invention to a priest, Burly and big. and studious ot" his ease. But, rude at first and not with easy slope Receding wide, tiiey press'd against the ribs. And bruised the side, and elevated high, Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears. Long time elapsed or e'er our rugged sires Oomplain'd. though incommodiously pent in, And ill at ease behind. The ladies first 'Gan murmur, as became the sorter sex. Ingenious Fancy, never better pleased Than when employed to accommodate the fair. Heard the sweet moan with pity : and devised The soft settee ; one elbow at each end. And in the midst an elbow it received, United yet divided, twain at once, So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne ; And so two citizens, who take the air, Close pack'd and smiling, in a chaise and one. But relaxation of the languid frame. By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs. Was bliss reserved for happier days. So slow The growth of what is excellent ; so hard To attain perfection in this nether world. Thus first necessity invented stools. Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, And Luxury the accomplished Sofa last, [sick, The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour, To sleep within the carriage more secure, His legs depending at the open door. Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk, The tedious rector drawling o'er his head ; And sweet the clerk below. Bat neither sleep Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead, Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour, To slumber in the carriage more secure, Nor sleep enjoyed by curace in his desk, Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet Compared with the repose the Sofa yields. Oh may I live exempted (while I live Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene) From pangs arthritic, that infest the toe Of libertine Excess ! The Sofa suits The gouty limb, 'tis true ; but gouty limb, Though on a Sofa, may I never feel ; For I have loved the rural walk through lanes Of grassy swarth. close cropp'd by nibbling sheep, And skirted thick with intertexture firm Of thorny boughs ; have loved the rural walk O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink, E er since a truant boy I passed my bounds To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames ; And still rememb r. nor without regret Or* hours that sorrow since has much endear'd. How oil. my slice of pocket store consumed, Still hungering pennyless and far from home, I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws Or blushing crabs, or berries, that emboss The bramble, black as jet. or sloes austere. Hard fare ! but such as boyish appetite Disdains not ; nor the palate, undepraved By culinary arts, unsavory deems. No Sofa then awaited my return ; No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs [lis wasted spirits quickly, by long toil Incurring short fatigue ; and though our years, As life declines speed rapidly away, And not a y*ar but pilfers as he goes tfome youthful grace, that age would gladly keep ; A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees Their length and color from the locks they span The elastic spring of an unwearied foot. That mounts the stile with ease or leaps the fenou That play of lungs, inhaling and again Respiring freely the fresh air. that makes Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me, Mine have not pilfer'd yet ; nor yet impair'd My relish of fair prospect ; scenes that soothed Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find Still soothing, and of power to charm me still. And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love. Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth, And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire — Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not c onjured up To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all. How oil upon yon eminence our pace Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, While Admiration, feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. Thence with what pleasure have we justdiscern'd The distant plough slow moving, and beside His laboring team that swerved not from the track, The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy ! Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads, with cattle sprinkled o'er, Conducts the eye along his sinuous course Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, Stand, never overlook'd, our favorite elms, That screen the herdsman's solitary hut ; While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, That as with molten glass : inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds ; Displaying on its varied side the grace Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, Tall spire from which the sound of cheerful belU Just undulates upon the listening ear, Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. Scenes must be beautiful which, daily view'd, Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge, and the scrutiny of years — Praise justly due to those that I describe. Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood Of ancient growth, make music not unlike The dash of ocean on his winding shore. And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods or on the softer voice Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Betrays the secret oi' their silent course. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds. But animated nature sweeter still, To soothe and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The livelong night : nor these alone, whose notet Nice-finger d Art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still-repeated circles, screaming loud. 566 COWPER'S WORKS. The jay. the pie, and e'en the boding owl, That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns. And only there, please highly for their sake. Peace to the artist whose ingenious thought Devised the weather-house, that useful toy ! Fearless of humid air and gathering rains, Forth steps the man — an emblem of myself! More delicate his timorous mate retires. When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, Or ford the livulets. are best at home. The task of new discoveries falls on me. At such a season, and with such a charge, Once went I forth ; and found, till then unknown. A cottage, whither oft we since repair ; 'Tis perched upon the green hill top : but close Environ 'd with a ring of branching elms, That overhang the thatch, itself unseen Peeps at the vale below ; so thick beset With foliage of such dark redundant growth, I call'd the low-roof 'd lodge the peasant's nest. And, hidden as it is ; and far remote From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear In village or in town, the bay of curs Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, And infants clamorous whether pleased orpain'd, Oil have I wished the peaceful covert mine. Here, I have said, at least I should possess The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. Vain thought ! the dweller in that still retreat Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. Its elevated site forbids the wretch To drink sweet waters of the crystal well ; He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, And. heavy laden, brings his beverage home, Far fetch'd and little worth ; nor seldom waits, Dependent on the baker's punctual call, To hear his creaking panniers at the door. Angry and sad, and his" last crust consumed. So farewell envy to the peasant's nest ! If solitude make scant the means of life, Society for me ! — thou seeming sweet, Be still a pleasing object in my view ; My visit still but never mine abode. Not distant far, a length of colonnade Invites us. Monument of ancient taste, Now scorn'd but worthy of a better fate. Our fathers knew the value of a screen From sultry suns ; and, in their shaded walks And lonir protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon The gloom and coolness of declining day. We bear our shades about us ; self-deprived Of other screen the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree. Thanks to Benevolus,* he spares me yet These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines; And, though himself so polished, still reprieves The obsolete prolixity of shade. Descending now, — but cautious, lest too fas 4 ., — A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge, We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. Hence, ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme, We mount again, and feel at every step Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. * John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq., of We3ton Un- ierwood. He. not unlike the great ones of mankind, Disfigures earth : and plotting in the dark, Toils much to earn a monumental pile. That may record the mischiefs he has done. The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcovr That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures The grand retreat from injuries impress'd By rural carvers, who with knives deface The panels, leaving an obscure, rude name, In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. So strong the zeal to immortalize himself Beats in the breast of man. that e'en a few, Few transient years, won from the abyss ttl« Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, [hoir'd And even to a clown. Now roves the eye ; And, posted on this speculative height, Exults in its command. The sheepfold here Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. At first, progressive as a stream, they seek The middle field ; but, scatter'd by degrees, Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. There from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward creeps The loaded wain ; while, lighten'd of its charge, The wain that meets it passes swiftly by ; The boorish driver leaning o'er his team Vociferous and impatient of delay. Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, Diversified with trees of every growth, Alike, yet various. Here the grey smooth trunks Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, Within the twilight of their distant shades ; There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs. No tree in all the grove but has its charms. Though each its hue peculiar ; paler some, And of a wannish grey ; the willow such, And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf, And ash far stretching his umbrageous arm ; Of deeper green the elm ; and deeper still. Lord of the woods, the long surviving oak. Some glossy-leaved, and shining in the sun, The maple, and the beech of oily nuts Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve Diffusing odors: nor unnoted pass The sycamore, capricious in attire, Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet Have changed the woods, in scarlet honore bright. O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map Of hill and valley interposed between.) The Ouse, dividing the well water'd land, Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. Hence the declivity is sharp and short, And such the re-ascent; between them weeps A little naiad her impoverish'd urn All summer long, which winter fills again. The folded gates would bar my progress now, But that the lord* of" this enclosed demesne, Communicative of the good he owns, Admits me to a share : the guiltless eye Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. Refreshing change ! where now the blazing sun 3 By short transition we have lost his glare, And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime. Ye fallen avenues ! once more I mourn Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice That yet a remnant of your race sun ives. How airy and how light the graceful arch, »Ibid. I HE TASK.— THE SOFA. 56 Yet a«vful as the i onsccrated roof Re-echoing pious anthems ! while beneath The chequer'd earth seems restless as a flood Brush'd by the wind. So sportive is the light Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves Play wanton, every moment, every spot. And now, with nerves new braced and spirits cheer'd, We tread the wilderness, whose well rolled walks, With curvature of slow and easy sweep — ■ Deception innocent — give ample space . To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next; Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms We may discern the thresher at his task. Thump pfter thump resounds the constant flail, That seems to swing uncertain, and yet falls Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff; The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam. Come hither, ye that press your beds ot' down And sleep not ; see him sweating o'er his bread Before he eats it. — 'Tis the primal curse, But soften'd into mercy ; made the pledge Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. By ceaseless action all that is subsists. Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel That Nature rides upon maintains her health, Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads [moves. An instant's pause, and lives but while she Its own revolvency upholds the world. Winds from all quarters agitate the air, And fit the limped element for use, Else noxious : oceans, rivers ; lakes, and streams All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed By restless undulation: e'en the oak Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm : He seems indeed indignant, and to feel The impression of the blast with proud disdain, Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm He held the thunder : but the monarch owes His firm stability to what he scorns — More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above. The lav/, by which all creatures else are bound. iBinds man. the lord of all. Himself derives No mean advantage from a kindred cause, From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. The sedentary stretch their lazy length When custom -bids, but no refreshment find, For none they need : the languid eye, the cheek Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul, Reproach their owner with that love of rest To which he forfeits e'en the rest he loves. Not such the alert and active. Measure life By its true worth, the comforts it affords, And theirs alone seems worthy of the name. Good health, and, its associate in the most, Good temper : spirits prompt to undertake, And not soon spent, though in an arduous task ; The powers of fancy and strong thought are E'en age itself seems privileged in them, [theirs ; With clear exemption from its own defects. A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front The veteran shows, and, gracing a grey beard With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave Sprightly, and old almost without decay. Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, Farthest retires — an idol, at whosa shrine Who oftenest sacrifice are favor'd least. The love of Nature and the scenes she draws Is Nature's dictate. Strange ! there should b! found, Who, self-imprison'd in their proud saloons, Renounce the odors of the open field For the unscented fictions of the loom: Who, satisfied with only pencil'd scenes, Prefer to the performance of a God The inferior wonders of an artist's hand ! Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art; But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire, None more admires, the painter's magic skill, Who shows ine that which I shall never see, Conveys a distant country into mine, And throws Italian light on English walls. But imitative strokes can do no more Than please the eye — sweet Nature every sense* The air salubrious of her lofty hills, The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, And music of her woods — no works of man May rival these ; these all bespeak a power Peculiar, and exclusively her own. Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast ; 'Tis free to all — 'tis every day renew'd ; Who scorns it starves deservedly at home. He does not scorn it, who imprison'd long In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey To sallow sickness, which the vapors, dank And clammy, of his dark abode have bred, Escapes at last to liberty and light ; His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue ; His eye rehrmines its extinguish'd fires ; He walks, he leaps, he runs — is wing'd with joy And riots in the sweets of every breeze. He does not scorn it, who has long endured A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed With acrid salts : his very heart athirst To gaze at Nature in her green array, Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess d With visions prompted by intense desire : Fair fields appear below, such as he left Far distant, such as he would die to find^- He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns , The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown, And sullen sadness : that o'ershade, distort, And mar the face of beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears, These Flora banishes, and gives the fair Towa Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient Man hel It is the constant revolution, stale And tasteless, of the same repeated joys, That palls and satiates, and makes languid life A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down. Health suffers, and the spirits ebb ; the heart Recoils from its own choice — at the full feast Is famish'd — finds no music in the song, No smartness in the jest; and wonders why. Yet thousands still desire to journey on, Though halt, and weary of the path they tread The paralytic, who can hold her cards, But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort Her mingled suits and sequences ; and sits, Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. Others are dragg'd into the crowded room, Between supporters ; and, once seated, sit, Through downright inability to rise, Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. These speak a loud memento. Yet e'en these 568 COWPER'S WORKS. Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he That overhangs a torrent to a twig. They love it, and yet loathe it ; fear to die. Yet scorn the purposes for which they live. Then wherefore not renounce them ? No — the The slavish dread of solitude that breeds [dread, Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, And their inveterate habits, all forbid. [long Whom call we gay % That honor has been The boast of mere pretenders to the name. The innocent are gay — the lark is gay. That dries his feathers saturate with clew, Beneath the rosy clouds, while yet the beams Of dayspring overshoot his humble nest. The peasant too, a witness of his song. Himself a songster, is as gay as he. But save me from the gayety of those Whose head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed ; And save me too from theirs whose haggard eyes Flash desperation, and betray their pangs For property stripp'd off by cruel chance ; From gayety that fills the bones with pain, The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man studious of change, And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. Prospects, however lovely, may be seen Till half their beauties fade ; the weary sight, Too well acquainted with their smiles slides off Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. Then snug ' r 'osures in the shelter'd vale. Where freq . i*t hedges intercept the eye, Delight us ; happy to renounce awhile. Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, That such short absence may endear it more. Then forests, or the savage rock, may please, That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts Above the reach of man. His hoary head, Conspicuous may a league, the mariner. Bound homeward, and in hope already there, Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows, And at his feet the baffled billows die. The common, overgrown with fern, and rough With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd, And dangerous to the touch has yet its bloom, And decks itself with ornaments of gold Yields no unpleasing ramble ; there the turf Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense ' With luxury of unexpected sweets. There often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. A serving maid was she, and fell in love With one who left her, went to sea, and died. Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves To distant shores ; and she would sit and weep At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too, Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Would oft anticipate his glad return, And dream of transports she was not to know. She heard the doleful tidings of his death — And never smiled again ! and now she roams The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong day, And there, unless when charity forbids. The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides. Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown More tatter'd still ; and both but ill conceal A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. She begs an idle pin of all she meets, ind hoards them in her sleeve ; but needful food, Though press'd with hunger oft, or comeliei clothes, [crazed • Though pinch 'd with cold, asks never. — Kate is . I see a column of slow-rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. » A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung Between two poles upon a stick transverse. Receives the morsel — flesh obscene of dog. Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race' They pick their fuel out of every hedge, Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un quench'd The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wida Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, The vellum of the pedigree they claim. Great skill have they in palmistry, and more To conjure clean away the gold they touch, Conveying worthless dross into its place ; Loud when they beg. dumb only when they steal Strange ! that a creature rational, and cast In human mould, should brutalize by choice His nature ; and. though capable of arts, By which the world might profit, and himself, Self-banish'd from society, prefer Such squalid sloth to honorable toil ! Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft, They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb And vex their flesh with artificial sores, Can change their whine into a mirthful note When safe occasion offers ; and with dance, And music of the bladder and the bag, Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. Such health and gayety of heart enjoy The houseless rovers of the sylvan world [much, And. breathing wholesome air, arid wandering Need other physic none to heal the effects Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crcwd By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure, Where man. by nature fierce, has laid aside His fierceness having learnt, though slow to learn, The manners and the arts of civil life. His wants indeed are many ; but supply Is obvious, placed within the easy reach Of temperate wishes and industrious hands. Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil ; Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns, And terrible to sight, as when she springs (If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote And barbarous climes, where violence prevails, And strength is lord of all ; but gentle, kind, By culture tam'd by liberty refresh'd, And all her fruits by radiant truth matured. War and the chase engross the savage whole, War follow'd for revenge, or to supplant The envied tenants of some happier spot: The chase for sustenance, precarious trust ! His hard condition with severe constraint Binds all his facdlties, forbids all growth Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside Thus fare the shivering natives of the north, And thus the rangers of the western world, Where it advances far into the deep, Towards the antarctic. E'en the favor'd isles, So lately found, although the constant sun Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, Can boast but little virtue ; and. inert Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain THE TASK.— THE SOFA. 569 In manners — victims of luxurious ease. These therefore I can pity, placed remote From all that science traces, art invents, Or inspiration teaches ; and enclosed »n boundless oceans, never to be pass'd By navigators uninform'd as they, Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again : But far beyond the rest, and with most cause, Thee, gentle savage !* whom no love of thee Or thine, but curiosity, perhaps, Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw Forth from thy native bowers to show thee here With what superior skill we can abuse The gifts of Providence, and squander life. The dream is past ; and thou hast found again Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams. And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast thou found [state, Their former charms 1 And. having seen our Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports, And heard our music ; are thy simpU friends, Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights As dear to thee as once 1 And have thy joys Lost nothing by comparison with ours 1 Rude as thou art, (for we returned thee rude And ignorant, except of outward show), I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart, And spiritless as never to regret Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known. Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, And asking ot* the surge that bathes thy foot, If ever it has wash'd our distant shore. I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, A patriot's for his country : thou art sad At thought of her forlorn and abject state, From which no power of thine can raise her up. Thus fancy paints thee, and though apt to err, Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus. She tells me. too. that duly every morn Thou climb'st the mountain top, with eager eye Exploring far and wide the watery waste For sight of ship from England. Every speck Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale With conflict of contending hopes and fears. But comes at last the dull and dusky eve. And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared To dream all night of what the day denied. Alas ! expect it not. We found no bait To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, Disinterested good, is not our trade. We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought ; And must be bribed to compass earth again By other hopes and richer fruits than yours. But though true worth and virtue in the mild And genial soil of cultivated life Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, Yet not in cities oft : in proud, and gay, And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow, As to a common and most noisome sewer, The dregs and feculence of every land. In cities foul example on most minds Begets its likenesss. Rank abundance breeds In gross and pamper'd cities, sloth, and lust, And wantonness, and gluttonous excess. In cities vice is hidden with most ease, Or seen with least reproach ; and virtue, taught By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there Beyond the achievement of successful flight. » do confess them nurseries of the arts, * Omai. In which they flourish most ; where, in the beams Of warm encouragement, and in the eye Of public note, they reach their perfect size. Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd The fairest capital of all the world : By riot and incontinence the worst. There, touch'd by Reynolds a dull blank becomes A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees All her reflected features. Bacon there, Gives more than female beauty to a stone, And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. Nor does the chisel occupy alone The power of sculpture, but the style as much ; Each province of her art her equal care. With nice incision of her guided steel She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil So sterile with what charms soe'er she will, The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, With which she gazes at yon burning disk Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots 1 In London : where her implements exact, With which she calculates, computes, and scans All distance, motion, magnitude, and now Measures an atom, and now girds a world 1 In London. Where has commerce such a mart, So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, As London — opulent, enlarg'd, and still Increasing London 1 Babylon of old Not more the glory of the earth than she, A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now. She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, That so much beauty would do well to purge , And show this queen of cities that so fair May yet be foul ; so witty, yet not wise. It is not seemly, nor of good report, That she is slack in discipline ; more prompt To avenge than to prevent the breach of law : That she is rigid in denouncing death On petty robbers, and indulges life And liberty, and ofttimes honor too, To peculators of the public gold : [puts That thieves at home must hang ; but he, that Into his over-gorged and bloated purse The "wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, That through profane and infidel contempt Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul And abrogate, as roundly as she may, The total ordinance and will of God ; Advancing Fashion to the post of Truth, And centring all authority in modes And customs of her own, till sabbath rites Have dwindled into unrespected forms, And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced. God made the country, and man made tha town. What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves" Possess ye, therefore, ye who, borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But such as art contrives, possess ye still Your element ; there only can ye shine ; There only minds like yours can do no harm. Our groves were planted to console at noon The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve The moonbeam, sliding softly in between The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish. Birds warbling all the music. We can spare 670 COWPER'S WORKS, The splendor of your lamps ; they but eclipse Our softer satellite. Your songs confound Our more harmonious notes ; the thrush departs Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. There is a public mischief in your mirth ; It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, A mutilated structure, soon to fall. BOOK II. THE TIME-PIECE. THE ARGUMENT. Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former book — Peace among the nations recommended on the ground of their common fellowship in sorrow — Prodi- gies enumerated — Sicilian earthquake — Man rendered obnoxious to these calamities by sin — God the agent in them — The philosophy that stops at secondary causes reproved — Our own late miscarriages accounted for — Satirical notice taken of our trips" to Fontainbleau— But the pulpit, not satire, the proper engine of reforma- tion — The reverend advertiser of engraved sermons — Petit-maitre parson — The good preacher — Picture of a theatrical clerical coxcomb — Story-tellers and jesters in the pulpit reproved — Apostrophe to popular applause —Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with— Sum of the whole matter— Effects of sacerdotal mis- management on the laity — Their folly and extrava- gance — The mischiefs of profusion — Profusion itself, with all its consequent evils, ascribed, as to its princi- pal cause, to the want of discipline in the universities. Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more ! My ear is pain'd, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man ; the natural bond ■ Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color'd like his own ; and, having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; And, worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot. Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man 1 And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man 1 I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake : for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him We have no slaves at home : — then why abroad 1 And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lung* Receive our air, that moment they are free ; They touch our country, and their shackles fall That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire ; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. Sure there is need of social intercourse, Benevolence, and peace, and mutual aid, Between the nations in a world that seems To toll the death-bell of its own decease, And by the voice of all its elements [windi To preach the general doom.* When were the Let slip with such a warrant to destroy 1 When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry 7 . Fires from beneath, and meteors f from above, Portentous, unexampled, unexplain'd, Have kindled beacons in the skies ; and the old And crazy earth has had her shaking fits More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. Is it a time to wrangle, when the props And pillars of our planet seem to fail, And Nature ^ with a dim and sickly eye To wait the close of all % But grant her end More distant, and that prophecy demands A longer respite, unaccomplished yet ; Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak Displeasure in his breast who smites the earth Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve And stand exposed by common peccancy To what no few have felt, there should be peace And brethren in calamity should love. Alas for Sicily ! rude fragments now Lie scatter'd where the shapely column stood. Her palaces are dust. In all her streets The voice of singing and the sprightly chord Are silent. Revelry, and dance, and show Suffer a syncope and solemn pause; While God performs upon the trembling stage Of his own works the dreadful part alone. How does the earth receive him % — with what Of gratulation and delight her King 1 [signs Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads 1 She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps And fiery caverns, roars beneath his foot. The hills move lightly, and the mountains smoke, For he has touch'd them. From the extremest Of elevation down into the abyss [point His wrath is busy, and his frown is felt. The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise, The rivers die into offensive pools, And, charged wi*h putrid verdure, breathe a gross And mortal nuisance into all the air. What solid was, by transformation strange, Grows fluid ; and the fix'd and rooted earth, Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, Or with a vortiginous and hideous whirl Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs * Alluding to the calamities in Jamaica. t August 18, 1783. i Alluding to the fog that covered both Europe and Asia during the whole summer of 1783. THE TASK.— THE TIME-PIECE. 571 And agonies of human and of brute Multitudes, fugitive on every side, And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene Migrates uplifted ; and with all its soil Alighting in far distant fields, finds out A new possessor, and survives the change. Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwrought To an enormous and o'erbearing height, Not by a mighty wind, but by that "Voice Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge. Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the throng That press'd the beach, and, hasty to depart, Look'd to the sea for safety 1 They are gone, Gone with the refluent wave into the deep — A prince with half his people ! Ancient towers, And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes < Where beauty ott and letter 'd worth consume Life in the unproductive shades of death. Fall prone : the pale inhabitants come forth, And. happy in their unforeseen release From all the rigors of restraint, enjoy The terrors of the day that sets them free, [fast, Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee Freedom ! whom they that lose thee so regret. That e'en a judgment making way for thee, Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake. Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame Kindled in heaven that it burns down to earth. And. in the furious inquest that it makes On God's behalf lays waste his fairest works. The very elements, though each be meant The minister of man. to serve his wants, Conspire against him. With his breath he draws A plague into his blood ; and cannot use Life's necessary means, but he must die. Storms rise to o'erwhelm him : or if stormy winds Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, And. needing none assistance of the storm. Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, Or make his house his grave : nor so content, Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. What then ! — were they the wicked above all, And we the righteous, whose fast-anchor'd isle Moved not. while theirs was rock'd like a light skirt The sport of every wave 1 No : none aTe clear, And none than we more guilty. But. where all Stand chargeable with guilt and to the shafts Of wrath obnoxious. God may choose his mark: May punish, if he please, the less, to warn The more malignant. If he spared not them, Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee! Happy the man who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill that chequer life ! Resolving all events, with their effects And manifold results, into the will And arbitration wise of the Supreme. Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The least of our concerns (since from the least The greatest ott originate,,) could chance Find place in his dominion, or dispose One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen Contingence might alarm him, and disturb The smooth and equal course of his affairs. This truth Philosophy, though eagle-eyed In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks ; And having found his instrument, forgets, Or disregards, or more presumptuous still, Denies the power that wields it. God proclriml His hot displeasure against foolish men, That live an atheist life : involves the heaven In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds, And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin. And putrify the breath of blooming Health. He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips, And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, And desolates a nation at a blast. Forth steps the spruce philosopher,. and tells Of homogeneal and discordant springs And principles ; of causes, how they work By necessary laws their sure effects ; Of action and re-action. He has found The source of the disease that nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool ! will thy discovery er : frost, and woe, Where peace and h> tspitality might reign. What man that li\ es, and that knows how to live, Would fail to exhibit at the public shows A form as splendid as the proudest there, Though appetite raise outcries at the cost 1 A man of the town lines late, but soon enough, With reasonable forecast and despatch, To ensure a side-box station at half price. You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress, His daily fare as delicate. Alas! He picks clean teeth, and. busy as he seems With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet ! The rout is Folly's circle, which she draws With magic wand. So potent is the spell, That none decoy'd in*o that fatal ring, Unless by Heaven's peculiar grace, escape. There we grow early grey, but never wise ; There form connexions, but acquire no friend ; Solicit pleasure, hopeless of success ; Waste youth in occupations only fit For second childhood, and devote old age To sports which only childhood could excuse. There they are happiest who dissemble best Their weariness ; and they the most polite Who squander time and treasure with a smile, Though at their own destruction. She that asks Her dear five hundred friends contemns them all, And hates their coming- . They (what can they less?) Make just reprisals ; and, with cringe and shrug, And bow obsequious hide their hate of her. All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace, Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, And gild our chamber ceiling; as they pass, To her, who, frugal only that her thrift May feed excesses she can ill affoi'd, Is hackney'd home unlackeyM ; who, in haste Alighting turns the key in he: own door, And, a tthe watchman's lantei i borrowing light. Finds a cold bed her only con fort left, [wives, Wives beggar husbands, husl ands starve thei? On Fortune's velvet altar Kffer ng up Their last poor pittance — Fort, ne, most severe Of goddesses yet known, and t ostlier far Than all that held their routs in Juno's heaven.— So fare we in this prison-house the world; And 'tis a fearful spectacle to s< e So many maniacs dancing in tlieir chains. They gaze upon the links that hold them fast With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot, Then shake them in despa ; ', and dance again! Now basket up the fami K of plagues That waste our vitals; peculation, sale Of honor, perjury corruption, frauds By forgery, by subterfuge of law. By tricks and lies as numerous a »d as keen THE TASK.— THE TIME-PIECE 57 As the necessities their authors feel ; Then cast them, closely bundled, every brat At the right door. Profusion is the sire. Profusion unrestrained with all that's base In character, has litter'd all the land, And bred, within the memory of no few, A priesthood such as Baal's was of old, A people sucli as never was till now. It is a hungry vice : — it eats up all That gives society its beauty, strength, Convenience, and security, and use ; Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'd And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws Can seize the slippery prey ; unties the knot Of union, and converts the sacred band, That holds mankind together, to a scourge Profusion, deluging a state with lusts Of grossest nature and of worst effects, Prepares it for its ruin : hardens, blinds, And warps the consciences of public men, Till thev can laugh at Virtue ; mock t^e fools That t w«t them; and in the end disclose u face That would have shock'd Credulity herseli, Unmask'd. vouchsafing this their sole excuse — Since all alike are selfish, why not they ] This does Profusion, and the accursed cause Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. In colleges and halls, in ancient days, When learning, virtue, piety, and truth Were precious and inculcated with care, There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head, Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er, Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, But strong for service still, and unimpair'd. His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile Play'd on his lips ; and in his speech was heard Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. The occupation dearest to his heart Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke The head of modest and ingenuous worth, That blush'd at its own praise ; and press the youth Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew Beneath his care a thriving vigorous plant ; The mind was well-inform'd, the passions held Subordinate, and diligence was choice If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must. That one among so many overleap'd The limits of control, his gentle eye Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke : His frown was full of terror, and his voice Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe As left him not till penitence had won Lost favor back again, and closed the breach. But discipline, a faithful servant long, Declined at length into the vale of years : A palsy struck his arm ; his sparkling eye Was quench'd in rheums of age ; his voice, un- strung, Grew tremulous, and moved derision more Than reverence in perverse rebellious youth. So colleges and halls neglected much Their good old friend ; and Discipline at length, O'erlook'd and unernploy'd. fell sick and died. Then Study languish'd. Emulation slept, And Virtue fled. The schools became a scene Of sohmn farce, where ignorance in stilts, His cap well lined with logic not his own, With parrot tongue performed the scholar's part, Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. Then Compromise had place, and Scrutiny Became stone blind ; Precedence went in truck, And he was competent whose purse was s« A dissolution of all bonds ensued ; The curbs invented for the mulish mouth Of headstrong youth wlere broken ; bars and bolt* Grew rusty by disuse ; and massy gates Forgot their office, opening with a touch; Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade, The tassell'd cap and the spruce band a jest, A mockery of the world ! What need of these For gamsters, jockeys, brothellers impure, Spendthrifts, and booted sportsmen, oflener seer With belted waist and oointers at their heels Than in the bounds of duty 1 What was learn'd If aught was learned in childhood, is forgot ; And such expense as pinches parents blue, And mortifies the liberal hand of love, Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sports And vicious pleasures ; buys the boy a name That sits a stigma on his father's house, • And cleaves through life inseparably close To him that wears it. What can after-games Of riper joys, and commerce with the world, The lewd vain world, that must receive him soon Add to such erudition, thus acquired, Where science and where virtue are profess'd 1 They may confirm his habits, rivet fast His folly, but to spoil him is a task That bids defiance to the united powers Of fashion dissipation, taverns, stews. Now blame we a&st the nurslings or the nurse 1 The children, crook'd and twisted, and deform'd. Through want of care ; or her. whose winking And slumbering oscitancy mars the brood 1 [eye The nurse, no doubt. Regardless of her charge, She needs herself correction ; needs to learn That it is dangerous sporting with the world, W T ith things so sacred as a nation's trust, The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. All are not such. I had a brother once — Peace to the memory of a man of worth, A man of letters and of manners too ! Of manners sweet as Virtue always wears, When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. He graced a college,* in which order yet Was sacred; and was honor'd. loved, and wept By more than one themselves conspicuous there. Some minds are temper'd happily, and mix'd With such ingredients of good sense and taste Of what is excellent in man, they thirst With such a zeal to be what they approve, That no restraints can circumscribe them more Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom's sake. Nor can example hurt them : what they see Of vice in others but enhancing more The charms of virtue in their just esteem. If such escape contagion, and emerge Pure from so foul a pool to shine abroad, And give the world their talents and themselves, Small thanks to those, whose negligence or sloth Exposed their inexperience to the snare, And left them to an undirected choice. See then the quiver broken and decay'd, In which are kept our arrows ! Rusting there In wild disorder, and unfit for use, What wonder, if. discharged into the world, They shame their shooters with a random flight, Their points obtuse, and feathers drunk with wine ! Well may the church wage unsucceessful war, * Bene't College, Cambridge. 576 COWPER'S WORKteJ. With such artillery arm'd. Vice parries wide The undreaded volley with a sword of straw, And stands an impudent and fearless mark. Have we not track'd the* felon home, and found His birthplace and his dam? The country mourns, Mourns because every plague that can infest Society, and that saps and worms the base Of the edifice that Policy has raised, Swarms in all quarters ; meets the eye. the ear, And suffocates the breath at every turn. Profusior breeds them; and the cause itself Of that calamitous mischief has been found: Found too where most offensive, in the skirts Of the robed pedagogue ! Else let the arraign'd Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge. So when the Jewish leader stretch'd his arm, And waved his rod divine, a race obscene, Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth, Polluting Egypt: gardens, fields, and plains Were cover'd with the pest ; the streets were fiil'd ; The croaking nuisance lurk'd in every nook, N>' palaces, nor even chambers, 'scaped; And the land stank — so numerous was the fry. BOOK III. THE GARDEN THE ARGUMENT. 8elf-recoIUction and reproof— Address to domestic hap piness— yome account of myself— The vanity of many of thea pursuits who are reputed wise — Justification of my censures — Divine illumination necessary to the most expert philosopher— The question, What is truth? answered by other questions — Domestic happi- ness addressed again — Few lovers of the country— My tame hare— Occupations of a retired gentleman in hi? garden —Pruning — Framing — Greenhouse— Sowing o.' flower seeds— Th^ country preferable to the town even in the winter — Reasons why it it deserted at that seasoi -Ruinous effects of gaming, and of expensive im- provement — Book concludes with an apostrophe to the metropolis. is one who, long in thickets and in brakes Entangled, winds now this way and now that His devious course uncertain, seeking home; Or, having long in miry ways been foil'd. And sore discomfited, from slough to slough Plunging and half despairing of escape ; If chance at length he finds a greensward smooth And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed, And winds his Wiiy with pleasure and with ease ; So I, designing other themes, and call'd To adorn the Sofa with eulogium due. To tell its slumbers, and to paint its dreams, Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat Of academic fame (howe'er deserved,) Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last. But now with pleasant pace a cleanlier road I mean to tread. I feel myself at large. Courageous, and re fresh 'd for future toil. If toil awaits me. or if dangers new. Since pulpits fail, and sounding boards reflect Most part an empty ineffectual sound. What chance that I, to fame so little known, Nor conversant with men or manners much, Should speak to purpose, or with better hope Crack the *atiric thong 1 'Twere wiser far For me, enamour'd of sequester'd scenes, And charm'd with rural beauty, to repose, [vine Where chance may throw me, beneath elm a My languid limbs, when summer sears«the plains Or when rough winter rages, on the soft And shelter'd Sofa, while the nitrous air Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth There, undisturb'd by Folly, and apprised How great the danger of disturbing her, To muse in silence, or at least confine Remarks that gall so many to the few, My partneis in retreat. Disgust conceaPd If ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. Domestic Happiness, thou only bliss Of Paradise that has survived the fall ! Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure, Or tasting long enjoy thee ! too infirm, Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets Unmix 'd with drops of bitter, which neglect Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup : Thou art the nurse of Virtue, in thine arms She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again. Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored. That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm Of Novelty, her fickle, frail support; For thou art meek and constant hating chan£* And finding in the calm of truth-tried k r e Joys that her stormy raptures never yieF. Forsaking thee what shipwreck have we made Of honor, dignity, and fair renown! Till prostitution elbows us aside, In all our crowded streets ; and senates seem Convened lor purposes of empire less Than to release the adultress from her bond. The adultress ! what a theme for angry verse What provocation to the indignant heart, 7hat feels for injur'd love! but I disdain The nauseous task, to paint her as she is, j Cruel abandon'd. glorying in her shame! No: — let her pass, and. charioted along [n guilty splendor, shake the public ways ; The frequency of crimes has washed them wbii.e; And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch, Whom matrons now. of chaiacter unsmirch'd, And chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own. Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time, Not to be pass'd : and she, that had renounced Her sex's honor, was renounced herself By all that prized it; not for prudery's sake, But dignity's, resentful of the wrong. 'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif, Desirous to return, and not received ; But was a wholesome rigor in the main, And taught the unblemish'd to preserve with care That purity, whose loss was loss of all. Men too were nice in honor in those days, And iudcred offenders well. Then he thai snarp d, And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd, Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that sold His country or was slack when she required His every nervp, in action and at stretch, Paid, with the blood that he had basely spared, The price of his default. But now — yes, now We are become so candid and so fair, So liberal in construction, and so rich In Christian charity, (good-natured age !) That they are safe, sinners of either sex, THE TASK.— THE GARDEN. 577 Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd, well bred, Well equipaged. is ticket good enough To pass us readily through every door. Hypocrisy, detest her as we may, (And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet.) May claim this merit still — that she admits The worth of what she mimics with such care, A.-id thus, gives virtue indirect applause; But she has burnt her mask, not needed hce. Where Vice has such allowance, that her .shifts And specious semblances have lost their use. I was a stricken deer, lhat left the herd Long since ■ with many an arrow deep infix'd My panting r.ido was charged, when I withdrew, To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found by One who had himself Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, And in his hands and feet the cruel scars. With gentle force soliciting the darts. [live. He drew them forth, and heal'd. and bade me Since then, with few associates, in remote Any silent woods I wander, far from those My f jrmer partners of the peopled scene ; With few associates, and not wishing more. Here much I ruminate, as much I may. With other views of men and manners now Than once, and others of a life to come. I see that all are wanderers, gone astray Each in his own delusions ; they are lost In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd And never won. Dream after dream ensues ; And still they dream that they shall still succeed ; And still are disappointed. Rings the world With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, And add two-thirds of the remaining half, And find the total of their hopes and fears Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay As if created only like the fly, [noon, That spreads his motley wings in the eye of To sport their season, and be seen no more. The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. Some write a narrative of wars, and feats Of heroes little known ; and call the rant A x istory: describe the man. of whom His own coevals took but little note ; And paint his person, character, and views, As they had known him from his mother's womb. They disentangle from the puzzled skein, In which obscurity has wrapp'd them up, The threads of politic and shrewd design, That ran through all his purposes, and charge His mind with meanings that he never had, Or having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it, and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age. Some, more acute, and more industrious still, Contrive creation : travel nature up To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, And tell us whence the stars ; why some are fix'd, And planetary some; what gave them first Rotation, from what fountain fiow'd their light. Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants ; each claiming truth. And truth disclaiming bo.h. And thus they spend The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp In playino tricks with nature, giving laws To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. Is't not a pity, now. that tickling rheums Should ever tease the lungs and blear the sight Of oracles like these 1 Great pity too, That, having wielded the elements, and built A thousand systems, each in his own way, They should go out in fume, and be forgot 1 Ah ! what is life thus spent 1 and what are they But frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke- Eternity for bubbles proves at last A senseless bargain. Wh?n T see such crames Play'd by the creatures of a Power who'swears That lie will judge the earth, and call the fooi To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain • And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, And prove it in the infallible result So hollow and so false — I feel my heart Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd. If this be learning, most of all deceived. Great crimes alarm tiie conscience, but it sleej i While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. Defend me therefore, common sense, say I, Prom reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up ! 'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, Terribly arch'd and aquiline his nose, And overbuilt with most impending brows,— 'Twere well, could you permit the world to hv/>. As the world pleases: what's the world to you '• Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk As sweet as charity from human breasts. I think, articulate, I laugh and weep, And exercise all functions of a man. How then should I and any man that lives Be strangers to each other \ Pierce my vein, Take of the crimson stream meandering there, And catechise it well : apply thy glass, Search it, and prove now if it be not blood Congenial with thine own : and if it be, What edge of subtlety canst tliou suppose Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, To cut the link of brotherhood, by which One common Maker bound me to the kind 1 True ; I am no proficient, T confess, In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath' I cannot analyze the air, nor catch The parallax of yonder luminous point, That seems half quench'd in the immense abyss : Such powers I boast not — neither can I rest. A silent witness of the headlong rage, Or heedless folly by which thousands die, Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. God never meant that man should scale the heavens , By strides of human wisdom. In his works, Though wondrous, he commands us in his won! To seek him rather where his mercy shines. The min I indeed enlighten'd from above, Views hiai in all ; ascribes to the grand cause The grand effect ; acknowledges with joy His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. But never yet did philosophic tube, That brings the planets home into the eye Of .Observation, and discovers, else Not visible, his family of worlds, Discover him that rules them ; such a veil Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birtfc. And (lmk in things divine. Full often too Our wayward intellect, the more we learn Of nature, overlooks her Author more; 37 57b COWPER'S WORKS. From instrumental causes proud to draw Conclusions retrograde and mad mistake. But if his word once teach us. shoot a ray- Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light, Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptized .n the pure fountain of eternal love, Has eyes indeed ; and, viewing all she sees As meant to indicate a God to man, Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own. Learning has borne such fruit in other days Or. all her branches : piety has found Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like sage ! Sagacious reader of the works of God. And his word sagacious. Such, too. thine, Milton, whose genius had angelic wings. And fed on manna ! And such thine, in whom Our British Themis gloried with just cause, [mmortal Hale ! for deep discernment praised, And sound integrity, not more than famed For sanctity of manners undefiled. All flesh is grass/and all its glory fades Like the fair flower dishevell'd in the wind; Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream The man we celebrate must find a tomb, And we that worship him ignoble graves. Nothing is proof against the genera" curse Of vanity, that seizes all belcw. The only amaranthine flower on earth Is virtue ; the only lasting treasure, truth. But what is truth 1 'Twas Pilate's question put To truth itself that deign'd him no reply. And wherefore 1 will not God impart his light To them that ask it 1 — Freely — 'tis his joy, His glory, and his nature to impart. But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. What's that which brings contempt upon a book, And him who writes it. though the style be neat, The method clear, and argument exact % That makes a minister in holy things The joy of many and the dread of more, His name a theme for praise and for reproach 1 — That, while it gives us worth in God's account, Depreciates and undoes us in our own 1 What ^earl is it that rich men cannot buy, That learning is too proud to gather up ; Bat which the poor, and the despised of all, Seek and obtain, and often find unsought? Tell me — and I will tell thee what is truth. O friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural pleasure pass'd ! Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets ; Though many boast thy favors, and affect T.i understand and choose thee for their own. But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, E'en as his first progenitor, and quits, Though placed in Paradise (for earth has still Some traces of her youthful beauty left,) Substantial happiness for transient joy. Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse The growing seeds of wisdom ; that suggest, By every pleasing image they present, Reflections such as meliorate the heart, - Compose the passions, and exalt the mind ; Scej.-s such as these 'tis his ^pr; n.. delight To fill with riot and defile with blood. Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes t\'e persecute, annihilate the tribes That draw the sportsman over hill and dale, Fearless and rapt away from all his cares ; Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye ; Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song, Be quell'd in all our summer months' retreat ; How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen, Arid crowd the roads, impatient for the town ! They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a hear« Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought, For all the savage din of the swift pack, And clamors of the field? — Detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain ; That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued With eloquence, that agonies inspire Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs 1 Vain tears, alas ! and sighs that never find A corresponding tone in jovial souls ! Well — one at least is safe. One shelter'd hare Has never heard the sanguinary yell Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. Innocent partner of my peaceful home, Whom ten long years' experience of my care Has made at last familiar ; she has lost Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, Not needful here beneath a roof like mine. Yes — thou mayest eat thy bread, and /ick the hand That feeds hee ; thou mayest frolic on the tio-»r At evening, and at night retire secure To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd; For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged All that is human in me to protect Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave ; And, when I place thee in it, sighing say, " I knew at least one hare that had a frien i." How various his employments whom the world Calls idle ; and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too ! Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his peu, Delightful industry enjoy 'd at home, And Nature, in her cultivated trim Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad — Can he want occupation who has these 1 Will he be idle who has much to enjoy 1 Me. therefore, studious of laborious ease, Not slothful, happy to deceive the time, Not waste it, and aware that human life Is but a loan to be repaid with use, When He shall call his debtors to account, From whom arc all our blessings, business Gnu-- E'en here : while sedulous I seek to improvt,, At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd, The mind He gave me : driving it, though slack Too oft, and much impeded in its work, By causes not to be divulged in vain, To its just point — the service of mankind. He, that attends to his interior self, That has a heart, and keeps it: has a mind That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks A social, not a dissipated life. Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve No unimportant, though a silent task. A life all turbulence and noise may stem THE TASK.— THE GARDEN, 579 To him that leads it wise, and to be praised ; But wisdom is a pearl with most success Sought in still water and beneath clear skies. He that is ever occupied in storms. Or dives not for it. or brings up instead, Vainly industrious a disgraceful prize. The morning finds the self-sequestered man Fresh for his task intend what task he inay. Whether inclement seasons recommend Ws warm but simple home, where he enjoys. With her who shares his pleasures and his heart. Sweet converse sipping calm the fragrant lymph Which neatly she prepares ; then to his book Well chosen and not sullenly perused In selfish silence, but imparted oft. As aught occurs, that she may smile to hear, Or turn to nourishment digested well. Or if the garden, with its many cares. All well repaid, demand him. he attends The welcome call, conscious how much the hand Of lubbard Labor needs his watchful eye, Oft loitering lazily, :f not o'ersecn. Or misapplying his unskilful strength. Nor does he govern only or direct. But much perforins himself No works, indeed, That ask robust, tough sinews, bred to toil Servile employ ; but such as may amuse, Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. Proud of his well-spread walls he viewo his trees. That meet, no barren interval between With pleasure more than e'en their fruits afford ; Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel. These thereftie are his own peculiar charge ; No meaner hand may discipline the shoots. None but his steel approach them. What is weak. Distemper'd, or has lost prolific powers, [mpair'd by age. his unrelenting hand Dooms tc the knife : nor does he spare, the soft And succulent, that feeds its giant growth, But barren, at the expense of neighboring twigs L ess ostentatious, and yet studded thick With hopeful gems. The rest no portion left riiat may disgrace his art. or disappoint Large, expectation, he disposes neat At measured distances, that air and sun, Admitted freely, may aibrd their aid, And ventilate and warm the swelling buds. Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence, And hence e'en Winter fills his wither'd hand With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own.* Fair recompense of labor well bestow'd, A nd wise precaution ; which a clime so rude .Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods Discovering much the temper of her sire. For oft, as if in her the stream of mild Maternal nature had reversed its course, She brings her infants forth with many smiles ; But, once delivered, kills them with a frown. He therefore, timely warn'd, himself supplies Her want of care, screening and keeping warm The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft As the sun peeps, and vernal airs breathe mild, The fence withdrawn, he gives them every beam And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day. To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd, to grateful to the palate, and when rare * Miruturque novos fructug et non su a coma. — Vire.. So coveted, else base and disesteem'd, — Food for the vulgar merely — is an art That toiling ages have but just matured, And at this moment unassay'd in song, [since Yet gnats have had, and trogs and mice, long Their eulogy ; those sang the Mantuan bard ; And these the Grecian, in ennobling strains; And in thy numbers. Phillip:; shines for aye, The solitary shilling. Pardon then, Ye sage dispensers of pcetic fame. The ambition of one meaner far. whose p>wers, Presuming an attempt not less sublime. Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste Of critic appetite no sordid fare, A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. The stable yields a stercoraceous heap, Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, And potent to resist the freezing blast : For, ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf Deciduous, when now November dark Checks vegetation in the torpid plant Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins. Warily therefore, and with prudent heed, He seeks a favor'd spot; that where he builds The agglomerated pile his frame may front The sun's meridian disk, and at the back Enjoy close shelter wall, or reeds, or hedge Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread Dry fern or litter'd hay, that may imbibe The ascending damps ; then leisurely impose And lightly, shaking it with agile hand From the full fork, the saturated straw. What longest binds the closest forms secure The shapely side, that as it rises takes, By just degrees, an overhanging breadth, Sheltering the base with its projected eaves , The uplifted frame, compact at every joint, And overlaid with clear translucent, glass. He settles next upon the sloping mount. Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure From the dash'd pane the deluge as it falls. He shuts it close, and the first labor ends. Thrice must the voluble and restless earth | Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth, | Slow gathering in the midst, through the square mass Diffused, attains the surface . when, behold ! A pestilent and most corrosive steam, Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast, And fast condensed upon the dewy sash, Asks egress ; which obtain 'd, the overcharged And drench'd conservatory breathes abroad, In volumes wheeling slow, the vapdr dank ; And, purified, rejoices to have lost Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage The impatient fervor, which at first conceives Within its reeking bosom, threatening death To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft The way to glory by miscarriage foul, Must. prompt him, and admonish how to catch The auspicious moment, when the temper'd heat Friendly to vital motion, may aiford Soft fomentation, and invite the seed. The seed, selected wisely, plump, and smooth, And glossy, he commits to pots of size Diminutive, well fill'd with well prepared And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long, And drunk no moisture from the dripping cloud* These on the warm and genial earth, thit hides The smoking manure, and o'erspreads it all, He places lightly, and, as time subdues 580 COWPER'S WORKS. The rage of fermentation, plunges deep In the soft medium, till they stand immersed. Then rise the tender germs, upstarting quick, And spreading wide their spongy lobes : at first Pale, wan, and livid ; but assuming soon, If fann'd by balmy and nutritious air, Strain'd through the friendly mats, a vivid green. Two loaves produced, two rough indented leaves, Cautious he pinches from the second stalk A pimple, that portends a future sprout, Asd interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish ; Prolific all, and harbingers of more The crowded roots demand enlargement now, And transplantation in an ampler space. Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers, Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit. These have their sexes ; and when summer The bee transports the fertilizing meal [shines. From flower to flower, and e'en the breathing air Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. Not so when winter scowls. Assistant Art Then acts in Nature's office, brings to pass The glad espousals, and ensures the crop. Grudge not. ye rich, (since- Luxury must have His dainties, and ihe World's more numerous Lives by contriving delicates for you,) [half Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares, The vigilance, the labor, and the skill, That day and night are exercised, and hang Upon the ticklish balance of suspense. That ye may garnish your profuse regales With summer truits brought ibrth by wintry suns. Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart The process. Heat, and cold, and wind, and steam, [ing flies, Moisture, and drought mice, worms, and swarm- Minute as dust, and numberless oft work Dire disappointment, that admits no cure, And which no care can obviate. It were long, Too long, to tell the expedients and the shifts Which he that fights a season so severe Devises, while he guards his tender trust ; And oft at last in vain. The harn'd and wise Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song Cold as its theme, and like its theme the fruit Of too much labor, worthless when produced. Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too. Unconscious of a less propitious clime. There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, While the winds whistle, and the snows descend. The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf Shines there, and flourishes. The golden boast Of Portugal and western India there. The ruddier orange, and the paler lime, Peep through their polish'd foliage at the storm, And seem to smile at what they need not fear. The amomum there with intermingling flowers And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts Her crimson honors ; and the spangled beau, Ficoides glitters bright the winter long. All plants, of every leaf that can endure [bite. The winter's frown, if screen'd from his shrewd Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims. Levantine regions these ; the Azores send Their jessamine, her jessamine remote Caffraria: foreigners from many lands, They form one social shade, as if convened By magic summons of the Orphean lyre. Vet just arrangement, rarely brought to pass But by a master's hand, disposing well The gay diversities of leaf and flower, Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms. And dress the regular yet various scene. ! Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van j The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome A noble show ! while Roscius trod the stage ; And so, while Garrick, as renown'd as he, The sons of Albion ; fearing each to lose Some note of Nature's music from his lips, | And covetous of Shakspeare's beauty, seen In every dash of his far beaming eye. Nor taste alone and well contrived display Suffice to give the marshalfd ranks the grace Of their complete effect. Much yet remains Unsung, and many cares are yet behind, And 'more laborious; cares on which depends Their vigor, injured soon, not soon restored. The soil must be renew'd, which often wash'd Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, i And disappoints the roots; the slender roots ; Close interwoven, where they meet the vase, I Must smooth be shorn away ; the sapless branofc i Must fly before the knife ; the wither'd leaf Must be detach'd. and where it strews the flooi Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else Contagion, and disseminating death. I Discharge but these kind offices (and who I Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?' j Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased. The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf, [ Each opening blossom freely breathes abroad [ Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets. So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, ! All healthful, are the employs of rural life, j Reiterated as the wheel of time Runs round ; still ending and beginning still. Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll. That softly swell'd and gaily dress'd appears A flowery island, from the dark green lawn Emerging, must be deem'd a labor due To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. Here also grateful mixture of well match'd And sorted hues, (each giving each relief, And by contrasted beauty shining more,, Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod and wheel the compost home But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polish'd mind. Without it all is gothic as the scene To which the insipid citizen resorts Near yonder heath ; where Industry misspent, But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task, Has made a heaven on earth ; with suns and moons Of close ramm'd stones has charged the encumber'c soil, And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. He therefore who would see his flowers disposed Sightly and in just order j ere he gives The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, Forecasts the future whole ; that when the scene Shall break into its preconceived display, Each for itself, and all as with one voice Conspiring, may attest his bright design. Nor even then, dismissing as perform'd His pleasant work, may he suppose it done. Few self-supported flowers endure the wind THE TASK.— THE GARDEN. is*: J STninjured, but expect the upholding aid Df the smooth shaven prop. and. neatly tied, Are wedded thus like beauty to old age, For interest sake, the living to the dead. Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair. Like virtue, thriving most where little seen ; Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbor shrub With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch Else unadorn'd. with many a gay festoon And fragrant chaplet recompensing well [lend. The strength they borrow with the grace they All hate the rank society of weeds, Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust The impoverish'd earth ; an overbearing race. That, like the multitude made faction-mad. Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. O blest seclusion from a jarring world. Which he, thus occupied, enjoys ! Retreat Cannot indeed to guilty man restcre Lost innocence, or cancel follies past : But it has peace, and much secures ; ~e mind From all assaults of evil; proving st'l A faithful barrier, not o'erleap'd with ease By vicious Custom, raging uncontroll'd Abroad, and desclating public life. When fierce temptation, seconded within By traitor Appetite, and arm'd with darts? Temper'd ir Hell, invades the throbbing breast, To combar may be glorious, and success Perhaps may crown us ; but to fly is safe. Had I the choice of sublunary good. What could I wish, that I possess not here 1 Health, leisure, means to improve it. friendship. peace. No loose or wanton, though a wandering, muse, And constant occupation without care. Thus blest I draw a picture of that bliss; Hopeless indeed, that dissipated minds, And profligate abusers of a world Created fair so much in vain for them, Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe, . A.llured by my report: but sure no less That self-condetnivd they must neglect the prize. And what they will not taste must yet approve. What we admire we praise : and, when we praise, Advance it into notice, that, its worth Acknowledged, others may admire it too. I therefore recommend, though at the rir.k Of popular disgust, yet boldly still. The cause of piety and sacred truth And virtue, and those scenes which God ordain'd Should best secure them and promote them most, Scenes that 1 love, and with regret perceive Forsaken, or through folly not enjoy'd. ['are is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles. And chaste, though unconfined. whom I extol. Not as the prince in Shushan. when he calld, Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth, To grace the full pavilion. His design Was but to boast his own peculiar good. Which all might view with envy, none partake. My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets, And afce that sweetens all my bitters too, Nalure. enchanting Nature, in whose form And lineaments divine I trace a hand That errs not, and finds raptures still renew'd, V? free to all men — universal prize, tsirange that so fair a creature should yet want Admirers, and be destined to divide With meaner objects e'en the few she finds ! Stnpp'd of her ornaments, her leaves, &nd flovrcn. i She loses all her influence. Cities then Attract us, and neglected nature pines, Abandon'd, as unworthy of our love. But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumed By roses ; and clear suns, though scarcely felt ; And groves, if unharmonious, yet secure From clamor, and whose very silence charms ; To be prefcrr'd to smoke, to the eclipse That metropolitan volcanoes make, [long; Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day And to the stir of Commerce, driving slow, And thundering loud with his ten thousand wheels 1 They wouid be were not madness in the head, And folly in the heart ; were England now What England was plain, hospitable, kind. And undebauch'd. But we have bid farewell To all the virtues of those better days. And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once Knew their own masters ; and laborious hinds, Who had survived the father, serv'd the son. Now the legitimate and rightful lord Is but a transient guest, newly arrived, And soon to be supplanted. He that saw His patrimonial timber cast its leaf Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. Estates are landscapes gazed upon awhile, Then advertised, and auctioneer'd away. The country starves, and they that feed the o'p.t- charged And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, By a just judgment strip and starve themselves. The wings that waft our riches out of sight. Grow on the gamester's elbows ; and the alert And nimble motion of those restless joints, That never tire, soon fans them all away. Improvement too, the idol of the age, Is ted with many a victim. Lo, he comes ! The omnipotent magician, Brown appears ' Down falls the venerable pile, the abode Of our forefathers — a grave whisker'd race, But tasteless. Springs a palace in its sttad, But in a distant spot ; where more exposed It may enjoy the advantage of the north, And aguish east, till time shall have transform'd Those naked acres to a sheltering grove. He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn ; Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise : And streams, as if created for his use. Pursue the track of his directing wand. Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades — E'en as he bids ! The enraptured owner smiles. 'Tis finish 'd, and yet finish'd as it seems, Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, A mine to satisfy the enormous cost. Drain'd to the last poor item of his wealth, He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplish'd plan, That he has touch'd. retouch'd, many a long day Labor'd. and many a night pursued in dreams. Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy ! [heaver And now perhaps the glorious hour is come When, having no stake left, no pledge to endcai Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause A moment's operation on his love, He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal, To serve his country. Ministerial grace Deals him out money from the public chest; Or, if that mine be shut, some private purtio 582 COWPER'S WORKS Supplies his need with a usurious loan, To be refunded duly, when his vote vVell managed shall have earn f d its worthy price. O innocent, compared w ; th arts like these, Crape, and cock'd pistol, and the whistling ball Sent through the traveller's temples! He that finds One drop of Heaven's sweet mercy in his cup, Can dig, beg, rot, and perish, well content, So he may wrap himself in honest rags At his last gasp ; but could not for a world Pish up his dirty and dependent bread From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, Sordid and sickening at his own success. Ambition, avarice, penury incurr'd By endless riot, vanity, the lust Of pleasure and variety, despatch, As duly as the swallows disappear, [town. The world of wandering knights and squires to London engulfs them all! The shark is there, And the shark's prey ; the spendthrift, and the leech That sucks him ; there the sycophant, and he Who, with bareheaded and obsequious bcwb, Begs a warm office, doom'd to a cold jail And groat per diem, if his patron frown. The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp Were character'd on every statesman's door, " Battkr'd and bankrupt fortunes mended hkrk!" These are the charms that sully and eclipse The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe That lean hard-handed Poverty inflicts, The hope of better things, the chance to win, The wish to shine, the thirst to'be amused, That at the sound of winter's hoary wing Unpeople all our counties of such herds Of fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, loose, And wanton vagrants as make London, vast And boundless as it is, a crowded coop. O thou, resort and mart of all the earth, Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind, And spotted with all crimes ; in whom I see Much that I love, and more that I admire And all that I abhor ; thou freckled fair, That pleasest and yet shock'st me, I c*n laugh, And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, Feel wrath and pity, when I think on thee ! Ten righteous would have saved a city once, And thou hast many righteous. — Well for thee — That salt preserves thee ; more corrupted else, And therefore more obnoxious, at this hour, Than Sodom in her day had power to be, For whom God heard his Abraham plead in vain. BOOK IV. THE WINTER EVENING. THE ARGUMENT. ITie post comes in— The newspaper read-— The world contemplated at a distance— Address to vnn'i- -The rural amusements of a winter evening compai>-.d with . the fashionable ones — Address to evening — A brown study— Fall of snow in the evening— The wagoner— A poor family piece— The rural thief— Public houses— The multitude of them censured — The farmer's daugh- ter: what she was; what she is— The simplicity of country raanners almost lost— Causes of the change— i>«6ertion of the country by ti* i rich— Neglect of magis- trates—The militia principally in fault— The new re cruit and his transformation — Reflection on bodies cor porate— The love of rural objects natural to all, aiE> never to be totally extinguished. Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge That with its Wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright ; — He comes the herald of a noisy world,, [locks; With spa'tter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozer News from all nations lumbering at his back. True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind. Yet, careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn ; And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch. Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; To him indifferent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writers' cheeki Fast as the periods from his fluent quill. Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all. But O the important budget ! usher'd in With s ich heart-shaking music who can say What are its tidings 1 have our troops awaked 1 Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd; Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave 1 Is India free 1 and does she wear her plumed And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind ner still 1 The grand debate, The popular harangue, the tart reply, The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, And the loud laugh — I long to know them all; I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free, And give them voice and utterance once again. Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. Not such his evening, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed And bored with elbow points through both hil sides, Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage : Nor his who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. This folio of four pages, happy work ! Which not e'en critics criticise ; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read, Fast bound in chams of silence, which the fair Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break ; What is it but a map of busy life. Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns'? Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge That tempts Ambition. On the summit see The seals of office glitter in his eyes; [heels, He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At hii Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. Here rills of oily eloquence, in soil Meanders, lubricate the course they take ; Vhe modest speaker is ashamed and grieved To engross a nv?n*cnt's notice ; and yet begs, THE TASK.— THE WINTER EVENING. 583 Be»|s a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, However trivial all that he conceives. Sweet bashfulness ! it claims at least this praise ; The dearth of information and good sense, That it foretells us ulways comes to pass. Cataracts of declamation thunder here ; There forests of no meaning spread the page In which all comprehension wanders lost; While fields of pleasantry amuse us there With merry descants on a nation's woes. The rest appears a wilderness of strange But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks A.nd lilies for the brows of faded age. Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of \. v evr Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, [sweets. Sermons, and city feasts, and favorite airs, ^Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits, And Katerfelto. with his hair on end At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. 'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world ; to see th? stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; To hear the roar she sends through all ber gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced To some secure and more than mortal height, That liberates and exempts me from them all. It tpms submitted to my view, turns round With ill its generations : I behold The tumult and am still. The sound of war Ha^ lost its terrors ere it reaches me ; Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride And avarice that make man a wolf to man ; Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats By which he speaks the language of his heart. Aw 1 sigh, but never tremble at the sound. He travels and expatiates, as the bee From flower to flower, so he from land to land ; The manners, customs, policy of all Pay contribution to the store he gleans ; He sucks intelligence in every clime, And spreads the honey of his deep research At his return — a rich repast for me. He travels, and I too. I tread his deck. Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes Discover countries, with a kindred heart Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes ; While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit and is still at home. O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age. thy forehead wrapt in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urg'd by storms along its slippery way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art ! Thou hold'st the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Dder an old oak's domestic shade. Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an egg! Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor such as with a frown ibrbids the play Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth : Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion frenzy, and the God That made them an intruder on their joys, Start at his awful name, or deem his praise A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone, Exciting oft our gratitude and love, While we retrace with Memory's pointing wand That calls the past to our exact review, The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare The disappointed foe. deliverance found Unlook'd for, life preserved and peace restored, Fruits of omnipotent eternal love. O evenings worthy of the gods ! exclaim'd The Sabine bard. O evenings. I reply. More to be prized and coveted than yours, As more illumined, and with nobler truths, That I. and mine, and those we love, enjoy. Is Winter hideous in a garb like this 1 Needs he the tragic fur. the smoke of lamps, The pent-up breath of an unsavory throng, To thaw him into feeling ; or the smart And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile 1 The self-complacent actor, when he views (Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) The slope of faces from the floor to the roof (As if one master sprinjr controll'd them all, ) Relax'd into a universal grin, Sees not a countenance there that speaks of ioj Half so refined or so sincere as ours. Cards were superfluous here, with all the tnoJu That idleness has ever yet contrived 584 COWPER'S WORKS. To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain, To palliate dullness, and give time a shove. Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd and swift and of a silken sound ; But the World's Time is Time in masquerade ! Theirs, should T paint him, has his pinions fledged With motly plumes; and. where the peacock shows His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red With spots quadrangular of diamond form. Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. What should be. and what was an hour-glass once. Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace Well does the work of his destructive scythe. Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom Fashion blinds To his true worth, most pleased when idle most ; Whose only happy are their wasted hours. E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore The backstring and the bib, assume the dress Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school Of card-devoted Time, and. night by night Placed at some vacant corner of the board, Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, Where shall I find an end, or how proceed 1 As he that travels far oft turns aside, To view some rugged rock or mouldering tower, Which seen f knaves in office, partial in the work Of distribution ; liberal of their aid To clamorous importunity in rags, But ofttimes deaf to suppliants, who would blush To wear a tatter'd garb however coarse, Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth : These ask with painful shyness, and, refused Because deserving, silently retire ! But be ye of good courage ! Time itself Shall much befriend you. Time shall give in- crease ; And all your numerous progeny, well train'd, But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, And labor too. Meanwhile ye shall not want What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. I mean the man who, when the distant poor Need help, denies them nothing but his name. But poverty with most, who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe ; The effect of laziness or sottish waste. Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad For plunder ; much solicitous how best He may compensate for a day of sloth By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong. Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge, Plash'd neatly, and secured with driven stakes Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength. Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil, An ass's burden and, when laden most' And heaviest, light of fool steals fast away, Nor does the boarded hovel better guard The well-stack'd pile of riven logs and roots From his pernicious foice. Nor 'will he leave Un wrench 'd the door, however well secured, Where Chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps ' In unsuspecting pomp. T witch 'd from the perch, He gives the princely bird, with all his wives, To his voracious bag. struggling in vain, And loudly wondering at the sudden change, Nor this to feed his own. 'Twere some excuse, Did pity of their sufferings warp aside His principle, and tempt him into sin For their support, so destitute. But they Neglected pine at home ; themselves, as more Exposed than others, with less scruple made His victims, robb'd of their defenceless all. Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst Of ruinous ebriety that prompts His every action, and imbrutes the man. O for a law to noose the villain's neck Who starves his own ; who persecutes the blood He gave them in his children's veins, and hates And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love ! Pass where we may, through city or through Village, or hamlet, of this merry land, [town, Though lean and beggar'd, every twentieth pace Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff Of stale debauch, forth issuing from the styes That law has licensed, as makes temperance reel. There sit. involved and lost in curling clouds Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor, The lackey, and the groom: the craftsman theie Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil ; Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears And he that kneads the dough; all loud alike, All learned, and all drunk ! the fiddle screams Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wail eel Its wasted tones and harmony unheard : [she Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, Perch'd on the sign-post, holds with even hand Her undecisive scales. In this she lavs A weight of ignorance ; in that, of pride ; And smiles delighted with the eternal poise. Dire is the frequent curse, and its twin sound oS6 COWPER'S WORKS. The cheek distending oath, not to be praised As ornamental, musical, polite, Like those which modern senators employ, Whose oath is rhetoric, and who sweat for fame ! Behold the schools in which plebeian mmds, Once simple, are initiated in arts, Which some may practise with politer grace, But none with readier skill ! — 'tis here they learn The road that leads from competence and peace To indigence and rapine ; till at last Society, grown weary of the load, Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. But censure profits little : vain the attempt To advertise in verse a public pest, That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. The excise is fatten'd with the rich result Of all this riot : and len thousand casks, Forever dribbling out their base contents. Touch 'd by the Midas finger of the stat3, Bleed gold for ministers to sport away. Drink, and be mad then ; .'tis your country bids ! Gloriously drunk, obey the important call ! Her cause demands the assistance of your throats ; — Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. Would I had fall'n upon those happier days,. That poets celebrate ; those golden times, And those Arcadian scenes, that Maro sings, And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose. [hearts Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had That felt their virtues : Innocence, it seems, From courts dismiss'd, found shelter in the The footsteps of Simplicity, impress'd [groves ; Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing) Then were not all effaced : then speech profane And manners profligate were rarely found, Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd. Vain wish ! those days were never : airy dreams Sat for the picture : and the poet's hand, Imparting substance to an empty shade, Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. Grant it : — I still must envy them an age That favor'd such a dream; in days like these Impossible, when Virtue is so scarce, That to suppose a scene where she presides, Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. No : we are polish'd now ! The rural lass, Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, Her artless manners, and her neat attire, So dignified, that she was hardly less Than the fair shepherdess of old romance, Is seen no more. The character is lost ! Her head, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft, And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised, And magnified beyond all human size, Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand For more than half the tresses it sustains ; Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form 111 j-ropp'd upon French heels; she might be deem'd ('But that the basket dangling on her arm Interprets her more truly) of a rank Too proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs Expect her soon with footboy at her heels, No longer blushing for her awkward load, Her train and her umbrella all her care! The town has tinged the country : and the stain Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe, The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs Down into scenes still rural ; but, alas ! Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now ! Time was when in the pastoral retreat The ungarded door was safe : men did not watcA . To invade another's right, or guard their own. Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscared By drunken howlings ; and the chilling tale Of midnight murder was a wonder heard W T ith doubtful credit, told to frighten babes, But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, And slumbers unalarm'd. Now, ere you sleep, j See that your polish'd arms be prim'd with care And drop the night-bolt ; — ruffians are abroad ; And the first 'larum of the cock's shrill throat May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear To horrid sounds of hostile feet within. E'en daylight has its dangers ; and the walk Through pathless wastes and woods, uncon- scious once Of other tenants than melodious birds, Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold, Lamented change ! to which full many a cause Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. The course of human things from good to ill, From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. Increase of power begets increase of wealth ; Wealth luxury, and luxury excess : Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague, That seizes first the opulent, descends To the next rank contagious, and in time Taints downward all the graduated scale Of order, from the chariot to the plough. The rich, and they that have an arm to check The license of the lowest in degree, Desert their office ; and themselves, intent On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus To all the violence of lawless hands Resign the scenes their presence might protect. Authority herself not seldom sleeps, Though resident, and witness of the wrong. The plump convivial parson often bears The magisterial sword in vain, and lays His reverence and his worship both to rest On the same cushion of habitual sloth. Perhaps timidity restrains his arm ; When he should strike he trembles, and sets free Himself enslaved by terror of the band, The audacious convict, whom he dares not bind Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, He too may have his vice, and sometimes prove Less dainty than becomes his grave outside In lucrative concerns. Examine well His milk-white hand ; the palm is hardly clean- But here and there an ugly smutch appears. Foh ! 'twas a bribe that left it : he has touch'd Corruption ! whoso seeks an audit here Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds. But faster far, and more than all the rest, A noble cause, which none, who bears a spark Of public virtue, ever wish'd removed, Works the deploreo and mischievous effect. 'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'd The heart of merit in the meaner class. Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage Of those that bear them, in whatever cause, Seem most at variance with all moral go»d, And incompatible with serious thought. The clown, the child of nature, without guile, Blest with an infant's ignorance of all But his own simple pleasures ; now and then A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair ; Is balloted, and trembles at the news: Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling sweara THE TASK.— THE WINTER EVENING. 581 A Bible-oath to be whate'e*- they please, To do he knows, not what The task perform'd, That instant he becomes tne sergeant's care, His pupil, and his torment, and his jest. His awkward gait, his introverted toes. Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, Unapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff, He yet by slow degrees puts off himself. Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well: He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk; 'He steps right onward, martial in his air, His form, and movement ; is as smart above As meal and larded locks can make him ; wears His hat. or his plumed helmet, with a grace ; And, his three yeajs of heroship expired, Returns indignanl to the slighted plough. He hates the field, in which no fife or drum Attends him ; drives his cattle to a march ; And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. 'Twere well if his exterior change were all — But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost His ignorance and harmless manners too. To swear, to game, to drink ; to show at home. By lewdness, idleness, and sabbath breach, The great proficiency he made abroad ; To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends ; To break some maiden's and his mother's heart ; To be a pest where he was useful once ; Are his sole aim, and all his glory now. Man in society is like a flower Blown in its native bed : 'tis there alone His faculties, expanded in full bloom, Shine out ; there only reach their proper use. But man, associated and leagued with man By regal warrant, or self-join'd by bond For interest sake, or swarming into clans Beneath one head for purposes of war, Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, Fades rapidly, and, by compression marr'd, Contracts defilement not to be endured. Hence charter'd boroughs are such pu blic plagues ; And burghers, men immaculate perhaps In all their private functions, once combined, Become a loathsome body, only fit For dissolution, hurtful to the main. Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin Against the charities of domestic life, Incorporated, seem at once to lose Their nature ; and, disclaiming all regard For mercy and the common rights of man, Build factories with blood, conducting trade At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe Of innocent commercial Justice red. Hence too the field of glory, as the world Misdeems it. dazzles by its bright array, With all its majesty of thundering pomp, Enchanting music and immortal wreaths, Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught On principle, where foppery atones For folly, gallantry for every vice. But slighted as it is. and by the great Abandon'd. and, which still I more regret, Infected with the manners and the modes It knew not once, the country wins me still. I never framed a wish, or form'd a plan, That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss, But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice Had found me, or the hope of being free. My very dreams were rural ; rural too The firstborn of my youthful muse, Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuuea To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, The rustic throng beneath his favorite beech. Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms : New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue To speak its excellence. I danced for joy. I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an age As twice seven years, his beauties had then first Engaged my wonder ; and admiring still, And still admiring, with regret supposed The joy half lost, because not sooner found. There too, enamour'd of the life I loved, Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit Determined, and possessing it at last, With transports, such as favor'd lovers feel, I studied, prized, and wish'd that I had known Ingenious Cowley ! and. though now reclaim'd By modern lights from an erroneous taste, I cannot but lament thy splendid wit Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. I still revere $hee, courtly though retired ; Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silen bowers, Not unemploy'd ; and finding rich amends For a lost world in solitude and verse. 'Tis born with all : the love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound man, Infused at the creation of the kind. And, though the Almighty Maker has throughou Discriminated each from each, by strokes And touches of his hand, with so much art Diversified, that two were never found Twins at all points— yet this obtains in all, That all discern a beauty in his works,, [form'd And all can taste them : minds that have been And tutor'd, with a relish more exact, But none without some relish, none unmoved. It is a flame that dies not even there Where nothing feeds it : neither business, crowds, Nor habits of luxurious city life, Whatever vise they smother of true worth In human bosoms, quench it or abate. The villas with which London stands begirt Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air, The glimp se of a green pasture, how they cheei The citizen, and brace his languid frame ! E'en in the stifling bosom of the town A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothe the rich possessor ; much consoled, That here and there some sprigs of mournftr mint, Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the wall He cultivates. These serve him with a hint That nature lives; that sight-refreshing green Is still the livery she delights to wear. Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole What are the casements lined with creeping The prouder sashes fronted with a range [herbs, Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, [proofi The Frenchman's darling 1* are they not al That man, immured in cities, still retains His inborn inextinguishable thirst Of rural scenes, compensating his loss * Mignonette. 588 COWPER'S WORKS. By supplemental shifts, the best he may 1 The most unfurnish'd with the means of life, And they that never pass their brick- wall bounds, To range the fields and treat their lungs with air. Yet feel the burning instinct c over head Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands, A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there ; Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets The country, with what ardor he contrives A peep at Nature, when he can no more. Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease, And contemplation, heart-consoling joys. And harmlesss pleasures, in the throng'd abode Of multitudes unknown ! hail, rural life ! Address himself who will to t^e pursuit Of honors, or emolument, or fame ; I shall not add myself to such a chase, Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents. And God gives to every man The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, That lifts him into life, and lets him fall Just in the niche he was ordain 'd to fill. To the deliverer of an injured land He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs; To monarchs dignity ; to judges sense ; ' To artists ingenuity and skill; To me an unambitious mind, content In the low vale of life, that early felt A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd. BOOK V. THE WINTER MORNING WALK. THE ARGUMENT. &. frosty morning— The foddering of cattle— The wood- man and his dog — The poultry— Whimsical effects of frost at a waterfall— The empress of Russia's palace of ice— Amusements of monarchs— War, one of them— Wars, whence— And whence monarchy— The evils of it — English and French loyalty contrasted — The Bas- tile, and a prisoner there — Liberty the chief recom- mendation of this country — Modern patriotism ques- tionable, and why— The perishable nature of the best human institutions— Spiritual liberty not perishable— The slavish state of man by nature— Deliver him, Deist, if you can— Grace must do it— The respective merits of patriots and martyrs stated— Their different treatment— Happy freedom of the man whom grace makes free— His relish of the works of God— Address to the Creator. Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb Ascending, fires the horizon ; while the clouds, That crowd away before the driving wind, More ardent as the disk emerges more, Resemble most some city in a blaze, [ray Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And, tinginji all with his own rosy hue, From every herb and every spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. Mine, spindling into longitude immense, In spite of gravity, and sage remark That I myself am but a fleeting shade, Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance f view the muscular proportion'd limb Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless paij As they design'd to mock me, at my side Take step for step ; and, as I near approach The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall, Preposterous sight ! the legs without the man. The verdure of the plain lies buried deep Beneath the dazzling deluge ; and the bents And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest, Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad, And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder ; not like hungering man, Fretful if unsupplied ; but silent. meek,° And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. He from the stack carves out the accustom'd load, Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft, His broad keen knife into the solid mass ; Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, With such undeviating and even force He severs it away : no needless care, Lest storms should overset the leaning pile Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern'd The cheerful haunts of man ; to wield the axe And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, From morn to eve his solitary task. Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears And tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half cur, His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk Wide scampering, snatches up the driften snow With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout ; Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks for joy- Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl Moves right toward the mark ; nor stops foi aught, But now and then with pressure of his thumb To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube, That fumes beneath his nose: the trailing clouc Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale, Where, diligent to catch the first fair rdeam Of smiling day, they gossip'd side i>y side, [caD Come trooping at the housewife's well-known The feather'd tribes domestic. Half on wing, And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves, To seize the fair occasion: well they eye The scatter'd grain, and thievishly resolved To escape the impending famine, often scared As oft return, a pert voracious kind. Clean riddance quickly made, one only care Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, Or shed impervious to the blast. Resign'd To sad necessity, the cock foregoes His wonted strut ; and, wading at their head With well-consider'd steps, seems to resent His alter'd gait and stateliness retrench'd. How find the myriads, that in summer cheer The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, Due sustenance, or where subsist they now 1 Earth yields them nought : the imprison'd worm is safe Beneath the frozen clod ; all seeds of herbs Lie cover'd close ; and berry-bearing thorns, THE TASK.— THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 58* fhat feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,) Aflprd the smaller mim trels no supply. . The long protracted rigor of the year Thins all their numerous flocks. In ohinks and holes Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, As instinct prompts ; self-buried ere they die. The very rooks and daws forsake the fields, Where neither grub, nor root, nor earth-nut, now Repays their labor more ; and, perch 'd aloft By the way-side, or stalking in the path, Lean pensioners upon the traveller's track, Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them, \jf voided pulse or half-digested grain. The streams are lost amid the splendid blank, O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood, Indurated and fix'd, the snowy weight Lies undissolved ; while silently beneath, And unperceived, the current steals away. Not so where, scornful of a check, it leaps She milldara, dashes on the restless wheel, And wantons in the pebbly gulf below ; No frost can bind it there ; its utmost force. Can but arrest the light and smoky mist That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. And see where it has hung the embroider'd banks With forms so various that no powers of art, The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene ! Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high (Fantastic misarrangement !) on the roof Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops That trickle down the branches, fast congeal'd Shoot into pillars of pellucid length, And prop the pile they but adorn'd before. Here grotto within grotto safe defies The sunbeam ; there, embossed and fretted wild, The growing winder takes a thousand shapes Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain The likeness of some object seen before. Thus Nature works as if to mock at Art, And in defiance of her rival powers ; By these fortuitous and random strokes Performing such inimitable feats As she with all her rules can never reach. Less worthy of applause, though more admired, Because a novelty, the work of man, Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ ! Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, The wonder of the North. No forest fell When thou wouldst build ; no quarry sent its stores, To enrich thy walls : but thou didst hew the floods, And make thy marble of the glassy wave. In such a palace Aristseus found Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale Of his lost bees to her maternal ear : In such a palace Poetry might place The armory of Winter ; where his troops, The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet, SHn-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, And snow, that 6ften blinds the traveller's course, And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. Silently as a dream the fabric rose ; No sound of hammer or of saw was there, [cs upon ice, the well-adjusted parts Were soon conjoined; nor other cement ask'd Than water interfus'd to make them one. Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues, Illumined every side ; a watery light wleam'd through the clear transparency, that seem'd Another moon new risen, or meteor fallen From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene So stood the brittle prodigy, though smooth And slippery the materials, yet frost-bound Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within, That royal residence might well befit, For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths Of flowers, that fear'd no enemy but warmth, Blush'd on the panels. Mirror needed none Where all was vitreous ; but in order due Convivial table and commodious seat [there ; (What seem'd at least commodious seat) were Sofa and couch, and high-built throne august. The same lubricity was found in all, And all was warm to the warm touch ; a &cene Of evanescent glory, once a stream, And soon to slide into a stream again. Alas 'twas but a mortifying stroke Of undesign'd severity, that glanced (Made by a monarch) on her own estate, On human grandeur and the courts of kings. 'Twas transient in its nature, as in show 'Twas durable ; as worthless, as it seem'd Intrinsically precious ; to the foot Treacherous and false ; it smiled, and it was cold. Great princes have great playthings. Soiat *> have play'd At hewing mountains into men, and some At building human wonders mountain high. Some have amused the dull sad years of life (Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad) With schemes of monumental fame; and sough By pyramids and mausolean pomp. Short-lived themselves, to immortalize their bones Some seek diversion in the tented field, And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. But wars a game which, were their subjects wise. Kings would not play at. Nations would do wel To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, Because men suffer it. their toy. the world. W T hen Babel was confounded, and the great Confederacy of projectors wild and vain Was split into diversity of tongues, Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, These to the upland, to the valley .those, God drave asunder, and assign'd their lot To all the nations. Ample was the boon He gave them, in its distribution fair And equal ; and he bade them dwell in peace. Peace was awhile their care : they plough'd, and sow'd, And reap'd their plenty without grudge or strife But violence can never longer sleep Than human passions please. In every heart Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war; Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. Cain had already shed a brother's blood ; The deluge wash'd it out ; but left unquench'd The seeds of murder in the breast of man. Soon by a righteous judgment in the line Of Li" dc'ccndmg progeny was found The first artUicer nf death ; the shrewd Contriver, wuu hrst sweated at the forge, And forced the blunt and yet unblooded steel To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. Him Tubal named the Vulcan of old times, The sword and falchion their inventor claim; And the first smith was the first murderer's son His art survived the waters ; and ere long, When man was multiplied and spread abroad In tribes and clans, and had begun to call 590 COWPER'S' WORKS. These meadows and that range of hills his own, The tasted sweets of property begat Desire of more ; and industry in some, To improve and cultivate their just demesne, Made others covet what they saw so fair. Thus war began on earth ; these fought for spoil, And those in self-defence. Savage at first The onset, and irregular. At length One eminent above the rest' for strength. For stratagem, or courage, or for all. Was chost:n leader; him they served in war. And him in <;<-ace, for sake of warlikr deeds, Reverenced n.» less. Who could with him com Or who so wo/tny to control themselves ] [pare -. As he, whose prowess had subdued their foedl Thus war affording field for the display Of virtue, made one chief whom times of peacs, Which have their exigencies too. and call For skill in government, at length made king. King was a name too proud for man to wear With modesty and meekness ; and the crown, So dazzling in their eyes who set it on, Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound. It is the abject property of most, That, being parcel of the common mass. And destitute of means to raise themselves, They sink, and settle lower than they need. They know not what it is to feel within • A comprehensive faculty, that grasps Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields, Almost without an effort, plans too vast For their conception, which they cannot move. Conscious of impotence, they soon grow drunk With gazing, when they see an able man Step forth to notice ; and besotted thus, Build him a pedestal, and say, ' Stand there, And be our admiration and our praise." They roll themselves before him in the dust, Then most deserving in their own account When most extravagant in his applause, As, if exalting him they raised themselves. Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound And sober judgment, that he is but man, They demi-deiiy and fume him so, That in due season he forgets it too. Inflated and "astrut with self-conceit, He gulps the windy diet; and, ere long, Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks The world was made in vain, if not for him. Thenceforth they are his cattle : drudges, borri To bear his burdens, drawing in his gears, And sweating in his service, his caprice Becomes the soul that animates them all. He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives, Spent in the purchase of renown for him, An easy reckoning ; and they think the same. Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings Were burnish'd into heroes, and became The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp; [died. Storks among frogs, that have but croak'd and Strange, that such folly, as hits bloated man To eminence, fit only for a god, Should ever drivel out of human lips. E'en in the cradled weakness of the world ! Still stranger much, that, when at length mankind Had reacfi'd the sinewy firmness of their youth, And could discriminate and argue well On subjects more mysterious they were yet Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear And qua'ke before the gods themselves had made. But above measure strange, that neither proof ^f sad fxporisnce, nor examples set By some, whose patriot virtue has prevailMj Can even now, when they are grown mature In wisdom, and with philosophic deeds Familiar, serve to emancipate the rest ! Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone To reverence what is ancient, and can plead A course of long observance for its use, That even servitude, the worst of ills, Because delivered down from sire to son, Is kept' and guarded as a sacred thing ! But is it fit, or can it bear the shock Of rational discussion, that a man, Compounded and made up like other men Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust And folly in as ample measure meet, As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules, Should be a despot absolute, and boast Himself the only freeman of his land 1 Should when he pleases, and on whom he will, Wage war, with any or with no pretence Of provocation given, or wrong sustained, And force the beggarly last doit, by means That his own humor dictates, from the clutch Of pow^ty, that thus he may procure His thousands, weary of penurious life, A splendid opportunity to die 1 Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old Jotham ascribed to his assembled trees In politic convention) put your trust In the shadow of a bramble, and, reclined In fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch, Rejoice in him, and celebrate his sway, Where find ye passive fortitude 1 Whence springs Your self-denying zeal, that holds it good To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang His thorns with streamers of continual praise 1 We too are friends to loyalty. We love The king who loves the law, respects his bounds, And reigns content within them : him we serve Freely, and with delight, who leaves us free : But, recollecting still that he is man, We trust him not too far. King though he be, And king in England too, he may be weak, And vain enough to be ambitious still ; May exercise amiss his proper powers, Or covet more than freemen choose to grant : Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours, To administer, to guard, to adorn the state, But not to warp or change it. We are his To serve him nobly in the common cause, True' to the death, but not to be his slaves. Mark now the difcrence, ye that boast your love Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. We love the man, the paltry pageant you : We the chief patron of the commonwealth, You the regardless author of its woes : We for the sake of liberty a king, You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake. Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free ; Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, And licks the foot that treads it in the dust Were kingship as true treasure as it seems, Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, [ would not be a king to be beloved Causeless, and daub'd with undisceming' praise, Where love is mere attachment to the throne, Mot to the man who fills it as he ought. Whose freedom is by sufferance, and at wiD Of a superior, he is never free. Who lives, and is not weary of a life Exposed to manacles, deserves them well. THE TASK.— THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 59) The state th.?t strives for liberty, though foil'd, And forced to abandon what she bravely sought, Deserves ?.t least applause for her attempt, And pity for her loss. But that's a cause Not otlen unsuccessful: power usurp'd Is weakness when opposed ; conscious of wrong, 'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight. But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself possess All that the contest calls for; spirit. stre:\o'.h. The scorn or* danger, and united heart-? ; The surest presage of the good they seek.* Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more To France than all her losses and df.ftats. Old or of later date by sea or land. Her house of bondage, worse tharj that of old Which God avenged on Pharaoh- -the Bastile. Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts ; Ye dungeons, and ye cages of d'/spair, That monarchs have supplied from age to age With music, such as suits their sovereign ears, The sighs and groans of miserable men ! There's not an English heart that would not leap To hear that ye were fallen at last ( to know That e'en our enemies, so oft employ'd In forging chains for us themselves were free.- For he who values Liberty confines His zeal for her predominance within No narrow bounds ; her cause engages* him Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man.- There dwell trie most forlorn of human kind, Immured though unaccused, condemn'd untried, Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape! There, like the visionary emblem seen By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, And. filleted about with hoops of brass, Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are gone, To count the hour-bell, and expect no change ; And ever, as the sullen sound is heard, Still to reflect, that, though a joyless note To him whose moments all have one dull pace, Ten thousand rovers in the world at large Account it music : that it summons some To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball : The wearied hireling finds it a release From labor; and the lover, who. has chid Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke Upon fiis heart-strings, trembling with delight — To fly for refuge from distracting thought To such amusements as ingenious woe Contrives, hard shifting, and without her tools — To read engraven on the mouldy walls. In staggering types, his predecessor's tale, A sad memorial, and subjoin his own — To turn purveyor to an overgorged And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest Is made familiar, watches his approach. Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend — To wear out time in numbering to and fro The studs that thick emboss his iron door ; Then downward and then upward, then aslant, And then alternate ; with a sickly hope By dint, of change to give his tasteless task Some relish ; till the sum, exactly found In all directions, he .begins again. — Oh comfortless existence ! hemm'd around * The author hopes that he shall not be censured for unnecessary warmth upon so interesting a subject. He Is aware that it is become almost fashionable to stigmatize nch sentiments as no better than empty declamation ; But it is an ill symptom, and peculiar to modern times. With woes, which who that suffers would no* kneel And beg for exile, or the pangs of death ? That man should thus encroach on fellow man, Abridge him of his just and native rights, I Eradicate him, tear him from his hold Upon the endearments of domestic life And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, And doom him for perhaps a heedless word To barrenness, and solitude, and tears, Moves indignation, makes the name of king (Of king whom such prerogative can please) As dreadful as the Maniehoan god, Adored through fear, strong only to destroy. 'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil ; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science ; blinds The eyesight pi Discovery ; and begets, In those that suffer it, a sordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit To be the tenant of man's noble form. Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed By public exigence, till annual food Fails for the craving hunger of the state, Thee I account still happy, and the chief Among the nations, seeing thou art free. My native nook of earth ! Thy clime is rude, Replete with vapors, and disposes much All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine Thine unadulterate manners are fess soft A;. a plausible than social life requires: And thou hast need of discipline and art To give thee what politer France receives, From nature's bounty — that humane address And sweetness without which no pleasure is In converse, either starved by cold reserve, Or flu=ih'd with fierce dispute, a serseless liawL Yet being free I love thee: for the s ke Of that one feature can be well content, Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, To seek no sublunary rest beside. But once enslaved, farewell ! I could endure Chiii n^ nowhere patiently; and chains at home Where I am free by birthright, not at all. Then what were left of roughness in the grain Of British natures, wanting its excuse That it belongs to freemen, would disgust And shock me I should then with double pain Feel all the rigor of thy fickle clime ; And. if I must bewail the blessing lost, For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, I would at least bewail it under skies Milder, among a people less austere ; In scenes which, having never known me free, Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. Do I forebode impossible events, [may ! And tremble at vain dreams 1 Heaven grant I But the age of virtuous politics is past, And we are deep in that of cold pretence. Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, And we too wise to trust them. He that takes Deep in his soft credulity the stamp Design'd by loud declaimers on the part Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, Incurs derision for his easy faith And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough: For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not 1 Can he love the whole Who loves no part 1 He be a nation's friend Who is, in truth, the friend of no man there 1 Can he be strenuous in his country's cause Who slights the charities for whose dear sake That country, if at all, must be beloved 1 'Tis therefore sober and good men are sad For England's glory, seeing it wax pale [hearts And sickly, while her champions wear their So loose to private duty, that no brain. Healthful and undisturb d by factious fumes, Can dream them trusty to the general weal. Such were not they of old, whose temper'd blades Dispersed the shackles of usurp'd control, [sons And hev'd them link from link; then Albion's Wc.e sons indeed ; they felt a filial heart Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs ; And. shining each in his domestic sphere, Shone brighter still, once call'd to public view. 'T' r - Jiierefore many, whose sequester'd lot Forbids 'heir interference, looking on, Anticipate perforce some di™ 3 event; And, seeing the old castle of the state. That promised once more firmness, so assail'd Tha' all its tempest-beaten turrets shake, otand motionless expectants of its fall. AH has its date below ; the fatal hour Was r^giacer'd in heaven ere time began. Wc turn to dust, and all our mightiest works Die f oo : the deep foundations that we lay, xime ploughs them up, and not a trace remains. W~ build with what we deem eternal rock : A distant age asks where the fabric stood ; And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain, The undisooverable secret sleeps. But there is yet a liberty, unsung By poets, and by senators unpraised, Which monarchs cannot giant, nor all the powers Of earth and hell confederate take away . A liberty which persecution, fraud. ' >ppression. prisons, have no power to bind : Which whoso ta*tes can be enslaved no more. 'Tis liberty of heart, derived from Heaven, ' Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind, And seal'd with the same token. It is held By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure By the unimpeachable and awful oath And promise of a God. His other gifts All bear the royal stamp that, speaks them his, And are aug ist ; but this transcends them all. His other w .rks. the visible display Of all-creating energy and might, Are grand, no doubt and worthy of the word That, finding an interminable space Unoccupied, has rill'd the void so well. And made so sparkling what was, dark before. But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true, Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene. Mig. t well suppose the Artificer divine Meant it eternal, had he not himself Pronounced it transient glorious as it is, And, still designing a more glorious far, Dooin'd it as insufficient for his praise. These, therefore, are occasional and pass; Form'd for the confutation of the fool, Whose lying heart disputes against a God; That office served, they must be swept away. Not so the labors of his love : they shine In "ther heavens than these that we behold, And fade not. There is paradise that fears .No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends Large prelibation oft to saints below. Of these the first in order, and the pledge And confident assurance of the rest, Is liberty : a flight into his arms, Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way, A clear escape from tyrannizing lust, And full immunity from penal woe Chains are the portion of '•r.oited man, Stripes, and a dungeon ; and his body serve* The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul, Opprobrious residence he finds them all Prepense his heart to idols, he is held In silly dotage on created thing?, Careless of their Creator. And that iow And sordid gravitation of his powers To ■** vile clod so draws him. with such force Resistless from the centre he should seek, That he at last forgets it. All his hopes Tend downward ; his ambition is to sink, To reach a depth profounder still, and still Pro founder, in the fathomless abyss Of folly plunging in pursuit of death. But, ere he gain the comfortless repose He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul, In heaven-renouncing exile, he endures — What does he not. from lusts opposed in vain, And self-reproaching conscience ! He foresees The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, Fortune ami dignity ; the loss of all That can ennoble him. and make frail life, Short as it is. supportable. Still worse, [sins Far worse than all the plagues, with which hia Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes Ages of hopeless misery. Future death. And death still future. Not a hasty stroke, Like that which sends him to the dusty grave ; But unrepeatable enduring death. Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears : *» ,r h t none can prove a forgery may be true ; "''(;<: none but bad men wish exploded must. That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst Of laughter his compunctions are sincere ; And he abhors the jest by which he shines. Remorse begets reform. His master-lust Falls first before his resolute rebuke, [ensues, Auil aeeras dethroned and vanquished. Peace But spurious and short-lived ; the puny child Of self-congratulating pride, begot On fancied innocence. Again he falls. And fights again ; but finds his best essay 1 " A presage ominous, portending still Its own dishonor by a worse relapse. Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'd So oil. and wearied in the vain attemci, Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now Takes part with appetite, and pleads the causa Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd ; With shallow shifts and old devices, worn And tatter'cl in the service of debauch, Covering his shame from his offended sight. " Hath God indeed given appetites to man, And stored the earth so plenteously with mean* To gratify the hunger of his wish ; And doth he reprobate, and will he damn •fhe use of his own bounty 1 making first So frail a kind and then enacting laws So strict, that less than perfect must despair? Falsehood ! which whoso but suspects of truth Dishonors God, and makes a slave of man. Do they themselves, who undertake for hire The teacher's office, arid dispense at large Their weekly dole of edifying strains, Attend to their own music ] have they faith THE TASK.— THE WINTER MORNING WALK 593 In what, with such solemnity of tone And gesture, they propound to our belief? Nay— conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice Is but an instrument, on which the priest May play what tune he pleases. In the deed. The unequivocal, authentic deud, We find sound argument, we road the heart.' 1 Such reasonings (ii'that name must needs be- To excuses in which reason has no part) [long Serve to compose i spirit well inclined To live on terms of amity with vice, And sin without disturbance. Often urged, (As often as libidinous discourse Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes Of theological and grave import) They gain at last his unreserved assent ; Till harden'd his heart's temper in the forge Of lust, and on the anvil of despair, [moves He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing Or nothing mu' h his constancy in ill ; Vain tampering has but foster'd his disease ; 'Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth How lovely, and the moral sense how sure. Consulted and obeyed, to guide his steps Directly to the first and only fair. Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powers Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise : Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, And with poetic trappings grace thy prose, Till it outmantle all the pride of verse. — Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high-sounding brass. Smitten in vain ! such music cannot charm The eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam, And chills and darkens a wide wandering soul. The still small voicfi is wanted. He must speak, Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect ; Who calls for things that are not, and they come. Grace makes the slave a freeman. : Tis a change That turns to ridicule the turgid speech And stately tone of moralists, who boast. As if, like him of fabulous renown, They had indeed ability to smooth The shag of savage nature, and were each An Orpheus, and omnipotent in song. But transformation of apostate man From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, Is work for Him that, made him. He alone, And He by means in philosophic eyes Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves The wonder; humanizing what is brute In the lost kind, extracting from the lips Of asps their venom, overpowering strength By weakness, and hostility by love. Patriots have toil'd. and in their country's cause Bled nobly ; and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest tunes; and Sculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them and to immortalize her trust : But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid. To those who posted at the shrine of Truth, Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood, Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, And for a time ensure to his loved land The sweets of liberty and equal laws ; But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, And win it with more pain. Their blood is she In confirmation of the noblest claim — Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, To walk with God. to be divinely free. To soar, and to anticipate tiie skies. Yet few remember them. They lived unknown Tiil Persecution dragg'd them into fame, And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew — No marble tells us whither. With their names No bard embalms and sanctifies his song : And history, so warm on meaner themes, Is cold on this. She execrates indeed The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.* He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And ail are slaves beside. There's not a chain That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Samson his green withes. He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and, though poor perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy | With a propriety that none can fed. i But who with filial confidence inspired. ' Can lift to heaven an un presumptuous eye, And smiling say — " My Father made them all I' Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of interest his. Whose eye they ftll with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise and whose exalted mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love That plann'd, and built, iittii still upholds a world So clothed with beauty tor rebellious man 1 Yes — ye may fill your garners, ye that reap The loaded soil, am" 1 ye may waste much g d In senseless riot ; but ye will not find In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, A liberty like his who, 'inimpeach'd Of usurpation, an. I to o man's wrorv., Appropriates nature as his Father o woiK, And has a richer use of yours than you. He is indeed a freeman, free by birth Of no mean city ; .plann'd or e'er the hills Were built the fountains open'd, or the sea With all hi. : roaring multitude of waves. His freed .en is the same in every state ; And r;o condition of this changeful life, So manifold in cares, whose every day Brings its own evii with it. makes it less : For he has wings that neither sickness, pain. Nor penury, can cripple or confine. No nook so narrow but he spreads them there With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds His body bound ; but knows not what a range His spi :.i takes. uncimscicus of a chain ; And that to bind him is a vain attempt. Whom God delights in. and in whom he dwells. Acquaint thyself with God. if thou wouldst His works. Admitted once to his embrace, [taste Thou shalt perceive that thou was blind before ; Thine eye?, shall be instructed ; and thine heart Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight 'Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought Brutes graze the mountain-top. with faces prone, And eyes intent upon the scanty herb * See Hume. 38 594 COWPER'S WORKS. [t yields them ; or, recumbent on its brow, Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away From inland regions to the distant main. Man views it. and admires ; but rests content .With what he views. The landscape has his praise. But not its Author. Unconcern'd who form'd The paradise he sees, he finds it such, And. such well pleased to find it, asks no more. Not so the mind that has been touch'd from Heaven. And in the school of sacred wisdom taught To read his wonders in whose thought the world, Fair as it is. existed ere it was. Not for its own sake' merely, but for his Much more who fashion'd it, he gives it praise ; Praise that, from earth resulting, as it ought, To earth's acknowledged sovereign, finds at once Its only just proprietor in Him. The soul that sees him or receives sublimed New faculties, or learns at least to employ More worthily the powers she own'd before, Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze Of ignorance, till then she overlook'd, A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms Terrestrial in the vast and the minute ; The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing. And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. Much conversant with Heaven, she often holds With those fair ministers of light to man, That nightly fill the skies with silent pomp, Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were they With which heaven rang, when every star, in haste To gratulate the new-created earth, Sent -forth a voice, and all the sons of God Shouted for joy. — " Tell me, ye shining hosts, That navigate a sea that knows no storms, Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, If from your elevation, whence ye view Distinctly scenes invisible to man, And systems of whose birth no tidings yet Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race Faror'd as ours ; transgressors from the womb, And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, And to possess a brighter heaven than yours 1 As one who long detained on foreign shores Pants to return, and when he sees afar His country's weather-bleach 'd and batter'd rocks From the green wave emerging, darts an eye Radiant with joy towards the happy land ; So I with animated hopes behold, And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, That show like beacons in the blue abyss, Ordain'd to guide the embodied spirit home From toilsome life to never-ending rest. Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires That give assurance of then own success, And that, infused from Heaven, must thither tend." So reads he nature, whom the lamp of truth Illuminates. Thy lamp : mysterious Word ! Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost, With intellects bemazed in endless doubt, But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built, With moans that were not till by thee ernploy'd, Worlds that had never been hadst thou in strength Been less, or less benevolent than strong. They are thy witnesses, who speak thy power And goodness infinite, but speak in ears That hear not, or receive not their report. In vain thy creatures testify of thee, Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeed A teaching voice ; but 'tis the praise of thine That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn. And with the boon gives talents for its use Till thou art heard, imaginations vain Possess *he heart, and fables false as hell, Y"et, deem'd oracular, lure down to death. The unin form'd. and heedless souls of men. We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves ae The glory of thy work ; which yet appears [blind. Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, Challenging human scrutiny, and proved Then skilful most when most severely judged. But chance is not ; or is not where thou reign'st ; Thy providence forbids that fickle power (If power she be that works but to confound) To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can Instruction, and inventing to ourselves [sleep, Gods such as guilt makes welcome ; gods that Or disregard our follies, or that sit Amused spectators of this bustling stage. Thee we reject, unable to abide Thy purity ; till pure as thou art pure ; Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause, For which we shunn'd and hated thee before. Then we are free. Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. A* voice is heard that mortal ears hear not, [song, Till thou hast touch'd them ; 'tis the voice of A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works ; Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, And adds his rapture to the general praise. In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile The author of her beauties, who, retired Behind his own creation, works unseen By the impure, and hears his power denied. Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal Word ! From thee departing, they are lost, and rove At random without honor, hope, or peace. From thee is all that soothes the life of man. His high endeavor, and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. But, O thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown ! Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor; And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away. BOOK VI. THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. THE 'ARGUMENT. Bells at a distance— Their effect— A fine noon in winter — A sheltered walk — Meditation better than books — Our familiarity with the course of nature makes it ap- pear less wonderful than it is — The transformation that spring effects in a shrubbery described —A mistake con- cerning the course of nature correcltvt— (.Jod maintains it by an unremitted act — The amusements fashionable at this hour of the day reproved — Animate happy, a delightful sight— Origin of cruelty to animals— That it is a great crime proved from Scripture — That, proof illustrated by a tale — A line drawn between the lawful and unlawful destruction of them — Their good and useful properties insisted on- -Apology for the once- THE TASK.— THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 696 miume bestowed by the author on animals — Instances of man's extravagant praise of man — The groans of the creation shall have an end — A view taken of the restoration of all things — An invocation and an invi- tation of Him who shall bring it to pass — The retired man vindicated from the charge of uselceauess— Con- clusion. There is in souls a sympathy with sounds; And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs or martial, brisk, or grave : Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us. and the heart replies. How soft the music of those village bells. Falling at intervals upon the ear [n cadence sweet, now dying all away, Now pealinMe them all — Pleasure and Gain: For these they five, they sacrifice to these, And in their service »-age perpetual war [hearts. With Conscience and with thee. Lust in their And mischief in their iiands. they roam the earth To prey upon each at her: stubborn, fierce, High-minded. foaiiHng out their own disgrace. Thy prophets speak of such ; and. noting down The features of the last degenerate times, Exhibit every lineament ofthese. Come then, and, added to thy munv crowns, Reoeive yet one, as radiant as tLn ivst D le to thy last and most effectual work, Thy word fulfill'd, the conquest of a world ! He is the happy man whose life e'en now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come ; Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, Would make his fate his choice ; whom peace, the fruit Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects, more illustrious in her view : And, occupied as earnestly as she, I Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. ! She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not ; I He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds ' Pursuing gilded flies ; and such be deems j Her honors, her emoluments, her joys. . Therefore in Contemplation is his bliss, Whose power is such, that whom she lifts froa earth I She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, j And shows him glories yet to be revealed. Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd, And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird That flutters least is longest on the wing. Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, Or what achievements of immortal fame He purposes, and he shall answer — None His warfare is within. There unfatigued His fervent spirit labors. There he fights, And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, And never-withering wreaths, compared with which The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds. Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Deems him a cypher in the works of God, Receives advantage from nis noiseless hours, Of which she little dreams Perhaps she owes Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes, When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint Walks forth to meditate at even-tide, And thinks on her, who thinks not for herself Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns Of little worth, an idler in the best, If, author of no mischief and some good, He seek his proper happiness by means That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. Nor, though he thread the secret path of life, Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, Account him an encumbrance on the state, Receiving benefits, and rendering none. His sphere, though humble, if that humble sphere Shin* with his fair example, and though small His influence, if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, In aiding helpless indigence, in works From which at least a grateful few derive Some taste of comfort in a world of woe, Then let the supercilious great confess He serves his country, recompenses well The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine He sits secure, and in the s^ale of life Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen 502 COWPER'S WORKS. Must drop indeed the hope of public praise ; But he may boast, what few that win it can, That, if his country stand not by his skill. At least his follies have not wrought her fall. Polite Refinement offers him in vain Her golden tube, through which a sensual world Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, The neat conveyance hiding all the oflfence. Net that he peevishly rejects a mode Because that world adopts it. If it bear The stamp and clear impression of good sense, And be not costly more than of true worth, He puts it on. and. for decorum sake. Uan wear it e'en as gracefully as she. She judges of refinement by the eye. He by the test of conscience, and a heart Not soon deceived ; aware that what is base No polish can make sterling ; and that vice, Though well perfumed and elegantly dress'd, Like an unburied carcass trick'd with flowers Is but a garnish ! d nuisance, fitter far For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, Move golden than that age of fabled gold Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approved Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. So glide my life away ! and so. at last, My share of duties decently fulfill'd. May some disease, not tardy to perform Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat, Beneath the turf that I have often trod. It shall not grieve me then that once, when call'c To dre? c n Sofa with the flowers of verse, I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair. With that light task; but soon, to please hei more, Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, Let fall the unfinish'd wrr ath, and rovUl fo* fruit : [true. Roved far. and gather'd much : some harsh, 'tia Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof, But wholesome, well-digested ; grateful some To palates that can taste immortal truth; Insipid else, and sure to be despised. But all is in His hand, whose praise I seek. In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, If he regard not, though divine the theme. 'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinckling of a minstrel's lyre, To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart ; Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain. Whose approbation — prosper even mine. AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Dear Joseph — five-and-twenty years ago — Aias. how time escape ' — 'tis even so — With frequent intercoms, and always sweet, And always friendly, we' vvere wont to cheat A tedious hour — and now we never meet ! As some grave gentleman in Terence says, £Twas therefore much th'j same in ancient dt ys,) Good lack, we know not w hat to-morrow brings— Strange fluctuation of all human things ! True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, But distance only cannot change the heart : And were I call'd to prove the assertion true, One proof should serve — a reference to you. Whence comes it then. that, in the wane of life, Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle strife, Wft find the friends we fancied we had won. Though numerous onct, reduced to few or none 1 Can gold grow worthless that has sf >od the touch % No ; gold they seem'd. but they were never such. Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, Swinging the parlor door upon its hinge, Dreading a negative, and overawed • Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. Go, fellow ! — whithei I — turning short about — Nay — stay at home — you're always going out. 'Tis but a step, sir, just at the street's end. — For what 1 — An please you, sir, to see a friend. — A friend ! Horatio cried, and seem'd to start — Yea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart. And fetch my cloak ; for though the night be raw, PH see him too — the first I ever saw. i 1 knew the man, and a new his nature mild, ! And was his playtl.ing often when a child ; i But somewhat at thai .a-tniont pinch'd him close, | Else he was seldom bitter or morose. I Perhaps his confidence, just then betray'd, [made, His grief might prompt him with the speech ha Perhaps 'twas mere good humor gave it birth, The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth, Howe'er it was, his language, in my mind, Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. But nol to moralize too much, and strain To prove an evil of which all complain ; (I hate long arguments verbosely spun ;) One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. Once on a time an emperor, a wise man, No matter where, in China or Japan, Decreed that whosoever should offend Against the well-known duties of a friend, Convicted once, should ever after wear But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. The punishment importing this, no doubt, That all was naught within, and all lbund ou» Oh. happy Britain ! we have not to fear Such hard and arbitrary measure here ; Else, could a law like that which I relate * Once have the sanction of our triple state, Some few, that I have known in days of old, Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow Might traverse England safely to and fro, An honest man, close-button'd to the chin, Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within. TIROCINIUM; OR, A REVIEW OF SCHOOLS Ke May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile ; Witty, and well employed, and, like thy Lord, Speaking in parables his slighted word ; I name thee not, lest so despised a name Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame ; Yet e'en in transitory life's late day, That mingles all my brown with sober grey, Revere the man whose Pilgrim marks the road, And guides the Progress of the soul to God. 'Twere well with most, if books that could engage Their childhood pleased them at a riper age ; The man, approving what had charm'd the boy, Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy, And not with curses on his heart, who stole The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. The stamp of artless piety impress'd By kind tuition on his yielding breast, The youth, now bearded and yet pert and raw, Regards with scorn, though once received with And, warp'd into the labyrinth of lies, [awe ; That babblers, call'd philosophers, devise, Blasphemes his creod, as founded on a plan Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man. Touch but. his nature in its ailing part, Assert the native evil of his heart, His pride resents the charge, although the proof* Rise in his forehead, and seem rank enough Point to the cure, describe a Saviour's cross fs God's expedient to retrieve his loss, The young apostate sickens at the view, Ani hates it with the malice of a Jew. * See 2 Chron. xxvi. 19. How weak the barrier of mere nature prove* Opposed against the pleasures nature loves ! While sell'betray'd, and wilfully undone, She longs to yield, no sooner wooed than won. Try now the merits of this blest exchange Of modest truth for wit's eccentric range. Time was, he closed as he began the day, With decent duty, not ashamed to pi", *hat, when Gehazi stray'd, Went with him, and saw all the game he play'd ? Yes — ye are conscious ; and on all the shelves Your pupils strike upon have struck yourselves. Or if, by nature sober, ye had then, Boys, as ye were, the gravity of men, Ye knew at least, by constant proofs address'd To ears and eyes,, the vices of the rest. But ye connive at what ye cannot cure, And evils not to be endured endure. Lest power exerted, but without success. Should make the little ye retain still less. Ye once were justly famed lor bringing forth Undoubted scholarship and genuine worth ; And in the firmament of fame still shines A glory, bright as that of all the signs Of poets raised by you. and statesmen and divines' Peace to thorn all ! those brilliant times are fled, And no such lights are kindling in their stead. Our striplings shine indeed, but with such rays As set the midnight riot in a blaze ; And seem, if judged by their expressive looks. Deeper in none than in their surgeons' books. Say. muse, (for education made the song, No muse can hesitate or linger long ) What causes move us knowing, as we must, That these menageries all fail their trust To send our sons to scout and scamper tin re While colts and puppies cost us so much care 1 Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise. We love the play-place of our early days ; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill The very name we carved subsisting still ; The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd. Though mangleil, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy 'd ; The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot. Playing our games, and on the very spot ; As nappy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat ; The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain Our innocent sweet simple years again. This fond attachment to the well-known place, Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, W T e feel it e'en in age. and at our latest, day. Hark ! how the sire of chits, whose future shara Of classic food begins to be his care, With his own likeness placed on either knee, Indulges all a father's heartfelt glee ; And tells them as he strokes their silver locks That they must soon learn Latin, and to bos ,- Then turning, he regales his listening wife With all the adventures of his early life ; His skill in coachmanship, or driving chaise. In bilkinjr tavern-bills, and spouting plays; What shifts he used, detected in a scrape, How he was flogg'd, or had the luck to escape ; What sums he lost at play, and how he sold Watch, seals, and all — till all his pranks are told, Retracing thus his frolics, ('tis a name That palliates deeds of folly and of shame,) He gives the local bias all its sway ; Resolves that where he play'd his sons shall plaj And destines their bright genius to be shown Just in the scene where he display'd his own. The meek and bashful boy will soon be taught To be as bold and forward as he ought ; The rude will scuffle through with ease enough Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough. Ah, happy designation, prudent choice, The event is sure ; expect it. and rejoice ! Soon see your wish fulfill'"*! in either child, The pert made perter and the tame made wild. The great indeed, by titles, riches, birth, Excused the incumbrance of more solid worth, Are best disposed of where with most success Tb ev may acquire that confident address, T.K^se habits of profuse and lewd expense, That scorn of all delights but those of sense, Which, though in plain plebeians we condemn. With so much reason, all expect from them. But families of less illustrious fame, Whose chief distinction is their spotless name, Whose heirs, their honors none, their incomj Must shine by true desert, or not at all. [small, W T hat dream they of. that, with so little care They risk their hopes, their dearest treasure there 1 They dream of little Charles or AVilliam graced With wig prolix, down flowing to his waist ; They see the attentive crowds his talents draw, They hear him speak — the oracle of law. The father, who designs his babe a priest, Dreams him episcopally such at least ; ' And, while the playful jockey scours the room i Briskly astride upon the parlor broom, , In fancy sees him more superbly ride In coach with purple lined, and mitres on ita side. Events improbable and strange as these, Which only a parental eye forsees, A public school shall bring to pass with ease. But how 1 resides such virtue in that air, As must create an appetite for prayer 1 606 COWPER'S WORKS. And will it breathe into him all the zeal That candidates for such a prize should feel. To take the lead and be the foremost still In all true worth and literary skill 1 " Ah, blind to bright futurity, untaught The knowledge of the World, and dull of thought ! Church ladders are not always mounted best By learned clerks and Latinists profess'd. The exalted prize demands an upward look, Not to be found by poring on a book. Small skill in Latin, and still less in Greek. Is more than adequate to all I seek. Let erudition grace him, or not grace, I give the bauble but the second place ; His wealth, fame, honors, all that I intend, Subsist and centre in one point — a friend. A friend, whate'er he studies or neglects, Shall give him consequence, heal all defects His intercourse with peers and sons of peers — There dawns the splendor of his future years: In that bright quarter his propitious skies Shall blush betimes, and there his glory rise. Your Lordship, and Your Grace ! what school can teach A rhetoric equal to those parts of speech ? What need of Homer's verse or Tully's prose, Sweet interjections ! if he learn but those 1 Let reverend churls his ignorance rebuke, Who starve upon a dog's ear'd Pentateuch, The parson knows enough who knows a duke." Egregious purpose ! worthily begun In barbarous prostitution of your son ; Press'd on his part by means that would dis- grace A scrivener's clerk, or footman out of place, And ending, if at last its end be gain'd, In sacrilege, in God's own house profaned. It may succeed : and if his sins should call For more than common punishment, it. shall ; The wretch shall rise, and be the thing on earth Least qualified in honor, learning, worth, To occupy a sacred, awful post, In which the best and worthiest tremble most. The royal letters are a thing of course, A king, that would, might recommend his horse ; And deans, no doubt, and chapters, with one voice, As bound in duty, would confirm the choice. Behold your bishop ! well he plays his part, Christian in name, and infidel in heart, Ghostly in office, earthly in his plan, A slave at court, elsewhere a lady's man. Dumb as a senator, and as a priest A piece of mere church furniture at best ; To live estranged from God bis total scope, And his end sure, without one glimpse of hope. But, fair although and feasible it seem, Depend not much upon your golden dream ; For Providence, that seems concern'd to exempt The hallow'd bench from absolute contempt, In spite of all the wrigglers into place, Still keeps a seat or two for worth and grace ; And therefore 'tis, that, though the sight be rare, We sometimes see a Lowth or Bagot ther^e. Besides, school friendships are not always found, Though fair in promise, permanent and sound ; The most disinterested and virtuous minds, In early years connected, time unbinds ; New situations give a different cast Of habit, inclination, temper, taste ; An I he, that seem'd our counterpart at first, Scon shows the strong similitude reversed. Young heads are giddy, and young hearts eat warm. And make mistakes for manhood to refoim. Boys are, at best, but pretty buds unblown, Whose scent and hues are rather gue&s'd tha a known; Each dreams that each is just what he appears, But learns his error in maturer years, When disposition like a sail unfurl'd, Shows all its rents and patches to the world. If, therefore, e'en when honest in design, A boyish friendship may so soon decline, 'Twere wiser sure to inspire a little heart With just abhorrence of so mean a part, Than set your son to work at a vile trade For wages so unlikely to be paid. Our public hives of puerile resort, That are of chief and most approved report, To such base hopes, in many a sordid soul, Owe their repute in part but not the whole. A principle whose proud pretensions pass Unquestion'd. though the jewel be but glass — That with a world, not often over-nice, Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice ; Or rather a gross compound, justly tried, Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride — Contributes most, perhaps, to enhance their farae ; And emulation is its specious name. Boys, once on fire with that contentious zeal, Feel all the rage that female rivals feel; The prize of beauty in a woman's eyes Not brighter than in theirs the scholar's prize. The spirit of that competition burns With all varieties of ill by turns ; Each vainly magnifies his own success, Resents his follows, wishes it were less, Exults in his miscarriage if he fail, Deems his reward too great if he prevail, And labors to surpass him day and night, Less for improvement than to tickle spite. The spur is powerful, and I grant its force ; It pricks the genius forward in its course, Allows short time for play, and none for sloth; And, felt alike by each, advances both : But judge, where so much evil intervenes, The end, though plausible, not worth the means* Weigh, for a moment, classical desert Against a heart depraved and temper hurt: Hurt too perhaps for life ; for early wrong Done to the nobler part, affects it long; And you are staunch indeed in learning's cause If you can crown a discipline, that draws Such mischiefs after it. with much applause. Connexion t'orm'd for interest, and endear'd By selfish views, thus censured and cashier'd ; And emulation, as engendering hate, Doom'd to a no less ignominious fate ; The props of such proud seminaries fall, The Jacliin and the Boaz of them all. Great schools rejected then as those that swell Beyond a size that can be managed well, Shall royal institutions miss the bays. And small academies win all the praise 1 Force not my drift beyond its just intent, I praise a school as Pope a government ; So take my judgment in his language dress'd. '• Whate'er is best adm:«nister"d is best." Few boys are born with talents that excel, But all' are capable of living well. ' Then ask not. whether limited or large 1 But, watch they strictly, or neglect their charge i [f anxious only that their boys may Icnrr While meals languish, a despised concern The great and small deserve one common blame, Different i*. size, but in effect the same. Much zeal in virtue's cause all teachers boast. Though motives of mere lucre sway the most; Therefore in towns and cities they abound, For there the frame they seek is easiest found ; Though tin re, in spite of all that care can do, Traps to catch youth are most abundant too. [f shrewd, and if a well-constructed brain. Keen in pursuit, and vigorous to retain, Your son come forth a prodigy of skill ; As. wheresoever taught, so form'd, he will; The pedagogue, with self-complacent air, Claims more than half the praise as his due share. But if, with all his genius ho betray, Not more intelligent than loose and gay, Such vicious habits as disgrace his name. Threaten his health, his fortune, and his fame ; Though want of due restraint alone have bred The symptoms that you see with so much dread ; Unenvie*d there, he may sustain alone The whole reproach, the fault was all his own. Oh ! 'tis a sight to be with joy perused, By all whom sentiment has not abused ; New-fangled sentiment the boasted grace Of those who never feel in the right place ; A sight surpassd by none that we can show, Though Vestris on one leg still shine below ; A father blest with an ingenuous son. Father and friend, and tutor, all in one. How ! — turn again to tales long since forgot, iEsop and Phaedrus, and the restl — Why notl He will not blush, that has a father's heart, To take in childish plays a childish part ; But bends his sturdy back to any toy That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy : Then why resign into a stranger's hand A task as much within your own command, That God and nature, and your interest too, Seem with one voice to delegate to you "? Why hire a lodging in a house unknown For one whose tenderest thoughts all hover round your own ] This second weaning, needless as it is, How does it lacerate both your heart and his ! The indented stick, that loses day by day, Notch after notch, till all are smooth'd away, Bears witness long ere his dismission come, With what intense desire he wants his home. But, though the joys he hopes beneath your roof Bid fair enough to answer in the proof. Harmless, and safe, and natural, as they are, A disappointment waits him even there : Arrived, he feels an unexpected change ; He blushes, hangs his head, is shy and strange, No longer takes as once, with fearless ease, His favorite stand between his father's knees, But seeks the corner of some distant seat, And eyes the door, and watches a retreat. And, least familiar where he should be most, Feels all his happiest privileges lost. Alas, poor boy ! — the natural effect Of love by absence chill'd into respect. Say, what accomplishments, at school acquired. Brings he. to sweeten fruits so undesired ] Thou well deserv'st an aliens ted son. Unless thy conscious heart acknowledge — none; None that, in thy domestic snug recess. He had not made his own wiih more address. Though some, perhaps, that shock thy feeling And better never learn'd, cr lell behind. [mind, Add too that, thus estranged, thou canst btain By no kind arts his confidence again.; That here begins with most that long complaint Of filial frankness lost, and love grown faint, Which, oft neglected, in life's waning years A parent pours into regardless ears. Like caterpillars 'dandling under trees By slender threads, and swinging in the breeze, Which filthily bewray and sore disgrace The boughs in which are bred the unseemly r ice While every worm industriously weaves And winds his web about the rivell'd leaves ; So numerous are the follies that annoy The mind and heart of every sprightly boy; Imaginations noxious and perverse. Which admonition can alone disperse. The encroaching nuisance asks a faithful hand ; Patient, affectionate, of high command, To check the procreation of a breed Sure to exhaust the plant on which they feed. 'Tis not enough that Greek r Roman page, At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage* E'en in his pastimes he requires a friend To warn, and teach him safely to unbend ; O'er all his pleasures gently to preside. Watch his emotions, and control their tide ; And levying thus, and with an easy sway, A tax of profit from his very play, To impress a value, not to be erased, [waste. On moments sqander'd else, and running all tc And seems it nothing in a father's eye That unimproved those many moments fly 1 And is he well content his son should find No nourishment to feed his growing mind, But conjugated verbs and nouns declined 1 For such is all the mental food purvey'd By public hackneys in the 'schooling trade, Who feed a pupil's intellect with store Of syntax, truly, but with little more ; Dismiss their cares when they dismiss their flock, Machines themselves, and govern'd by a clock. Perhaps a father, blest with any brains, Would deem it no abuse, or waste of* pains, To improve this diet, at no great expense, With savory truth and wholesome commor sense ; To lead his son, for prospects of delight, To some not steep, though philosophic, height, Thence to exhibit to his wondering eyes Yon circling worlds, their distance, and their size The moons of Jove, and Saturn's belted ball, And the harmonious order of them all ; To show him in an insect or a flower Such microscopic proof of skill and power, As, hid from ages past. God now displays To combat atheists with in modern days ; To spread the earth before him and commend, With designation of the finger's end. Its various parts to his attentive note, Thus bringing home to him the most remote ; To teach his heart to glow with generous flame, Caught from the deeds of men of ancient fame; And, more than all, with commendation duo To set some living worthy in his view, Whose fair example may at once inspire A wish to copy what he must admire. [pears, Such knowledge, gaind betimes, and which ap Though solid, not too weighty for his years, Sweet in itself and not forbidding sport. When health demands it, of athletic sort, 608 COUT* R'S WORKS. Would make him — what some lovely boys have been, And more than one perhaps that I have seen — An evidence and reprehension both Of the mere schoolboy's lean and tardy growth. Art thou a man professionally tied, With all thy faculties elsewhere applied, Too busy to intend a meaner care Than how to enrich thyself, arid next thine heir ; Or art thou (as, though rich, perhaps thou art) But poor in knowledge, having none to impart : — Behold that figure, neat, though plainly clad ; His sprightly mingled with a shade of sad ; Not of a nimble tongue, though now and then Heard to articulate like other men ; No jester, and yet lively in discourse, His phrase well chosen, clear, and full of force ; And his address, if not quite French in ease, Not English stiff, but frank, and form'd to please ; Low in the world, because he scorns its arts ; A man of letters, manners, morals, parts ; TJnpatronized, and therefore little known ; Wise for himself and his few friends alone — In him thy well-appointed proxy see, Arm'd for a work too difficult for thee ; Prepared by taste, by learning, and true worth, To form thy son, to strike his genius forth ; Beneath thy roof, beneath thine eye, to prove . The force of discipline when back'd by love ; To double all thy pleasure in thy child. His mind in form'd. his morals undefiled. Safe under such a wing, the boy shall show No spots contracted among grooms below; Nor taint his speech with meannesses, design'd By footman Tom for witty and refined. There, in his commerce, with the liveried herd, Lurks the contagion chiefly to be fear'd ; For since (so fashion dictates) all. who claim A higher than a mere plebeian fame, Find it expedient, come what mischief may, To entertain a thief or two in pay, (And they that can afford the expense of more, Some haif a dozen, and some half a score,) Great cause occurs to save him from a band So sure to spoil him. and so near at hand; A point secured, if once he be supplied ^ With some such Mentor always at his side. Are such men rare 1 perhaps they would abound Were occupation easier to be found. Were education else so sure to fail Conducted on a manageable scale. And schools, that have outlived all just esteem, Exchanged for the secure domestic scheme. — But, having found him, be thou duke or earl. Show thou hast sense enough to prize the pearl, And, as thou wouldst the advancement of thine In all good faculties beneath his care, [heir Respect, as is but rational and just. A man dcenv'd worthy of so dear a trust. Despised by thee, what more can he expect From youthful folly than the same neglect % A flat and fatal negative obtains That instant upon all his future pains ; His lessons tire, his mild rebukes offend, And all the instructions of thy son's best friend Are a stream choked or trickling to no end. Doom him not then to solitary meals; But recollect that he has sense, and feels ; And that, possessor of a soul refined, An upright heart, and cultivated mind, His post not mean, his talents not unknown, He deems it hard to vegetate alone. And, if admitted at thy board he sit, Account him no just mark for idle wit ; Offend not him whom modesty restrains From reparte, with jokes that he disdains ; Much less transfix his feelings with an oath ; Nor frown, unless he vanish with the cloth. — And, trust me, his utility may reach To more than he is hired, or bound to teach ; Much trash unutter'd, and some ills undone, Through reverence of the censor of thy son. But. if th}' table be indeed jnclean. Foul with excess, and with discourse obscene, And thou a wretch, whom following her old plan The world accounts an honorable man, Because forsooth thy courage has been tried, And stood the test, perhaps on the wrong side ; Though thou hadst never grace enough to prove That anything but vice could win thy love ; — Or hast thou a polite, card-playing wife, Chain'd to the routs that she frequents for life ; Who. just when industry begins to snore, [door; Flies, wing'd with joy, to some coach-crowdec And thrice in every winter throngs thine own With half the chariots and sedans in town, Thyself meanwhile e'en shifting as thou mayst; Not very sober though, nor very chaste ; Or is thine house, though less superb thy rank, If not a scene of pleasure, a mere blank, And thou at best, and in thy soberest mood, A trifler vain and empty of all good ; — Though mercy for thyself thou canst have none ; Hear Nature plead, show mercy to thy son. Saved from his home, where every (lav brmgi forth Some mischief fatal to his future worth, Find him a better in a distant spot, Within some pious pastor's humble cot. Where vile example (yours I chiefly mean, The most seducing, and the oftenest seen) May never more be stamp'd upon his breads. Not yet perhaps incurably impress'd : Where early rest makes early rising sure. Disease or comes not. or finds easy cure, Prevented much by diei ner.t and plain; I Or if it enter, soon .starved out again : I Where all the attention of his faithful bos», ! Discreetly limited fo two at most, j May raise such fruits as shall reward his care | And not at last evaporate in air: I Where stillness aiding study, and his mind Serene, and to his duties much inclined, ! Not occupied in day dreams, as at home, j Of pleasures past, or follies yet to come, j His virtuous toil may terminate at last ; In settled habit and decided taste. — But whom do I advise 1 the fashion-led, The incorrigibly wrong the deaf, the dead ! Whom care and cool deliberation suit Not better much than spectacles a brute ; Who. if their sons some slight tuition share, Deem it of no great moment whose, or where; Too proud to adopt the thoughts of one un- known, And much too gay to have any of their own. But courage man ! methought the Muse replied Mankind are various, and the world is wide : The ostrich, silliest of the feather'd kind, And form'd of God without a parent's mind, Commits her eggs, incautious to the dust. Forgetful that the foot may crush the trust ; And. while on public nurseries they rely, Not knowing, and too oft not caring, why, TIROCINIUM. 609 Irrational In what they thus prefer, No few, that would seem wise, resemble her. But all are not alike. Thy warning voice May here and there prevent erroneous choice ; And some, perhaps, who. busy*as they are, Yet ma';e their progeny their dearest care, (Whose hearts will ache, once told what ill may reach Their offspring, left upon so wild a beach,) Will need no stress of argument to enforce The ex;> dienee of a less adventurous course: The re*-', will slight thy counsel, or condemn ; But they have human feelings — turn to them. To you, then, tenants of life's middle state, Securely placed between the small and great. Whose character, yet undebauch'd, retains Two-thirds of all the virtue that remains, Who, wise yourselves, desir: your sc-s should learn Your wisdom and your ways — to you I turn. Look round you on a World perversely blind ; See what contempt is fallen on huma . kind ; See wealth abused, and dignities nn&piaced, Great titles, offices, and trusts disgraced, Long lines of ancestry, renown'd of old, Their noble qualities all quench'd and cold ; See Bedlam's closeted and handcuff d charge Surpass'd in frenzy by the mad at large : See great commanders making war a trade, Great lawyers, lawyers without study made ; Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employ Is odious, and their wages all their joy, Who. far enough from furnishing their shelves With Gospel lore, turn infidels themselves ; « See womanhood despised, and manhood shamed With infamy too nauseous to be named, Fops at all corners, ladylike jj> o^icn, Civited fellows, smelt ere they are seen, Else coarse and rude in manners, and their tongue On fire with curses, and with nonsense hung Now flush'd with drunkenness, now with wii-vc- dom pale, Their breath a sample of last night's rsgale . See volunteers in all the vilest arts, Men well endow'd, of honorable parts, Design'd by Nature wise, but self-made fools; All these, and more like, these, were bred at schools. And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will, That though school-bred the boy be virtuous still ; Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark. Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark . As here and there a twinkling star descried Serves but to show how black is all beside. Now look on him, whose very voice in tone Just echoes thine, whose features are thine own. And stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red, And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head, And say, My boy. the unwelcome hour is come, When thou, transplanted from thy genial home., Must find a colder soil and bleaker air. And trust for safety to a stranger's care; What character, what turn thou wih assume From constant converse with I know not whom; Who there will court thy friendship, with what > views, And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose ; depends on what thy choioe thy Though much shall be, Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me, Canst thou, the tear just trembling on lids, And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids ; Free too, and under no constraining force, Unless the sway of custom warp thy course ; Lay such a stake upon the losing side, Merely to gratify so blind a guide 1 Thou canst not ! Nature, pulling at thine heart, Condemns the unfatherly, the imprudent part. Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tenderest plea, Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea, Nor say, Go thither, conscious that there lay A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way ; Then, only govern'd by the self-same rule Of natural pity, send him not to school. No — guard him better. Is he not thine own, Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thv bone 1 And hopest thou not, ('tis every father's hope,) That, since thy strength must with thy year* elope, And thou wilt need some comfort to assuage Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age, That then, in recompense of all thy cares, Thy child shall show respect to thy gray hairs, Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft, And give thy life its only cordial left 1 Aware then how much danger intervenes, To compass that good end, forecast the means. His heart, now passive, yields to thy command ; Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand ; If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide, Nor heed what guests there enter and abide, Complain not if attachments lewd and base Supplant thee in it, and usurp thy place. But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sure, From vicious inmates, and delights impure^ Either his gratitude shall hold him fast, And keep him warm and filial to the last ; Or, if he prove unkind, (as who can say But, being man, and therefore frail, he may 1) One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart, Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part. Oh, barbarous ! wouldst thou with a Gothia hand ¥ Pull down the schools — what ! — all the school* i' th' land , Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms, Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms 1 A captious question, sir, (and yours is one,) Deserves an answer similar, or none. Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ (Apprised that he is such) a careless boy, And feed him well, and give him handsome pay, Merely to sleep, and let them run astray 1 Survey our schools and colleges, and see A sight not much unlike my simile. From education, as the leading cause, The.pubrc character its color draws ; Thence tiie prevailing manners take their cast, Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste. And though I would not advertise them yet, Nor write on each — Thin Building to be Let, Unless the world were all prepared to embraoe A plan well worthy to supply their place ; Yet, backward as they are, and long have boon, To cultivate and keep the Morals clean, (Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess, Or better managed, or encouraged less. 39 CIO COWPER'S WORKS. THE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR TITHING TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX. Verses addressed to a Country Clergyman, complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed lor receiving the Dues at the Parsonage. Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, To laugh it would be wrong, rhe troubles of a worthy priest, The burden of my song. rhe priest he merry is and blithe Three quarters of a year ; But oh ! it cuts him like a scythe, When tithing time draws near. He then is full of fright and fears, As one at point to die, And long before the day appears, He heaves up many a sigh. For then the farmers come jog, jog, Along the miry road, Each heart as heavy as a log, To make their payments good. In sooth the sorrow of such days Is not to be express'd, When he that takes and he that pays Are both alike distress'd. Now all unwelcome at his gates The clumsy swains alight, With rueful faces and bald pates- He trembles at the sight. And well he may, for well he knows Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes, Will cheat him if he can. So in they come — each makes his leg, And flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg, And not to quit a score. «' And how does miss and madam do, The tittle boy and all? " " All tight and well. And how do you, Good Mr. What-d'ye-call 1 " The dinner comes, and down they sit, Were e'er such hungry folk ? There's little talking, and no wit ; It is no time to joke. One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, One spits upon the floor, Yet not to give offence or grieve, Holds up the cloth before. The punch goes round and they are dull And lumpish still a; ever ; Like barrels with their bellies full, They only weigh the heavier. At length the busy time begins. " Come, neighbors, we must wag "— The money t^aks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag. One valks of mildew and of frost, And one of storms of hail, And one of pigs that he has lost By maggots at the ta il ^Q,uoth one, " A rarer man than you In pulpit none shall hear : But yet, methinks. to tell you true, You sell it plaguy dear." O why are fanners made so coarse, Or clergy made so fine 1 A kick, that scarce would move a horse, May kill a sound divine. Then let the boobies stay at home ; 'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum Without the clowns that pay. SONNET, • ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Der fence of Warren Hastings, Esq., in the House of Lords. Cowper, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears [peers, (Attentive when thou read'st) of England's Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy generous powers, but silence honor'd thee, Mute its e'er gazed on orator or bard. Thou art not voice alone, but bast beside [sweet Both heart and head ; and touldst with music Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own. LINES ADDRESSED TG DR. DARWiN AUTHOR OF " THE BOTANIC GaRDEN " Two Poets.* (poets, by report, Not oft so well agree,) Sweet harmonist of Flora's court ! Conspire to honor thee. They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labors of their own. We therefore pleased extol thy song, Though various, ; et complete, Rich in embellishment as strong, And learned as 'tis sweet. No envy mingles with our praise Though could orr hearts repine At any poet's happier lays, They would— they must at thine But we, in mutual bondage knit Of f iendship's closest tie, Can p:.zc on even Darwin'? wit Witr. n u» jam: diced eye ; * Alluding t- T p pwm, by Mr. Hayloy, Wnicn accom panied tb^se line?. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 61 And deem the bard, whoe'er he he, And howsoever known. Who would not twine a wreath for thee, Unworthy of his own. VTRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS. Thk birds put off their every hue To dress a room for Montagu. The peacock sends his heavenly dyes, His rainbows and his starry eyes, The pheasant plumes, which round enfold His mantling neck with downy gold, The cock his arch'd tail's azure show; And, river-blanch'd. the swan his snow. All tribes beside of Indian name, That glossy shine, or vivid flame, Where rises, and where sets the day, . W T hate'er they boast ot' rich and gay, Contribute to the gorgeous plan, Proud to advance it all they can. This plumage neither dashing shower, Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower, Shall drench again or discompose, But. screen r d from every storm that blows, It boasts a splendor ever new Safe with protecting Montagu. To the same patroness resort, Secure of favor at her court. Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, Which, though new-born, with vigor move, Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove — Imagination scattering round Wild roses over fufrow'd ground, Which Labor of his frown beguile, And teach Philosophy a smile — Wit flashing on Religion's side. Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied, The gem. though luminous before, Obtrude on human notice more, Like sunbeams on the golden height Of some tall temple plnying bright — Well tutor'd Learning, from his books Dismissal with grave, not haughty. Lcks, Their order on his shelves exact. Not more harmonious or compact Than that to which he keeps confined The various treasures of his mind — All these to Montagus repair, Ambitious of a shelter there. There Genius. Learning. Fancy, W T it, Their ruffled plumage calm refit. (For stormy troubles loudest roar Around their flight who highest soar.) And in her eye. and by her aid Shine safe, without a tear to fade. She thus maintains divided sway With yon bright regent of the day ; The Plume and Poet both we know Their lustre to his influence owe ; And she the works of Phoebus aiding, Both Poet saves and Plume from fading. r— YERSES, Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez. I am monarch of all I survey. My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round tc the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brut . Solitude ! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face 1 Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place. 1 am out of humanity's reach. I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own. The beasts, thai roam over the plain, My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestow'd upon man, O, had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again ! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age. And be cheer'd by the sallies of "youth. R-ligion ! what treasure untold liesides in that heavenly word! Mori precious than silver and gold, Ov rail that this earth can afford. Bu ; the sound of the church-going bell Tbi.se. valleys and rocks never heard. Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell. Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd Ye winds that have made me yaur sport, Convey to this desolate shore Som~. cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wi- K or a thought, after me 1 O te'i .n ; 1 yet have a friend, Thougu a friend I am never to see. How fleet is the glance of the mind ! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, - And the swiil-winged arrows of light. When 1 think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea- fowl is cronr to h(r nest, The beast is laM vwn in his lair; Even here is ... season of rest, And I to wy cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot. OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE . RKCORDF.n IN THE BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNIC* On. fond attempt to give a deathless lot To names ignoble, born to be forgot ! In vain recorded in historic page, They court the notice of a future age: Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand -lethsan gulfs receive them as they fall, And dark oblivion soon absorbs them alL So when a child, as playful children use, Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news, The flame extinct, he views the roving fire — There goes my lady, and there goes the squire, There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark ! 4nd there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk ! REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO BE POUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong. So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause [learning; With a great deal of skill and a wig full of While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws. So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, [wear. That the Nose has had spectacles always in Which amounts to possession time out of mind. Then holding the spectacles up to the court — Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle, As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, Design'd to sit close to it, just like a ?uadle. Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) Tnat the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then! On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, [demn, With a reasoning' the court will never con- That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, , [them. And the Nose was as plainly intended for Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how,) He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes ; But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise. So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or but — That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight — Eyes should be shut! ON THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ., ro THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OP ENGLiND. Round Thurlow's head in early youth, And in his sportive days, Fair Science pour'd the light of truth, And Genius shed his rays. See ! with united wonder cried The experienced and the sage, Ambition in a boy supplied With all the skill of age ! Discernment, eloquence, and grace, Proclaim him born to sway The balance in the highest place, And bear the palm away. The praise bestow'd was just and wise , He sprang impetuous forth, Secure of conquest, where the prize Attends superior worth. So the best courser on the plain Ere yet he starts is known. And does but at the goal obtain What all had deem'd his own. ODE TO PEACE. Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! Return, and make thy downy nest Once more in this sad heart : Nor riches I nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; We therefore need not part. Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, From avarice and ambition free, And pleasure's fatal wiles'? For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare The sweets that I was wont to share, The banquet of thy smiles 1 The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven that thou alone canst make? And wilt thou quit the stream That murmurs through the dewy mead. The -grove and the sequester'd shed, To be a guest with them ! For thee I panted, ti ee I prized, For thee I gladly sacrificed Whate'er I loved before ; And shall I see thee start away, And helpless, hopeless, hoar thee say — Farewell ! we meet no more ! HUMAN FRAILTY. Weak and irresolute is man ; The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan, To-morrow rends away. The bow well bent, and smart the spring, Vice seems already slain ; But Passion rudely snaps the string, And it revives again. Some foe to his upright intent Finds out his weaker part ; Virtue engages his assent. But Pleasure wins his heart. 'Tis here the folly of the wise Through all his art we view ; And. while his tongue the charge denies, His conscience owns it true. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 61S Bound on a voyage of awful length And dangers little known, A stranger to superior strength, Man vainly trusts his own. But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast; The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost. THE MODERN PATRIOT. Rebellion is my theme all day; I only wish 'twould come (As who knows but perhaps it may ?) A little nearer home. Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight On t'other side the Atlantic, I always held them in the right, But most so when most frantic. When lawless mobs insult the court, That man shall be my toast, If breaking windows be the sport, Who bravely breaks the most. But O ! for him my fancy culls The choicest flowers she bears, Who constitutionally pulls Your house about your ears. Such civil broils are my delight, Though some iblks can't endure them, Who say the mob are mad outright, And that a rope must cure them. A rope ! I wish we patriots had Such strings for all who need 'em — What ! hang a man for going mad ! Then farewell British freedom. BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY, K)GETHER WITH HIS MSS., BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1780. So then — the Vandals of our isle, Sworn foes to sense and law. Have burnt to dust a nobler pile Than ever Roman saw ! And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift, And many a treasure more, The well-judged purchase, and the gift That graced his l'etter'd store. Their pages mangled, burnt, and ten, The loss was his alone ; But ages yet to come shall mourn The burning of his own. ON THE SAME. When wit and genius meet their doom In all devouring flame, They tell us of the fate of Rome, And bid us fear the same. O'er Murray's loss the muses wept. They felt the rude alarm, Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept His sacred head from harm. There Memory, like the bee that's fed From Flora's balmy store, The quintessence of all he read Had treasured up before. The lawless herd, with fury blind, Have done him cruel wrong; The flowers are gone — but still we find The honey on nis tongue. THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED; or, hypocrisy detected.* Thus says the prophet of the Turk, Good Mussulman, abstain from pork ; There is a part in every swine No friend or follower of mine May taste, whate'er his inclination, On pain of excommunication. Such Mahomet's mysterious charge, And thus he left the point at large. Had he the sinful part express'd, They might with safety eat the rest; But for one piece they thought it hard From the whole hog to be debarr'd ; And set their wit at work to find What joint the prophet had in mind. Much controversy straight arose, These choose the back, the belly those , By some 'tis confidently said He meant not to forbid the head ; While others at that doctrine rail, And piously prefer the tail. Thus, conscience freed from every clog, Mahometans eat up the hog. You laugh — 'tis well — the tale applied May make you laugh on t'other side. Renounce the world — the preacher cries. We do — a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A snug and friendly game at cards; And one. whatever you may say. Can sec no, evil in a play ; Some love a concert, or a race : And others shooting, and the chase. Reviled and loved, renounced and follow'd, Thus, bit by bit the world is swallow'd; Each thinks his neighbor makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he : With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten. ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH. Ye nymphs ! if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless favorites shed, O share Maria's grief! * It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piec« has already appeared in print, having found its way, though with some unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into the Leeds Journal, without the author's privity H4 COWPER'S WORKS Her favorite, even in his cage, (What will not hunger's cruel rage 1) Assassin'd by a thief. Where Rhenus strays his vines among, The egg was laid from which he sprung ; And. though by nature mute, Or only with a whistb blest. Well taught he all th rounds express'd Of flageolet or lhAc The honors of his ebon poll Were brighter than the sleekest mole, His I g-.' /m of the hue With which Aurora decks the skies, When pipi'V^ vlr-da shall soon arise, To sweep away the dew. Above, below, in all ihe house, Dire foe alike of bird and mouse No cat had leave to dwell ; And Bully's cage supported stood On props of smoothest shaven wood, Large built, and latticed well. Well latticed — but the grate, alas ! Not rough with wire of steel or brass, For Bully's plumage sake, But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, With which, when neatly peel'd and dried, The swains their baskets make. Night veil'd the pole : all seem'd secure : When, led by instinct sharp and sure, Subsistence to provide, A beast forth sallied on the scout, Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout, And badger-color'd hide. He, entering at the study door, Its ample area 'gan explore ; And something in the wind Conjectured, sniffing round and round, Better than all the books he found, Food chiefly for the mind. Just then, by adverse fate impress'd, A dream disturb'd poor Bully rest, In sleep he seem'd to view A rat fast clinging to the cage, And, screaming at tl.*' sad presage, Awoke and found it true. For, aided both by ear and scent, Right to his mark the monster went — Ah. muse ! forbear to speak Minute the horrors that ensued ; His teeth were strong, the cage was wood — He left poor Bully's beak. O had he made that too his prey ; That beak, whence issued many a lay Of such mellifluous tone, Might have repaid him well I. wote, For silencing so sweet a throat. Fast stuck within his own. Maria weeps -the Muses mourn — So when, by Bacchanalians torn, On Thracian Hebrus' side The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell, His head alone remain'd to tell The cruel c^ath he died. THE ROSE. The rose had been wash'd, just washed in t shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd ; The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head. The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were al wet, And it seem'd, to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left, with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew. I hastily seized it. unfit as it was, For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground. And such, I exclaim'd. is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind. Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd. This elegant rose, had I shaken it less. Might have bloouvd with its owner awhile; And the tear, that is vvip'd with a little adthresa May be followed perhaps by a smile. THE DOVES. Rkasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way While meaner things, whom instinct leads Are rarely known to stray. One silent eve I wander'd late, And heard the voice of love ; The turtle thus address'd her mate, And soothed the listening dove : Our mutual bond of faith and truth No time shall disengage, Those blessings of our early youth Shall cheer our latest age : While innocence without disguise, And constancy sincere. Shall fill the circles of those eyes, And mine can read them there; Those ills, that wait on all below, Shall ne'er be felt by me, Or gently felt, and only so. As being shared with thee. When lightnings flash among the treea, Or kites are hovering near, I fear lest thee alone they seize, And know no other fear. : Tis then I feel myself a wife, And press thy wedded side. Resolved a union form'd for life Death never shall divide. But oh ! if. fickle and unchaste, (Forgive a transient thought,) Thou couldst become unkind at last, And scorn thy present lot, No need of lightnings from on high, Or kites with cruel be* k ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 51ft Denied the endearments of thine eye, This widow'd heart would break. Thus sang the sweet sequ ester 'd bird Soft as the passing wind, And I recorded what I heard, A lesson for mankind. A FABLE. A raven, while with glossy breast Hei new-laid eggs she fondly press'd. And, on her wicker-work high mounted, Her chickens prematurely counted, (A fault philosophers might blame, If quite exempted from the same,) Enjoy'd at ease the genial day; 'Twas April, as the bumpkins say, The legislature call'd it May. * But suddenly a wind, as high As ever swept a winter sky, Shook the young leaves about her ears, And fill'd her with a thousand fears, Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, And spread her golden hopes below. Rut just at eve the blowing weather And all her fears were hush'd together : And now. quotli poor unthinking Ralph, 'Tis over, and the brood is safe ; (For ravens, though, as birds of omen, They teach both conjurors and old women To tell us what is to befall Can't prophesy themselves at all.) The morning came, when neighbor Hodge, Who long had mark'd her airy lodge, And destined all the treasure there A. gift to his expecting fair. Jlimb'd like a squirrel to his dray, And bore the worthless prize away. ris Providence alone secures Ln every change both mine and yours : Safety consists not in escape From dangers of a frightful shape ; An earthquake may be bid to spare The man that's strangled by a hair. Fate steals along with silent tread. Found oft'nest in what least we dread, Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow. ODE TO APOLLO ••N AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. Patron of all those luckless brains, That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much melre with much pains, And little or no meaning ; Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, That water all the nations, P?y tribute to thy glorious beams, By constant exhalations ; Why, stooping from the noon of day, Too covetous of drink, ipollo, hast thou stolen away A poet's drop of ink 1 Upborne into the viewless air, It floats a va A cr now, Impell'd through regions dense and rare By all the winds that blow. Ordain'd perl : s, ere summer flies, Combined with millions more, To form an iris in the skies. Though black and foul before. Illustrious drop ! and happy then Beyond tne happiest lot, Of all that ever pass'd my pen, So soon to be forgot ! Phoebus, if such be thy design, To place it in thy bow, Give wit. that what is left may shine With equal grace below. A COMPARISON. The lapse of time and rivers is the same, Both speed their journey with a restlesa s' r eain, The silent pace, with which they steal ,t.y. No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade :o stay Alike irrevocable both when past, And a wide ocean swallows both at last. Though each resemble each in every part, j A difference strikes at length the mveing heart ; ! Streams never flow in vain ; where stream, abound, [crown'd . How laughs the land with various plentj But tune, that should enrich the nobler mind, Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind. ANOTHER. ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade Apt emblem of a virtuous maid — Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy thronj ; With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she >*oe3. Pure-bosoind as that watery gl vs, And heaven reflected in her face. THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT, TO MRS. (now lady) throckmovton. Maria ! I have every good For thee wish'd many a time, Both sad. and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhyme. To wish thee fairer is no need. More prudent, cr more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed From temper-flaws unsightly. What favor then not yet possess'd Can I for thee require. In wedded love already blest, To thy whole heart's desire ? <16 COWPER'S WORKS. None here is happy but in part ; Full bliss is bliss divine ; There dwells some wish in every heart, And doubtless one in thine. That wish on some fair future day, Which fate shall brightly gild, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may,) I wish it all fulfill'd. PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. I shall not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau* If birds confabulate or no ; 'Tis clear, that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable ; And e'en the child who knows no better Than to interpret, by the letter, A story of a cock and bull, Must have a most uncommon skull . It chanced then on a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a a design To forestall sweet St. Valentine, In many an orchard, copse, and grove, Assembled on a fairs of love, And with mume people are more nice than wise : For one slight trespass all this stir 1 What if he did ride whip and spur, Twas but a mile — your favorite horse Will never look one hair the worse. Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing — Child ! I am rather hard of hearing — Yes, truly — one must scream and bawl : T tell you, you can't hear at all ! Then, with a voice exceeding low, No matter if you hear or no. v Alas ! and is domestic strife, That sorest ill of human life, A plague so little to be fear'd, As to be wantonly incurr'd, To gratify a fretful passion, On every trivial provocation 1 ■ The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear ; And something every day they live To pity, and perhaps forgive. But if infirmities, that fall In common to the lot of all, A blemish or a sense impair'd, Are crimes so little to be spared. Ther farewell all that must create The comfort of the wedded state ; Instead of harmony, 'tis jar, Ana tumult, and intestine war. The love that cheers life's latest stage Proof against sickness and old age, Preserved by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention ; But lives, when that exterior grace, Which first inspired the flame, decays. 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate or blind, And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure : But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, Shows love to be a mere profession ; Proves that the heart is none of his, Or soon expels him if it is. THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. Forced from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn ; To increase a stranger's treasures, O'er the raging billows borne. Men from England bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold ; But, though slave they have enrolFd me Minds are never to be sold. Still in thought as free as ever, What are England's rights, I ask, * Me from my delights to sever, Me to "torture, me to task % Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit nature's claim; Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil 1 Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords. Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Is there One who reigns on high ? Has he bid you buy and sell us, Speaking from his throne, the skyl Ask him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges Agents of his will to use 1 Hark ! he answers — wild tornadoes, Strewing yonder sea with wrecks ; Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations Afric's sons should undergo, Fix'd their tyrants' habitations Where his whirlwinds answer — no. By our blood in Afric wasted, Ere our necks received the chain ; By the miseries that we tasted, Crossing in your barks the main , By our sufferings, since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart, All sustain'd by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart ; Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the color of ur kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours ! PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. Video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor. I own I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves. And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves ; [and groans, What I hear of their hardships, their tortures Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, For how could we do without sugar and rum 1 JOHN GILPIN. > make his balance true. Tl en over all, that he might be Equipp'd from top to toe, I is long red cloak, well brush'd £_nd neat, He manfully did throw. is .-w see him" mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, fbe snorting beast began to trot Which gall'd him in his seat. So, fair and softly, John he -vied, But John he cried in vain ; That trot became a gallop eoon, In spite of curb and reir.. So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or nought , Away went hat and wig ; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig. The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, , Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung ; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, Up flew the windows all ; And every soul cried out, Well done 1 As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin — who but he ? His fame soon spread around, He carries weight ! he rides a race ! 'Tis for a thousand pound ! And still, as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view, How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw. And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shatter'd at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke, As they had basted been. But still he seem'd to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced ; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist. Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay ; And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton, his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. JOHN GILPIN. 63 Stop, stop. John Gilpin !— Here's the house ! They all at once did cry ; The dinner waits, and we are tired : Said Gilpin — So am I ! But ye< his horse was not a whit Incli.ied to tarry there ; For why 1 — his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong ; So did he fly — which brings me to The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calendrer's The horse at last stood still. The calendrer. amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him : What news 1 what news ? your tidings tell ; Tell me you must and shall — Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all 1 Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke ! And thus unto the calendrer In merry guise he spoke : * came because your horse would come, And, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road. The calendrer, right glad to find. His friend in merry pin, Return'd him not a single word, But to the house went in ; Whence straight came he with hat and wig ; A wig that flow'd behind, A. hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn Thus show'd his ready wit : My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit. But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face ; And stop and eat, for well you mi f Be in a hungry case. Said John, It is my wedding-day, And all the world would star--, [f wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware. So turning to his horse, he said, I am in haste to dine ; Twas for ypur pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine. 4h luckless speech, and bootless boast ! For which he paid full dear ; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sinff most loud and clear ; Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And gallop 'd off with all his might, As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig : He lost them sooner than at first, For why 1 — they were too big. Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pull'd out half-a-crown ; And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, This shall be yours, when you bring bacx My husband safe and well. The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain ; Whom in a trice he tried to stop. By catching at his rein ; But, not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted mora. And made hiin faster run. Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels Six gentlemen upon the road Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry : Stop thief ! stop thief ! — a highwayman i Not one of them was mute ; And all and each that pass'd that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space ; The toll-men thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race. And so did he, and won it too, For he got first to town ; Nor stopp'd till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, long live the king, And Gilpin long live he ; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see ! THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM A nightingale, that all day long Had cheer'd the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite ; When, looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glowworm by his spark , 522 COWPER'S WORKS. So stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him it, his crop. The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus rig.ut eloquent— Did you admire my lamp, quoth he As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to "do me wrong As much as I to spoil your song ; For 'twas the self-same Power divine Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night. The songster heard his short oration, And, warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else. Hence jarring sectaries may learn Their real interest to discern ; That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other ; But sing and shine by sweet consent, Till life's poor transient night is spent, Respecting in each other's case The gifts of nature and of grace. Those Christians best deserve the name Who studiously make peace their aim ; Peace both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps and him that flies. /LN EPISTLE TO AN AFFLICTED PROTEST- ANT LADY IN FRANCE. Madam, A stranger's purpose in these lays Is to congratulate, and not to praise. To give the creature the Creator's due Were sin in me, and an offence to you. From man to man, or e'en to woman paid, Praise is the medium of a knavish trade, A coin by craft for folly's use design'd, Spurious, and only current with the blind. The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown ; Ne traveller ever reach 'd that blest abode, Who found not thorns and briers in his road. The world may dance along the flowery plain, Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread, With unshod feet they yet securely tread, Admonish 'd, scorn the caution and the friend, Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. But he, who knew what human hearts would prove, How slow to learn the dictates of his love, That, hard by nature and of stubborn will, A life of ease would make them harder still, In pity to the souls his grace design'd To rescue from the ruins of mankind, Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, And said, " Go spend them in the vale of tears." balmy gales of soul-reviving air ! salutary streams, that murmur there ! These flowing from the fount of grace above, Those breathed from lips of everlasting love. The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys ; Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys ; An envious world will interpose its frown, 1 mar delights superior to its own ; And many a pang, experienced still within, Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin : But ills of every shape and every name, Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim : And every moment's calm, that soothes the brea«t Is given in earnest of eternal rest. Ah, be not i,ad. although thy lot be cast Far from the nock, and in a boundless waste ! No shepherd's tcnt-s vithin thy view appear, But the chief Shep-if.; i even there is near; Thy tender sorrows :u; ! thy plaintive strain Flow in a foreign laud but not in vain; Thy tears all issue from a source divine, And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine— So once s.\ ^^in's lieece the dews were found And draught on ail the drooping herbs around. TO THE REV. W. CAVVTHORNE UNWIN Unwin, I should but ill repay The kindness of a friend, Whose worth deserves as warm a 'ay As ever friendship penn'd, Thy name omitted in a page That would reclaim a vicious age. , A union form'd. as mine with thee. Not rashly, or in sport, May be as fervent in degree And faithful in its sort, And may as rich in comfort prove, As that of true fraternal love. The bud inserted in the rind, The bud of peach or rose, Adorns, though differing in its kind, The stock whereon it grows. With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair, As if produced by nature there. Not rich, I render what I may, I seize thy name in haste, And place it in this first essay, Lest this should prove the last. 'Tis where it should be — in a plan That holds in view the good of mail. The poet's lyre, to fix his fame, Should be the poet's heart; Affection lights a brighter flamb Than ever blazed by art. No muses on these lines attend, I sink the poet in the friend. TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON AN INV STATION 'NTO THE COUNTRY. The swallows in their torpid state Coaipose their useless wing, And bees in hives as idly wait The call of early Spring. The keenest frost that binds the stream The wildest wind that blows, Are neither felt nor fear'd by them, Secure of their repose. But man, all feeling and awake, The gloomy scene surveys ; With present ills his heart must ache, And pant for brighter days. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. K2i Old Winter halting o'er the mead, Bids me and Mary mourn ; But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head, And whispers your -eturn. Then April with her sister May, Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day, To crown the smiling hours. And if a tear that speaks regret Of happier* times appear, A glimpse of joy, that we have met, Shall shine and dry the tear. CATHARINA. ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON, (NOW MRS. COURTNEY.) She came — she is gone — we have met — And meet perhaps never again ; The sun of that moment is set. And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream — (So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem That will not so suddenly pass. The last evening ramble we made, Catharina, Maria, and I, Our progress was often delay'd By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paused under many a tree, And much she was charm'd with a tone, Less sweet to Maria and me, Who so lately had witness'd her own. My numbers that day she'had sung. And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue Could infuse into numbers of mine. The longer I heanl, I esteemd The work of my fancy the more, And e'en to myself never seem'd So tuneful a poet before. Though the pleasures of London exceed In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impede, Would feel herself happier here ; For the close-woven arches of limes On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her many times Than aught that the city can show. So it is when the mind is endued With a well-j udging taste from above, Then, whether cmbellish'd or rude, 'Tis nature abne that we love. The achievements of art may amuse, May even our wonder excite ; Bit groves, hills, and valleys diffuse A lasting, a sacred delight. Since then in the rural recess Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess The scene of her sensible choice ! To inhabit a mansion remote From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note To measure the life that she leads. With her book, and her voice, and her ljrre To wing all her moments at home ; And with scenes that new rapture inspire, As ott as it suits her to roam ; She will have just the life she prefers, With little to hope or to fear, And ours would be pleasant as hers, Might we view her enjoying it here. THE MORALIZER CORRECTED A hermit, (or if 'chance you hold That title now too trite and old,) A man. once young, who lived retired As hermit could have well desired, His hours of study closed at last, And finish'd his concise repast, Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book, Within its customary nook, And. staff in hand, set forth to share The sober cordial of sweet air, Like Isaac, with a mind applied To serious thought at evening-tide. Autumnal rains had made it chill, And from the trees, that fringed his hill. Shades slanting at the close of day, Chill'd more hij else delightful way. Distant a little mile he spied A western bank's still sunny side, And right toward the favor'd place Proceeding with his nimblest pace, In hope to bask a little yet, Just reach'd it when the sun was set. Your hermit, young and jovial sirs ! Learns something from whate'er occurs- And hence, he said, my mind computes The real worth of man's pursuits. His object chosen, wealth or fame, Or other sublunary game, Imagination to his view Presents it deck'd with every hue That can seduce him not to spare His powers of best exertion there, But youth, health, vigor to expend On so desirable an end. Ere long approach life's evening shades The glow that fancy gave it fades ; And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace That first engaged him in the chase. True, answer'd an angelic guide, Attendant at the senior's side — But whether o.ll the time it cost, To urge the fruitless chase be lost, Must be decided by the worth Of that which call'd his ardor forth. Trifles pursued, whate'er the event, Must cause him shame or discontent; A vicious object still is worse, Successful there, he wins a curse ; But he, whom e'en in life's last stag* Endeavors laudable engage. Is paid at least in peace of mind, And sense of having well design u; And if, ere he attain hia end, His sun precipitate descend, A brighter prize than that he meant Shall recompense his mere intent. Nj virtuous wish can bear a dati Either too early or too late. 6U COWPER'S WORKS, THE FAITHFUL BIRD. The greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs displaced from that recreat Enjoy 'd the open air; Two goldfinches, whose s lightly sou«; Had been their mutual solace iong, Lived happy prisoners there. They sang as blithe as finches sing, That flutter loose on golden wing, And frolic where they list ; Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, But that delight they never knew, And therefore never miss'd. But nature works in every breast. With force not easily suppress'd; And Dick felt some desires, That, after many an effort vain, Instructed him at. length to gain A pass between his wires. The open windows seem'd to invite The freeman to a farewell flight ; But Tom was still confined ; And Dick, although his way was clear, Was„much too generous and sincere To leave his friend behind. So settling on his cage, by play, And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say You must not live alone — Nor would he quit that chosen stand Till I, with slow and cautious hand, Return'd him to his own. O ye, who never taste the joys Of Friendship, satisfied with noise, Fandango, ball, and rout ! Blush, when I tell you how a bird, A prison with a friend preferr'd To liberty without. THE NEEDLESS ALARM. There is a field, through which I often pass, Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Aijoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood, Reserved to solace many a neighboring squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier, Contusion hazarding of neck, or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd, Runs in a bottom and divides the field ; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; AnJ where the bind slopes to its watery bourn Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn ; , Bricks lin. the sides, but r.hiver'd long ago, And horrid brambles intertwine below ; A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time. For baking earth, or burning rock to lime. Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed, Nor Autumn yet had brush'd from every spray, With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away, But corn was hf used, and beans were in the stack, Vow therefore issued forth the spotted pack, With tails high mounted, ears hung low, anu throats With a whole gamut fill'd of heavenly notes, For which, alas ! my destiny severe, Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. The sun, accomplishing his early march, His lamp now planted on heaven's topmost arch, When, exercise and air my only aim, And heedless whither, to that field I came, Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found Or with the high-rais'd horn's melodious clang All Kilwick* and all Dinglederry* rang, [press'd Sheep grazed the field ; some with soft bosom The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest Nor noise was heard, but of the hasty brook, Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook. All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them convey'4 To me their peace by kind contagion spread. But when the huntsman, with distended cheek 'Gan make his instrument of music speak* And from within the wood that crash was heard, Though not a hound from whom it burst appear'd, The sheep recumbent and the sheep that grazed, All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed, Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, Then coursed the field around, and coursed it round again ; But recollecting, with a sudden thought, [nought, That flight in circles urged advanced them They gather'd close around the old pit's brink, And thought again — but knew not what to think The man to solitude accustom'd long, Perceives in everything that lives a tongue ; Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees Have speech for him, and understood with ease ; After long drought, when rains abundant fall, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all ; Knows' what the freshness of their hue implies, How glad they Latch the largess of the skies; But, with precision nicer still, the mind He scans of every u>comotive kind ; Birds of all feather, beasts of every name ; That serve mankind, or shur. thtfl>, wild or tame The looks and gestures "of tneir grieib and fears Have all articulation in his ears ; He spells them true by intuition's light, And needs no glossary to set him right. This truth premised was needful as a text, To win due credence to what follows next. Awhile they mused ; surveying every face, Thou hadst supposed them of superior race ; Their periwigs of wool and fears combined, Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind. That sage they seem'd, as lawyers o'er a doubt Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzled out ; Or academic tutors, teaching youths, Sure ne'er to wantHhem, mathematic truths ; When thus a mutton statelier than the rest, A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd. Friends ! we have lived too long. I nevel heard Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. Could I believe, that winds for ages pent In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent And from their prison-house below arise, With all these hideous howlings to the skies, I could be much composed, nor should appear, For such a cause to feel the slightest fear. * Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq, BO ADICE A.— HEROISM. 625 Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders All night, me resting quiet in the fold. [roll'd Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, I could expound the melancholy tone ; Should deem it by our old companion made, The ass ; for he. we know, has lately stray'd, And, being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide, Might be supposed to clamor for a guide. But ah ! those dreadful yells, what soul can hear, That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear 1 Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd And fang'd with brass the demons are abroad ; I hold it therefore wisest and most fit That. life to save, we leap into the pit. Him answer'd then his loving mate and true, But more discreet than he. a Cambrian ewe. How ! leap into the pit cur life to save 1 To save our life leap all into the grave 1 For can we find it less 1 Contemplate first The depth how awful ! falling there, we burst : Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall in part abate, that happiness were small ; For with a race like theirs, no chance I see Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. Meantime noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, Or be it not. or be it whose it may, [tongues And rush those other sounds, that seem by Of demons utter'd, from whatever lungs. Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear, We have at least commodious standing here. Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last. While thus she spake, I fainter heard the For Reynard, close attended at his heels [peals, By panting dog. tired man, and spatter'd horse, Through mere good fortune, took a different course. The flock grew calm again, and I, the road Following, that led me to my own abode, Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found Such cause of terror in an empty sound, So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. MORAL. Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away. BOADICEA. When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought with an indignant mein, Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief. Princess ! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, "Tis because resentment ties All trie terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish — write that word In the blood that she has spilt ; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renown'd, Tramples on a thousand states ; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize ; Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions Caesar never knew Thy posterity shall sway ; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they. Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as h'e swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow : Rush'd to battle, fought, and died ; Dying, hurl'd them at the foe. Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you. HEROISM. There was a time when ./Etna's silent fire Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire; When, conscious of no danger from below, She tower'd a cloud-capt pyramid of snow. No thunders shook with deep intestine sound The blooming groves that girdled her around. Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines (Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines) The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured, In peace upon her sloping sides matured. When on a day. like that of the last doom, A conflagration laboring in her womb. She teem'd and heaved with an infernal birth, That shook the circling seas and solid earth. Dark and voluminous the vapors rise. And hang their horrors in the neighboring skiea, While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day, In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play. But oh ! what muse, and in what powers of song, Can trace the torrent as it burns along 1 Havoc and devastation in the van, It man-aes o'er the prostrate works of man; Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear, And all the charms of a Sicilian year. Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, See it an uninform'd and idle mass ; Without a soil to invite the tiller's care, Or blade that might redeem it from despair. Yet time at length (what will not time achieve t \ Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce lrtel Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade. O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, O charming Paradise of short-lived sweets ' 40 626 COWPER'S WORKS. The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance round Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound : Again the mountain feels the imprison'd foe, Again pours ruin on the vale below. Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, That only future ages can restore. Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honor draws, Who write, in blood the merits of your cause. Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence, Glory your aim : but justice your pretence ; Behold in iEtna's emblematic fires The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires ! Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain, And tells you where you have a right to reign, A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, Studious of peace, their neighbor's and their own. Ill-fated race ! how deeply must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you ! The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad, Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road.; At every step beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread ! Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and pestilence, her firstborn son, Attend to finish what the sword begun ; And echoing praises, such as fiends might earn, And folly pays resound at your return. A calm succeeds — but Plenty, with her train Of heartfelt joys, succeeds not soon again : And years of pining indigence must show What scourges are the gods that rule below. Yet man, laborious man. by slow degrees, (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease,) Plies all the sinews of industrious toil, Gleans up the refuse of the general spoil, Rebuilds the towers that smoked upon the plain, And the sun gilds the shining spires again. Increasing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conqueror's part; And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door. What are ye, monarchs, laurell'd heroes, say, But iEtnas of the suffering world ye sway 1 Sweet Nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe, Deplores the wasted regions of her globe ; And stands a witness at Truth's awful bar, To prove you there destroyers as ye are. O place me in some heaven-protected isle, Where Peace, and Equity, and Freedom smile ; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood. No crested warrior dips his plume in blood ; Where Power secures what Industry has won ; Where to succeed is not to be undone ; A land that distant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK, THE «IFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. O that those lips had language ! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me 5 Voice only fails, else h.m dis* Chased, never to assemble more: And for the richest crown on earth, If valued by its wearer's worth, The symbol of a righteous reign Sat fast on George's brows again. Then peace and joy again possess'd Our Queen's long-agitated breast ; Such joy and peace as can be known By sufferers like herself alone, Who losing, or supposing lost, The good on earth they valued most, For that dear sorrow's sake forego All hope of happiness below, Then suddenly regain the prize, - And flash thanksgivings to the skies ! O Queen of Albion, queen of isles ! Since all thy tears were changed to smiles The eyes, that never saw thee, shine With joy not unallied to thine ; Transports not chargeable with art Illume the land's remotest part, And strangers to the air of courts, Both in their toils and at their sports The happiness of answer'd prayers, That gilds thy features, show in theirs. If they who on thy state attend, Awe-struck, before thy presence bend, 'Tis but the natural effect Of grandeur that ensures respect ; But she is something more than queen Who is beloved where never seen. , HYMN, FOR THE USE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEt Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, In heaven thy dwelling place, From infants made the public care, And taught to seek thy face. Thanks for thy word, and for thy day, And grant us, we implore, Never to waste in sinful play Thy holy sabbaths more. Thanks that we hear, — but O impart To each desires sincere, That we may listen with our heart, And learn as well as hear. For if vain thoughts the minds engage Of older far than we, What hope, that, at our heedless age, Our minds should e'ei be free 1 COWPER'S WORKS Much hope, if thou our spirits take Under thy gracious sway, Who canst the wisest wiser make, And babes as wise as they. Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, A sun that ne'er declines, And be thy mercies shower' d on those Who placed us where it shines. STANZAS. iUBJOINfiD TO THE YEARLY BILL OP MORTALITY OP THE PARISH OF ALL-SAINTS, NORTHAMPTON,* ANNO DOMINI 1787. 4 Palida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, Regumque turres. — Horace. Pale death with equal foot strikes wide the door Of royal halls and hovels of the poor. While thirteen moons saw smoothly run The Nen's barge-laden wave, All these, life's rambling journey done, Have found their home, the grave. Was man (frail always) made more frail Than in foregoing years 1 Did famine or did plague prevail, That so much death appears 1 No ; these were vigorous as their sires, Nor plague nor famine came ; This annual tribute Death requires, And never waives his claim. Like crowded forest trees we stand, And some are mark'd to fall ; The axe will smite at God's command, And soon shall smite us all. Green as the bay tree, ever green, With its new foliage on, The gay, the thoughtless, have I seen, I pass'd — and they were gone. Read, ye that run, the awful truth With which I charge my page ; A worm is in the bud of youth, And at the root of age. No present health can health ensure For yet an hour to come ; No medicine, though it oft can cure, Can always balk the tomb. And ! that humble as my lot, And scorn'd as is my strain, These truths, though known, too much forgot I may not teach in vain. So prays your clerk with all his heart, And, ere he quits the pen, Begs you for once to take his part, And answer all — Amen ! * Composed for John Cox, pariah clerk of North- tmpton. ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. FOR THE YEAR 1788. Quod adest, memento Componere aequus. Caetera numinis Ritu feruntur.— Horace. Improve the present hour, for all beside Is a mere feather on a torrent's tide. Could I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage To whom the rising year shall prove his last, As I can number in my punctual page, And item down the victims of the past ; How each would trembling wait the mournfu sheet, On which the press might stamp him next to die And, reading here his sentence, how replete With anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye Time then would seem more precious than the joys In which he sports away the treasure now ; And prayer more seasonable than the noise Of drunkards, or the music-drawing .bow. Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore, Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think, Told that his setting sun must rise no more. Ah self-deceived ! Could I prophetic say Who next is fated, and who next to fall, The rest might then seem privileged to play ; But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to all. Observe the dappled foresters, how light They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade — One falls — the rest, wide scatter'd with affright, Vanish at once into the darkest shade. Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd, Still need repeated warnings, and at last, A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd, Die self-accused of life run all to waste 1 Sad waste ! for which no after-thrift atones. The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin ; Dewdrops may deck the turf that hides the bones But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within. Learn then, ye living ! by the mouths be taught Of all these sepulchres, instructors true, That, soon or late, death also is your lot, And the next opening grave may yawn for you ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. FOR THE YEAR 1789. — Placidaque ibi demum morte quievit— Virg. There calm at length he breathed his soul away. "O most delightful hour by man Experienced here below, The hour that terminates his span, His folly and his woe ! " Worlds should not bribe me back to tread Again life's dreary waste, To see again my day o'erspread With all the gloomy past. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 63J " My home henceforth is in the skies, Earth, seas, and sun, adieu ! All heaven unfolded to my eyes, I have no sight for you." So spake Aspasio, firm possess'd Of faith's supporting rod, Then breathed his soul into its rest; The bosom of his God. He was a man among the few- Sincere on virtue's side ; And all his strength from Scripture drew, To hourly use applied. That rule he prized, by that he fear'd, He hated, hoped, and loved ; Nor ever frown'd. or sad appear'd, But when his heart had roved. For he was frail as thou or I, And evil felt within ; But when he felt it, t aaved a sigh, And loathed the thought of sin. Such lived Aspasio ; and at last Call'd up from earth to heaven, The gulf of death triumphant pass'd, By gales of blessing driven. His joys be mine, each reader cries, When my last hour arrives : They shall be yours, my verse replies, Such only be your fives. ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. FOR THE YEAR 1790. Ne cominonentem recta sperne.— Buchanak Despise not my good counsel. He who sits from day to day Where the prison'd lark is hung, Heedless of his loudest lay, Hardly knows that he has sung. Where the watchman in his round Nightly lifts his voice on high, None, accustom'd to the sound, Wakes the sooner for his cry. So your verse-man I, and clerk, Yearly in my song proclaim Death at hand — yourselves his mark — And the foe's unerring aim. Duly at my time I come, Publishing to all aloud — Soon the grave must be your home, And your only suit, a shroud. But the monitory strain, Oft repeated in your ears, Seems to sound too much in vain, Wins no notice, wakes no fears. Can a truth, by all confess'd Of such magnitude and weight, Grow, by being oft impress'd, Trivial as a parrot's prate. Pleasure's call attention wins, Hear it often as we may ; New as ever seem our sins, Though committed every day. Death and judgment, heaven and hell- These alone, so often heard, No more move us than the bell When some stranger is interr'd. O then, ere the turf or tomb Cove* us from every eye, Spirit of instruction, come, Make us learn that we must die. ON A SIMILAR OCCASION, FOR THE YEAR 1792. Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, 99 Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum 99 Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari Vino. Happy the mortal who has traced effects 69 To their first cause, cast fear beneath his feet, And death and roaring hell's voracious fires ! Thankless for favors from on high, Man thinks he fades too soon : Though 'tis his privilege to die, Would he improve the boon. But he, not wise enough to scan His blest concerns aright, Would gladly stretch life's little span To ages, if he might. To ages in a world of pain, To ages where he goes Gall'd by affliction's heavy chain, And hopeless of repose. Strange fondness of the human heart, Enamor'd of its harm ! Strange world, that costs it so much smart, And still has power to charm. Whence has the world her magic power ? Why deem we death a foe 1 Recoil from weary life's best hour, And covet longer woe 1 The cause is Conscience — Conscience oft Her tale of guilt renews : Her voice is terrible though soft, And dread of death ensues. Then anxious to be longer spared Man mourns his fleeting breath : All evils then seem light, compared With the approach of death. 'Tis judgment shakes him : there's the feai That prompts the wish to stay : He has incurr'd a long arrear, And must despair to pay. Pay ! follow Christ, and all is paid ; His death your peace ensures ; Think on the grave where he was laid, And calm descend to yours. ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. FOR THE YEAR 1793. De sacris autem haec sit una sententia, ut conserventur. Cic. de Leg. But let us all concur in this one sentiment, that things «acred be inviolate. He lives who lives to God alone, And all are dead beside ; For other source than God is none Whence life can be supplied. To live to God is to requite His love as best we may : To make his precepts our delight, His promises our stay. But life, within a narrow ring Of giddy joys comprised, Is falsely named, and no such thing, But rather death disguised. Can life in them deserve the name, Who only live to prove For what poor toys they can disclaim An endless life above % Who, much diseased, yet nothing feel; Much menaced, nothing dread ; Have wounds, which only God can heal. Yet never ask his aid % Who deem iiis house a useless place, Faith, want of common sense; And ardor in the Christian race, A hypocrite's pretence 1 Who trample order ; and the day Which God asserts his own Dishonor with unhallow'd play, And worship chance alone % If scorn of God's commands, impress'd On word and deed, imply The better part of man unbless'd With life that cannot die ; Such want it, and that want uncured Till man resigns his breath, Speaks him a criminal, assured Of everlasting death. Sad period to a pleasant course ! Yet so will God repay Sabbaths profaned without remorse, And mercy cast away. ON A GOLDFINCH, STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE, Time was when I was free as air, The thistle's downy seed my fare, My drink the morning dew ; I perch 'd at will on every spray, My form genteel, my plumage gay, My strains forever new. But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, And fcrm genteel were all in vain, And of a transient di te ; For, caught and caged, an^ starved to death, In dying sighs my little breath Soon pass'd the wiry grate. Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes, And thanks for this effectual close And cure of every ill ! More cruelty could none express ; And I, if you had shown me less, Had been your prisoner still. THE PINE- APPLE AND THE BEE. The pine-apples, in triple row, Were basking hot. and all in blow ; A bee of most discerning taste Perceived the fragrance as he pass'd, On eager wing the spoiler came, And search'd for crannies in the frame, Urged his attempt on every side, To every pane his trunk applied ; But still in vain, the frame was tight, And only pervious to the light : Thus having wasted half the day, He trimm'd his flight another way. Methinks, I said, in thee I find The sin and madness of mankind. To joys forbidden man aspires, Consumes his soul with vain desires; Folly the spring of his pursuit, And disappointment all the fruit. While Cynthio ogles, as she passes, The nymph between two chariot glasses She is the pine-apple, and he The silly unsuccessful bee. The maid who views with pensive air The show-glass fraught with glittering warej Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets, But sigjis at thought of empty pockets Like thine, her appetite is keen, But ah, the cruel glass between ! Our dear delights are often such, Exposed to view, but not to touch ; The sight our foolish heart inflames, We long for pine- apples in frames ; With hopeless wish one looks and lingers \ One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers ; But they whom truth and wisdom lead Can gather honey from a weed. VERSES WRITTEN AT BATH, ON FIND. ING THE HEEL OF A SHOE. Fortune ! I thank thee : gentle goddess! thanks Not that my muse, though bashful shall deny She would have thank'd thee rather hadst thoq cast A treasure in her way ; for neither meed Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes, And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, Nor noontide feast, nor evening's cool repast, Hopes she from this — presumptuous, though, perhaps The cobbler, leather-carving artist ! might. Nathless she thanks thee and accepts thy boon, Whatever ; not as erst the fabled cock, Vain-glorious fool ! unknowing what he found, Spurn'd the rich gem thou gavest him. Where fore, ah ! Why not on me that favor, (worthier sure !) Conferr'dst thou, goddess ! Thou art blind tho* say'st : Enough ! — thy blindness shall excuse the deed. Nor does my muse no benefit exhale From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here Hints worthy sage philosophy are found ; Illustrious hints, to moralize my song ! This ponderous heel of perforated hide Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, Haply (Tor such its massy form bespeaks) The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown Upbore : on this, supported oft, he stretch'd, With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, Flattening the stubborn clod, till cruel time (What will not cruel time 1) or a wry step Sever'd the strict cohesion ; when, alas ! He, who could erst, with even, equal pace, Pursue his destined way with symmetry, And some proportion form'd, now on one side Curtail'd and maim'd. the sport of vagrant boys, Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop ! With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on. Thus fares it oft with other than the feet Of humble villager — the statesman thus, Up the steep road where proud ambition leads, Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds His prosperous way ; nor fears miscarriage foul, While policy prevails, and friends prove true ; But, that support soon failing, by him left On whom he most depended, basely left, • Betray 'd, deserted ; from his airy height Headlong he falls ; and through the rest of life Drags the dull load of disappointment on. 1748. AN ODE, ON READING RICHARDSON'S HISTORY OP SIR CHARLES GRANDISON. Say, ye apostate and profane, Wretches, who blush not to disdain Allegiance to your God, — Did e'er your idly wasted love* Of virtue for her sake remove And lift you from the crowd 1 Would you the race of glory run, Know, the devout, and they alone, Are equal to the task : The labors of the illustrious course Far other than the unaided force Of human vigor ask. To arm against reputed ill The patient heart too brave to feel The tortures of despair : Nor safer yet high-crested pride, When wealth flows in with every tide To gain admittance there. To r« icue from the tyrant's sword The oppress'd ; unseen and unimplored, To cheer the face of woe ; From lawless insult to defend An orphan's right — a fallen friend, And a forgiven foe ; These, these distinguish from the crowd, And these alone, the great and good, The guardians of mankind ; Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, with what matchless speed tkcy .'iave The multitude behind ! Then ask ye from what cause on earth Virtues like these derive their birth 1 Derived from Heaven alone, Full on that favor'd breast they shine, Where faith and resignation join To call the blessing down. Such is that heart : — but while the muse Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues, Her feeble spirits faint : She cannot reach, and would not wrong, The subject for an angel's song, The hero, and the saint ! 1753. AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ 'Tis not that I design to rob Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob, For thou art born sole heir and single Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle ; Not that I mean, while thus I knit My threadbare sentiments together, To show my genius or my wit, When God and you know I have neither ; Or such as might be better shown By letting poetry alone. 'Tis not with either of these views That I presumed ,to address the muse : But to divert a fierce banditti. (Sworn foes to everything that's witty !) That, with a black, infernal train, Make cruel inroads in my brain, And daily threaten to drive thence My little garrison of, sense ; The fierce banditti which I mean Are gloomy thoughts led on by spleen. Then there's another reason yet, Which is, that I may fairly quit The debt, which justly became due The moment when I heard from you ; And you might grumble, crony mine, If paid in any other coin ; Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows, (I would say twenty sheets of prose,) Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much As one of gold, and yours was such. Thus, the preliminaries settled, I fairly find myself pitchkettled,* And cannot see, though few see better, How I shall hammer out a letter. First, for a thought — since all agree — A thought— I have it— let me see — "Tis gone again — plague on't ! I thought I had it — but I have it not. Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son, That useful thing, her needle, gone ! Rake well the cinders — sweep the floor, And sift the dust behind the door ; While eager Hodge beholds the prize In old grimalkin's glaring eyes : And Gammer finds it, on her knees, In every shining straw she sees. This simile were apt enough ; But I've another, critic-proof! The virtuoso thus, at noon, Broiling beneath a- July sun, * Pitchkettled, a favorite phrase at the time when thit Epistle was written, expressive of being puzzled, or whal in the Spectator's time would have been caHed bam- boozled. 634 COWPER'S WORKS. The gilded butterfly pursues, O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews : And. after many a vain essay, To captivate the tempting prey, Gives him at length the lucky pat, And has him safe beneath his hat : Then lifts it gently from the ground ; But, ah ! 'tis lost as soon as found ; Culprit his liberty regains, Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains. The sense was dark ; 'twas therefore fit With simile to illustrate it ; But as too much obscures the sight, As often as too little light, We have our similes cut short, For matters of more grave import. That Matthew's numbers run with ease, Each man of common sense agrees ! All men of common sense allow That Robert's lines are easy too : Where then the preference shall we place, Dr how do justice in this case 1 Matthew (says Fame,) with endless pains Smooth'd and refined the meanest strains; Nor suffer 'd one ill-chosen rhyme To escape him at the idlest time ; And thus o'er all a lustre cast, That while the language lives shall last. A'nt please your ladyship (quoth I,) For 'tis my business to reply ; Sure so much labor, so much toil, Bespeak at least a stubborn soil : Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed, Who both write well, and write full speed ! Who throw their Helicon about As freely as a conduit spout ! Friend Robert, thus like chien savant Lets fall a poem en passant, Nor needs his genuine ore refine — Tis ready polish'd from the mine. A TALE, FOUNDED ON A FACT, WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779. Where Humber pours his rich commercial stream There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blas- pheme ; In subterraneous caves his life he led, Black as the mine in which he wrought for bread. When on a day, emerging from the deep, A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep !) The wages of his weekly toil he bore To buy a cock— whose blood might winhim more ; As if the noblest of the feather'd kind Were but for battle and for death design'd ; As if the consecrated hours were meant For sport to minds on cruelty intent ; It chanced (such chances Providence obey) He met a fellow laborer on the way, Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed ; But now the savage temper was reclaim'd, Persuasion on his lips had taken place ; For all plead well who plead the cause of grace. His iron heart with scripture he assail'd, Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd. His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew, Swift as the lightning-glimpse the arrow flew. He wept ; he trembled ; cast his eyes around, To find a worse than he ; but none he found. He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel. Grace made the wound, and grace alone should heal. Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize. That holy day was wash'd with many a tear, Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear. The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine Learn'd, by his alter'd speech, the change divine ! Laugh'd when they should have wept, and swore the day Was nigh when he would swear as fast as they. " No," said the penitent, ; 'sucii words shall sharo This breath no more ; devoted now to prayer. O ! if thou seest (thine eye the future sees) That I shall yet again blaspheme like these ; Now strike me to the ground on which I kneel, Ere yet this heart relapses into steel ; Now take me to that heaven I once defied, Thy presence, thy embrace !" — He spoke, and died. TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMS GATE. That ocean you have late survey'd, Those rocks I too have seen ; But I, afflicted and dismay'd, You, tranquil and serene. You from the flood-controlling steep Saw stretch'd before your view, With conscious joy, the threatening deep, No longer such to you. To me the waves, that ceaseless broke Upon the dangerous coast, Hoarsely and ominously spoke Of all my treasure lost. Your sea of troubles you have past, And found the peaceful shore ; I, tempest-toss'd, and wreck'd at last, Come home to port no more. Oct., 1780. LOVE ABUSED. What is there in the vale of life Half so delightful as a wife, When friendship, love, and peace combine To stamp the marriage-bond divine ? The stream of pure and genuine love Derives its current from above ; And earth a second Eden shows Where'er the healing water flows : But ah, if from the dykes and drains Of sensual nature's feverish veins, Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood, Impregnated with ooze and mud, Descending fast on every side, Once mingles with the sacred tide. Farewell the soul-enlivening scene ! The banks that wore a smiling green, With rank defilement overspread, Bewail their flowery beauties dead. The stream polluted, dark, and dull, Diffused into a Stygian pool, Through life's last melancholy years Is fed with overflowing tears : Complaints supply the zephyr's part, And sighs that heave a breaking heart. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 635 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY AUSTEN. Dear Anna — between friend and friend Prose answers every common end ; Serves, in a plain and homely way, To express the occurrence of the day ; Our health, the weather, and the news; What walks we take, what books we choose ; And all the floating thoughts we find Upon the surface of the mind. But when a poet takes the pen, • Far more alive than other men. He feels a gentle tingling come Down to his finger and his thumb, Derived from nature's noblest part, The centre of a glowing heart : And this is what the world, who knows No flights above the pitch of prose, His more sublime vagaries slighting, Denomii ates an itch for writing. No wonder I. who scribble rhyme To catch the triflers of the time, And tell them truths divine and clear, Which, couch'd in prose they will not hear ; Who labor hard to allure and draw The loiterers I never saw, Should feel that itching and that tingling, With all my purpose intermingling, To your intrinsic merit true, When call'd to address myself to you. 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 the allotment of the skies, The hand of the Supremely Wise, That guides and governs our affections, And plans and orders our connexions : Directs us in our distant road, And marks the bounds of our abode. Thus we were settled when you found us, Peasants and children all around us, Not dreaming of so dear a friend, Deep s Mill." When all within is peace, How nature seems to smile ! Delights that never cease The livelong day beguile. From morn to dev«y eve With open hand she showers Fresh blessings, to deceive And soothe the silent hours. It is content of heart Gives Nature power to please ; The mind that feels no smart Enlivens all it sees ; Can make a wintry sky Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye As peep of early day. The vast majestic globe. So beauteously array'd In Nature's various robe, With wondrous skill display'd, Is to a mourner's heart A dreary wild at best ; It flutters to depart, And longs to be at rest. VERSES selected from an occasional poem entitlei "VALEDICTION." Oh Friendship ! cordial of the human breast i So attle felt, so fervently profess'd ! Thy blossoms deck our unsuspecting years ; The promise of delicious fruit appears : We hug the hopes of constancy and truth, Such is the folly of our dreaming youth ; But soon, alas ! detect the rash mistake That sanguine inexperience loves to make ; And view with tears the expected harvest lost Decay'd by time, or wither'd by a frost. Whoever undertakes a friend's great part Should be renew'd in nature, pure in heart, Prepared for martyrdom, and strong to prove A thousand ways the force of genuine love. He may be call'd to give up health and gain, To exchange content for trouble, ease for pain, To echo sigh for sigh, and groan for groan, And wet his cheeks with sorrows not his own. The heart of man. for such a task too frail, When most relied on is most sure to fail ; And, summon'd to partake its fellow's woe, Starts from its office like a broken boW. Votaries of business and of pleasure prove Faithless alike in friendship and in love. Retired from all the circles of the gay, And all the crowds that bustle life away, To scenes where competition, envy, strife, Beget no thunder-clouds to trouble life, Let me, the charge of some good angel, find One who has known, and has escaped mankind j Polite, yet virtuous, who has brought away The manners, not the morals, of the day : With him, perhaps with her (for men have known No firmer friendships than the fair have shown,} Let me enjoy, in some unthought-of spot, All former friends forgiven and forgot, Down to the close of life's fast fading scene, Union of hearts without a flaw between. 'Tis grace, 'tis bounty, and it calls for praise, If God give health, that sunshine of our days ! And if he add a blessing shared by few, Content of heart, more praises still are due — But if he grant a friend, that boon possess'd Indeed is treasure, and crowns all the rest ; And giving one, whose heart is in the skies, Born from above and made divinely wise, He gives, what bankrupt nature never can, Whose noblest coin is light and brittle man, Gold, purer fai than Ophir ever knew, A soul, an image of himself, and therefore true. Nov., 1783. EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON. Here Johnson lies — a sage by all allow'd, Whom to have bred may well make England proud, Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught, The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought ; Whose verse may claim — grave, masculine, and strong — Superior praise to the mere poet's song ; Who many a noble gift from heaven possess'd, And faith at last, alone worth all the rest. O man, immortal by a double prize, By fame on earth — by glory in the skies ! Jan, 1785. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 63> TO MISS C- ON HER BIRTHDAY. How many between east and west Disgrace their parent earth, Whose deeds constrain us to detest The day that gave them birth ! Not so when Stella's natal morn Revolving months restore, We can rejoice that she was born, - And wish her born once more ! 1786. GRATITUDE. ' ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH. This cap, that so stately appears, With ribbon-bound tassel on high, Which seems by the crest that it rears Ambitious of brushing the sky : This cap to my cousin I owe, She gave it, and gave me beside, Wreath'd into an elegant bow, The ribbon with which it is tied. This wheel- footed studying chair, Contrived both for toil and repose, Wide-elbow'd. and wadded with hair, In which I both scribble and dose, Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes, And rival in lustre of that In which, or astronomy lies, Fair Cassiopeia sat : These carpets so soft to the foot, Caledonia's traffic and pride ! Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot, Escaped from a cross-country ride ! This table, and mirror within, Secure from collision and dust, At which I oft shave cheek and chin And periwig nicely adjust : This moveable structure of shelves, For its beauty admired and its use, And charged with octavos and twelves, The gayest I had to produce ; Where : flaming in scarlet and gold, My poems enchanted I view, And hope in due time to behold My Iliad and Odyssey too : This china, that decks the alcove, Which here people call a buffet, But what the gods call it above Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet : These curtains that keep the room warm Or cool, as the season demands, Those stoves that for pattern and form Seem the labor of Mulciber's hands: All these are not half that I owe To one, from our earliest youth, To me ever ready to show Benignity, friendship, and truth ; For time, the destroyer declared And foe of our perishing kind, If even her face he has spared, Much less could he alter her mind. Thus compass'd about with the goods And chattels of leisure and ease, I indulge my poetical moods In many such fancies as these ; And fancies I fear they will seem — Poets' goods are not often so fine ; The poets will swear that I dream When I sing of the splendor of mine. 1786. LINES COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ., IMMEDIATELY AFTER HIS DEATH, BY HIS NEPHEW WILLIAM OF WESTON. Farewell ! endued with all that could engage All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age I In prime of life, for sprightliness enroll'd Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old ; In life's last stage. (O blessings rarely found h Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms crown d Through every period of this changeful state Unchanged thyself— wise, good, affectionate ! Marble may flatter, and lest this should seem O'ercharged with praises on so dear a theme, Although thy worth be more than half supprest Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest. June, 1788. ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON, THE NIGHT OF THE SEVENTEENTH OF MARCH,1789. When, long sequester'd from his throne, George took his seat again, . By right of worth, not blood alone, Entitled here to reign, • Then loyalty, with all his lamps New trimm'd, a gallant show ! Chasing the darkness and the damps, Set London in a glow. 'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares Which form'd the chief display, These most resembling cluster'd stars, Those the long milky way. Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, And rockets flew, self-driven, To hang their momentary fires Amid the vault of heaven. So, fire with water to compare, The ocean serves, on high Up-spouted by a whale in air, To express unwieldy joy. Had all the pageants of the world In one procession join'd. And all the banners been unfurl'd That heralds e'er design'd, For no such sight had England's queen Forsaken her retreat, Where George, recover'd, made a scene Sweet always, doubly sweet. Yet glad she came that night to prove, A witness undescried, How much the object of her love Was loved by all beside. 838 COWPER'S WORKS, Darkness the skies had mantled o'er In aid of her design — Darkness, O Queen ! ne'er call'd before To veil a deed of thine ! On borrow'd wheels away she flies, Resolved to be unknown, And gratify no curious eyes That night except her own. Arrived, a night like noon she sees, And hears the million hum ; As all by instinct, like the bees, Had known their sovereign come. Pleased she beheld, aloft portray'd On many a splendid wall, Emblems of health and heavenly aid, And George the theme of all. Unlike the enigmatic line, So difficult to spell, Which shook Belshazzar at his wine The night his city fell. Soon watery grew her eyes and dim, But with a joyful tear, None else, except in prayer for him, George ever drew from her. It was a scene in every part Like those in fable feign'd, And seem'd by some magician's art Created and sustain'd. But other magic there, she knew, Had been exerted none, To raise such wonders in her view, Save love of George alone. That cordial thought her spirit cheer d, And, through the cumbrous throng, Not else unworthy to be fear'd, Convey'd her calm along. So, ancient poets say, serene The sea-maid rides the waves, And fearless of the billowy scene Her peaceful bosom laves. With more than astronomic eyes She view'd the sparkling show ; One Georgian star adorns the skies, She myriads found below. Yet let the glories of a night Like that once seen, suffice, Heaven grant us no such future sight, Such previous woe the price ! THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.* Muse — hide his name of whom I sing, Lest his surviving house thou bring For his sake into scorn, * Written on reading the following in the obituary of the Gentleman's Magazine for April, 1789.— " At Totten- ham, John Ardesoif, Esq., a young man of large fortune, and in the splendor of his carriages and horses rivalled by few country gentlemen. His table was that of hospi- tality, where, it may be said, he sacrificed too much to conviviality; but, if he had his foibles he had his merits also, that far outweighed them. Mr. A. was very fond of cork-fighting, and had a favorite cock, upon which he had won many profitable matches. The last bet he laid Nor speak the school from which he drew The much or little that he knew, Nor place where he was born. That such a man once was, may seem Worthy of record (if the theme Perchance may credit win) For proof to man, what man may prove, If grace depart, and demons move The source of guilt within. This man (for since the howling wild Disclaims nim, man he must be styled^ Wanted no good below, Gentle he was, if gentle birth Could make him such, and he had worth, If wealth can worth bestow. In social talk and ready jest, He shone superior at the feast, And qualities of mind, Illustrious in the eyes of those Whose gay society he chose, Possess'd of every kind. Methinks I see him powder'd red, With bushy locks his well-dress'd head Wing'd broad on either side, The mossy rosebud not so sweet ; His steeds superb, his carriage neat, As luxury could provide. Can such be cruel 1 Such can be Cruel as hell, and so was he; A tyrant entertain 'd With barbarous sports, whose fell delight Was to encourage mortal fight 'Twixt birds to battle train'd. One feather'd champion he possess'd, His darling far beyond the rest, Which never knew disgrace, Nor e'er had fought but he made flow The life-blood of his fiercest foe, The Caesar of his race. It chanced at last, when on a day, He push'd him to the desperate fray, His courage droop'd, he fled. The master storm'd, the prize was lost, And, instant, frantic at the cost. He doom'd his favorite dead. He seized him fast, and from the pit Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit, And, Bring me cord, he cried ; The cord was brought and. at his word, To that dire implement the bird, Alive and struggling, tied. The horrid sequel asks a veil ; And all the terrors of the tale That can be shall be sunk — Led by the sufferer's screams aright His shock'd companions view the sight, And him with fury drunk. upon this cock he lost ; which so enraged him, that he had the bird tied to a spit and roasted alive before a large fire. The screams of the miserable animal were so affect- ing, that some gentlemen who were present attempted to interfere, which so enraged Mr. A., that he seized a poker, and with the most furious vehemence declared, that he would kill the first man who interposed ; but, in the midst of his passionate asseverations, he fell down dead upon the spot. Such, we are assured, were the cir- cumstances which attended the death of this great pillar of humanity." All, suppliant, beg a milder fate For the old warrior at the grate : He, deaf to pity's call, Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel His culinary club of steel Death menacing on all. Bu venge. nee hung not far remote, For while he stretch'd his clamorous throat, And heaven and earth defied. Big with a curse too closely pent, That struggled vainly for a vent, He totter'd, reel'd, and died. Tis not for us, with rash surmise, To point the judgment of the skies ; But judgments plain as this, That, sent for man's instruction, bring A written label on their wing, 'Tis hard to read amiss. May, 1789. TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WEST- MINSTER. Hastings ! I knew thee young, and of a mind, While young, humane, conversable, and kind, Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then, Now grown a villain, and the worst of men. But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd And worried thee, as not themselves the best. TO MRS. THROCKMORTON, •N HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE, " AD LIBRUM SUUM." Maria, could Horace have guess'd What honor awaited his ode To his own little volume address'd, The honor which you have bestow'd ; Who have traced it in characters here, So elegant, even, and neat, He had laugh 'd at the critical sneer Which he seems to have trembled to meet. And sneer, if you please, he had said, A nymph shall hereafter arise, Who shall give me, when you are all dead, The glory your malice denies ; Shall dignity give to my lay, Although but a mere bagatelle ; And even a poet shall say, Nothing ever was written so well. Feb., 1790. TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT, ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 26 1784. Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued Thy pastime 1 when wast thou an egg new spawn'd, Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste 1 Roar as they might, the overbearing winds That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe — And in thy minikin and embryo state, Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed, Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'o The joints of many a stout and gallant bark, And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss. Indebted to no magnet and no chart, Nor under guidance of the polar fire, Thou wast a voyager on many coasts, Grazing at large in meadows submarine, Where flat Batavia, just emerging, peeps Above the brine — where Caledonia's rocks Beat back the surge— and where Hibernia shoots Her wondrous causeway far into the main. — Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thought'st, And I not more, that I should feed on thee. Peace, therefore, and good health, and much good fish, To him who sent thee ! and success, as oft As it descends into the billowy gulf, [well ! To the same drag that caught thee ! — Fare thee Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin [doom'd Would .envy, could they know that thou wast To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse. INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE, ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF T. GIFFARD Esa, 1790. Other stones the era tell When some feeble mortal fell ; I stand here to date the birth Of these hardy sons of earth. Which shall longest brave the sky, Storm and frost — these oaks or I ] Pass an age or two away, I'must moulder and decay, But the years that crumble me Shall invigorate the tree, Spread its branch, dilate its size, Lift its summit to the skies. Cherish honor, virtue, truth, So shalt thou prolong thy youth. Wanting these, however fast Man be fix'd and form'd to last, He is lifeless even now, Stone at heart, and cannot grow. June, 1790. ANOTHER, FOR A STONE ERECTED ON A SIMILAR OCCASION AT THE SAME PLACE IN THE FOLLOWING YEAR. ^ Reader! behold a monument That asks no sigh or tear, Though it perpetuate the event Of a great burial here. June, 1790. Anno 1791 TO MRS. KING, ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR, A PATCIfc WORK COUNTERPANE OF HER OWN MAKING The bard, if e'er he feel at all, Must sure be quicken 'd by a call Both on his heart and head, 640 COWPER'S WORKS. To pay with tuneful thanks the care And kindness of a lady fair, Who deigns to deck his bed. A bed like this, in ancient time, On Ida's barren top sublime, - (As Homer's epic shows) Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, Without the aid of sun or showers, For Jove and Juno rose. Less beautiful, however gay, Is that which in the scorching day, Receives the weary swain, Who, laying his long scythe aside, Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied, Till roused to toil again. What labors of the loom I see ! Looms numberless have groan'd for me ! Should every maiden come To scramble for the patch that bears The impress of the robe she wears, The bell would toll for some. And oh, what havoc would ensue ! This bright display of every hue All in a mement fled ! As if a Storm should strip the bowers Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers- Each pocketing a shred. Thanks then to every gentle fair Who will not come to peck me bare As bird of borrow'd feather, And thanks to one above them all, The gentle fair of Pertenhall, Who put the whole together. August, 1790. IN MEMORY - OF THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ. ?oets attempt the noblest task they can, Praising the author of all good in man. And, next, commemorating worthies lost, The dead in whom that good abounded most. Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more Famed for thy probity from shore to shore. Thee, Thornton ! worthy in some page to shine, As honest and more eloquent than mine, I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed ; It were to weep that goodness has its meed, That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, And glory for the virtuous when they die. What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford. Sweet as the privilege of healing woe By virtue suffer'd combating below 1 [means That privilege was thine ; Heaven gave thee To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn As midnight, and despairing of a morn. Thou hadst an industry in doing good, Restless as his who toils and sweats for food ; Avarice in thee was the desire of wealth By rust unperishable or by stealth. And if the genuine worth of gold defend On application to its noblest end, Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven Surpassing all that mine or mint had given. And, though God made thee of a nature prone To distribution boundless of thy own, And still by motives of religious force Impell'd thee more to that heroic course, Yet was thy liberality discreet, Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat ; And, though in act unwearied, secret still, As in some solitude the summer rill Refreshes where it winds, the faded green, [seen And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, un Such was thy charity : no sudden start, After long sleep of passion in the heart, But stedfast principle, and. in its kind, Of close relation to the Eternal Mind, Traced easily to its true source above, To him whose works bespeak his nature, love. Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make This record of thee for the Gospel's sake ; That the incredulous themselves may see Its use and power exemplified in thee. Nov., 1790. THE FOUR AGES. (a brief fragment of an extensive projected POEM.) " I could be well content, allowed the use Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd From worn-out follies, now acknowledged such To recommence life's trial, in the hope Of fewer errors, on a second proof!" Thus, while grey evening lull'd the wind, anc 1 call'd Fresh odors from the shrubbery at my side, Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused, And held accustom'd conference with my heart; When from within it thus a voice replied : " Couldst thou in truth % and art thou taught at length This wisdom, and but this, from all the past 1 Is not the pardon of thy long arrear, Time wasted, violated laws, abuse Of talents, judgment, mercies, better far Than opportunity vouchsafed to err With less excuse, and, haply, worse effect V I heard, and acquiesced : then to and fro Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck, My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind I pass'd, and next consider'd — what is man. Knows he his origin'? can he ascend By reminiscence to his earliest date ^ Slept he in Adam 1 And in those from him Through numerous generations, till he found At length his destined moment to be born 1 Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb 1 Deep mysteries both ! which schoolmen ma have toil'd To unriddle, and have left them mysteries stilL It is an evil incident to man, And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves Truths useful and attainable with ease, To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies Not to be solved, and useless if it might. Mysteries are food for angels; they digest With ease, and find them nutriment; but man, While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean His manna from the ground, r r starve and die. May, 1791. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 641 THE RETIRED CAT.* A poet's cat, sedate and grave, As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For no)ks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick — Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mould philosophique, Or else she learn'd it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonair, An apple tree, or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watch'd the gardener at his work ; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering pot : There, wanting nothing save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan Apparell'd in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court. But lo^ of change, it seems, has place Not only in our wiser race ; Cats also feel, as well as we, That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within : She therefore wish'd instead of those Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton with her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode. A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use, A drawer impending o'er the rest, Half open in the topmost chest. Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there ; Puss with delight beyond expression, Survey'd the scene and took possession. Recumbent at her ease, ere long, And lull'd by her own humdrum song. She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in earns, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast ; By no malignity impell'd, But all unconscious whom it held. Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss)* " Was ever cat attended thus 7 The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me, For soon as I was well composed, Then came the maid, and it was closed. * Cowper's partiality to animals is well known. Lady Hesketh,in one of her letters, states, " that he had, at one rtrae, five rabbits, three hares, two guinea-pigs, a mag- pie, a jay, and a starling ; besides two goldfinches, two canary birds, and two dogs. It is amazing how the three hares can find room to gambol and frolic (as they cer- tainly do) in his small parlor ;" and she adds, "I forgot to enumerate a squirrel, which he had at the same time, and which used to play with one of the hares continually. One evening, the cat giving one of the hares a sound box on the ear, the hare ran after her, and, having caught her, punished her by drumming on her back with her two feet as hard as drum-sticks, till the creature would have actually been killed, had not Mrs. Unwin rescued her." How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet what a delicate retreat ! 1 will resign myself to rest Till. Sol, declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come and let me out." The evening came, the sun descended And Puss remain'd still unattended. The night roll'd tardily away, (With her indeed 'twas never day,) The sprightly morn her course renew'd, The evening grey again ensued. And puss came into mind no more Than if entomb'd the day before. With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room. She now presaged approaching doom, Nor slept a wink or purr'd, Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd. That night, by chance, the poet watching, Heard an inexplicable scratching ; His noble heart went pit-a-pat, And to himself he said—" What's that V He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied. Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd Something imprison'd in the chest, And doubtful what, with prudent care Resolved it should continue there. At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consoled him and dispell'd his fears : He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers exoore, The lowest first, and without stop The rest in order to the top. For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right. Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete As erst, with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond apprehension A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest Anything rather than a chest. Then stepp'd the poet into bed With this reflection in his head : Beware of too sublime a oenao Of your own worth and consequence : The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around, in all that's done, Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation. 1791. THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. Two nymphs, both nearly of an age, Of numerous charms possess'd, A warm dispute once chanced to wage, Whose temper was the best. The worth of each had been complete Had both alike been mild • 41 542 COWPER'S WORKS. But one, although her smile was sweet, Frown 'd oflener than she smiled. And in her humor, when she frown'd, Would raise her voice and roar, And shake with fury to the ground The garland that she wore. The other was of gentler cast, From all such frenzy clear, Her frowns were seldom known to last, And never proved severe. To poets of renown in song The nymphs referr'd the cause, Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong, And gave misplaced applause. They gentle call'd, and kind and soft, The flippant and the scold, And though she changed her mood so :>ft, That failing left untold. No judges, sure, were e'er so mad. Or so resolved to err — In short, the charms her sister had They lavish'd all on her. Then thus the god, whom fondly they Their great inspirer call, Was heard, one genial summer's day, To reprimand them all. " Since thus ye have combined," he said, " My favorite nymph to slight, Adorning May, that peevish maid, With June's undoubted right, " The minx shall for your folly's sake, Still prove herself a shrew, Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, And pinch your noses blue." May, 1791. YARDLEY OAK.* Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth, (Since which I number threescore winters past.) A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, As now, and with excoriate forks deform, Relics of ages ! could a mind, imbued With truth from heaven, created things adore, I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their oaks Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine. Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball [jay, Which babes might play with ; and the thievish Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. * This tree had been known by the name of Judith for many ages. Perhaps it received that name on being planted by the Countess Judith, niece to the Conqueror, Whom he gave in marriage to the English Earl Waltheof, with the counties of Northampton and Huntingdon as her dower.— Vide Letters, p. 301. But fate thy growth decreed ; autumnal rain» Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle ; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through So fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search Of argument, employ 'd too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasures of short life away ! Thou fell'st mature ; and, in the loamy clod Swelling with vegetative force instinct, Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled twins, Now stars ; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, And, all the elements thy puny growth Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig. Who lived when thou wast such. Oh, could'sl thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous pas* By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right — Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again ! Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods ; And time hath made thee what thou art — a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs O'erhung the champaign ; and the numerous flocks That grazed it stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm. No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlived Thy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth, [push'd While thus through all the stages thou hast Of treeship — first, a seedling, hid in grass ; Then twig ; then sapling ; and. as century roll'd Slow after century, a giant bulk Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root, Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd With prominent wens globose — till at the last The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee. What exhibitions various hath the world Witness'd of mutability in all That we account most durable below 1 Change is the diet on which all subsist, Created changeable, and change at last, Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds — Calm and alternate storm, moisture, and drought, Invigorate by turns the springs of life In all that live, plant, animal, and man, And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads Fine passing thought, e'en in their coarsest works Delight in agitation, yet sustain The force that agitates not unimpair'd ; But'worn by frequent impulse to the cause Of their best tone their dissolution owe. Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot thy growth From almost nullity into a state Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Slow, into such magnificent decay. Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a fly MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 64* Jould shake thee to the root — and time has been When tempests could not. At thy firmest age Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents [deck That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the Of some flagg'd admiral ; and tortuous arms. The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load !* But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days Oaks fell not. hewn by thousands, to supply The bottomless demands of contest waged For senatorial honors. Thus to time The task was left to whittle thee away With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, Achieved a labor which had. far and wide, By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. Embowell'd now. and of thy ancient self Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs and knotted 'fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, Though all the superstructure by the tooth Pulverized of venality, a shell Stands now, and semblance only of itself! Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild With bow and shaft have burnt them. Some have left A splinter'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white ; And some memorial none where once they grew. Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth Proof not contemptible of what she can, Even where death predominates. The spring Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force Than yonder upstarts of the neighboring wood, So much thy juniors, who their birth received Half a millennium since the date of thine. But since, although well qualified by age To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here On thy distorted root with hearers none, Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform Myself the oracle, and will discourse In my own ear such matter as I may. One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman ; never gazed, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, On all around him ; learn'd not by degrees, Nor owed articulation to his ear; But. moulded by his Maker into man At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd All creatures, with precision understood Their purport, uses properties, assign'd To each his name significant, and fill'd With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven In praise harmonious the first air he drew. He was excused the penalties of dull * Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which, by reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted iO the angle formed where the deck and the ship's Bides meet. Minority. No tutor charged his hand With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet, Lean'd on her elbow, watching time, whose course, Eventful, should supply her with a theme . . . 1791. TO THE NIGHTINGALE, WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'l DAY. Whence is it that, amazed, I hear From yonder wither'd spray, This foremost morn of all the year, The melody of May 1 And why, since thousands would be proud Of such a favor shown, Am I selected from the crowd To witness it alone 1 Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, For that I also long Have practised in the groves like thee, Though not like thee in song 1 Or sing'st thou, rather, under force Of some divine command, Commission'd to presage a course Of happier days at hand ! Thrice welcome then ! for many a long And joyous year have I, As thou to-day, put forth my song Beneath a wintry sky. But thee no wintry skies can harm, W T ho only need'st to sing To make e'en January charm, And every season spring. 1792. LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM OF MISS PATTY MORE's, SISTER OF HANNAH MORS In vain to live from age to age While modern bards endeavor, I write my name in Patty's page, And gain my point forever. w. COWPER. March 6, 1792. SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain. Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter gall'd, Fear not lest labor such as thine be vain. Thou hast achieved a part ; hast gain'd the ea Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause : Hope smiles, joy springs, and though cold cair tion pause And weave delay, the better hour is near That shall remunerate thy toils severe, By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws. 644 COWPER'S WORKS. Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love Prom all the just on earth and all the blest above. April 16, 1792. . EPIGRAM PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY. To purify their wine, some people bleed A lamb into the barrel, and succeed ; No nostrum, planters say, is half so good To make fine sugar as .a negro's blood. Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things, And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs, 'Tis in the blood of innocence alone—; Good cause why planters never try their own. TO DR. AUSTIN, OF CECIL STREET, LONDON. Austin ! accept a grateful verse from me, The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee. Loved by the muses, thy ingenuous mind Pleasing requital in my verse may find ; Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside, Immortalizing names which else had died : And O ! could I command the glittering wealth With which sick kings are glad to purchase Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live, [health ! Were in the power of verse like mine to give, I would not recompense his arts with less, Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. Friend of my friend !* I love thee, though unknown, And boldly call thee, being his, my own. May 26, 1792. CATHARINA : l"HE SECOND PART : ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ,. Believe it or not, as you choose, The doctrine is certainly true, t That the future is known to the muse, And poets are oracles too. I did but express a desire To see Catharina at home, At the side of my friend George's fire, And lo — she is actually come ! Such prophecy some may despise, But the wish of a poet and friend Perhaps is approved in the skies, And therefore attains to its end. 'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth From a bosom effectually warm'd With the talents, the graces, and worth Of the person for whom it was form'd Mariaf would leave us, I knew, To the grief and regret of us all, But less to our grief, could we view Catharina the Q,ueen of the Hall. And therefore I wish'd as I did, And therefore this union of hands : Not a whisper was heard to forbid, . But all cry — Amen — to the bans. * Hayloy. t Lady Throckmorton. Since, therefore, I seem to incur No danger of wishing in vain When making good wishes for her, I will e'en to my wishes again — With one I have made her a wife, And now I will try with another, Which I cannot suppress for my life — How soon I can make her a mother. June, 1792. EPITAPH ON FOP, A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, Here moulders one whose bones some honoi claim. No sycophant, although of spaniel race, And though no hound, a martyr to the chase — Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice, Your haunts no longer echo to his voice ; This record of his fate exulting view, He died worn out with vain pursuit of you. " Yes," — the indignant shade of Fop replies— • " And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies." August, 1792. SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.., ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAY0N3, Drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in tht months of August and September, 1792. Romney, expert infallibly to trace On chart or canvas, not the form alone And semblance, but however faintly shown, The mind's impression too on every face — With strokes that time ought never to erase, Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I own The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining with superior grace. But this I mark — that symptoms none of woe In thy incomparable work appear. Well — I am satisfied it should be so, Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear ; For in my looks what sorrow could 'st thou see When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee 1 October, 1792. MARY AND JOHN. If John marries Mary, and Mary alone, "Tis a very good match between Mary and John. Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the scratches ! It can't be a match — 'tis a bundle of matches. EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELEY. Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies, Till all who knew him follow to the skies. Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep ; Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants weep — And justly — few shall ever him transcend As husband, parent, brother, master, friend. April, 1793. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 641 TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM, •N RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE MADE BY HERSELF. My gentle Anne, whom heretofore, When I was young, and thou no more Than plaything tor a nurse, I danced and fondled on my knee, A kitten both in size and glee, I thank thee for my purse. Gold pays the worth of all things here ; But not of love ; — that gem's too dear For richest rogues to win it ; I, therefore, as a proof of love, Esteem thy present far above The best things kept within it. May 4, 1793. INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN. This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, Built as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet, Preliminary to— the last retreat. May, 1793. IN TO MRS. UNWIN. Mary ! I want a lyTe with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And unde based by praise of meaner things, That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honor due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright ; There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine. May, 1793. TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ., ON HIS PRESENTING ME WJTH AN ANTIQUE BUST OF HOMER. Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me ! When I behold the fruit of thy regard, The sculptured form of my old favorite bard, I reverence feel for him, and love for thee : Joy too and grief— much joy that there should be, Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward With some applause my bold attempt and hard, Which others scorn ; critics by courtesy. The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine, I lose my precious years, now soon to fail, Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale. Be wiser thou — like our forefather Donne, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone. May 1793. . TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HIS ARRIVING AT CAMBRIDGE WET WHEN NC RAIN HAD FALLEN THERE. If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around Might fitly represent the church, endow'd With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd ; In pledge, perhaps, of favors from on high, Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry Heaven grant us half the omen — may we see Not drought on others, but much dew on thee ! May, 1793. ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING A YOUNG BIRD. A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, Well fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue Each trifle that he sees. But you have kill'd a tiny bird, Which flew not till to-day, Against my orders, whom you heard Forbidding you the prey. Nor did you kill that you might eat And ease a doggish pain, For him. though chased with furious nea» You left where he was slain. Nor was he of the thievish sort, Or one whom blood allures, But innocent was all his sport Whom you have torn for yours. My dog ! what remedy remains, Since teach you all I can I see you. after all my pains, So much resemble man 1 July 15, 1793. BEAU'S REPLY. Sir. when I flew to seize the bird In spite of your command, A louder voice than yours I heard, And harder to withstand. You cried — Forbear ! — but in my breast A mightier cried — Proceed ! — 'Twas nature. Sir. whose strong behest Impell'd me to the deed. Yet. much as nature I respect, I ventured once to break (As you perhaps may recollect) Her precept for your sake ; And when your linnet on a day, Passing his prison door. Had flutter'd all his strength away, And panting press'd the floor, Well knowing him a sacred thing, Not destined to my tooth, I only kiss'd his ruffled wing, And lick'd the feathers smooth. Let my obedience then excuse My disobedience now, 646 COWPER'S WORKS Nor some reproof yourself refuse From your aggrieved bow-wow : If killing birds be such a crime, (Which I can hardly see.) What think you, Sir, of killing time With verse address'd to me ! TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. Dear architect of fine chateaux in air, Worthier to stand forever, if they could, Than any built of stone or yet of wood, For back of royal elephant to bear ! for permission from the skies to share, Much to my own. though little to thy good, With thee (not subject to the jealous mood !) A partnership of literary ware ! But I am bankrupt now ; and doom'd henceforth To drudge, in descant dry. on others' lays ; Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd birth ! But what his commentator's happiest praise 1 That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes, Which they who need them use, and then despise. June 29, 1793. ANSWER To Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to her, on condition she should neither show it, nor take a copy. To be remember'd thus is fame, And in the first degree ; And did the few like her the same, The press might sleep for me. So Homer in the memory stored Of many a Grecian belle, Was once preserved— a richer hoard, But never lodged so well. 1793. ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE. The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, Whom all this elegance might well seduce ; Nor can our censure on the husband fall, Who for a wife so lovely, slew them all. September, 1793. TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA, •n hia translating the Author's Song on a Rose into Italian Verse. My rose, Gravina. blooms anew, And steep'd not now in rain, But in C astil' an streams by you, Will never fade again 1783 INSCRIPTION FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON. Pause here, and think : a monitory rhyme Demands one moment of thy fleeting time. Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein ; Seems it to say — "Health here has long fc. reign 1" Hast thou the vigor of thy youth 1 an eye That beams delight 1 a heart untaught to sigh % Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease , Anticipates a day it never sees ; And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud Exclaims " Prepare thee for an early shroud.' EPITAPH ON A HARE. Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo ; Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined, Was still a wild Jack hare. Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night. He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread And milk, and oats, and sfraw ; Thistles, or lettuces instead, With sand to scour his maw. On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, On pippins' russet peel, And when his juicy salads fail'd Sliced carrot pleased him well. A turkey carpet was his lawn, Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn, And swing his rump around. His frisking was at evening hours, For then he lost his fear, But most before approaching showers, Or when a storm drew near. Eight years and five round rolling moons He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons, And every night at play. I kept him for his humor's sake, For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache, And force me to a smile. But now beneath this walnut shade He finds his long last home, And waits in snug concealment laid, Till gentler Puss shall come. He, still more aged, feels the shocks, From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave. -: TREATMENT OF HIS HARES, 641 EPITAPH IUM ALTERUM. Hie etiatti jacet, Q,ui totum novennium vixit, Puss. Siste paulisper, Q,ui praeteriturus es, Et tecum sic reputa — Hunc neque canis venaticus, Nee plumbum missile, Nee laqueus, Nee imbres nimii, Confecere : Tamen mortuus est — Et moriar ego. The following account of the treatment of his hares was inserted by Cowper in the Gentle- man's Magazine. In the year 1774, being much inftisposed both in mind and body, incapable of diverting myself either with com- pany or books, and yet in a condition that made some diversion necessary, I was glad of anything that would engage my attention, without fatiguing it. The children of a neighbor of mine had a leveret given them for a play- thing ; it was at that time about three months old. Un- derstanding better how to tease the poor creature than to feed it, and soon becoming weary of their charge, they readily consented that their father, who saw it pining and growing leaner every day, should offer it to my accept- ance. I was willing enough to take the prisoner under my protection, perceiving that, in the management of "uch an animal, and in the attempt to tame it, I should find just that sort of employment which my case required. It was soon known among the neighbors that I was pleased with the present, and the consequence was, that in a short time I had as many leverets offered to me as would have stocked a paddock. I undertook the care of three, which it is necessary that I should here distinguish by the names I gave them— Puss, Tiney, and Bess. Notwithstanding the two feminine appellatives, I must inform you .that they were all males. Immediately commencing carpen- ter, I built them houses to sleep, in ; each had a separate apartment, so contrived that their ordure would pass through the bottom of it ; an earthen pan placed under each received whatsoever fell, which being duly emptied and washed, they were thus kept perfectly sweet and clean. In the daytime they had the range of a hall, and at night retired each to his own bed, never intruding into that of another. Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, raise himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from my temples. He would suffer me to take him up, and to carry him about in my arms, and has more than once fallen fast asleep upon my knee. He was ill three days, during which time I nursed him, kept him apart from his fellows, that they might not molest him (for, like many other wild animals, they persecute one of their own species that is sick,) and by constant care, and try- ing him with a variety of herbs, restored him to perfect nealth. No creature could be more grateful than my pa- tient after his recovery ; a sentiment which he most sig- nificantly expressed by licking my hand, first the back of it, then the palm, then every finger separately, then oetween all the fingers, as if anxious to leave no part of it unsaluted ; a ceremony which he never performed but once again upon a similar occasion. Finding him ex- tremely tractable, I made it my custom to carry him always after breakfast into the garden, where he hid him- self generally under the leaves of a cucumber vine, sleep- ing or chewing the cud kill evening ; in the leaves also of that vine he found a favorite repast. I had not long habituated him to this taste of liberty, before he bngan to be impatient for the return of the time when he might enjoy it. He would invite ine to the garden by drum- ming upon my knee, and by a look of such expression as it was not possible to misinterpret. If this rhetoric did not immediately succeed, he would take the skirt of (ay coat between his teeth, and pull it with all his force. Thus Puss might be said to be perfectly tamed ; the shy- aess of his nature was done away, and on the whole it was visible by many symptoms, which I have not room *o enumerate, that he was happier in human society than vixen shut up with his natural companions. Not so Tiney; upon him the kindest treatment had not the least effect. He too was sick, and in his sickness had an equal share of my attention ; but if, after his re- covery, I took the liberty to stroke him, he would grunt, strike with his fore feet, spring forward, and bite. He was however very entertaining in his way ; e\en his sur- liness was matter of mirth, and in his play he preserved such an air of gravity, and performed his feats with such a solemnity of manner, that in him too I had an agreea ble companion. Bess, who died soon after he was full grown, and whose death was occasioned by his being turned into his box, which had been washed, while it was yet damp, was a hare of great humor and drollery. Puss was tamed by gentle usage ; Tiney was not to be tamed at all ; and. Bess had a courage and confidence that made mm tame from the beginning. I always admitted them into the parlor after supper, when, the carpet affording their feet a firm hold, they would frisk, and bound, and play a thousand gambols, in which Bess, being remarkably strong and fearless, was always superior to the rest, and proved himself the Vestris of the party. One evening, the cat being in the room, had the hardiness to pat Bess upon the cheek, an indignity which he resented by drum- ming upon her back with such violence that the cat was happy to escape from under his paws, and hide herself. I describe these animals as having each a character of his own. Such they were in fact, and their countenances were so expressive of that character, that, when I looked only on the face of either, I immediately knew which it was. It is said that a shepherd, however numerous his flock, soon becomes so familiar with their features, that he can, by that indication only, distinguish each from all the rest ; and yet, to a common observer, the differ- ence is hardly perceptible. I doubt not that the same discrimination in the cast of countenances would be dis- coverable in hares, and am persuaded that among a thousand of them no two could be found exactly simi- lar : a circumstance little suspected by those who have not had opportunity to observe it. These creatures have singular sagacity in discovering the minutest alteration that is made in the place to which they are accustomed, and instantly apply their nose to the examination of a new object. A small hole being burnt in the carpet, it was mended with a patch, and that patch in a moment underwent the strictest scrutiny. They seem too to be very much directed by the smell in the choice of their favorites : to some persons, though they saw them daily, they could never be reconciled, and would even scream when they attempted to touch them ; but a miller com ing in engaged their affections at once ; his powdered coat had charms that were irresistible. It is no wonder that my intimate acquaintance with these specimens of the kind has taught me to hold the sportman's amuse- ment in abhorrence ; he little knows what amiable crea- tures he persecutes, of what gratitude they are capable, how cheerful they are in their spirits, what enjoyment they have of lifei and that, impressed as they seem with a peculiar dread of man, it is only because man gives them peculiar cause for it. That I may not be tedious, 1 will just give a short sum- mary of those articles of diet that suit them best. I take it to be a general opinion, that they graze, but it is an erroneous one, at least grass is not their staple : they seem rather to use it medicinally, soon quitting it for leaves of almost any kind. Sowthistle, dandelion, and lettuce, are their favorite vegetables, especially the last. I discovered by accident that fine white sand is in great estimation with them ; I suppose as a digestive. It happened, that I was cleaning a birdcage when the hares were with me; I placed a pot filled with s'uch sand upon the floor, which, being at once directed to it by a strong instinct, they devoured voraciously; since that time I have generally taken care to see them well supplied with it. They account green corn a delicacy both blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom eat : straw of any kind, especially wheat-straw, is another of their dainties : they will feed greedily upon oats, but if fur- nished with clean straw never want them ; it serves them also for a bed, and, if shaken up daily, will be kept sweet and dry for a considerable time. They do not indeed rn quire aromatic herbs, but will eat a small quantity o* them with great relish, and are particularly fond of th* plant called musk ; they seem to resemble sheep in this, that, if their pasture be too succulent, they are very erV ject to the rot ; to prevent which, I always made bread their principal nourishment, and, filling a pan with il cut into small squares, placed it every evening in theii chambers, for they feed only at evening and in the night , during the winter, when vegetables were not to be got, I mingled this mess of bread with shreds of carrot, adding 648 COWPER'S WORKS. to it the rind of apples cut extremely thin ; for, though they are fond of the paring, the apple itself disgusts them. These however not being a sufficient substitute for the •uice of summer herbs, they must at this time be sup- plied with water ; but so placed, that they cannot over- set it into their beds. I must not omit, that occasionally they are much pleased with twigs of hawthorn, and of the common brier, eating even the very wood when it is of considerable thickness. Bess, I have said, died young ; Tiney lived to be nine years old, and died at last, I have reason to think, of some hurt in his loins by a fall ; Puss is still living, and has just completed his tenth year, discovering no signs of decay, nor even of age, except that he has grown more discreet and less frolicsome than he was. I cannot con- clude without observing, that I have lately introduced a dog to his acquaintance, a spaniel that had never seen a hare to a hare that had never seen a spaniel. I did it with great cautfon, but there was no real need of it. Puss discovered no token of fear, nor Marquis the least symp- tom of hostility. There is therefore, it should seem, no natural antipathy between dog and hare, but the pursuit of the one occasions the flight of the other, and the dog pursues because he is trained to it ; they eat bread at the same time out of the same hand, and are in all re- spects sociable and friendly. I should not do complete justice to my subject, did I not add, that they have . no ill scent belonging to them, that they are indefatigably nice in keeping themselves clean, for which purpose nature has furnished them with a brush under each foot ; and that they are never infested by any vermin. May 28, 1784. MEMORANDUM FOUND AMONG MR. COWPER's PAPERS. . Tuesday, March 9, 1786. This day died poor Puss, aged eleven years eleven months. He died between twelve and one at noon, of taere old age, and apparently without pain. A TALE.* In Scotland's realms, where trees are few, , Nor even shrubs abound ; But where, however bleak the view, Some better things are found ; For husband there and wife may boast t Their union undented, And false ones are as rare almost As hedgerows in the wild — In Scotland's realm forlorn and hare The history chanced of late— The history of a wedded pair, A chaffinch and his mate. The spring drew near, each felt a breast With genial instinct fill'd ; They pair'd, and would have built a nest, But found not where to build. The heaths uncover'd and the moors Except with snow and sleet, Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores Could yield them no retreat. Long time a breeding-place they sought, Till both grew vex'd and tired ; At length a ship arriving brought The good so long desired. * This tale is founded on an article which appeared In the Buckinghamshire Herald, Saturday, June 1, 1793: — " Glasgow, May 23. In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabert, now lying at the Broomie- law, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest Was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was fol- lowed hither by both birds. Though the block is occa- sionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it, but when she descends to the hull for food." A ship ! — could such a restless thing Afford them place of rest 1 Or was the merchant charged to bring The homeless birds a nest % Hush ! silent hearers profit most — This racer of the sea Proved kinder to them than the coast. It served them with a tree. But such u tree ! 'twas shaven deal, The tree they call a mast, And had a hollow with a wheel, Through which the tackle pass'd. Within that cavity aloft Their roofless home they fix'd, Form'd with materials neat and soft, Bents^ wool, and feathers mix'd. Four ivory eggs ^oon pave its floor With russet specks bedight — The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore, And lessens to the sight. The mother-bird is gone to sea, As she had changed her kind ; But goes the male ? Far wiser, he Is doubtless left behind. No — soon as from ashore he saw The winged mansion move, He flew to reach it, by a law Of never-failing love ; Then, perching at his consort's side, Was briskly borne along, The billows and the blast defied, And cheer'd her with a song. The seaman with sincere delight His feather'd shipmates eyes, Scarce less exulting in the sight Than when he tows a prize. For seamen much believe in signs, And from a chance so new Each some approaching good divines, And may his hopes be true ! Hail, honor'd land ! a desert where Not even birds can hide, Yet parents of this loving pair Whom nothing could divide. And ye who, rather than resign Your matrimonial plan, Were not afraid to plough the brine In company with man ; For whose lean country much disdain We English often show, Yet from a richer nothing gain But wantonness and woe — Be it your fortune, year by year The same resource to prove, And may ye, sometimes landing hert, Instruct us how to love ! June, 1793. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 64? TO MARY. The twentieth year is well nigh past Since first our sky was overcast ; Ah ! would that this might be the last ! My Mary ! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, [ see thee daily weaker grow ; 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more ; My Mary ! For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary ! « Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream : Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary ! Thy^silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary ! For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see 1 The sun would rise in vain for me, t My Mary ! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign ; Yet gently press'd, press gently mine, My Mary ! Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, That now at every step thou movest Upheld by two ; yet still thou lovest, My Mary ! And still to love, though press'd with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary ! But ah ! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary ! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary ! Autumn of 1793. THE CASTAWAY. Obscurest night involved the sky, The Atlantic billows roar'd, When such a destined wretch as I, Wash'd headlong from on board Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home forever left. No braver chief could Albion boast Than he with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion's coast With warmer wishes sent. He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again. Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay ; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away ; But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life. He shouted ; nor his friends had fail'd To check the vessel's course, But so the furious blast prevail'd, That, pitiless perforce, They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind. Some succor yet they could afford ; And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord, Delay'd not to bestow : But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, Whate'er they gave, should visit more. Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea. Alone could rescue them ; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh. He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self upheld : And so long he, with unspent power, His destiny repell'd : And ever, as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried — " Adieu !" At length, his transient respite past. His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more : For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him; but the page Of narrative sincere. That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson's tear ; And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead. I therefore purpoee not, or dream, Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date : But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case. No voice divine the storm allay'd, No light propitious shone ; When, snatch 'd from all effectual aid, We perish 'd, each alone : But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelm'd in deeper Julfs than he. March 20, 1799. 650 COWPER'S WORKS. TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. Dear President, whose art sublime Gives perpetuity to time. And bids transactions of a day, That fleeting hours would waft away To dark futurity, survive, And in unfading beauty live, — You cannot with a grace decline A special mandate of the Nine — Yourself, whatever task you choose, So much indebted to the Muse. Thus say the sisterhood : — We come — Fix well your pallet on your thumb, Prepare the pencil and the tints — We come to furnish you with hints. French disappointment, British glory, Must be the subject of the story. First strike a curve, a graceful bow, Then slope it to a point below ; Your outline easy, airy, light, Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite. Let independence, sanguine, horrid, Blaze like a meteor in the forehead : Beneath (but lay aside your graces) Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces, Each with a staring, stedfast eye, Fix'd on his great and good ally. France flies the kite — 'tis on the wing — Britannia's lightning cuts the string. The wind that raised it, ere it ceases, Just rends it into thirteen pieces, Takes charge of every fluttering sheet, And lays them all at George's feet. Iberia, trembling from afar, Renounces the confederate war.. Her efforts and her arts o'ercome, France calls her shatter'd navies home. Repenting Holland learns to mourn The sacred treaties she has torn ; Astonishment and awe profound Are stamp'd upon the nations round: Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose. THE DISTRESSED TRAVELERS; OR, LABOR IN VAIN. A New Song, to a Tune never sung before, I sing of a journey to Clifton,* We would have perform'd, if we could ; Without cart or barrow, to lift on Poor Maryt and me through the mud. Slee, sla, slud, Stuck in the mud ; Dfo it is pretty to wade through a flood ! So away we went, slipping and sliding ; Hop, hop, a la mode de deux frogs, 'Tis near as good walking as riding, When ladies are dress'd in their clogs. Wheels, no doubt, Go briskly about, But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout. * A village near Olney. t Mrs. Unwin. DIALOGUE. SHE. " Well ! now, I protest it is charming; How finely the weather improves ! That cloud, though 'tis rather alarming, How slowly and stately it moves." HE. " Pshaw ! never mind, 'Tis not in the wind, [hind. We are travelling south, and shall leave it be* SHE. " I am glad we are come for an airing, For folks may be pounded, and penn'd, Until they grow rusty, not caring To stir half a mile to an end." " The longer we stay, The longer we may ; It's a folly to think about weather or way." SHE. " But now I begin to be frighted, If I fall what a way I should roll ! I am glad that the bridge was indicted Stay ! stop ! I am sunk in a hole •" HE. " Nay, never care, 'Tis a common affair ; You'll not be the last, that will set a foot there." " Let me breathe now a little and ponder On what it were better to do ; That terrible lane I see yonder, I think we shall never get through." HE. "So think I :— But, by the bye, We never shall know, if we never should try." SHE. " But should we get there, how shall we get home 1 What a terrible deal of bad road we have past ! Slipping, and sliding, and if we should come To a difficult stile, I am ruined at last ! Oh this lane ! Now it is plain That struggling and striving is labor in vain." HE. " Stick fast there while I go and look ;" SHE. " Don't go away, for fear I should fall :" HE. " I have examined it, every nook, And what you see here is a sample of all. Come, wheel round, The dirt we have found Would be an estate, at a farthing a pound." Now, sister Anne,* the guitar you must take, Set it, and sing it, and make it a song : I have varied the verse, for variety's sake, . And cut it off short — because it was long. 'Tis hobbling and lame, Which critics won't blame, For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the same. * The late Lady Austen. MioUl!iLLANEOUS POEMS. 66- ON THE AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON LITERATURE.* The Genius of the Augustan age His head among Rome's ruins rear'd, And, bursting with heroic rage, When literary Heron appear 'd ; Thou hast, he cried, like him of old Who set the Ephesian dome on fire, By being scandalously bold, Attain'd the mark of thy desire. And for traducing Virgil's name Shalt share his merited reward ; A perpetuity of fame, That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd. STANZAS ON THE LATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH THE REMAINS OF MILTON.f ANNO 1790. " Me too, perchance, in future days, The sculptured stone shall show, With Paphian myrtle or with bays Parnassian on my brow. 1 But I, or ere that season come, Escaped from every care, %all reach my refuge in the tomb, And sleep securely there.":}: So sang in Roman tone and. style, The youthful bard, ere long Ordain'd to grace his native isle With her sublimest song. Who then but must conceive disdain, Hearing the deed unblest Of wretches who have dared profane His dread sepulchral rest 1 111 fare the hands that heaved the stones ty Where Milton's ashes lay, That trembled not to grasp his bones And steal his dust away ! O ill requited bard ! neglect Thy living worth repaid, And blind idolatrous respect As much affronts thee dead. August, 1790. * Nominally by Robert Heron, Esq., but supposed to have been written by John Pinkerton. 8vo. 1785. t The bones of Milton, who lies buried in Cripplegate church, were disinterred : a pamphlet by Le Neve was published at the time, giving an account of what appeared on opening his coffin. X Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus, Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri Fronde comas— At ego secui-a pace quiescam. Milton in Manso. $ Cowper, no doubt, had in his memory the lines said to have been written by Shakspeare on his tomb : " Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear To dig the dust inclosed here. Blest be the man that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones." TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL June 22, 17354. MY DEAR FRIEND, If reading verse be your delight, 'Tis mine as much, or more, to write ; But what we would, so weak is man, Lies oft remote from what we can. For instance, at this very time I feel a wish by cheerful rhyme To soothe my friend*, and, had I power, To cheat him of an anxious hour; Not meaning (for I must confess, It were but folly to suppress) His pleasure, or his good alone, But squinting partly at my own. But though the sun is flaming high In the centre of yon arch, the sky, And he had once (and who but he V) The name for setting genius free, Yet whether poets of past days Yielded him undeserved praise, And he by no uncommon lot Was famed for virtues he had not; Or whether, which is like enough, His Highness may have taken huff, So seldom sought with invocation, , Since it has been the reigning fashion To disregard his inspiration, I seem no brighter in my wits, For all the radiance he emits, Than if I saw, through midnight vapor, The glimmering of a farthing taper. Oh for a succedaneum, then, To accelerate a creeping pen ! Oh for a ready succedaneum, Q,uod caput, cerebrum, et cranium Pondere liberet exoso, Et morbo jam caliginyso ! 'Tis here ; this oval box well fill'd With best tobacco, finely mill'd, Beats all Anticyra's pretences To disengage the encumber'd senses Oh Nymph of transatlantic fame, Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name Whether reposing on the side Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide, Or listening with delight not small To Niagara's distant fall, "Tis thine to cherish and to feed The pungent nose-refreshing weed Which, whether pulverized it gain A speedy passage to the brain, Or whether, touch'd with fire, it rise In circling eddies to the skies, Does thought more quicken and refine Than all the breath of all the Nine- Forgive the bard, if bard he be, Who once too wantonly made free, To touch with a satiric wipe That symbol of thy power, the pipe ; So may no blight infest thy plains, And no unseasonable rains; And so may smiling peace once more Visit America's sad shore ; And thou, secure from all alarms, Of thundering drums and glittering arnitj Rove unconfined beneath the shade Thy wide expanded leaves have made ; So may thy votaries increase, And fumigation never cease. 652 COWPER'S WORKS, May Newton with renew'd delights Perform thine odoriferous rites, While clouds of incense half divine Involve thy disappearing shrine ; And so may smoke-inhaling Bull Be always filling, never full. EPITAPH ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON. Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's tomb, But happiest they who win the world to come : Believers have a silent field to fight, And their exploits are veil'd frc*m human sight They in some nook, where little known they dwell, Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell ; Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine. 1791. SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTH-DAY. Deem not, sweet rose, that bloom'st 'midst many a thorn, Thy friend, tho' to a cloister's shade consign'd, Can e'er forget the charms he left behind, Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn ! In happier days to brighter prospects born, tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind, Like thee, content in every state may find, And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn. To steer with nicest art betwixt th' extreme Of idle mirth, and affectation coy ; To blend good sense with elegance and ease ; To bid Alfliction's eye no longer stream ; Is thine ; best gift, the unfailing source of joy, The guide to pleasures which can never cease ! ON A MISTAKE IN HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER. Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse, If, bound in rhyming tethers, He had committed this abuse Of changing ewes for wethers;* But, male for female is a trope, Or rather bold *risnomer, « That would have startled even Pope, When he translated Homer. DN THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTY, FROM SEA-BATHING IN T.HE YEAR 1789. O sovereign of an isle renown'd For undisputed sway, Wherever o'er yon gulf profound Her navies wing their way. * I have heard about my wether mutton from various |uarters. It was a blunder hardly pardonable in a man Irho has lived amid fields and meadows, grazed by sheep, With juster claims she builds at length Her empire on the sea, And well may boast the waves her strengtn, Which strength restored to thee. ADDRESSED TO MISS ON READING THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.* And dwells there in a female heart, By bounteous Heaven design'd, The choicest raptures to impart, To feel the most refined — Dwells there a wish in such a breast Its nature to forego, To smother in ignoble rest At once both bliss and woe ! Far be the thought, and far the strain, Which breathes the low desire, How sweet so'er the verse complain, Though Phoebus string the lyre. Come, then, fair maid, (in nature wise,) Who, knowing them, can tell From generous sympathy what joys The glowing bosom swell : In justice to the various powers Of pleasing, which you share, Join me, amid your silent hours, To form the better prayer. With lenient bairn my Oberon hence To fairy land be driven, With every herb that blunts the sense Mankind received from heaven. Oh ! if my sovereign Author please, Far be it from my fate To live unbless'd in torpid ease, And slumber on in state ; " Each tender tie of life defied, Whence social pleasures spring, Unmoved with all the world beside, A solitary thing — " Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow, Thus braves the whirling blast, Eternal winter doom'd to know, No genial spring to taste. v In vain warm suns their influence shed, The zephyrs sport in vain, He rears unchanged his barren head, Whilst beauty decks the plain. What though in scaly armor dress'd, Indifference may repel The shafts of wo — in such a breast No joy can ever dwell. 'Tis woven in the world's great plan, And fix'd by heaven's decree, almost these thirty years. I have accordingly satirize? myself in two stanzas, which I composed last night, while I lay awake, tormented with pain, and well dosed with laudanum. If you find them not very brilliant, therefore, you will know how to account for it. — Letter to Joseph Hill, Esq., dated April 15, 1792. * For Mrs. Greville's Ode, see Annual Register, vol. T p. 202. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 65i That all the true delights of man Should spring from sympathy. 'Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws Of nature we retain, Our self-approving bosom draws A pleasure from its pain. Thus grief itself has comforts dear The sordid never know ; And ecstacy attends the tear When virtue bids it flow. For, when it- streams from that pure source, No bribes the heart can win To check, or alter from its course, The luxury within. Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves, Who, if from labor eased, Extend no care beyond themselves, Unpleasing and unpleased. Let no low thought suggest the prayer, Oh ! grant, kind Heaven, to me, Long as I draw ethereal air, Sweet Sensibility ! Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen, With lustre-beaming eye, A train, attendant on their queen, (Her rosy chorus) fly ; The jocund loves in Hymen's band, With torches ever bright, And generous friendship, hand in hand With pity's wat'ry sight. The gentler virtues too are join'd In youth immortal warm ; The soft relations, which, combined, Give life her every charm. The arts come smiling in the close, And lend celestial fire ; The marble breathes, the canvas glows, The muses sweep the lyre. '.' Still may my melting bosom cleave To sufferings not my own, And still the sigh responsive heave Where'er is heard a groan. " So pity shall take virtue's part, Her natural ally. > And fashioning my soften'd rreart, Prepare it for the sky." This artless vow may Heaven receive, And you, fond maid, approve: So may your guiding angel give Whate'er you wish or love ! So may the rosy-finger'd hours Lead on the various year, 1 And every joy, which now is yours, Extend a larger sphere ! And suns to come, as round they wheel, Your golden moments bless With all a tender heart can feel, Or lively fancy guess ! 1762. A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, LATE RECTOR OP ST. MARY WOOLNOTH, Says the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face, That you are in fashion all over the land, And I am so much fallen into disgrace. Do but see what a pretty contemplative air I give to the company — pray do but note 'em — ■ You would think that the wise men of Greece were all there, [of Gotham. Or at least would suppose them the wise men My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses, While you are a nuisance where'er you appear; There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of noses, [hear. Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way, [gaging. And opening his mouth with a smile quite en- The box in reply was heard plainly to say, What a silly dispute is this we are waging ! 3 If you have a little of merit to claim, w [weed, You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian And I, if I seem to deserve any blame, The before-mentioned drug in apology plead. Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own, No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus, We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone, [in us. But of anything else they may choose to n»» THE FLATTING MILL. A*f ILLUSTRATION. When a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length, It is pass'd between cylinders often, and roll'd In an engine of utmost mechanical strength. Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears Like a loose heap of ribbon, of glittering show. Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears, And, warm'd by the pressure, is all in a glow. This process achiev'd, it is doom'd to sustain The thump after thump of a gold-beater's rnallet, And at last is of service in sickness or pain To cover a pill for a delicate ralate. Alas for the poet ! who dares undertake To urge reformation of national ill — His head and his heart are both likely to ache With the double employment of mallet and mill If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight, Smooth, ductile, and even his fancy must flow, Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight, And catch in its progress a sensible glow. After all he must beat it as thin and as fine As the leafthatenfolds what an invalid swallows For truth is unwelcome, however divine, And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows. 654 COWPER'S WORKS. EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST, A FAVORITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS. These are not dewdrops, these are tears, I And tears by Sally shed For absent Robin, who she .fears, With too much cause, is dead. One morn he came not to her hand As he was wont to come, And, on her finger perch'd, to stand Picking his breakfast-crfcmb. Alarm'd, she call'd him, and perplex'd She sought him, but in vain — That day he came not, nor the next, Nor ever came again. She therefore raised him here a tomb, Though where he fell, or how, None knows, so secret was his doom, Nor where he moulders now. Had half a score of coxcombs died In social Robin's stead, Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried, Or haply never shed. But Mb was neither rudely bold Nor spiritlessly tame ; Nor was. like theirs, his bosom cold, But always in a flame. March, 1792. SONNET, ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ,. Hayley — thy tenderness fraternal shown In our first interview, delightful guest ! To Mary, and me for her dear sake distress'd, Such as it is, has made my heart thy own, Though heedless now of new engagements grown ; For threescore winters make a wintry breast, And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest Of friendship more, except with God aione. But thou hast won me ; nor is God my foe, Who, ere this last afflictive scene began, Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow, My brother, by whose sympathy I know Thy true deserts infallibly to scan, Nat more to admire the bard than love the man. June 2, 1792. AN EPITAPH. Here lies one who never drew Blood himself, yet many slew ; Gave the gun its aim, and figure Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger. Armed men have gladly made Him their guide, and him obey'd ; At his signified desire WDuld advance, present, and fire — Stout he was and large of limb, Scores have fled at sight of him ! And to all this fame he rose Only following his nose. Neptune was he call'd net he Who controls the boisterous sea, But of happier command, Neptune of the furrow'd land ; And, your wonder vain to shorten, Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton. 1792. ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE. In language warm as could be breathed or penn'c Thy picture speaks the original, my friend, Not by those looks that indicate thy mind — They only speak thee friend of all mankind ; Expression here more soothing still I see, That friend of all a partial friend to me. January, 1793. ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER. DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT. Thrive, gentle plant ! and weave a bower For Mary and for me, And deck with many a splendid flower, Thy foliage large and free. Thou earnest from Eartham, and wilt shade (If truly I divine) Some future day the illustrious head Of him who made thee mine. Should Daphne show a jealous frown And envy seize the bay, Affirming none so fit to crown Such honor'd brows as they, Thy cause with zeal we shall defend, And with convincing power ; For why should not the virgin's friend Ee crown'd with virgin's bower 1 Spring of 1793. ON RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL FROM MR. HAYLEY. I should have deem'd it once an effort vain To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain, But from that error now behold me free, Since I received him as a gift from thee. «. STANZAS. ADDRESSED to ladv hesketh, by a lady In returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to the Wr-Aer on condition she should neither show it nor take a copy. What wonder! if my wavering hand Had dared to disobey, When Hesketh gave a harsh command, And Cowper led astray. Then take this tempting gift of thine, By pen uncopied yet ! But canst thou Memory confine, Or teach me to forget 1 More lasting than the'touch of art, Her chaiacters remain; When written by a feeling heart On tablets of the brain. MISCELANEOUS POEMS, 65fl COWPER'S REPLY. To be remember'd thus is fame, And in the first degree ; And did the few, like her, the same, The press might rest for me. So Homer, in the mem'ry stor'd Of many a Grecian belle, Was once preserved — a richer hoard, But never lodged so well. LINES ADDRESSED TO MISS THEODORA JANE COWPER. William was once a bashful youth, . His modesty was such, That one might say, to say the truth, He rather had too much. Some said that it was want of sense, And others, want of spirit, (So blest a thing is impudence,) While others could not bear it. But some a different notion had, And at each other winking, Observed, that though he little said, He paid it off with thinking. llowe'er, it happen'd, by degrees, He mended, and grew better, In company grew more at ease, And dress'd a little smarter ; Nay, now and then, could look quite gay, As other people do ; And sometimes said, or tried to say, A witty thing or so. He eyed the women, and made free To comment on their shapes, So that there was, or seem'd to be, No fear of a relapse. The women said, who thought him rough, But now no longer foolish, " The creature might do well enough, But wants a deal of polish." At length improved from head to heel, 'Twas scarce too much to say, No dancing beau was so genteel, 0/ half so degage. Now that a miracle so strange May not in vain be shown, Let the dear maid who wrought the change E'en claim him for her own ! TO THE SAME. How quick the change from joy to wo, How chequer'd is our lot below ! Seldom we view the prospect fair ; Dark clouds ef sorrow, pain, and care, (Some pleasing interv'als between,) Scowl over more than half the scene. Last week with Delia, gentle maid ! Par hence in happier fields I stray 'd. Five suns successive rose and set, And saw no monarch in his state. Wrapt in the blaze of majesty, So free from every care as I. Next day the scene was overcast — Such day till then I never pass'd, — For on that day, relentless fate ! Delia and I must separate. Yet ere we look : d our last farewell, From her dear lips this comfort fell, — " Fear not that time, where'er we rove, Or absence, shall abate my love." LINES ON A SLEEPING INFANT. Sweet babe ! whose image here express'd Does thy peaceful slumbers show ; Guilt or fear, to break thy rest, Never did thy spirit know. Soothing slumbers ! soft repose, Such as mock the painter's skill, Such as innocence bestows, Harmless infant! lull thee still. LINES. Oh ! to some distant scene, a willing exile From the wild roar of this busy world, Were it my fate with Delia to retire, With her to wander through the sylvan shade, Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrowned turf, Where, blest as the prime parents of mankind In their own Eden, we would envy none, But. greatly pitying whom the world calls happy, Gently spin out the silken thread of life ! INSCRIPTION FOR A MOSS-HOUSE IN THE SHRUBBERY AT WESTON. Here, free from riot's hated noise, Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys, A book or friend bestows ; Far from the storms that shake the great, Contentment's gale shall fan my seat, And sweeten my repose. LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR WILLIAM RUSSEL. Doom'd, as I am, in solitude to waste The present moments, and regret the past; Deprived of every joy I valued most, My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost ; Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mein, The dull effect of humor, or of spleen ! Still, still, I mourn, with each returning day, Him* snatch'd by fate in early youth away ; And her — thro' tedious years of doubt and pain, Fix'd in her choice, and faithful — but in vain! O prone to pity, generous, and sincere, Whose eye ne'er yet refus'd the wretch a tear ; Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes ; * Sir William Russel, the favorite friend of the young poet. 656 COWPER'S WORKS. See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown ! See me neglected on the world's rude coast, Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow, And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free, All that delights the happy — palls with me ! ON THE HIGH PRICE OF FISH. Cocoa-N'dt naught, Fish too dear, None must be bought For us that are here : 7