m 
 
 ■:%+■ 
 
 m 
 
 1 
 
 
 W8L
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 WILLIAM COWPER 
 
 From a portrait by George Romney
 
 C O W P E R 
 
 Poetry £^ Prose 
 
 With Essays by 
 HAZLITT <§? BAGEHOT 
 
 With an Introduction and Notes by 
 HUMPHREY S. MILFORD 
 
 OXFORD 
 
 AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
 
 
 OXFORD ^ 
 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 AMI N 1!'" " ! • ' -C 4 
 
 London Edinburgh Glasgow New York 
 
 Toronto Melbourne Capetown Bombay 
 
 Calcutta Madras 
 
 HUMPHREY MIl-TORD 
 
 PUBLISHES TO THE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 FIRST PUBLISHED I92I 
 
 reprinted 1930, 1931, 1936, I 938, 1939 
 
 PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, OXFORD 
 BY JOHN JOHNSON, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 INTRODUCTION . 
 CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE . 
 HAZLITT ON COWPER 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM POETRY 
 
 Retirement . 
 
 The Sofa 
 
 The Time-piece 
 
 The Winter Evening 
 
 The Shrubbery 
 
 The Nightingale and Glow-worm 
 
 Boadicea .... 
 
 Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk 
 
 during his solitary abode in the Island of Juan 
 
 Fernandez ..... 
 On the Loss of the Royal George 
 The Diverting History of John Gilpin 
 Epitaph on a Hare 
 The Poplar-Field . 
 The Dog and the Water-Lily 
 On the Receipt of my Mother's 
 The Retired Cat . 
 Epitaph on Fop 
 An Epitaph . 
 Sonnet to Mrs. Unwin 
 On a Spaniel called Beau 
 Beau's Reply 
 To Mary 
 The Castaway 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS 
 
 NOTES 
 
 Picture out of Norfolk 
 
 PAGE 
 
 5 
 
 9 
 
 ii 
 
 17 
 
 • 57 
 58 
 61 
 64 
 66 
 
 7i 
 
 72 
 
 73 
 
 75 
 
 77 
 7 8 
 
 86 
 
 88 
 
 88 
 
 90 
 
 93 
 97 
 97 
 98 
 
 98 
 
 99 
 
 100 
 102 
 
 105 
 l8<5 
 
 A 2
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Why is Cowper still read ? Not for his outworn system 
 of theology, nor for his thought ; in nature-poetry Words- 
 worth far surpassed him ; his lyrics pale in the light of 
 Keats, Shelley, Tennyson, Browning; Byron has shown 
 how satire should be written. And yet Cowper remains 
 a fixed star, shining as steadily now as he shone when his 
 first volume appeared nearly 140 years ago. At first his 
 popularity may have owed something to his connexion 
 with Newton and the Evangelical party, but that special 
 cause has long since ceased to operate in his favour, and 
 his insistence on certain definite dogmas tends to repel 
 instead of attract most of his modern readers. It is true, 
 too, that his two volumes appeared (in 1782 and 1785) at 
 a barren time, and in consequence gained an immediate 
 and almost undisputed hearing ; but this is now only of 
 historical interest, and does not explain his continued 
 popularity. 
 
 He has been less subject to changes of fashion than 
 almost any other English poet ; he was not neglected or 
 scorned during his lifetime ; nor put on such a lofty 
 pinnacle that the next generation could do no less than 
 pull him down ; nor eclipsed and rediscovered. In the 
 main he was appreciated at once for his proper qualities 
 and in fit measure, and there has been no need for 
 revaluation of cither. 
 
 Such discussion as there has been during the last century 
 has fastened on personal details of his life, of no impor- 
 tance to an appreciation of his writings : for instance, the 
 influence of Newton on his state of mind, and his relations 
 with Mrs. Unwin and Lady Austen. There are no mysteries 
 left to be cleared up ; Newton was not the cause of his
 
 6 INTRODUCTION 
 
 madness, but was the worst possible adviser for a man of 
 Cowper's temperament ; Cowper was engaged to be married 
 to Mrs. Unwin, and did not marry her because an attack 
 of madness prevented him, and he quarrelled with Lady 
 ten be* iuse Mrs. Unwin was jealous of her. 
 
 It was the friendliness and amiability of Cowper's 
 character shining in everything that he wrote, prose or 
 verse, which endeared him a hundred years ago and 
 endear him to-day. Even when he scolds, his anger is 
 like that of the squirrel in The Task, ' insignificantly 
 fierce.' I lis satires, in spite of Hazlitt's commendation of 
 them, are ineffective, and would have sunk into deeper 
 oblivion than Churchill's had they not been buoyed up 
 by his other writings. No doubt he sincerely deplored 
 horse-racing, cock-fighting, dancing, public schools and 
 all the other evils against which he declaims in Progress of 
 Error, Retirement, and the rest. But he never knew much 
 about most of the abuses that he attacked, and what 
 little he once knew had become dim when he ' commenced 
 author ' at the age of fifty-one. He had an adequate 
 income, plenty of leisure, and wanted some regular occupa- 
 tion to pass the time and to keep off the dreadful imagina- 
 tions which were never far distant and which finally took 
 complete possession of him. Devout Christian as he was, 
 and spiritually directed by the converted slave-trader and 
 fierce saviour of souls, John Newton, his first poems 
 were inevitably written as moral and religious tracts, and 
 as inevitably are now almost unreadable, except for a few 
 passages, where the satirist is lost in the kindly observer 
 of nature and man. 
 
 Unexpectedly successful with his late-born volume, 
 Cowper cast about for a subject for a new poem. Lady 
 Austen laughingly told him to choose the sofa on which 
 he was then sitting. He at once complied, and into the 
 poem thus casually begun he poured all the treasures of
 
 INTRODUCTION 7 
 
 his eye and heart. As Bagchot remarks, Cowper is the 
 most English of poets ; and nowhere in English poetry is 
 there a more faithful report of plain everyday sights and 
 occurrences, described in loving detail and with the eye 
 on the object, never degenerating into a mere catalogue, 
 but full of insight into the essence of English country life 
 and continually enlivened with quiet humour. 
 
 It is difficult to see why Bagehot placed Cowper in the 
 school of Pope. Certainly no poem is less like Pope than 
 The Task, unless it be John Gilpin or the Loss of the Royal 
 George. Cowper could not polish a couplet or barb an 
 epigram, like Pope ; Sainte-Beuve rightly called him ' un 
 des peres du reveil de la poesie anglaise '. If he has not 
 generally the ' masses ' — the breadth — which Sainte- 
 Beuve remarked in Thomson, his details are more accurately 
 and affectionately noted. His ploughmen and carters 
 and postmen are real people, going about their daily con- 
 cerns in snow and dirt, as well as under summer skies. 
 His hares and spaniels, his goldfinches and glow-worms 
 appear as natural in his occasional poems as in what 
 Coleridge called his ' divine chit-chat ', his incomparable 
 letters. Cowper's life, from his forty-second year at any 
 rate, was almost devoid of exciting incident ; and yet he 
 delights us with his account of a walk to the Peasant's 
 Nest, a game with his hares, or the fitting-up of his green- 
 house ; while the visit of a candidate for Parliament, 
 a fire at Olney, or a balloon-ascent in the Throckmortons' 
 grounds, affords material for some of the most attractive 
 letters ever written. 
 
 Every one who reads, or even dips into, Cowper's poems 
 or letters becomes and remains his friend. We should 
 like to have drunk a dish of tea with Cowper, Mrs. Unwin, 
 and Lady Austen, while the trio was still harmonious, and 
 to have heard him read Tom Jones aloud afterwards while 
 the two ladies knitted. We sympathize with his excitement
 
 8 INTRODUCTION 
 
 at the arrival of a barrel of oysters or a dozen bottles of 
 madeira. We almost feel that we could have written 
 John Gilpin or The Retired Cat ourselves ' if we had had 
 the mind '. 
 
 And yet this must not be the last word about Cowper. 
 The materials of his poetry, as of his letters, are plain, 
 simple, easily intelligible to the ordinary reader. He does 
 not rant, nor philosophize, nor soar into the empyrean ; 
 he is no metrical experimenter ; even his subjects are often 
 chosen for him by others — Newton, Mrs. Unwin, Lady 
 Austen. And yet — from these plain, almost bare, materials, 
 using no artifices or adornment, he suddenly produces 
 sublime poems, such as the Sonnet to Mrs. Unwin, Lines on 
 my Mother's Picture, and the Loss of the Royal George, 
 which Palgrave long ago said was a trial-piece of a reader's 
 taste. The ordinary reader is justified in his faith.
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 
 
 1 73 1. Cowper born at Great Berkhamstead (Nov. 20). 
 
 1738. At Dr. Pitman's school. 
 
 1739-40. At the house of Mr. Disney the oculist. 
 
 1741-48. At Westminster School. 
 
 1745. Has smallpox, which cures his affection of the eyes. 
 
 1748. Entered at Middle Temple ; first extant poem, On the Heel 
 
 of a Shoe, written. 
 1749-51. Articled to Mr. Chapman, a solicitor. In love with his 
 
 cousin, Theodora Cowper (d. 1825). 
 
 1752. First attack of melancholy. 
 
 1754. Called to the Bar. 
 
 1756. Contributes five papers to The Connoisseur. 
 1759. Commissioner of Bankrupts, at £60 a year. 
 1763. Offer of Clerkship of Journals of House of Lords, resulting in 
 
 attempted suicide and attack of madness. Removed to 
 
 Dr. Cotton's asylum at St. Albans. 
 1763-65. At St. Albans. Resigns his commissionership. 
 1766-67. At Huntingdon with the Unwins. 
 1767. At Olney with Mrs. and Miss Unwin, where he lived until 17S6. 
 
 Beginning of friendship with Newton (b. 1726, d. 1807). 
 1 771. Begins to write Olney Hymns. 
 1772-3. Engagement to marry Mrs. Unwin, broken off by third 
 
 attack of madness. Attempts suicide. 
 
 1779. Olney Hymns published. 
 
 1780. Begins to write Progress of Error and Truth, as well as many 
 
 occasional poems. 
 
 1 78 1. First meeting with Lady Austen (d. 1802). 
 
 1782 Publication of first volume of poems (February). Writes 
 John Gilpin. 
 
 1753. Begins The Task. 
 
 1784. Begins to translate Homer. 
 
 1755. Second volume of poems, containing The Task, published 
 
 (July). 
 1786. Moves to Weston, where he lives until 1795.
 
 io CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 
 
 1791. Tran.-lation of Homer published, for which he receives ^1,000. 
 
 Begins work on edition of Milton's Poems. 
 
 1792. Romney paints his portrait. Tays visit to Hayley at Eartham. 
 
 1793. Increasing melancholy, never wholly thrown off. 
 
 nsion of £300 a year granted, mainly through Hayley's 
 
 efforts. 
 1705. Leaves Weston and eventually settles at East Dereham 
 
 (September 1796). 
 1796. Death of Mrs. Unwin (December). 
 1 799. Wrote The Castaivay, his last original poem, 
 iboo. Death (April 25). Buried at East Dereham.
 
 HAZLITT ON COW PER 
 
 COWPER . . . lived at a considerable distance of time after 
 Thomson, and had some advantages over him, particularly 
 in simplicity of style, in a certain precision and minuteness 
 of graphical description, and in a more careful and 
 leisurely choice of such topics only as his genius and peculiar 
 habits of mind prompted him to treat of. The Task has 
 fewer blemishes than the Seasons ; but it has not the same 
 capital excellence, the ' unbought grace ' of poetry, the 
 power of moving and infusing the warmth of the author's 
 mind into that of the reader. If Cowper had a more 10 
 polished taste, Thomson had beyond comparison a more 
 fertile genius, more impulsive force, a more entire forget- 
 f ulncss of himself in his subject. If in Thomson you are 
 sometimes offended with the slovenliness of the author by 
 profession, determined to get through his task at all 
 events ; in Cowper you are no less dissatisfied with the 
 finicalness of the private gentleman, who does not care 
 whether he completes his work or not ; and in whatever he 
 does, is evidently more solicitous to please himself than 
 the public. There is an effeminacy about him, which 20 
 shrinks from and repels common and hearty sympathy. 
 With all his boasted simplicity and love of the country, 
 he seldom launches out into general descriptions of nature ; 
 he looks at her over his clipped hedges, and from his well- 
 swept garden-walks ; or if he makes a bolder experiment 
 now and then, it is with an air of precaution, as if he were 
 afraid of being caught in a shower of rain, or of not being 
 able, in case of any untoward accident, to make good his 
 retreat home. He shakes hands with nature with a pair 
 of fashionable gloves on, and leads ' his Vashti ' forth to 30 
 public view with a look of consciousness and attention to
 
 12 HAZLITT ON COWPER 
 
 etiquette, as a fine gentleman hands a lady out to dance 
 a minuet. He is delicate to fastidiousness, and glad to 
 get back, after a romantic adventure with crazy Kate, 
 rty of gypsies or a little child on a common, to the 
 drawing-room and the ladies again, to the sofa and the 
 L-kettle — No, I beg his pardon, not to the singing, well- 
 scoured tea-kettle, but to the polished and loud-hissing 
 urn. His walks and arbours are kept clear of worms and 
 snails with as much an appearance of fietit-maitre-ship as of 
 
 10 humanity. He has some of the sickly sensibility and 
 pampered refinements of Pope ; but then Pope prided 
 himself in them : whereas, Cowper affects to be all sim- 
 plicity and plainness. He had neither Thomson's love of 
 the unadorned beauties of nature, nor Pope's exquisite 
 sense of the elegances of art. He was, in fact, a nervous 
 man, afraid of trusting himself to the seductions of the 
 one, and ashamed of putting forward his pretensions to an 
 intimacy with the other : but to be a coward, is not the 
 way to succeed either in poetry, in war, or in love ! Still 
 
 20 he is a genuine poet, and deserves all his reputation. 
 His worst vices are amiable weaknesses, elegant trifling. 
 Though there is a frequent dryness, timidity, and jejune- 
 ncss in his manner, he has left a number of pictures of 
 domestic comfort and social refinement, as well as of 
 natural imagery and feeling, which can hardly be forgotten 
 but with the language itself. Such, among others, are his 
 memorable description of the post coming in, that of the 
 preparations for tea in a winter's evening in the country, 
 of the unexpected fall of snow, of the frosty morning 
 
 30 (with the fine satirical transition to the Empress of Russia's 
 palace of ice), and, most of all, the winter's walk at noon. 
 Every one of these may be considered as distinct studies, 
 or highly-finished cabinet-pieces, arranged without order or 
 coherence. I shall be excused for giving the last of them, 
 as what has always appeared to me one of the most 

 
 HAZLITT ON COWPER 13 
 
 feeling, elegant, and perfect specimens of this writer's 
 manner : 
 
 The night was winter in his roughest mood ; 
 
 The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon 
 
 Upon the southern side of the slant hills, 
 
 And where the woods fence off the northern blast, 
 
 The season smiles, resigning all its rage, 
 
 And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue, 
 
 Without a cloud, and white without a speck 
 
 The dazzling splendour of the scene below. JO 
 
 Again the harmony comes o'er the vale ; 
 
 And through the trees I view th'embattled tow'r, 
 
 Whence all the music. I again perceive 
 
 The soothing influence of the wafted strains, 
 
 And settle in soft musings as I tread 
 
 The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, 
 
 Whose outspread branches over-arch the glade. 
 
 The roof, though movable through all its length, 
 
 As the wind sways it, has yet well sufnc'd, 
 
 And, intercepting in their silent fall 20 
 
 The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. 
 
 No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
 
 The redbreast warbles still, but is content 
 
 With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd. 
 
 Pleas'd with his solitude, and flitting light 
 
 From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 
 
 From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, 
 
 That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. 
 
 Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, 
 
 Charms more than silence. Meditation here 30 
 
 May think down hours to moments. Here the heart 
 
 May give a useful lesson to the head, 
 
 And Learning wiser grow without his books. 
 
 Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, 
 
 Have oft-times no connexion. Knowledge dwells 
 
 In heads replete with thoughts of other men : 
 
 Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
 
 Books are not seldom talismans and spells, 
 
 By which the magic art of shrewder wits 
 
 Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. 40 
 
 Some to the fascination of a name
 
 14 HAZLITT ON COWPER 
 
 Surrender judgment hood-wink'd. Some the style 
 Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds 
 Of error loads them, by a tune entrane'd. 
 While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear 
 The insupportable fatigue of thought, 
 And swallowing therefore without pause or choice 
 The total grist unsifted, husks and all. 
 But trees and rivulets, whose rapid course 
 Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer 
 10 And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, 
 And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time 
 Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, 
 i l oeive no student. Wisdom there, and truth 
 Not shy as in the world, and to be won 
 By slow solicitation, seize at once 
 The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. 
 
 His satire is also excellent. It is pointed and forcible, 
 with the polished manners of the gentleman and the 
 honest indignation of the virtuous man. His religious 
 
 20 poetry, except where it takes a tincture of controversial 
 heat, wants elevation and fire. His Muse had not a 
 seraph's wing. I might refer, in illustration of this opinion, 
 to the laboured anticipation of the Millennium at the end 
 of the sixth book. He could describe a piece of shell-work 
 as well as any modern poet : but he could not describe the 
 New Jerusalem so well as John Bunyan ; — nor are his 
 verses on Alexander Selkirk so good as Robinson Crusoe. 
 The one is not so much like a vision, nor is the other so 
 much like the reality. 
 
 30 The first volume of Cowper's poems has, however, been 
 less read than it deserved. The comparison in these poems 
 of the proud and humble believer to the peacock and the 
 pheasant, and the parallel between Voltaire and the poor 
 cottager, are exquisite pieces of eloquence and poetry, 
 particularly the last : 
 
 Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, 
 Pillow and bobbins all her little store ;
 
 HAZLITT ON COWPER 15 
 
 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. 
 
 She, for her humble sphere by nature fit, 
 
 Has little understanding, and no wit, 
 
 Receives no praise ; but, though her lot be such, 
 
 (Toilsome and indigent), she renders much ; 
 
 Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true — 
 
 A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ; 10 
 
 And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes 
 
 Her title to a treasure in the skies. 
 
 O happy peasant ! unhappy bard ! 
 His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward ; 
 He prais'd, 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. 
 
 His character of Whitefield, in the poem on Hope, is 
 one of his most spirited and striking things. It is written 20 
 con amove : 
 
 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, 
 
 To storm the citadels they build in air, 
 
 To smite the untemper'd wall ('tis death to spare), 
 
 To sweep away all refuges of lies, 
 
 And place, instead of quirks, themselves devise, 
 
 Lama Sabachthani before their eyes ; , 
 
 To show that without Christ all gain is loss, 
 
 All hope despair that stands not on His cross ; 
 
 Except a few his God may have impressed, 
 
 A tenfold phrensy seizes all the rest. 
 
 These lines were quoted, soon after their appearance, by 
 the Monthly Reviewers, to show that Cowper was no poet, 
 though they afterwards took credit to themselves for 
 having been the first to introduce his verses to the notice
 
 16 HAZLITT ON COWPER 
 
 of the public. It is not a little remarkable that these 
 
 critics regularly damned, at its first coming out, 
 
 i v. rv work which has since acquired a standard reputation 
 
 with the public. — Cowper's verses on his mother's picture, 
 
 and his lines to Mary, are some of the most pathetic that 
 
 ever were written. His stanzas on the loss of the Royal 
 
 George have a masculine strength and feeling beyond what 
 
 was usual with him. The story of John Gilpin has perhaps 
 
 yen as much pleasure to as many people as anything of 
 
 10 the same length that ever was written. 
 
 His life was an unhappy one. It was embittered by 
 a morbid affection, and by his religious sentiments. Nor 
 are we to wonder at this, or bring it as a charge against 
 religion ; for it is the nature of the poetical temperament 
 to carry everything to excess, whether it be love, religion, 
 pleasure, or pain, as we may see in the case of Cowper 
 and of Burns, and to find torment or rapture in that in 
 which others merely find a resource from ennui, or a 
 relaxation from common occupation.
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 It would be only a very pedantic critic who would 
 attempt to separate the criticism on Cowper's wo ry 
 
 widely from a narrative or outline of his life. Indeed, sip 
 an attempt would be scarcely intelligible. Cowper's poems 
 are almost as much connected with his personal circum- 
 stances as his letters, and his letters are as purely auto- 
 biographical as those of any man well can be. If all oth< c 
 information as to Cowper had perished save what his poems 
 contain, the attention of the critics would be diverted from 
 the special examination of their interior characteristics to 10 
 a conjectural dissertation on the personal fortunes of tin- 
 author. . . . 
 
 William Cowper, the poet, was born on the 26th Novem- 
 ber, 1731, at his father's parsonage, at Bcrkhampstead. Of 
 his father, who was chaplain to the king, we know nothing 
 of importance. Of his mother, who had been named 
 Donne, and was a Norfolk lady, he has often made 
 mention, and it appears that he regarded the faint recollec- 
 tion which he retained of her — for she died early — with 
 peculiar tenderness. In later life, and when his sun was 20 
 going down in gloom and sorrow, he recurred eagerly to 
 opportunities of intimacy with her most distant relatives, 
 and clearly wished to keep alive the idea of her in his mind. 
 That idea was not of course very definite ; indeed, as des- 
 cribed in his poems, it is rather the abstract idea of what 
 a mother should be than anything else ; but he was able to 
 recognise her picture, and there is a suggestion of cakes 
 and sugar-plums, which gives a life and vividness to the 
 rest. Soon after her death he was sent to a school, kept 
 by a man named Pitman, at which he always described 30 
 himself as having suffered exceedingly from the cruelty of 
 one of the boys. He could never see him, or think of him, 
 
 2179.8 b
 
 IS B AGE HOT OX COWPER 
 
 he has told us, without trembling. And there must have 
 been some solid reason for this terror, since — even in those 
 days, when rwrnu meant I strike, and boy denoted a thing 
 to be beaten — this juvenile inflicter of secret stripes was 
 actually exj Next, Cowper, having shown symptoms 
 
 of a weakness in the eyes, which remained with him through 
 life, was consigned to the care of an oculist — a dreadful fate 
 for i ven the most cheerful boy, and certainly not likely 
 to cure one with any disposition to melancholy. Hardly, 
 
 IO indeed, could the boldest mind, in its toughest hour of 
 manly fortitude, endure to be domesticated with an 
 operation chair. Thence he was transferred to Westminster, 
 of which he has left us somewhat contradictory notices, 
 according to the feeling for the time being uppermost in his 
 mind. From several parts of the ' Tirocinium ', or ' Review 
 of Schools ', it would certainly seem that he regarded the 
 whole system of public school teaching, not only with 
 speculative disapproval, but with the painful hatred of 
 a painful experience. A thousand genial passages in his 
 
 20 private letters, however, really prove the contrary ; and in a 
 changing mood of mind, the very poem which was avowedly 
 written to ' recommend private tuition at home ' gives some 
 idea of school happiness. 
 
 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, 
 30 The bench on which we sat while deep employed, 
 
 Though mangled, harked, and hewed, not yet destroyed ; 
 
 The little ones unbuttoned, glowing hot, 
 
 Playing our games, and on the very spot, 
 
 As happy 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 dextrous pat ;
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 19 
 
 The pleasing spectacle at once excites 
 Such recollections 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 pli 
 Whence first we started into life's long rat e, 
 Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, 
 We feel it even in age, and at our latest da . 
 
 It is probably an insoluble problem to seek a suitable 
 education for a morbidly melancholy mind. At first it 10 
 seems a dreadful thing to place a gentle and sensitive natui 
 in contact, in familiarity, and even under the rule of coai 
 and strong buoyant natures. Nor, in truth, should it : 
 in general attempted. The certain result is present suffer- 
 ing, and the expected good is remote and disputabl 
 Nevertheless, it is no artificial difficulty which we here 
 encounter — none which we can hope by edu 1 
 
 contrivances to meet or vanquish. The difficulty is in 
 truth the existence of the world. It is the fact, that 
 according to the constitution of the external world, the 20 
 strong, the bold, the vigorous, and the buoyant, rise and 
 rule ; and that the weak, the shrinking, and the timid, fall 
 and serve. In after-life, in the actual commerce of men, 
 even too in those pursuits in which from their quiet and 
 tranquil nature, a still and gentle mind should seem to be 
 under the least disadvantage, in philosophy and speculation, 
 the strong and active, who have confidence in themselves 
 and in their resolutions and their ideas, attain and retain 
 dominion. It is idle to expect that this will not give great 
 pain — that the shrinking and timid, who are often just 30 
 as ambitious as others, will not repine — that the rough 
 and strong will not often consciously inflict grievous 
 oppression — will not still more often, without knowing it, 
 cause to more tremulous minds a refined suffering which 
 their coarser texture could never experience, which it doc 
 not sympathise with, or comprehend. Some time in life 
 
 b 2
 
 20 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 it is but a question of a very few years at most — this trial 
 must be undergone. There may be a short time, more or 
 less, of gentle protection and affectionate care, but the 
 leveret grows old — the world waits at the gate — the hounds 
 are ready, and the huntsman too, and there is need of 
 strength, and pluck, and speed. Cowper, indeed, himself, 
 as we have remarked, on a more attentive examination, 
 does not seem to have really suffered particularly. In after 
 years, as has also been said, when a dark cloud had passed 
 
 10 over him, he certainly did seem at times to exaggerate 
 isolated days of melancholy and suffering, and fancy that 
 the dislike which he entertained for the system of schools, 
 by way of speculative principle, was in fact the result of 
 a personal and painful experience. But, as we shall have 
 (though we shall not, in fact, perhaps use them ah) a 
 thousand occasions to observe, he had, side by side with 
 a morbid and melancholy humour, an easy nature, which 
 was easily satisfied with the world as he found it, had 
 a pleasure in the gaiety of others, and liked the sight of, and 
 
 20 sympathy with, the more active enjoyments which he did 
 not care to engage in or to share. Besides, there is every 
 evidence that cricket and marbles (though he sometimes 
 in his narratives suppresses the fact in condescension to his 
 Evangelical associates who believe them to be the idols of 
 wood and stone which are spoken of in the prophets) really 
 exercised a laudable and healthy supremacy over his mind. 
 The animation of the scene — the gay alertness which Gray 
 looked back on so fondly in long years of soothing and 
 delicate musing, exerted, as the passage which we cited 
 
 30 shows, a great influence over a mind superior to Gray's in 
 facility and freedom, though inferior in the ' little foot- 
 steps ' of the finest fancy — in the rare and carefully-hoarded 
 felicities, which are only equalled in the immeasurable 
 abundance of the greatest of all writers. Of course Cowper 
 was unhappy at school as he was unhappy always ; and of
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 21 
 
 course too, we are speaking of Westminster only. For 
 Dr. Pitman and the oculist there is nothing to s 
 
 In scholarship Cowper seems to have succeeded. I [e was 
 not, indeed, at all the sort of man to attain to that bold, 
 strong-brained, confident scholarship which Bentlcy cam. 1 
 to such an extreme, and which, in almost every g< on 
 
 since, some Englishman has been found of hard head and 
 stiff-clayed memory to keep up and perpetuate. I! 
 friend Thurlow was the man for this pursuit, and the man 
 to prolong the just notion that those who attain early 10 
 proficiency in it are likely men to become Lord Chancellors. 
 Cowper's scholarship was simply the general and delicate 
 impression which the early study of the classics insensibly 
 leaves on a nice and susceptible mind. In point of informa- 
 tion it was strictly of a common nature. It is clear that his 
 real knowledge was mostly confined to the poets, especially 
 the ordinary Latin poets and Homer, and that he never 
 bestowed any regular attention on the historians, or orators, 
 or philosophers of antiquity, either at school or in after 
 years. Nor indeed would such a course of study have in 20 
 reality been very beneficial to him. The strong analytic, 
 comprehensive, reason-giving powers which are required 
 in these dry and rational pursuits were utterly foreign to his 
 mind. All that was congenial to him, he acquired in the 
 easy intervals of apparent idleness. The friends whom he 
 made at Westminster, and who continued for many years 
 to be attached to him, preserved the probable tradition 
 that he was a gentle and gradual, rather than a forcible or 
 rigorous learner. 
 
 The last hundred years have doubtless seen a vast change 3° 
 in the common education of the common boy. The small 
 and pomivorous animal which we so call is now subjected 
 to a treatment very elaborate and careful, that contrasts 
 much with the simple alternation of classics and cuffs which 
 was formerly so fashionable. But it may be doubt 1
 
 22 BAGEHOT OX COWPER 
 
 whether for a peculiar mind such as Cowper's, on the intel- 
 lectual side at least, the tolerant and corporeal theory of the 
 last century was not preferable to the intolerant and 
 unresting moral influence that has succeeded to it. Some 
 minds learn most when they seem to learn least. A certain, 
 placid, unconscious, equable in-taking of knowledge suits 
 them, and alone suits them. To attempt to force such men 
 to attain great learning is simply impossible. . . . The only 
 resource is to allow them to acquire gently and casually 
 
 10 in their own way ; and in that way they will often imbibe, 
 as if by the mere force of existence, much pleasant and 
 well-fancied knowledge. 
 
 From Westminster Cowper went at once into a solicitor's 
 office. Of the next few years (he was then about eighteen) 
 we do not know much. His attention to legal pursuits w r as, 
 according to his own account, not very profound ; yet it 
 could not have been wholly contemptible, for his evangelical 
 friend, Mr. Newton, who, whatever may be the worth of his 
 religious theories, had certainly a sound, rough judgment 
 
 20 on topics terrestrial, used in after years to have no mean 
 opinion of the value of his legal counsel. In truth, though 
 nothing could be more out of Cowper's way than abstract 
 and recondite jurisprudence, an easy and sensible mind like 
 his would find a great deal which was very congenial to it in 
 the well-known and perfectly settled maxims which regulate 
 and rule the daily life of common men. No strain of 
 capacity or stress of speculative intellect is necessary for 
 the apprehension of these. A fair and easy mind, which is 
 placed within their reach, will find it knows them, without 
 
 3° knowing when or how. 
 
 After some years of legal instruction, Cowper chose to be 
 called to the bar, and took chambers in the Temple accord- 
 ingly. He never, however, even pretended to practise. He 
 passed his time in literary society, in light study, in tranquil 
 negligence. He was intimate with Colman, Lloyd, and other
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 23 
 
 wits of those times. He wrote an essay in the Connoisseur, 
 the kind of composition then mosl fashionabli . daily 
 
 with these literary gentlemen who wi d mosl 1 ir< Eul not I 
 be confounded with the professed authors. In a word, he 
 did 'nothing', as that word is understood among the 
 vigorous, aspiring, and trenchant part of mankind. Nob >dy 
 could seem less likely to attain eminence. Every one must 
 have agreed, that there was no harm in him, and few could 
 have named any particular good which it was likely that lie 
 would achieve. In after days he drew up a memoir of his 10 
 life, in which he speaks of those years with deep self- 
 reproach. It was not indeed the secular indolence of the 
 time which excited his disapproval. The course of life had 
 not made him more desirous of worldly honours, but less ; 
 and nothing could be further from his tone of feeling than 
 regret for not having strenuously striven to attain them. 
 He spoke of those years in a Puritan manner, using words 
 which literally express the grossest kind of active Atheism 
 in a vague and vacant way ; leaving us to gather from 
 external sources whether they are meant to be understood 20 
 in their common, plain, and human signification, or in that 
 non-natural and technical sense in which they can scarcely 
 have a meaning. It is evident that the regrets of Cowp< r 
 had reference to offences which the healthy and sob- r 
 consciences of mankind will not consider to deserve thi m. 
 A vague, literary, omnitolerant idleness was perhaps their 
 worst feature. He was himself obliged to own that he had 
 always been considered ' as one religiously inclined, it" n 
 actually religious ', and the applicable testimony, as well 
 as the whole form and nature of his character, forbid us to 30 
 ascribe to him the slightest act of licence or grossness. A 
 reverend biographer has called his life at this time, ' an 
 unhappy compound of guilt and wretchedness.' But unli 
 the estimable gentleman thinks it sinfui to be a barrister 
 and wretched to live in the Temple, it is not easy to make
 
 24 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 out what he would mean. In point of intellectual cultiva- 
 tion, and with a view to preparing himself for writing his 
 subsequent works, it is not possible he should have spent 
 his time better. He then acquired that easy, familiar 
 knowledge of terrestrial things — the vague and general 
 information of the superficies of all existence — the acquaint- 
 ance with life, business, hubbub and rustling matter of fact, 
 which seem odd in the recluse of Olney — and enliven so 
 effectually the cucumbers of the ' Task '. It has been said 
 
 10 that at times every man wishes to be a man of the world, 
 and even the most rigid critic must concede it to be nearly 
 essential to a writer on real life and actual manners. If 
 a man has not seen his brother, how can he describe him ? 
 As this world calls happiness and blamelessness — it is not 
 easy to fancy a life more happy — at least with more of the 
 common elements of happiness — or more blameless than 
 those years of Cowper. An easy temper, light fancies, 
 hardly as yet broken by shades of melancholy brooding ; 
 an enjoying habit, rich humour, literary, but not pedantic 
 
 20 companions ; a large scene of life and observation, polished 
 acquaintance and attached friends, are pleasing and elegant 
 pictures. A rough hero Cowper was not and never became, 
 but he was then, as ever, a quiet and tranquil gentleman. . . . 
 One not unnatural result or accompaniment of such a life 
 was that Cowper fell in love. There were in those days, two 
 young ladies, cousins of Cowper, residents in London, to one 
 of whom, the Lady Hesketh of after years, he once wrote : — 
 ' My dear Cousin — I wonder how it happened, that much as 
 I love you, I was never in love with you.' No similar kind 
 
 30 providence protected his intimacy with her sister, Theodora 
 Cowper. ' One of the cousins with whom Thurlow used to 
 giggle and make giggle in Southampton-row,' was a hand- 
 some and vigorous damsel. ' What ! ' said her father, 
 ' What will you do if you marry William Cowper ? ' mean- 
 ing, in the true parental spirit, to intrude mere arithmetical
 
 BAGEHOT OX COWPER 
 
 and financial ideas. ' Do, sir I ' she replied, ' Wash all 
 
 and ride out on the great dog. ill night I ' -whii h i 
 combination of domestic industry and exteri 
 It is doubtful, however, whether either of these S] 
 pastime and occupation would have been exactly 
 
 to Cowper At any rate it certainly does seem th.a I. 
 
 not a very vigorous lover. The young lady . . he 
 
 himself oddly said : 
 
 Through tedious years of doubt and pain, 
 Fixed in her choice and faithful . . . but in vain. jo 
 
 ... The nature of Cowper was not, indeed, pas Lonate. He 
 
 required beyond almost any man the daily society 
 amiable and cultivated women. It is clear that he preferri d 
 such gentle excitement to the rough and argumental 
 pleasures of more masculine companionship. His easy and 
 humorous nature loved and learned from fern tail. 
 
 But he had no overwhelming partiality for a particular 
 individual. One refined lady, the first moments of shyrj 
 over, was nearly as pleasing as another refined lady. 1 
 appointment sits easy on such a mind. No doubt, too, thou- ! . 
 half-unconsciously, he feared the anxious duties, perh 
 even the rather contentious tenderness of matrimonial 
 existence. At any rate, he acquiesced. Theodora never 
 married. Love did not, however, kill her — at least, if so, it 
 was a long time in so doing, since she survived ti: nts 
 
 more than sixty years. She never seemingly forgot 1 1 . 
 
 But a dark cloud was at hand. ... 'By this time,' 
 says Cowper, 'my patrimony being nearly all spent, 
 there being no appearance that I should ever repair the 
 damage by a fortune of my own getting, I began to l><- a 30 
 little apprehensive of approaching want.' However little 
 one is fit for it, it is necessary to attack some dru 
 The vigorous and sturdy rouse thems< Ives to the \\ 
 They find in its regular occupation, clear decisions, and 
 stern perplexities, a bold and rude compensati.
 
 26 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 necessary loss or diminution of light fancies and delicate 
 musings — 
 
 The sights which youthful poets dream, 
 On summer eve by haunted stream. 
 
 But it was not so with Cowper. A peculiar and slight nature 
 unfitted him for so rough and harsh a resolution. . . . 
 
 The outward position of Cowper was, indeed, singularly 
 fortunate. Instead of having to meet the long labours of 
 an open profession, or the anxious decisions of a personal 
 10 business, he had the choice among several lucrative and 
 quiet public offices, in which very ordinary abilities would 
 suffice, and scarcely any degree of incapacity would entail 
 dismissal, or reprimand, or degradation. It seemed at first 
 scarcely possible that even the least strenuous of men 
 should be found unequal to duties so little arduous or 
 exciting. He has himself said — 
 
 Lucrative offices are seldom lost 
 For want of powers proportioned to the post ; 
 Give e'en a dunce the employment he desires. 
 20 And he soon finds the talents it requires ; 
 
 A business with an income at its heels, 
 Furnishes always oil for its own wheels. 
 
 The place was called the Clerkship of the Journals of the 
 House of Lords, one of the many quiet haunts which then 
 slumbered under the imposing shade of parliamentary and 
 aristocratic privilege. Yet it was more than he could bear. 
 
 ' In the beginning,' he writes, ' a strong opposition to 
 my friend's right of nomination began to show itself. 
 A powerful party was formed among the Lords to thwart 
 30 it, in favour 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, would 
 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
 
 BAGEHOT OX COWP] 
 
 necessarily ignorant of the nature of th 
 became expedient that I should visit th 
 
 order to qualify myself for the strict. 
 horror of my fears and perplexities hom 
 thunderbolt would have been as welcome to i 
 intelligence. I knew, to demonstration, thai i 
 terms the clerkship of the journals was no 
 To require my attendance at the bai ol the H 
 I might there publicly entitle myself to the i I 
 effect, to exclude me from it. In the meantin 
 of my friend, the honour of his choice, my own i 
 and circumstances, all urged me forw; 
 to undertake that which I saw to be impra< 
 whose spirits are formed like mine, to whom a 
 exhibition of themselves, on any occasion, is mortal 
 may have some idea of the horrors of my situation ; i 
 can have none. 
 
 ' My continual misery at length brought on a nei 
 fever: quiet forsook me by day, and peace by night ; 
 a finger raised against me was more than I could Si 
 against. In this posture of mind, I attended 
 at the office ; where, instead of a soul upon the r;i> 
 most active spirits were essentially m 
 purpose. I expected no assistance from anybody th 
 all the inferior clerks being under the infhn i 
 opponent ; and accordingly I received none. II j ui 
 books were indeed thrown open to me — a thing wl 
 could not be refused ; and from which, perhaps, a man in 
 health, and with a head turned to business, mighl h 
 gained all the information he wanted ; but it \ 
 with me. I read without perception, and was so disl I 
 that, had every clerk in the office been my fri« nd, il 
 have availed me little; for I was not in a cond 
 receive instruction, much less to elicit it out of mam. 
 without direction. Many months went over n 
 employed ; constant in the use of means, d< spairn 
 the issue.' 
 
 As the time of trial drew near his excitement I | 
 increased. A short excursion into the country wi 
 with momentary benefit ; but as soon as I. 
 town he became immediately unfit for occupati
 
 23 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 unsettled as ever. He grew first to wish to become mad, 
 next to believe that he should become so, and only to be 
 afraid that the expected delirium might not come on soon 
 enough to prevent his appearance for examination before 
 the lords — a fear the bare existence of which shows how 
 slight a barrier remained between him and the insanity 
 which he fancied that he longed for. He then began to 
 contemplate suicide, and not unnaturally called to mind 
 a curious circumstance : 
 
 10 ' I well recollect, too,' he writes, ' that when I was about 
 eleven years of age, my father desired me to read a vindica- 
 tion of self-murder, and give him my sentiments upon the 
 question : I did so, and argued against it. My father 
 heard my reasons, and was silent, neither approving nor 
 disapproving ; from whence I inferred that he sided with 
 the author against me ; though all the time, I believe, the 
 true motive for his conduct was, that he wanted, if he could, 
 to think favourably of the state of a departed friend, who 
 had some years before destroyed himself, and whose death 
 
 20 had struck him with the deepest affliction. But this solu- 
 tion of the matter never once occurred to me, and the 
 circumstance now weighed mightily with me.' 
 
 And he made several attempts to execute his purpose, all 
 which are related with curious minuteness in a ' Narrative ' 
 which he drew up after his recovery ; and of which the 
 elaborate detail shows a strange and most painful tendency 
 to revive the slightest circumstances of delusions which it 
 would have been most safe and most wholesome never to 
 recall. The curiously careful style of the narrative, as 
 30 elegant as that of the most flowing and felicitous letter, 
 reminds one of nothing so much as the studiously beautiful, 
 and compact handwriting in which Rousseau used to narrate 
 and describe the most incoherent and indefinite of his 
 personal delusions. On the whole, however — for a long time 
 at least — it does not seem that the life of Cowper was in real 
 danger. The hesitation and indeterminateness of nerve
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 which rendered him liable to these fai 
 ordinary action, also hindered him from can 
 terrible visitations to their rigorous and fearful 
 At last, however, there seems to have b( en po 
 actual danger. . . . [Cowper attempted to conn: • 
 
 He was placed in a lunatic asylum, where he 
 many months, and which he left apparently cun ■!. A 
 some changes of no moment, but which by hi 
 evinced many traces of dangerous ex< itement, h 
 his abode at Huntingdon, with the family of Unwin ; and 10 
 it is remarkable how soon the taste for easy and sine 
 not wholly unintellectual society, which i 
 characterised him, revived again. The delineation 
 be given in any terms but his own : 
 
 ' We bieakfast commonly between eight and nil ; till 
 eleven, we read either the Scripture, or tl 
 some faithful preacher of those holy my-' 
 we attend divine service, which is performed I 
 every day ; and from twelve to three we 
 amuse ourselves as we please. During that interval, 1 i 
 read, in my own apartment, or walk, or ride, i . in 
 
 the garden. We seldom sit an hour aft 
 the weather permits, adjourn to the garden, wher 
 Mrs. Unwin and her son, I have generally the | 
 religious conversation till tea-time. If it rains, 
 windy for walking, we either converse within 
 some hymns of Martin's collection, and by tl 
 Mrs. Unwin's harpsichord, make up a tolerable • 
 in which our hearts, I hope, are the best and m 
 performers. After tea we sally forth to walk in | 
 earnest. Mrs. Unwin is a good walker, and w< 
 generally travelled about four miles be. 
 again. When the days are short, we make this 
 in the former part of the day, between church I 
 dinner. At night we read, and converse, as I 
 supper, and commonly finish the evenin 
 hymns, or a sermon, and last of all the famil; 
 pravers. I need not tell you, that such a 
 consistent with the utmost cheerfulness; accordingly we
 
 3 o BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 arc all happy, and dwell together in unity as brethren. 
 Mrs. Unwin has almost a maternal affection for me, and 
 I have something very like a filial one for her, and her son 
 e brothers. "Blessed be the God of our salvation 
 ich companions, and for such a life, above all, for 
 Lit to like it.' 
 Mr. Unwin, the husband of Mrs. Unwin, was suddenly 
 killed soon after, and Cowper removed with Mrs. Unwin to 
 Olney where a new epoch of his life begins, 
 i , The curate of Olney at this time was John Newton, a man 
 I energy of mind, and well known in his generation 
 t only for several vigorous works, but still more for a very 
 markable life. He had been captain of a Liverpool slave 
 ship— an occupation in which he had quite energy enough 
 • have succeeded, but had left it from serious motives, and 
 come one of the strongest and most active of the Low 
 Church clergymen of that day. He was in truth one of those 
 men who seem intended to make excellence disagreeable. 
 1 Ee was a converting engine. The whole of his own enormous 
 or of body — the whole steady intensity of a pushing, 
 impelling, compelling, unoriginal mind — all the mental or 
 corporeal exertion he could exact from the weak or elicit 
 from the strong, were devoted to one sole purpose — the 
 • ual impact of the Calvinistic tenets on the parishioners 
 of Olney. Nor do we wish to hint or suggest that his exer- 
 tions were futile or useless. There is no denying that there 
 is a certain stiff, tough, agricultural, clayish English nature 
 on which the aggressive divine produces a visible and good 
 . The hardest and heaviest hammering seems required 
 30 to stir and warm that close and coarse matter. To impress 
 any sense of the supernatural on so secular a substance is 
 a great good, though that sense be expressed in false or 
 rpl< xing or irritating theories. It is unpleasant, no doubt, 
 to hear the hammering ; the bystanders are in an evil case ; 
 1 might as well live near an iron-ship yard. Still the 
 blows do not hurt the iron. Something of the sort is
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 31 
 
 necessary to beat the coarse ore into a shining and useful 
 shape. But the case is different when the hundred-handed 
 divine desires to hit others. The very system which, on 
 account of its hard blows, is adapted to the tough and 
 ungentle, is by that very reason unfit for the tremulous and 
 tender. The nature of many men and many women is such 
 that it will not bear the daily and incessant repetition of 
 some certain and indisputable truths. The universe has of 
 course its dark aspect. Many tremendous facts and 
 difficulties can be found which often haunt the timid and 10 
 sometimes incapacitate the feeble. To be continually 
 insisting on these, and these only, will simply render both 
 more and more unfit for the duties to which they were born. 
 And if this is the case with certain fact, and clear truth, how 
 much more with uncertain error and mystic exaggeration ! 
 Mr. Newton was alive to this consequence of his system : 
 1 I believe my name is up about the country for preaching 
 people mad ; for whether it is owing to the sedentary life 
 women lead here, &c. &c, I suppose we have near a dozen in 
 different degrees disordered in their heads, and most of 20 
 them, I believe, truly gracious people.' He perhaps found his 
 peculiar views more generally appreciated among this class 
 of young ladies than among more healthy and rational 
 people, and clearly did not wholly condemn the delivering 
 them even at this cost from the tyranny of the ' carnal 
 reason '. 
 
 No more dangerous adviser, if this world had been 
 searched over, could have been found for Cowper. What 
 the latter required was prompt encouragement to cheerful 
 occupation, quiet amusement, gentle and unexhausting 30 
 society. Mr. Newton thought otherwise. His favourite 
 motto was Perimus in Ileitis. All that easy and simple 
 round of daily pleasures and genial employments which are 
 the sources of instinctive happiness to the happiest natures, 
 and most effectually cheer and vary the common life of
 
 32 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 common men, were studiously watched and scrutinized 
 with the energy of a Puritan and the watchfulness of an 
 inquisitor. Mr. Newton had all the tastes and habits which 
 go to form what in the Catholic system is called a spiritual 
 director. ... A natural aptitude for dictation — a steady, 
 strong, compelling decision — great self-command, and 
 a sharp perception of all impressible points in the characters 
 of others — make the task of guiding ' weaker brethren' 
 a natural and pleasant pursuit. To suppose a shrinking, 
 
 10 a wounded, and tremulous mind like that of Cowper's would 
 rise against such bold dogmatism, such hard volition, such 
 animal nerve, is to fancy that the beaten slave will dare the 
 lash which his very eyes instinctively fear and shun. 
 Mr. Newton's great idea was that Cowper ought to be of 
 some use. There was a great deal of excellent hammering 
 hammered in the parish, and it was sinful that a man with 
 nothing to do should sit tranquil. Several persons in the 
 street had done what they ought not ; football was not 
 unknown ; cards were played ; flirtation was not conducted 
 
 2 o ' improvingly '. It was clearly Cowper's duty to put a stop 
 to such things. Accordingly he made him a parochial 
 implement ; he set him to visit painful cases, to attend at 
 prayer-meetings, to compose melancholy hymns, even to 
 conduct or share in conducting public services himself. It 
 never seems to have occurred to him that so fragile a mind 
 would be unequal to the burden — that a bruised reed does 
 often break ; or rather if it did occur to him, he regarded it 
 as a subterranean suggestion, and expected a supernatural 
 interference to counteract the events at which it hinted. 
 
 30 Yet there are certain rules and principles in this world which 
 seem earthly, but which the most excellent may not on that 
 account venture to disregard. The consequence of placing 
 Cowper in exciting situations was a return of his excitement. 
 It is painful to observe, that though the attack resembled 
 in all its main features his former one, it was several months
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 33 
 
 before Mr. Newton could be brought to allow any propi 1 
 physical remedies to be applied, and then it was too late. . . . 
 Many months of dark despondency were to be passe >d bi fore 
 he returned to a simple and rational mind. . . . 
 
 The mind of Cowper was, so to speak, naturally terrestrial. U 
 If a man wishes for a nice appreciation of the details of time 
 and sense, let him consult Cowper's miscellaneous letters. 
 Each simple event of every day — each petty object of 
 external observation or inward suggestion, is there chroni- 
 cled with a fine and female fondness, a wise and happy IO 
 faculty, let us sa}', of deriving a gentle happiness from the 
 tranquil and passing hour. The fortunes of the hares — Bess 
 who died young, and Tiney who lived to be nine years old — 
 the miller who engaged their affections at once, his powdered 
 coat having charms that were irresistible — the knitting- 
 needles of Mrs. Unwin — the qualities of his friend Hill who 
 managed his money transactions — 
 
 An honest man, close buttoned to the chin, 
 Broadcloth without, and a warm heart within — 
 
 live in his pages, and were the natural, insensible, unbiassed 20 
 occupants of his fancy. It is easy for a firm and hard mind 
 to despise the minutise of life, and to pore and brood over 
 an abstract proposition. It may be possible for the highest, 
 the strongest, the most arduous imagination to live aloof 
 from common things — alone with the unseen world, as some 
 lived their whole lives in memory with a world which has 
 passed away. But it seems hardly possible that an imagina- 
 tion such as Cowper's, which was rather a detective fancy, 
 perceiving the charm and essence of things which are seen, 
 than an eager, actuating, conceptive power embodying, 30 
 enlivening, empowering those which are not seen, should 
 leave its own home — the domus et tellus — the sweet fields 
 and rare orchards which it loved — and go out alone apart 
 from all flesh into the trackless and fearful and unknown 
 
 2179.8 c
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 . his timid mind shrank from it at once, 
 
 Iretun its own fireside. After a little, the idea that 
 
 true faith faded away. Mr. Newton, with mis- 
 
 raght to revive it by inciting him to devo- 
 
 i ; but the only result was the volume of 
 
 Hymns'— a very painful record, of which the 
 
 : is 
 
 My former hopes are fled, 
 My terror now begins ; 
 10 I feel, alas ! that I am dead 
 
 In trespasses and sins. 
 
 Ah, whither shall I fly ? 
 
 1 hear the thunder roar ; 
 The law proclaims destruction nigh, 
 
 And vengeance at the door. 
 
 ' The Preacher ' himself did not conceive such a store of 
 melancholy forebodings. . . . 
 
 The peculiarity of Cowper's life is its division into marked 
 From his birth to his first illness he may be said to 
 20 have lived in one world, and for some twenty years after- 
 w nds, from his thirty-second to about his fiftieth year, in a 
 wni >lly distinct one, and much of that time was spent in hope- 
 less despondency. His principal companions during that 
 time wen- Mr. Newton, . . . and Mrs. Unwin, who may be 
 I to have broken the charmed circle of seclusion in which 
 they lived by inciting Cowper to continuous literary com- 
 position. Of Mrs. Unwin herself ample memorials remain, 
 was, in truth, a most excellent person — in mind and 
 rs much older than the poet — as it were by profession 
 . Iv, able in every species of preserve, profound in salts, 
 and j< Hi' s ; culinary by taste ; by tact and in- 
 stinct motherly and housewifish. She was not, however, 
 without some less larderiferous qualities. Lady Hesketh 
 . Lady Austen, neither of them very favourably-pre-
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 35 
 
 judiced critics, decided so. The former has written, ' She is 
 very far from grave ; on the contrary, she is cheerful and 
 gay, and laughs de bon exur upon the smallest provocation. 
 Amidst all the little puritanical words which fall from her 
 de terns en terns, she seems to have by nature a great fund of 
 gaiety. ... I must say, too, that she seems to be very well 
 read in the English poets, as appears by several little 
 quotations which she makes from time to time, and has 
 a true taste for what is excellent in that way.' This she 
 showed by persuading Cowper to the composition of his first 10 
 volume. 
 
 As a poet, Cowper belongs, though with some differences, 
 to the school of Pope. Great question, as is well known, has 
 been raised whether that very accomplished writer was a 
 poet at all ; and a secondary and equally debated question 
 runs side by side, whether, if a poet, he were a great one. 
 With the peculiar genius and personal rank of Pope we have 
 in this article nothing to do. But this much may be safely 
 said, that according to the definition which has been ventured 
 of the poetical art, by the greatest and most accomplished 20 
 of the other school, his works are delicately-finished speci- 
 mens of artistic excellence in one branch of it. ' Poetry ', 
 says Shelley, who was surely a good judge, ' is the expression 
 of the imagination ', by which he meant of course not only 
 the expression of the interior sensations accompanying the 
 faculty's employment, but likewise, and more emphatically, 
 the exercise of it in the delineation of objects which attract 
 it. Now society, viewed as a whole, is clearly one of those 
 objects. There is a vast assemblage of human beings, of all 
 nations, tongues, and languages, each with ideas and a 30 
 personality and a cleaving mark of its own, yet each having 
 somewhat that resembles something of all, much that 
 resembles a part of many — a motley regiment, of various 
 forms, of a million impulses, passions, thoughts, fancies, 
 motives, actions ; a ' many-headed monster thing ; ' a Bashi 
 
 c 2
 
 3 6 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 .i down to be laughed at ; a hydra to be 
 L of ; yel in fine, our all— the very people of 
 rth. There is nothing in nature more attrac- 
 ts he fancy than this great spectacle and congrega- 
 • II- rodotus went to and fro to the best of his 
 ility over all the earth, the spectacle of civilisation has 
 !f the quick eyes and quick tongues of 
 . roving men. Not only, says Goethe, is man ever 
 in- to man, but 'properly there is nothing else 
 ting*. There is a distinct subject for poetry — at least 
 ac / to Shelley's definition — in selecting and working 
 it, in idealising, in combining, in purifying, in intensifying 
 the great features and peculiarities which make society, as 
 a whole, interesting, remarkable, fancy-taking. . . . There 
 a:. in principles, causes, passions, affections, acting on 
 1 influencing communities at large, permeating their 
 life, ruling their principles, directing their history, working 
 as a subtle and wandering principle over all their existence. 
 These have a somewhat abstract character, as compared 
 soft ideals and passionate incarnations of purely 
 individual character, and seem dull beside the stirring lays 
 Mil times, in which the earlier and bolder poets 
 light. The tendency of civilisation is to pare away the 
 oddness and licence of personal character, and to leave 
 a monotonous agreeableness as the sole trait and comfort 
 tnkind. And this very effect obviously tends to in- 
 ert ase the efficacy of general principles, to bring to view the 
 icacy of constant causes, to suggest the hidden 
 •ency of subtle abstractions. Accordingly as civilisation 
 uts and philosophy grows, we commonly find a school 
 innmn-sense poets ', as they may be called, arise and 
 op, who proceed to describe what they see around them, 
 ;be its natura naturans, to delineate its natura 
 ilve its productive agencies, to pursue their 
 subtle rami! ,. Complete, as the most characteristic
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 37 
 
 specimen of this class of poets, stands Pope. He was the sort 
 of person we cannot even conceive existing in a barbarous 
 age. His subject was not life at large, but fashionable life. 
 He described the society in which he was thrown — the 
 people among whom he lived. His mind was a hoard oi 
 small maxims, a quintessence of petty observations. When 
 he described character, he described it not dramatically, nor 
 as it is in itself ; but observantly and from without, calling 
 up in the mind not so much a vivid conception of the man, 
 of the real, corporeal, outward, substantial being, as an idea 10 
 of the idea which a metaphysical bystander in an elaborate 
 moment might refine and excruciate concerning him. 
 Society in Pope is scarcely a society of people, but of pretty 
 little atoms, coloured and painted with hoops or in coats — 
 a miniature of metaphysics, a puppet-show of sylphs. Yet 
 exactly on this account it the more elucidates the doctrine, 
 that the tendency of civilised poetry is towards an analytic 
 sketch of the existing civilisation. Nor is the effect dimin- 
 ished by the pervading character of keen judgment and 
 minute intrusive sagacity ; for no great painter of English 20 
 life can be without a rough sizing of strong sense ; or he 
 would fail from want of sympathy with his subject. In 
 short, Pope does but the more represent the class and type 
 of ' common-sense ' poets who substitute an animated 
 catalogue raisonne of working thoughts and operative 
 principles — a sketch of the then present society, as a whole 
 and as an object, for the kAco. dv&pwv, the tale of which is one 
 subject of early verse, and the stage effect of living, loving, 
 passionate, impetuous men and women, which are special 
 topics of another. 3° 
 
 What Pope is to our fashionable and town life, Cowper is 
 to our domestic and rural life. This is perhaps the reason 
 why he is so national. It has been said no foreigner can live 
 in the country. We doubt whether any people, who left 
 their whole heart, and entire exclusive breath of their
 
 3 3 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 :ice to be concentrated in a great capital, could or 
 
 tuldap] oil intensely provincial pictures as are the 
 
 tire scope of < r's delineation. A good many imagi- 
 
 nativ Uy plagued with him. Everything is 
 
 rtable ; the tea-urn hisses so plainly, the toast is 
 
 so warm, the breakfast so neat, the food so edible, that one 
 
 tarns in excitable moments, a little angrily from any- 
 
 thi pii< t. tame, and sober. Have we not always hated 
 
 this life "... Aspiring and excitable youth stoutly maintains 
 
 10 it can endure anything much better than the ' gross fog 
 
 in ' — the torpid, in-door, tea-tabular felicity. Still 
 
 i tea is Rally consumed in the English nation. 
 
 A I and practical people are distinctly in favour of 
 
 n Li Nations, placid prolixities, slow comforts. A state 
 
 the mind and the body, something intermediate, 
 
 half-way from the newspaper to a nap — this is what we may 
 
 11 the middle-life theory of the influential English gentle 
 
 man — the true aspiration of the rider of the world. 
 
 then the understanding takes repose 
 2D In indolent vacuity of thought, 
 
 s and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face 
 Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask 
 Of deep deliberation. 
 
 It is these in-door scenes, this common world, this gentle 
 
 round of 'calm delights', the trivial course of slowly- 
 
 leasures, the petty detail of quiet relaxation, that 
 
 Co Is in. The post-boy, the winter's evening, the 
 
 r, the knitting needles, the stockings, the waggon 
 
 his subjects. His sure popularity arises from his 
 
 held up to the English people exact delineations of 
 
 w - illy prefer. Perhaps one person in four hundred 
 
 ,:: "• w< irth, about one in eight thousand may 
 
 appreciate Shelley, but there is no expressing the small 
 
 m who do not love dulness, who do not enter into
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 39 
 
 Homeborn happiness, 
 Fireside enjoyments, intimate delights, 
 And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
 Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
 Of long uninterrupted evening know. 
 
 His objection to the more exciting and fashionable 
 pleasures was perhaps, in an extreme analysis, that they 
 put him out. They were too great a task for his energies — 
 asked too much for his spirits. His comments on them 
 rather remind us of Mr. Rushworth — Miss Austen's heavy 10 
 hero's remark on the theatre, ' I think we went on much 
 better by ourselves before this was thought of, doing, doing, 
 doing nothing '. 
 
 The subject of these pictures, in point of interest, may be 
 what we choose to think it, but there is no denying great 
 merit to the execution. The sketches have the highest 
 merit — suitableness of style. It would be absurd to describe 
 a postboy as sonneteers their mistress — to cover his plain 
 face with fine similes — to put forward the ' brow of Egypt ' 
 — to stick metaphors upon him, as the Americans upon 20 
 General Washington. The only merit such topics have room 
 for is an easy and dextrous plainness — a sober suit of well- 
 fitting expressions — a free, working, flowing, picturesque 
 garb of words adapted to the solid conduct of a sound and 
 serious world, and this merit Cowper's style has. On the 
 other hand, it entirely wants the higher and rarer excellences 
 of poetical expression. There is none of the choice art which 
 has studiously selected the words of one class of great poets, 
 or the rare, untaught, unteachable felicity which has 
 vivified those of others. No one, in reading Cowpcr, stops 30 
 as if to draw his breath more deeply over words whi< b 
 do not so much express or clothe poetical ideas, as seem 
 to intertwine, coalesce, and be blended with the very essence 
 of poetry itself. 
 
 Of course a poet could not deal in any measure with such
 
 4 o BAGEHOT OX COWPER 
 
 subjects as Cowper dealt with, and not become inevitably, to 
 a certain . satirical. The ludicrous is in some sort the 
 
 imagination of common life. The ' dreary intercourse ' of 
 whii ii Wordsworth makes mention, would be dreary, unless 
 some people possessed more than he did the faculty of 
 making fun. A universe in which Dignity No. I. conversed 
 ously with Dignity No. II. on topics befitting their 
 would be perhaps a levee of great intellects and a tea- 
 • ble of enormous thoughts ; but it would want the best 
 
 10 charm of this earth— the medley of great things and little, 
 of things mundane and things celestial, things lowand things 
 ■■ ful, of things eternal and things of half a minute. It is in 
 this contrast that humour and satire have their place — 
 pointing out the intense unspeakable incongruity of the 
 groups and juxtapositions of our world. To all of these 
 which fell under his own eye, Cowper was alive. A gentle 
 sense of propriety and consistency in daily things was 
 evidently characteristic of him ; and if he fail of the highest 
 success in this species of art, it is not from an imperfect 
 •ment of the scenes and conceptions which he touched, 
 but from the fact that the follies with which he deals are 
 not the greatest follies — that there are deeper absurdities 
 in human life than John Gilpin touches upon — that the 
 superficial occurrences of ludicrous life do not exhaust or 
 ply test the mirthful resources of our minds and 
 fortuni 
 
 a scold, we think Cowper failed. He had a great idea 
 of the use of railing, and there are many pages of laudable 
 invective against various vices which we feel no call what- 
 
 30 ever to defend. But a great vituperator had need to be 
 a great Inter; and of any real rage, any such gall and 
 b: -, as great and irritable satirists have in other ages 
 
 1' t loose upon men, of any thorough, brooding, burning, 
 abiding detestation, he was as incapable as a tame hare. . . . 
 NY>r has his language any of the sharp intrusive acumen
 
 BAGKHOT ON COWPER 41 
 
 which divides in sunder both soul and spirit, that is necessary 
 for fierce and unforgettable reviling. 
 
 Some people may be surprised, notwithstanding our 
 lengthy explanation, at hearing Cowper treated as of the 
 school of Pope. It has been customary, at least with some 
 critics, to speak of him as one of those who recoiled from the 
 artificiality of that great writer, and at least commenced 
 a return to a simple delineation of outward nature. And of 
 course there is considerable truth in this idea. The poetry 
 (if such it is) of Pope would be just as true if all the trees 10 
 were yellow and all the grass fish-colour. He did not care 
 for ' snowy scalps ', or ' rolling streams,' or ' icy halls,' or 
 ' precipice's gloom.' Nor for that matter did Cowper either. 
 He, as Hazlitt most justly said, was as much afraid of 
 a shower of rain as any man that ever lived. At the same 
 time, the fashionable life described by Pope has no reference 
 whatever to the beauties of the material universe. . . . But 
 the rural life of Cowper 's poetry has a constant and necessary 
 reference to the country, is identified with its features, 
 cannot be separated from it even in fancy. Green fields and 20 
 a slow river seem all the material of beauty Cowper had given 
 him. But what is more to the purpose, his attention was 
 well concentrated upon them. As he himself said, he did 
 not go more than thirteen miles from home for twenty years, 
 and very seldom as far. He was, therefore, well able to find 
 out all that was charming in Olncy and its neighbourhood, 
 and as it presented nothing which is not to be found in any 
 of the fresh country parts of England, what he has left us 
 is really a delicate description and appreciative delineation 
 of the simple essential English country. 50 
 
 However, it is to be remarked that the description of 
 nature in Cowper differs altogether from the peculiar 
 delineation of the same subject, which has been so in- 
 fluential in more recent times, and which bears, after its 
 greatest master, the name Wordsworthian. To Cowper
 
 ^ BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 tare is simply a background, a beautiful background no 
 ubt, but still essentially a locus in quo— a. space in which 
 irk and mirth of life pass and are performed. A more 
 . delineation does not occur than the following : 
 
 Oh Winter ! ruler of the inverted year, 
 Tl. 1 hair with sleet-like ashes filled, 
 
 Thy breath congeal* d upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
 
 (1 with a beard made white with other snows 
 Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, 
 10 A : afli ss branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 
 . indebted to no wheels, 
 But ui ed by storms along its slippery way ; 
 
 . all unlovely as thou seemest, 
 A- 1 as thou art. Thou hold'st the sun 
 
 A prisoner in the yet undawning east, 
 
 lortening his journey between morn and noon, 
 And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, 
 Down to the rosy west ; but kindly still 
 Compensating his loss with added hours 
 20 Of social converse and instructive ease, 
 
 ad gathering, at short notice, in one group 
 The family dispersed, and fixing thought, 
 
 rsed by daylight and its cares. 
 I crown thee King of intimate delights. 
 Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, 
 
 1 all the comforts that the lowly roof 
 Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours 
 
 long uninterrupted evening know. 
 No rattling wheels stop short before these gates. 
 
 30 After a very few lines he returns within doors to the occu- 
 
 i man and woman — to human tasks and human 
 
 To Word -worth, on the contrary, nature is a 
 
 So far from being unwilling to treat her as a special 
 
 I of study, he hardly thought any other equal or com- 
 
 rable. He was so far from holding the doctrine that the 
 
 rth was mad'' for nun to live in, that it would rather seem 
 
 it he thought men were created to see the earth. The 
 
 whole aspect of nature was to him a special revelation of an 
 
 immanent and abiding power — a breath of the pervading
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 43 
 
 art — a smile of the Eternal Mind — according to the lines 
 which every one knows — 
 
 A sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeply interfused ; 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 And the round ocean, and the living air, 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
 And rolls through all things. 10 
 
 Of this haunting, supernatural, mystical view of nature 
 Cowper never heard. Like the strong old lady who said, 
 ' She was born before nerves were invented,' he may be 
 said to have lived before the awakening of the detective 
 sensibility which reveals this deep and obscure doctrine. 
 
 In another point of view, also, Cowper is curiously con- 
 trasted with Wordsworth, as a delineator of nature. The 
 delineation of Cowper is a simple delineation. He makes a 
 sketch of the object before him, and there he leaves it. 
 Wordsworth, on the contrary, is not satisfied unless he 20 
 describe not only the bare inanimate outward object which 
 others see, but likewise the reflected high-wrought feelings 
 which that object excites in a brooding self-conscious mind. 
 His subject was not so much nature, as nature reflected by 
 Wordsworth. Years of deep musing and long introspection 
 had made him familiar with every shade and shadow in the 
 many-coloured impression which the universe makes on 
 meditative genius and observant sensibility. Now these 
 feelings Cowper did not describe, because, to all appearance, 
 he did not perceive them. He had a great pleasure in 30 
 watching the common changes and common aspects of 
 outward things, but he was not invincibly prone to brood 
 and pore over their reflex effects upon his own mind. 
 
 A primrose by the river's brim, 
 A yellow primrose was to him, 
 And it was nothing more.
 
 44 B AGE HOT ON COWPER 
 
 cording to the account which Cowper at first gave of his 
 i, his entire design was to communicate 
 the views to which he was then a convert. He 
 
 • hat the vehicle 01 might bring many to listen 
 
 whirh they would be disinclined to have stated to 
 m in simple prose. And however tedious the recurrence 
 theolog • icts may be to the common reader, it 
 l- i rtain that a considerable portion of Cowper's peculiar 
 >pularity may be traced to their expression. He is the 
 ioo: I of a class which have no poets. In that once large 
 
 till considerable portion of the English world, which 
 rcise of the fancy and the imagination as 
 :s — snares, as they speak — distracting the soul 
 from an intense consideration of abstract doctrine, Cowper's 
 renuous inculcation of those doctrines has obtained for 
 him a certain toleration. Of course all verse is perilous. The 
 ngle words is harmless, but the employment of two, 
 in such a manner as to form a rhyme — the regularities of 
 . al and studied recurrence of the same sound, evince 
 20 an attention to time, and a partiality to things of sense. 
 Most poets must be prohibited ; the exercise of the fancy 
 n quires watching. But Cowper is a ticket-of-leave man. 
 He has the chaplain's certificate. He has expressed himself 
 'with the utmost propriety'. The other imaginative 
 criminals must be left to the fates, but he may be admitted 
 to the -acred drawing-room, though with constant care and 
 scrupulous surveillance. Perhaps, however, taken in con- 
 nection with his diseased and peculiar melancholy, these 
 t( Id to thi artistic effect of Cowper's writings. 
 
 cussion of daily matters, the delicate delineation 
 tic detail, the passing narrative of fugitive occur- 
 m light and transitory, if it were not 
 ;i by the interruption of a terrible earnestness, and 
 the dark background of deep and foreboding 
 . J i is scarcely artistic to describe ' the painted veil
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 45 
 
 wliich those who live call life ', and leave wholly out of view 
 and undescribed ' the chasm sightless and drear ', whi< b 
 lies always beneath and around it. 
 
 It is of the ' Task ' more than of Cowpcr's earlier volume 
 of poems that a critic of his poetry must more peculiarly 1 ■ 
 understood to speak. All the best qualities of his genius are 
 there concentrated, and the alloy is less than elsewhere. He 
 was fond of citing the saying of Dryden, that the rhyme had 
 often helped him to a thought — a great but very perilous 
 truth. The difficulty is, that the rhyme so frequently helps 10 
 to the wrong thought — that the stress of the mind is recalled 
 from the main thread of the poem, from the narrative, or 
 sentiment, or delineation, to some wayside remark or fancy, 
 which the casual resemblances of final sound suggest. This 
 is fatal, unless either a poet's imagination be so hot and 
 determined as to bear down upon its objects, and to be 
 unwilling to hear the voice of any charmer who might dis- 
 tract it, or else the nature of the poem itself should be of 
 so desultory a character that it does not much matter about 
 the sequence of the thought — at least within great and 20 
 ample limits, as in some of Swift's casual rhymes, where the 
 sound itself does seem really and truly the connecting link 
 of unity. Now Cowper is not often in either of these posi- 
 tions ; he always has a thread of argument on which he is 
 hanging his illustrations, and yet he has not the exclusive 
 interest or the undeviating energetic downrightness of mind 
 which would ensure his going through it without idling or 
 turning aside ; consequently the thoughts which the 
 rhyme suggests are constantly breaking in upon the main 
 matter, destroying the emphatic unity which is essential 30 
 to rhythmical delineation. His blank verse of course is 
 exempt from this defect, and there is moreover something 
 in the nature of the metre which fits it for the expression 
 of studious and quiet reflection. The ' Task ' was, in fact, 
 composed at the healthiest period of Cowper's later life, in
 
 46 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 the full vigour of his faculties, and the additional spur that 
 
 .■11 aware the semi-recognition of his first volume 
 
 had made Li a common subject of literary discussion, 
 
 whether he was a poet or oot. Many men could endure — as 
 
 indeed all but about ten do actually in every generation 
 
 lure — to be without this distinction, but few could have 
 
 that it was a frequent point of argument whether 
 
 they were duly entitled or not, without at least a strong 
 
 desire to settle the question by some work of decisive 
 
 10 excellence. This the ' Task ' achieved for Cowper. Since 
 
 its publication his name has been a household word — a 
 
 particularly household word in English literature. The 
 
 its composition is connected with one of the most 
 
 curiuus incidents in Cowper's later life, and has given 
 
 occasion to a good deal of writing. 
 
 In the summer of 1781, it happened that two ladies called 
 
 at a shop exactly opposite the house at Olney where Cowper 
 
 and Mrs. Unwin resided. One of these was a familiar and 
 
 perhaps tame object — a Mrs. Jones — the wife of a neigh- 
 
 20 bouring parson ; the other, however, was so striking, that 
 
 Cowper, one of the shyest and least demonstrative of men, 
 
 immediately asked Mrs. Unwin to invite her to tea. This 
 
 is a great event, as it would appear that few or no social 
 
 interruptions, casual or contemplated, then varied what 
 
 I ■ .. 1 1 died the ' duality of his existence.' This favoured 
 
 individual was Lady Austen, a person of what Mr. Hayley 
 
 : ins ' colloquial talents ' ; in truth an energetic, vivacious, 
 
 amusing, and rather handsome lady of the world. She had 
 
 much in France, and is said to have caught the facility 
 
 30 of manner and love of easy society, which is the unchanging 
 
 c! Lc of that land of change. She was a fascinating 
 
 person in tin world, and it is not difficult to imagine 
 
 she mu t have been an excitement indeed at Olney. She 
 
 t gracious ; fell in love, as Cowper says, 
 
 ;ly with him but with Mrs. Unwin ; was called ' Sister
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 47 
 
 Ann ', laughed and made laugh, was altogether so great an 
 acquisition that his seeing her seemed in his view to show 
 ' strong marks of providential interposition '. He thought 
 her superior to the curate's wife, who was a ' valuable 
 person ', but had a family, &c. &c. The new acquaintance 
 had much to contribute to the Olney conversation. She 
 had seen much of the world, and probably seen it well, and 
 had at least a good deal to narrate concerning it. Amoi 
 other interesting matters she one day recounted to Cowpi r 
 the story of John Gilpin, as one which she had heard in 10 
 childhood, and in a short time the poet sent her the ballad, 
 which every one has liked ever since. It was written, he 
 says, no doubt truly, in order to relieve a fit of terrible and 
 uncommon despondency ; but altogether, for a few months 
 after the introduction of this new companion, he was more 
 happy and animated than at any other time after his first 
 illness. Clouds, however, began to show themselves soon. 
 The circumstances are of the minute and female kind, which 
 it would require a good deal of writing to describe, even if 
 we knew them perfectly. The original cause of misconstrue- 20 
 tion was a rather romantic letter of Lady Austen, drawing 
 a sublime picture of what she expected from Cowper's 
 friendship. Mr. Scott, the clergyman at Olney, who had 
 taken the place of Mr. Newton, .and who is described as 
 a dry and sensible man, gave a short account of what he 
 thought was the real embroilment. ' Who,' said he, ' can 
 be surprised that two women should be daily in the society 
 of one man and then quarrel with one another ? ' 
 
 ' From a scene of the most uninterrupted retirement,' he 
 says to Mr. Unwin, ' we have passed at once into a state 3° 
 of constant engagement. Not that our society is much 
 multiplied ; the addition of an individual 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 thus probably did Samson, and
 
 4S BAGEHOT OX COWPER 
 
 thus do I ; and were both those heroes living, I should not 
 : them to a trial of skill in that business, or 
 
 them both. As to killing lions and other 
 amusements of that kind, with which they were so delighted, 
 1 should be their humble servant and beg to be excused.' 
 
 Things were in this state when she suggested to him the 
 
 ion of a new poem of some length in blank verse, 
 
 and on being asked to suggest a subject, said, Well, write 
 
 upon that ' sofa ', whence is the title of the first book of the 
 
 i° ' Task '. According to Cowper's own account, it was this 
 
 poem which was the cause of the ensuing dissension. 
 
 ' On her first settlement in our neighbourhood, I made it 
 my own particular business (for at that time I was not 
 employed in writing, having published my first volume, 
 and not begun my second) to pay my devoirs to her lady- 
 ship every morning at eleven. Customs very soon become 
 laws. I began the ' Task ' ; for she was the lady who gave 
 me the Sofa for a subject. Being once engaged in the work, 
 I began to feel the inconvenience of my morning atten- 
 
 20 dance. We had seldom breakfasted ourselves till ten ; 
 and the intervening hour was all the time that I could 
 find in the whole day for writing ; and occasionally it 
 would happen that the half of that hour was all that 
 I could secure for the purpose. But there was no remedy. 
 Long usage had made that which at first was optional, 
 a point of good manners, and consequently of necessity, 
 and I was forced to neglect the ' Task ', to attend upon the 
 Muse who had inspired the subject. But she had ill 
 health, and before I had quite finished the work was 
 
 30 obliged to repair to Bristol.' 
 
 And it is possible that this is the true account of the 
 matter. Yet we fancy there is a kind of awkwardness and 
 constraint in the manner in which it is spoken of. Of course, 
 the plain and literal portion of mankind have set it down at 
 once that Cowper was in love with Lady Austen, just as they 
 married him over and over again to Mrs. Unwin. But of a 
 issionate love, as we have before explained, we do 
 not think Cowper capable, and there are certainly no signs
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 49 
 
 of it in this case. There is, however, one odd circumstance. 
 Years after, when no longer capable of original composition, 
 he was fond of hearing all his poems read to him except 
 ' John Gilpin '. There were recollections, he said, com* cted 
 with those verses which were too painful. Did he mean, 
 the worm that dieth not — the reminiscence of the animatf d 
 narratress of that not intrinsically melancholy legend ? 
 
 The literary success of Cowper opened to him a far larger 
 circle of acquaintance, and connected him in close bonds 
 with many of his relations, who had looked with an unfavour- 10 
 able eye at the peculiar tenets which he had adopted, and 
 the peculiar and recluse life which he had been advised to 
 lead. It is to these friends and acquaintance that we owe 
 that copious correspondence on which so much of Cowper's 
 fame at present rests. The complete letter-writer is now 
 an unknown animal. In the last century, when communica- 
 tions were difficult and epistles rare, there were a great many 
 valuable people who devoted a good deal of time to writing 
 elaborate letters. You wrote letters to a man whom you 
 knew nineteen years and a half ago, and told him what you 20 
 had for dinner, and what your second cousin said, and how 
 the crops got on. Every detail of life was described, and 
 dwelt on, and improved. The art of writing, at least of 
 writing easily, was comparatively rare, which kept the 
 number of such compositions within narrow limits. Sir 
 Walter Scott says he knew a man who remembered that the 
 London post-bag once came to Edinburgh with only one 
 letter in it. One can fancy the solemn conscientious ela- 
 borateness with which a person would write, with the notion 
 that his letter would have a whole coach and a whole bag 30 
 to itself, and travel two hundred miles alone, the exclusive 
 object of a red guard's care. The only thing like it now — the 
 deferential minuteness with which one public office writes to 
 another, conscious that the letter will travel on her Majesty "s 
 service three doors down the passage — sinks by comparison 
 
 2179.8 d
 
 5 o BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 into cursory brevity. N< i administrative reform will be able 
 to bn :i the official mind of these days into the grave 
 
 inch-an-hour conscientiousness with which a confidential 
 co ndentoi a century ago related the growth of apples, 
 
 the manufacture of jams, the appearance of flirtations, and 
 such like things. All the ordinary incidents of an easy 
 life were made the most of ; a party was epistolary capital, 
 a race a mine of wealth. So deeply sentimental was this 
 intercourse, that it was much argued whether the affections 
 
 10 were created for the sake of ink, or ink for the sake of the 
 al: >. Thus it continued for many years, and the fruits 
 
 thereof are written in the volumes of family papers which 
 daily appear, are praised as materials for an historian at 
 present in a crib, and consigned, as the case may be, to 
 posterity or oblivion. All this has now passed away. Sir 
 Rowland Hill is entitled to the credit, not only of introduc- 
 ing stamps, but also of destroying letters. The amount of 
 annotations which will be required to make the notes of this 
 day intelligible to posterity is a wonderful idea, and no 
 
 20 quantity of comment will make them readable. You might 
 as well publish a collection of telegraphs. The careful 
 detail, the studious minuteness, the circumstantial state- 
 ment of a former time, is exchanged for a curt brevity or 
 only half-intelligible narration. In old times, letters were 
 written for people who knew nothing and required to be 
 told everything. Now they are written for people who 
 know everything except the one thing which the letter is 
 designed to explain to them. It is impossible in some 
 pects not to regret the old practice. It is well that each 
 
 30 age should write for itself a faithful account of its habitual 
 nee. We do this to a certain extent in novels, but 
 novels are difficult materials for an historian. They raise 
 a cause and a controversy as to how far they are really 
 faithful delineations. . . . Letters are generally true on these 
 points. The least veracious man will tell truly the colour
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 5 i 
 
 of his coat, the hour of his dinner, the materials of his sho< 
 The unconscious delineation of a recurring and familiar life 
 is beyond the reach of a fraudulent fancy. Horace Walpole 
 was not a very scrupulous narrator ; yet it was too mu< h 
 trouble even for him to tell lies on many points. 1 1 
 set stories and conspicuous scandals are no doubt often 
 unfounded, but there is a gentle undercurrent of daily un- 
 remarkable life and manners which he evidently assumed as 
 a datum for his historical imagination. Whence posterity 
 will derive this for the times of Queen Victoria it is difficult 10 
 to fancy. Even memoirs are no resource ; they generally 
 leave out the common life, and try at least to bring out the 
 uncommon events. 
 
 It is evident that this species of composition exactly 
 harmonized with the temperament and genius of Cowper. 
 Detail was his forte and quietness his element. Accordingly, 
 his delicate humour plays over perhaps a million letters, 
 mostly descriptive of events which no one else would have 
 thought worth narrating, and yet which, when narrated, 
 show to us, and will show to persons to whom it will be yet 20 
 more strange, the familiar, placid, easy, ruminating, pro- 
 vincial existence of our great-grandfathers. Slow, Olney 
 might be, — indescribable, it certainly was not. We seem 
 to have lived there ourselves. 
 
 The most copious subject of Cowper's correspondence is 
 his translation of Homer. This was published by sub- 
 scription, and it is pleasant to observe the healthy facility 
 with which one of the shyest men in the world set himself 
 to extract guineas from every one he had ever heard of. 
 In several cases he was very successful. The University of 30 
 Oxford, he tells us, declined, as of course it would, to recog- 
 nise the principle of subscribing towards literary publica- 
 tions ; but other public bodies and many private persons 
 were more generous. It is to be wished that their aid bad 
 contributed to the production of a more pleasing work. 
 
 D 2
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 The fact is, Cowper was not like Agamemnon. The most 
 conspicuous feature in the Greek heroes is a certain brisk, 
 decish tivity, which always strikes and always likes to 
 strike. This quality is faithfully represented in the poet 
 himself. Homer is the briskest of men. The Germans have 
 denied that there was any such person ; but they have 
 ver questioned his extreme activity. ' From what you 
 t< 11 me, sir/ said an American, ' I should hke to have read 
 I [( imer. 1 should say he was a go-ahead party.' Now this 
 10 is exactly what Cowper was not. His genius was domestic, 
 and tranquil, and calm. He had no sympathy, or little 
 sympathy, even with the common, half-asleep activities of 
 a refined society ; an evening party was too much for 
 him ; a day's hunt a preposterous excitement. It is absurd 
 to expect a man like this to sympathise with the stern 
 stimulants of a barbaric age, with a race who fought 
 because they liked it, and a poet who sang of fighting 
 because he thought their taste judicious. As if to make 
 matters worse, Cowper selected a metre in which it would 
 20 be scarcely possible for any one, however gifted, to translate 
 Homer. The two kinds of metrical composition most 
 essentially opposed to one another are ballad poetry and 
 blank verse. The very nature of the former requires 
 a marked pause and striking rhythm. Every line should 
 have a distinct end and a clear beginning. It is like martial 
 music, there should be a tramp in the very versification 
 of it : 
 
 Armour rusting in his halls 
 
 On the blood of Clifford calls ; 
 3° ' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance, 
 
 B ii me to the heart of France, 
 
 Is the longing of the shield : 
 
 T. 11 thy name, thou trembling field, 
 
 1 Id of death, whire'er thou be, 
 
 Groan thou with our victory. 
 
 And this is the tone of Homer. The grandest of human
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 53 
 
 tongues marches forward with its proudest stops: tin- 
 clearest tones call forward — the most marked of metres 
 carries him on : 
 
 Like a reappearing star, 
 Like a glory from afar — 
 
 he ever heads, and will head, ' the flock of war '. Now 
 blank verse is the exact opposite of all this. Dr. Johnson 
 laid down that it was verse only to the eye, which was 
 a bold dictum. But without going this length it will be 
 safe to say, that of all considerable metres in our language 10 
 it has the least distinct conclusion, least decisive repetition, 
 the least trumpet-like rhythm ; and it is this of which 
 Cowper made choice. He had an idea that extreme literal- 
 ness was an unequalled advantage, and logically reasoned 
 that it was easier to do this in that metre than in any other. 
 He did not quite hold with Mr. Cobbett that the ' gewgaw 
 fetters of rhyme were invented by the monks to enslave 
 the people ' ; but as a man who had due experience of 
 both, he was aware that it is easier to write two lines of 
 different endings than two lines of the same ending, and 20 
 supposed that by taking advantage of this to preserve the 
 exact grammatical meaning of his author, he was indis- 
 putably approximating to a good translation. ' Whethi 1 ,' 
 he writes, ' a translation of Homer may be best executed in 
 blank verse or in rhyme is a question in the decision of 
 which no man finds difficulty who has ever duly considered 
 what translation ought to be, or who is in an)' degree 
 practically acquainted with those kinds of versification. 
 . . . No human ingenuity can be equal to the task of closing 
 every couplet with sounds homotonous, expressing at the 30 
 same time the full sense, and only the full sense, of the 
 original.' And if the true object of translation were to 
 save the labour and dictionaries of construing schoolboy 
 there is no question but this slavish adherence to the original
 
 54 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 
 
 would be the most likely to gain the approbation of those 
 diminutive but sure judges. But if the object is to convey 
 an idea of the general tone, scope, and artistic effect of 
 the original, the mechanical copying of the details is as 
 likely to end in a good result as a careful cast from a dead 
 man's features to produce a living and speaking being. On 
 the whole, therefore, the condemnation remains, that 
 m< r is not dull, and Cowper is. 
 
 With the translation of Homer terminated all the 
 
 10 brightest period of Cowper's life. There is little else to 
 
 .. He undertook an edition of Milton — a most difficult 
 
 • -k, involving the greatest and most accurate learning, 
 
 in theology, in classics, in Italian — in a word, in all ante- 
 
 Miltonic literature. By far the greater portion of this lay 
 
 quite out of Cowper's path. He had never been a hard 
 
 Student, and his evident incapacity for the task troubled 
 
 and vexed him. A man who had never been able to take 
 
 any real responsibility was not likely to feel comfortable 
 
 under the weight of a task which very few men indeed 
 
 20 would be able to accomplish. Mrs. Unwin too fell into 
 
 a state of helplessness and despondency ; and instead of 
 
 A'ing on h( r for cheerfulness and management, he was 
 
 obliged to manage for her, and cheer her. His mind was 
 
 unequal to the task. Gradually the dark cloud of melan- 
 
 hich had hung about him so long, grew and grew, 
 
 ai nded itself day by day. In vain Lord Thurlow, 
 
 - a likely man to know, assured him that his 
 
 spiritual despondency was without ground ; he smiled 
 
 sadly, b icd to think that at any rate he was not 
 
 30 going into Chancery. In vain Hayley, a rival poet, but 
 
 a good-natured, blundering, well-intentioned, incoherent 
 
 man, went to and fro, getting the Lord Chief Justice and 
 
 ther dignitaries to attest, under their hands, that they 
 
 concurred in Thurlow's opinion. In vain, with far wiser 
 
 kindness, his relatives, especially many of his mother's
 
 BAGEHOT ON COWPER 55 
 
 family, from whom he had been long divided, but \\i 
 gradually drew nearer to him as they were wanted, 
 endeavoured to divert his mind to healthful labour and 
 tranquil society. The day of those things had passed away 
 — the summer was ended. He became quite unequal to 
 original composition, and his greatest pleasure was hearing 
 his own writings read to him. After a long period of hopi 
 less despondency he died on the 25th of April, in the first 
 year of this century ; and if he needs an epitaph, let us 
 say, that not in vain was he Nature's favourite. As 10 
 a higher poet sings : 
 
 And all day long I number yet, 
 All seasons through, another debt, 
 Which I, wherever thou art met, 
 
 To thee am owing ; 
 An instinct call it, a blind sense, 
 A happy, genial influence, 
 Coming one knows not how nor whence, 
 
 Nor whither going. 
 
 ■ ■•■•• • 
 
 If stately passions in me burn, 20 
 
 And one chance look to thee should turn, 
 I drink out of an humbler urn, 
 
 A lowlier pleasure ; 
 The homely sympathy that heeds 
 The common life our nature breeds; 
 A wisdom fitted to the needs 
 
 Of hearts at leisure.
 
 56 
 
 H Y M N 
 
 LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS 
 Written in 1 773.— Published 1779 
 God mows in a mysterious way, 
 
 His wonders to perform; 
 lie plants his footsteps in the sea, 
 And rides upon the storm. 
 
 Deep in unfathomable mines 
 
 Of never failing skill ; 
 He treasures up his bright designs, 
 
 And works his sovereign will. 8 
 
 Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, 
 
 The clouds ye so much dread 
 Are big with mercy, and shall break 
 
 In blessings on your head. 
 
 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 
 
 But trust him for his grace ; 
 Behind a frowning providence, 
 
 He hides a smiling face. 16 
 
 His purposes will ripen fast, 
 
 Unfolding ev'ry hour ; 
 The bud may have a bitter taste, 
 
 But sweet will be the flow'r. 
 
 Blind unbelief is sure to err, 
 
 And scan his work in vain ; 
 God is his own interpreter, 
 
 And he will make it plain. *4
 
 Selections from 
 C O W P E R'S 
 
 Poetry and Prose
 
 5S 
 
 From RETIREMENT 
 
 Written Aug. to Oct. 1781. — Published 1782 
 
 (the statesman at his disk exclaims, 
 Sick of a thousand disappointed aims,) 
 My patrimonial treasure and my pride, 
 Ben< ]\i your shades your grey possessor hide, 
 K< i 1 Lve me languishing for that repose 
 The servant of the public never knows. 370 
 
 Ye saw me once (ah, those regretted days 
 When boyish innocence was all my praise !) 
 
 :r after hour delightfully allot 
 To studies then familiar, since forgot, 
 And cultivate a taste for ancient song, 
 1 lung its ardour as I mus'd along ; 
 Nor seldom, as propitious heav'n might send, 
 What once I valued and could boast, a friend, 
 Were witnesses how cordially I press'd 
 His undissembling virtue to my breast ; 3S0 
 
 R< ceive me now, not uncorrupt as then, 
 Nor guiltless of corrupting other men, 
 
 vers'd in arts that, while they seem to stay 
 A falling empire, hasten its decay. 
 'J" the fair haven of my native home, 
 'J he wri ck of what I was, fatigu'd, I come ; 
 1 r once I can approve the patriot's voice, 
 
 1 make the course he recommends my choice ; 
 We m< et at last in one sincere desire, 
 Hi wish and mine both prompt me to retire. 390 
 
 done- ] >s into the welcome chaise, 
 
 T.olls at his ease behind four handsome bays, 
 
 t whirl away from business and debate 
 
 disincuml \tlas of the state. 
 
 oy, who when the breeze of morn 
 First shah, s th( glitt'ring drops from every thorn
 
 59 
 
 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, 400 
 
 To snare the mole, or with ill-fashion'd hook, 
 
 To draw th' 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, 
 
 Escap'd from office and its constant cares, 
 
 What charms he sees in freedom's smile cxpress'd, 
 
 In freedom lost so long, now repossess'd ; 410 
 
 The tongue whose strains were cogent as commands, 
 
 Rever'd at home, and felt in foreign lands, 
 
 Shall own itself a stamm'rer 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 subdu'd, 
 
 Nature in ev'ry 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, 4~° 
 
 Green balks and furrow'd lands, the stream that spreads 
 
 Its cooling vapour o'er the dewy meads, 
 
 Downs that almost escape th' 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 th' 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 ! 43° 
 
 Not sounder he that on the mainmast head, 
 
 While morning kindles with a windy red,
 
 6o 
 
 Begins a long look-out for distant land, 
 
 Nor quits, till ev'ning watch, his giddy stand, 
 
 Then swift descending with a seaman's haste, 
 
 Slips to his hammock, and forgets the blast. 
 
 He chooses company, but not the squire's, 
 
 Whose wit is rudeness, whose good breeding tires ; 
 
 Nor yet the parson's, who would gladly come, 
 
 Obsequious when abroad, though proud at home ; 440 
 
 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 man whom marks of condescending grace 
 
 Teach, while they flatter him, his proper place : 
 
 Who comes when call'd, and at a word withdraws, 
 
 Speaks with reserve, and listens with applause ; 
 
 te plain mechanic, who, without pretence 
 To birth or wit, nor gives nor takes offence ; 450 
 
 On whom he rests well-pleas'd his weary pow'rs, 
 And talks and laughs away his vacant hours. 
 The tide of life, swift always in its course, 
 May run in cities with a brisker force, 
 
 t no where with a current so serene, 
 Or half so clear, as in the rural scene. 
 how fallacious is all earthly bliss, 
 What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss ; 
 sures live a month, and some a year, 
 short the date of all we gather here ; 460 
 
 No happiness is felt, except the true, 
 Thai does not charm the more for being new. 
 This observation, as it chane'd, not made, 
 < >r if the thought occurr'd, not duly weigh'd. 
 He sighs — for, after all, by slow degrees, 
 The spot lie lov'd has lost the pow'r to please ; 
 
 cross his ambling pony day by day, 
 
 ms at the best but dreaming life away ;
 
 6i 
 
 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 renoune'd employs. 
 
 He chides the tardiness of ev'ry 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, receiv'd with grace, 
 
 Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place. 4S0 
 
 From THE SOFA 
 
 The Task (written July 1783 to September 1784 ; published 1785 , 
 
 Book i 
 
 For I have lov'd the rural walk through lanes 
 
 Of grassy swarth, close cropt by nibbling sheep, no 
 
 And skirted thick with intertexture firm 
 
 Of thorny boughs ; have lov'd the rural walk 
 
 O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink, 
 
 E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my bounds 
 
 T' enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames ; 
 
 And still remember, nor without regret 
 
 Of hours that sorrow since has much endear'd, 
 
 How oft, my slice of pocket store consum'd, 
 
 Still hung'ring, pennyless and far from home, 
 
 I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws, 120 
 
 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, undeprav'd 
 
 By culinary arts, unsav'ry deems. 
 
 No Sofa then awaited my return ; 
 
 Nor Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs 
 
 His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil
 
 62 
 
 Incurring short fatigue ; and, though our years 
 As life <!■ dines speed rapidly away, 130 
 
 . not a year but pilfers as he goes 
 
 ithful grace that age would gladly keep ; 
 A t( ith or auburn lock, and by degrees 
 
 h and colour from the locks they spare ; 
 Th' clastic spring of an unwearied foot 
 That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, 
 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 140 
 
 My relish of fair prospect ; scenes that sooth'd 
 Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find 
 
 :11 soothing and of pow'r to charm me still. 
 And witness, dear companion of my walks, 
 Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive 
 
 t 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, 150 
 
 And that my raptures are not conjur'd up 
 To serve occasions of poetic pomp, 
 But genuine, and art partner of them all. 
 How oft upon yon eminence our pace 
 Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne 
 
 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 discern'd 
 The distant plough slow moving, and beside 160 
 
 III- lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track, 
 The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy ! 
 I [ere Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
 
 63 
 
 Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, 
 
 Conducts the eye along its sinuous course 
 
 Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, 
 
 Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms, 
 
 That screen the herdsman's solitary hut ; 
 
 While far beyond, and overthwart the stream 
 
 That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, I7 o 
 
 The sloping land recedes into the clouds ; 
 
 Displaying on its varied side the grace 
 
 Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r, 
 
 Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells 
 
 Just undulates upon the list'ning 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. 180 
 
 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 flutt'ring, all at once. 
 Nor less composure waits upon the roar 190 
 
 Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
 Of neighD ring 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 of their silent course. 
 Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, 
 But animated nature sweeter still,
 
 64 
 
 To sooth and satisfy the human ear. 
 
 T< d thousand warbl er the day, and one 200 
 
 The live-long night : nor these 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 ev'n the boding owl 
 
 That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 
 
 nds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, 
 Y< t heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, 
 And only there, please highly for their sake. 
 
 From THE TIME-PIECE 
 
 The Task, Book ii 
 England, with all thy faults, I love thee still — 
 My country ! and, while yet a nook is left 
 Where English minds and manners may be found, 
 Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime 
 Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd 210 
 
 With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, 
 I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, 
 And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France 
 With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves 
 Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs. 
 To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime 
 ( )f patriot eloquence to flash down fire 
 I "pon thy foes, was never meant my task : 
 But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake 
 Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart 220 
 
 A - any thund'rer there. And I can feel 
 Thy follies, too ; and with a just disdain 
 1 rown at effeminates, whose very looks 
 Reflect dishonour on the land I love. 
 How, in the name of soldiership and sense,
 
 65 
 
 Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth 
 
 And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er 
 
 With odours, and as profligate as sweet ; 
 
 Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, 
 
 And love when they should fight ; when such as these 
 
 Presume to lay their hand upon the ark 231 
 
 Of her magnificent and awful cause ? 
 
 Time was when it was praise and boast enough 
 
 In ev'ry clime, and travel where we might, 
 
 That we were born her children. Praise enough 
 
 To fill th' ambition of a private man, 
 
 That Chatham's language was his mother tongu<\ 
 
 And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. 
 
 Farewell those honours, and farewell with them 
 
 The hope of such hereafter ! They have fall'n 240 
 
 Each in his field of glory ; one in arms, 
 
 And one in council — Wolfe upon the lap 
 
 Of smiling victory that moment won, 
 
 And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame 1 
 
 They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still 
 
 Consulting England's happiness at home, 
 
 Secur'd it by an unforgiving frown, 
 
 If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, 
 
 Put so much of his heart into his act, 
 
 That his example had a magnet's force, 250 
 
 And all were swift to follow whom all lov'd. 
 
 Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such 1 
 
 Or all that we have left is empty talk 
 
 Of old achievements, and despair of new. 
 
 2179.8 e
 
 66 
 
 From THE WINTER EVENING 
 The Task, Book iv 
 
 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, 
 
 With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks ; 
 
 News from all nations lumb'ring 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 destin'd inn : 10 
 
 And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on. 
 
 1I< whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, 
 
 Cold and yet cheerful : messenger of grief 
 
 Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 
 
 To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy. 
 
 Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, 
 
 Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet 
 
 With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks 
 
 1 »t as the periods from his fluent quill, 
 
 Or charg'd with am'rous sighs of absent swains, 20 
 
 Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 
 
 His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
 
 But oh th' important budget ! usher'd in 
 
 With such heart-shaking music, who can say 
 
 What are its tidings ? have our troops awak'd ? 
 
 Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd, 
 
 Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave ? 
 
 Is India free ? and does she wear her plum'd 
 
 And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, 
 
 Or do we grind her still ? The grand debate, 30 
 
 The popular harangue, the tart reply, 
 
 The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, 
 
 And the loud laugh — I long to know them all ;
 
 o 7 
 
 I burn to set th' imprison'd wranglers free, 
 And give them voice and utt'rance once again. 
 
 Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fa 
 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 ev'ning in. 
 
 Come, Ev'ning, once again, season of peace ; 
 Return, sweet Ev'ning, and continue long ! 
 Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, 
 With matron-step slow-moving, while the night 
 Treads on thy sweeping train ; one hand employ'd 
 In letting fall the curtain of repose 
 On bird and beast, the other charg'd for man 
 With sweet oblivion of the cares of day : 250 
 
 Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid, 
 Like homely featur'd night, of clust'ring gems ; 
 A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, 
 Suffices thee ; save that the moon is thine 
 No less than her's, not worn indeed on high 
 With ostentatious pageantry, but set 
 With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, 
 Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. 
 Come then, and thou shalt find thy vot'ry calm, 
 Or make me so. Composure is thy gift : 260 
 
 And, whether I devote thy gentle hours 
 To books, to music, or the poet's toil ; 
 To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit ; 
 Or twining silken threads round iv'ry reels, 
 When they command whom man was born to please 
 I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. 
 
 E 2
 
 68 
 
 I saw the woods and fields, at close of day, 
 
 A variegated show ; the meadows green, 
 
 Though faded ; and the lands, where lately wav'd 
 
 The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, 
 
 Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share. 
 
 I saw far off the weedy fallows smile 
 
 With verdure not unprofitable, graz'd 
 
 By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each 
 
 His fav'iite herb ; while all the leafless groves, 
 
 That skirt th' horizon, wore a sable hue, 320 
 
 Scarce ootie'd in the kindred dusk of eve. 
 
 To-morrow brings a change, a total change ! 
 
 Which even now, though silently perform'd, 
 
 And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face 
 
 Of universal nature undergoes. 
 
 Fast falls a fleecy show'r : the downy flakes. 
 
 Descending, and with never-ceasing lapse, 
 
 Softly alighting upon all below, 
 
 Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 
 
 Gladly the thick'ning mantle ; and the green 330 
 
 And tender blade, that fear'd the chilling blast, 
 
 Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. 
 
 In such a world ; so thorny, and where none 
 Finds happiness unblighted ; or, if found, 
 Without some thistly sorrow at its side ; 
 It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin 
 inst the law of love, to measure lots 
 With less distinguish'd than ourselves ; that thus 
 We may with patience bear our mod'rate ills, 
 And sympathise with others, suff'ring more. 340 
 
 111 fares the trav'ller now, and he that stalks 
 In pond'rous boots beside his reeking team. 
 Tin- wain goes heavily, impeded sore 
 B ■ : 1 L^atcd loads adhering close 
 Tu the clogg'd wheels ; and in its sluggish pace,
 
 09 
 
 Noiseless, appears a moving hill of snow. 
 
 The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, 
 
 While ev'ry breath, by respiration strong 
 
 Forc'd downward, is consolidated soon 
 
 Upon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bear 350 
 
 The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, 
 
 With half-shut eyes, and pucker'd cheeks, and ti eth 
 
 Presented bare against the storm, plods on. 
 
 One hand secures his hat, save when with both 
 
 He brandishes his pliant length of whip, 
 
 Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. 
 
 Oh happy ; and, in my account, denied 
 
 That sensibility of pain with which 
 
 Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou ! 
 
 Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed 36c 
 
 The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd. 
 
 The learned finger never need explore 
 
 Thy vig'rous pulse ; and the unhealthful east, 
 
 That breathes the spleen, and searches ev'ry bone 
 
 Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. 
 
 Thy days roll on, exempt from household care ; 
 
 The waggon is thy wife ; and the poor beasts, 
 
 That drag the dull companion to and fro, 
 
 Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. 
 
 Ah, treat them kindly ! rude as thou appear 'st, 370 
 
 Yet show that thou hast mercy ! which the great, 
 
 With needless hurry whirl'd from place to pi. 
 
 Humane as they would seem, not always show. 
 
 Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat ; 
 Such claim compassion in a night like this, 
 And have a friend in ev'ry feeling heart. 
 Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour, all day long 
 They brave the season, and yet find at eve, 
 111 clad and fed but sparely, time to cool. 
 The frugal housewife trembles when she lights 3S0
 
 70 
 
 Her scanty stock of brush-wood, blazing clear, 
 
 But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys. 
 
 The few small embers left she nurses well ; 
 
 And, while her infant race, with outspread hands 
 
 And crowded knees, sit cow'ring o'er the sparks, 
 
 R( tires, content to quake, so they be warm'd. 
 
 The man feels least, as more inur'd than she 
 
 To winter, and the current in his veins 
 
 More briskly mov'd by his severer toil ; 
 
 Yet he, too, finds his own distress in their's. 390 
 
 The taper soon extinguish'd, which I saw 
 
 Dangled along at the cold finger's end 
 
 Just when the day declin'd, and the brown loaf 
 
 Lodg'd on the shelf, half eaten, without sauce 
 
 Of sav'ry cheese, or butter, costlier still ; 
 
 Sleep seems their only refuge : for, alas, 
 
 Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, 
 
 And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few ! 
 
 With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care 
 
 Ingenious parsimony takes but just 400 
 
 Saves the small inventory, bed, and stool, 
 
 Skillet, and old carv'd chest, from public sale. 
 
 They live, and live without extorted alms 
 
 From grudging hands ; but other boast have none 
 
 To sooth their honest pride, that scorns to beg, 
 
 Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. 
 
 I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair. 
 
 For ye are worthy ; choosing rather far 
 
 A dry but independent crust, hard earn'd, 
 
 And eaten with a sigh, than to endure 410 
 
 The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs 
 
 Of knaves in office, partial in the work 
 
 Of distribution ; lib'ral of their aid 
 
 To clam'rous importunity in rags, 
 
 But oft-times deaf to suppliants, who would blush
 
 7i 
 
 To wear a tatter'd garb however coarse, 
 Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth : 
 These ask with painful shyness, and, refus'd 
 Because deserving, silently retire ! 
 But be ye of good courage ! Time itself 420 
 
 Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase ; 
 And all your num'rous progeny, well-train'd, 
 But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, 
 And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want 
 What, conscious of your virtues, we can span , 
 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. 
 
 THE SHRUBBERY 
 
 WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION 
 
 Written 1773. — Published 1782 
 
 On, happy shades — to me unblest ! 
 
 Friendly to peace, but not to me 1 
 How ill the scene that offers rest, 
 
 And heart that cannot rest, agree ! 
 
 This glassy stream, that spreading pine, 
 
 Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze, 
 Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine, 
 
 And please, if any thing could please. 
 
 But fix'd unalterable care 
 
 Foregoes not what she feels within, 
 Shows the same sadness ev'ry where, 
 
 And slights the season and the scene. 
 
 For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn, 
 While peace possess'd these silent bow'rs, 
 
 Her animating smile withdrawn, 
 
 Has lost its beauties and its pow'rs. 16
 
 72 
 
 The saint or moralist should tread 
 This moss-grown alley, musing, slow ; 
 
 They seek, like me, the secret shade, 
 But not, like me, to nourish woe ! 
 
 Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste 
 
 Alike admonish not to roam ; 
 These tell me of enjoyments past, 
 
 And those of sorrows yet to come. 24 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM 
 
 Written February 1780. — Published 1782 
 
 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 glow-worm by his spark ; 10 
 
 So, stooping down from hawthorn top, 
 He thought to put him in his crop. 
 The worm, aware of his intent, 
 Harangu'd him thus, right 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 pow'r divine 
 Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; 20 
 
 That you with music, I with light, 
 Might beautify and cheer the night.
 
 73 
 
 The songster heard his short oration, 
 And, warbling out his approbation, 
 Rcleas'd him, as my story tells, 
 And found a supper somewhere else. 
 Hence jarring sectaries may learn 
 Their real int'rest to discern ; 
 That brother should not war with brother, 
 And worry and devour each other ; 30 
 
 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. 
 
 BOADICEA : AN ODE 
 
 Written 1780.— Published 1782 
 When the British warrior queen, 
 
 Bleeding from the Roman rods, 
 Sought, with an indignant mien, 
 Counsel of her country's gods, 
 
 Sage beneath a spreading oak 
 Sat the Druid, hoary chief ; 
 
 Ev'ry 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 the terrors of our tongues.
 
 74 
 
 Rome shall perish — write that word 
 
 In the blood that she has spilt ; 
 Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, 
 
 Deep in ruin as in guilt. 16 
 
 Rome, for empire far renown'd, 
 
 Tramples on a thousand states ; 
 Soon lur pride shall kiss the ground — 
 
 Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates 1 
 
 Other Romans shall arise, 
 
 Heedless of a soldier's name ; 
 Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize — 
 
 Harmony the path to fame. 24 
 
 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. 32 
 
 Such the bard's prophetic words, 
 
 Pregnant with celestial fire, 
 Bending, as he 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. 40 
 
 Ruffians, pitiless as proud, 
 
 Heav'n awards the vengeance due ; 
 
 Empire is on us bestow'd, 
 Shame and ruin wait for you.
 
 75 
 VERSES 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK DURING HI I 
 SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDl^ 
 
 Written (?).— Published 1782 
 
 I am monarch of all I survey, 
 
 My right there is none to dispute ; 
 From the centre all round to the sea, 
 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 Oh, solitude ! where are the charms 
 
 That sages have seen in thy face ? 
 Better dwell in the midst of alarms, 
 
 Than reign in this horrible place. 8 
 
 I 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, that roam over the plain, 
 
 My form with indifference see ; 
 They are so unacquainted with man, 
 
 Their tamencss is shocking to me. 16 
 
 Society, friendship, and love, 
 
 Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
 Oh, had I the wings of a dove, 
 
 How soon would I taste you again 1 
 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. 24 
 
 Religion ! what treasure untold 
 
 Resides in that heavenly word ! 
 More precious than silver and gold, 
 
 Or all that this earth can afford. 

 
 76 
 
 But the sound of the church-going bell 
 
 These vallies and rocks never heard. 
 Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 
 
 Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd. 32 
 
 winds, that have made me your sport, 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land I shall visit no more. 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 tell me I yet have a friend, 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see. 40 
 
 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 
 
 Compar'd with the speed of its flight, 
 The tempest itself lags behind, 
 
 And the swift wing'd arrows of light. 
 When I 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. 48 
 
 But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 
 
 The beast is laid down in his lair, 
 Ev'n here is a season of rest, 
 
 And I to my cabin repair. 
 There is mercy in every place ; 
 
 And mercy, encouraging thought ! 
 Gi n affliction a grace, 
 
 And reconciles man to his lot. 56
 
 77 
 ON THE LOSS OF THE 'ROYAL GEORGE* 
 
 WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED, 
 
 by desire of Lady Austen, who wanted words to the March in Scipio 
 Written September 1782. — Published 1803 
 
 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 ; 
 
 A land-breeze shook the shrouds, 
 And she was overset ; 
 
 Down went the Royal George, 
 With all her crew complete. 1 2 
 
 Toll for the brave — 
 Brave Kempenfelt is gone, 
 
 His last sea-fight is fought, 
 His work of glory done. 
 
 It was not in the battle, 
 No tempest gave the shock, 
 
 She sprang no fatal leak. 
 She ran upon no rock ; 
 
 His sword was in the sheath, 
 His fingers held the pen, 
 
 When Kempenfelt went down 
 With twice four hundred nun. 24 
 
 Weigh the vessel up, 
 Once dreaded by our foes, 
 And mingle with your cup 
 
 The tears that England owes ;
 
 /8 
 
 Her timbers yet are sound, 
 And she may float again, 
 
 Full charg'd with England's thunder, 
 And plough the distant main ; 
 
 But Kempenfelt is gone, 
 His victories are o'er ; 
 
 And he and his Eight hundred 
 Must plough the wave no more. 36 
 
 THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF 
 JOHN GILPIN 
 
 SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME 
 
 SAFE HOME AGAIN 
 
 Written October 1782.— Published in The Public Advertiser, 
 November 14, 17S2, and with The Task, 1785 
 
 John Gilpin was a citizen 
 
 Of credit and renown, 
 A train-band captain eke was he 
 
 Of famous London town. 
 
 John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear — 
 
 Though wedded we have been 
 These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
 
 No holiday have seen. 8 
 
 To-morrow is our wedding-da}', 
 
 And we will then repair 
 Unto the Bell at Edmonton 
 
 All in a chaise and pair. 
 
 My sister, and my sister's child, 
 
 Myself, and children three, 
 Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride 
 
 On horseback after we. 16
 
 79 
 
 He soon replied — I do admire 
 
 Of womankind but one, 
 And you are she, my dearest dear. 
 
 Therefore it shall be done. 
 
 I am a linen-draper bold, 
 
 As all the world doth know, 
 And my good friend the calender 
 
 Will lend his horse to go. 24 
 
 Quoth Mrs. Gilpin — That 's well said ; 
 
 And, for that wine is dear, 
 We will be furnish'd with our own, 
 
 Which is both bright and clear. 
 
 John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife ; 
 
 O'erjoy'd was he to find 
 That, though on pleasure she was bent, 
 
 She had a frugal mind. 32 
 
 The morning came, the chaise was brought, 
 
 But yet was not allow'd 
 To drive up to the door, lest all 
 
 Should say that she was proud. 
 
 So three doors off the chaise was stay'd. 
 
 Where they did all get in ; 
 Six precious souls, and all agog 
 
 To dash through thick and thin ! 40 
 
 Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 
 
 Were never folk so glad, 
 The stones did rattle underneath. 
 
 As if Cheapside were mad. 
 
 John Gilpin at his horse's side 
 
 Seiz'd fast the flowing mane, 
 And up he got, in haste to ride, 
 
 But soon came down again ; 4?
 
 8o 
 
 For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, 
 His journey to begin, 
 
 When, turning round his head, he saw- 
 Three customers come in. 
 
 So down he came ; for loss of time, 
 
 Although it griev'd him sore, 
 Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 
 
 Would trouble him much more. 5 6 
 
 'Twas long before the customers 
 
 Were suited to their mind, 
 When Betty screaming came down stairs — 
 
 ' The wine is left behind ! ' 
 
 Good lack ! quoth he — yet bring it me, 
 
 My leathern belt likewise, 
 In which I bear my trusty sword 
 
 When I do exercise. 64 
 
 Now mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) 
 
 Had two stone bottles found, 
 To hold the liquor that she lov'd, 
 
 And keep it safe and sound. 
 
 Each bottle had a curling ear, 
 
 Through which the belt he drew, 
 And hung a bottle on each side, 
 
 To make his balance true. 72 
 
 Then, over all, that he might be 
 
 Equipp'd from top to toe, 
 His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, 
 
 He manfully did throw. 
 
 Now see him mounted once again 
 
 Upon his nimble steed, 
 Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 
 
 With caution and good heed 1 So
 
 8i 
 
 But, finding soon a smoother road 
 
 Beneath his well-shod feet, 
 The snorting beast began to trot, 
 
 Which gall'd him in his seat. 
 
 So, Fair and softly, John he cried, 
 
 But John he cried in vain ; 
 That trot became a gallop soon, 
 
 In spite of curb and rein. 88 
 
 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. 96 
 
 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. 104 
 
 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 scrcam'd, 
 
 Up flew the windows all ; 
 And ev'ry soul cried out — Well done 1 
 
 As loud as he could bawl. 112 
 
 3179-8 F
 
 82 
 
 Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 
 
 His fame soon spread around — 
 He carries weight ! he rides a race 1 
 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. 120 
 
 And now, as he went bowing down 
 
 His reeking head full low, 
 The Dottles 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. 123 
 
 But still he seem'd to carry weight, 
 
 With leathern girdle brae'd ; 
 For all might see the bottle-necks 
 
 Still dangling at his waist. 
 
 Thus all through merry Islington 
 
 These gambols he did play, 
 And till he came unto the Wash 
 
 Of Edmonton so gay. 136 
 
 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 Iris loving wife 
 
 1 in the balcony spied 
 Ih r tender husband, wond'ring much 
 
 To see how he did ride. I44
 
 83 
 
 Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! — Here's the house — 
 
 They all at once did cry ; 
 The dinner waits, and we are tir'd : 
 
 Said Gilpin — So am I ! 
 
 But yet his horse was not a whit 
 
 Inclin'd to tarry there ; 
 For why ? — his owner had a house 
 
 Full ten miles off, at Ware. 152 
 
 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 calender's 
 
 His horse at last stood still. 160 
 
 The calender, amaz'd to see 
 
 His neighbour in such trim, 
 Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate. 
 
 And thus accosted him : — 
 
 What news ? what news ? your tidings tell : 
 
 Tell me you must and shall — 
 Say why bare-headed you are come, 
 
 Or why you come at all ? 168 
 
 Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit. 
 
 And lov'd a timely joke ; 
 And thus unto the calender 
 
 In merry guise he spoke : — ■ 
 
 I came because your horse would come ; 
 
 And, if I well forebode, 
 My hat and wig will soon be here — 
 
 They are upon the road. 
 
 f 2
 
 8 4 
 
 The calender, right glad to fiqd 
 His friend in merry pin, 
 
 Return'd him not a single word, 
 But to the house went in ; 
 
 irr • 
 
 Whence straight he came with hat and wh 
 
 A wig that flow'd behind, 
 A hat not much the worse for wear, 
 
 Each comely in its kind. 184 
 
 He held them up, and, in his turn, 
 
 Thus show'd his ready wit — 
 My head is twice as big as your's, 
 
 They therefore needs must fit. 
 
 But let me scrape the dirt away 
 
 That hangs upon your face ; 
 And stop and eat, for well you may 
 
 Be in a hungry case. 192 
 
 Said John — It is my wedding-day, 
 
 And all the world would stare, 
 If wife should dine at Edmonton 
 
 And I should dine at Ware ! 
 
 00, turning to his horse, he said — 
 
 I am in haste to dine ; 
 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 
 
 You shall go back for mine. 20c 
 
 Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 
 
 For which he paid full dear ; 
 For, while he spake, a braying ass 
 
 Did sing 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. 203
 
 85 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 Went Gilpin's hat and wig ! 
 He lost them sooner than at first — 
 
 For why ? — 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 ; 216 
 
 And thus unto the youth she said 
 
 That drove them to the Bell — 
 This shall be yours when you bring back 
 
 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 ; 224 
 
 But, not performing what he meant, 
 
 And gladly would have done, 
 The frighted steed he frighted more, 
 
 And made him faster run. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 Went post-boy at his heels ! — 
 The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 
 
 The lumb'ring of the wheels. 232 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road, 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 
 With post-boy scamp'ring in the rear, 
 
 They rais'd the hue and cry : 
 
 Stop thief ! stop thief ! — a highwayman 1 
 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 And all and each that pass'd that way 
 
 Did join in the pursuit. 240
 
 86 
 
 And now the turnpike gates again 
 
 Flew open in short space ; 
 The toll-men thinking, as before, 
 
 That Gilpin rode a race. 
 
 And so he did — and won it too ! — 
 
 For he got first to town ; 
 Nor stopp'd till where he had got up 
 
 He did again get down. 24S 
 
 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 1 
 
 EPITAPH ON A HARE 
 
 Written March 1783. — Published in The Gentleman's Magazine, 
 December 1784 ; afterwards in 1800 
 
 Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 
 
 Nor swifter greyhound follow, 
 Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew. 
 
 Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo', 
 
 Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, 
 
 Who, nurs'd with tender care, 
 And to domestic bounds confin'd, 
 
 Was still a wild Jack-hare. 8 
 
 Though duly from my hand he took 
 
 His pittance ev'ry 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 straw, 
 Thistles, or lettuces instead, 
 
 With sand to scour his maw. 16
 
 87 
 
 On twigs of hawthorn he regal'd. 
 
 On pippins' russet peel ; 
 And, when his juicy salads fail'd, 
 
 Slic'd carrot pleas'd him well. 
 
 A Turkey carpet was his lawn, 
 
 Whereon he lov'd to bound, 
 To skip and gambol like a fawn, 
 
 And swing his rump around. 24 
 
 His frisking was at evening hours, 
 
 For then he lost his fear ; 
 But most before approaching show'rs, 
 
 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 ev'ry night at play. 32 
 
 I kept him for his humour' 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. 40 
 
 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.
 
 88 
 THE POPLAR-FIELD 
 
 Written 1784. — Published in The Gentleman's Magazine, January 
 1785 ; afterwards in 1800 
 
 The poplars are fell'd, 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 elaps'd since I first took a view 
 Of my favourite 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. 8 
 
 The blackbird has fled to another retreat 
 Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, 
 And the scene where his melody charm'd me before, 
 Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 
 
 My fugitive years are all 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. 16 
 
 'Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can, 
 To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; 
 Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, 
 Have a being less durable even than he. 
 
 THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY 
 
 NO FABLE 
 
 Written August 1788. — Published in The Gentleman's Magazine, 
 I 'ccmber 1791 ; afterwards in 1798 
 
 The noon was shady, and soft airs 
 
 Swept Ouse's silent tide, 
 When, 'scap'd from literary cares, 
 
 I wander'd on his side. 
 
 My spaniel, prettiest of his race, 
 And high in pedigree.
 
 89 
 
 (Two nymphs, adorn'd with ev'ry grace, 
 
 That spaniel found for me) 8 
 
 Now wanton'd 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 display 'd 
 
 His lilies newly blown ; 
 Their beauties I intent survey'd ; 
 
 And one I wish'd my own. 16 
 
 With cane extended far I sought 
 
 To steer it close to land ; 
 But still the prize, though nearly caught, 
 
 Escap'd my eager hand. 
 Beau marked my unsuccessful pains 
 
 With fixt consid'rate face, 
 And puzzling set his puppy brains 
 
 To comprehend the case. 21 
 
 But with a chirrup clear and strong, 
 
 Dispersing all his dream, 
 I thence withdrew, and follow'd long 
 
 The windings of the stream. 
 
 My ramble finish'd, I return'd. 
 
 Beau trotting far before 
 The floating wreath again discern'd, 
 
 And plunging left the shore. 3 2 
 
 I saw him with that lily cropp'd 
 
 Impatient swim to meet 
 My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd 
 
 The treasure at my feet. 
 
 Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried. 
 
 Shall hear of this thy deed, 
 My dog shall mortify the pride 
 
 Of man's superior breed ; 4°
 
 90 
 
 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. 
 
 ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S 
 PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK 
 
 THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM 
 
 Written February 1790. — Published 1798 
 On 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 smiles I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
 Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say, 
 ' Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ! ' 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 (Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
 The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 10 
 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here ! 
 Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song. 
 Affectionate, a mother lost so long, 
 I will obey, not willingly alone, 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 
 And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief — 
 Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
 A momentary dream, that thou art she. 20 
 
 My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
 iVrhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss ; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
 Ah that maternal smile ' it answers — Yes.
 
 9i 
 
 I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, 
 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 
 And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew 30 
 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 
 But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art gone 
 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 
 The parting sound shall pass my lips no more ! 
 
 Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, 
 
 Oft gave me promise of a quick return. 
 
 What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, 
 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd ; 
 
 By disappointment every day beguil'd, 4° 
 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 
 I learn 'd at last submission to my lot ; 
 
 But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. 
 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more. 
 Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry 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 5° 
 
 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 fair 
 That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there. 
 Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd 
 A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid ; 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 The biscuit, or confectionary plum ; 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd ;
 
 02 
 
 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 brakes 
 
 That humour interpos'd too often makes ; 
 
 All this still legible in mem'ry's page, 
 
 And still to be so, to my latest age, 
 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 70 
 
 Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; 
 
 baps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
 Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little notic'd here. 
 
 Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 I prick'd them into paper with a pin, 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
 Wuuld'st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) 
 Could those few pleasant hours again appear, 80 
 
 Blight one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? 
 I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might. — 
 But no — what here we call our life is such, 
 So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
 1 hou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
 (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) 
 Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, 90 
 
 Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, 
 
 re sits quiescent on the floods that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore 
 ' Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,' 
 AiM thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide 
 Of life, long since, has anchor'd at thy side.
 
 93 
 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 100 
 
 Always from port withheld, always distress'd — 
 
 Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss'.], 
 
 Sails ript, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost, 
 
 And day by day some current's thwarting force 
 
 Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course 
 
 But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 
 My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
 
 From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth ; 
 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 1 1 ) 
 
 The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
 
 And now, farewell — time, unrevoked, has run 
 
 His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 
 
 By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 
 I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again ; 
 
 To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 
 
 Without the sin of violating thine : 
 
 And, while the wings of fancy still are free. 
 
 And I can view this mimic shew of thee, 
 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 120 
 
 Thyself remov'd, thy power to sooth me left. 
 
 THE RETIRED CAT 
 
 Written 1791. — Published 1803 
 
 A poet's cat, sedate and grave, 
 
 As poet well could wish to have, 
 
 Was much addicted to inquire 
 
 For nooks, 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 philosopiiique, 
 
 Or else she learn'd it of her master. 1°
 
 94 
 
 Sometimes ascending, debonair, 
 
 An apple-tree or lofty pear, 
 
 Lodg'd with convenience in the fork, 
 
 She watched the gard'ner at his work ; 
 
 Sometimes her ease and solace sought 
 
 In an old empty wat'ring pot, 
 
 There wanting nothing, save a fan, 
 
 To seem some nymph in her sedan, 
 
 Apparcll'd in exactest sort, 
 
 And ready to be borne to court. 20 
 
 But love 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, 
 Expos'd 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, 30 
 
 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 draw'r, — it chane'd, at bottom lin'd 
 With linen of the softest kind, 
 With such as merchants introduce 
 From India, for the ladies' use, — 
 A draw'r impending o'er the rest, 
 Half open in the topmost chest, 40 
 
 Of depth enough, and none to spare, 
 Invited her to slumber there. 
 Puss with delight beyond expression, 
 Survey 'd the scene, and took possession. 
 R< cumbent at her ease ere long, 
 And lull'd by her own hum-drum song,
 
 95 
 
 She left the cares of life behind, 
 
 And slept as she would sleep her last. 
 
 When in came, housewifely inclin'd, 
 
 The chambermaid, and shut it fast, 50 
 
 By no malignity impcll'd, 
 
 But all unconscious whom it held. 
 
 Awaken'd by the shock (cried puss) 
 Was ever cat attended thus ! 
 The open draw'r was left, I see, 
 Merely to prove a nest for me, 
 For soon as I was well compos'd, 
 Then came the maid, and it was closed : 
 How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet, 
 
 what a delicate retreat ! 60 
 
 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 gray again ensued, 70 
 
 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 presag'd approaching doom. 
 Not slept a single 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 ? 
 He drew the curtain at his side, 
 And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied.
 
 9 6 
 
 Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd 
 Something imprison'd in the chest. 
 And doubtful what, with prudent care, 
 
 lv'd it should continue there. 
 At length a voice, which well he knew, 
 A long and melancholy mew, 
 Saluting his poetic ears, 
 
 Consol'd him, and dispell'd his fears ; 90 
 
 He left his bed, he trod the floor, 
 He 'gan in haste the draw'rs explore, 
 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 ev'ry cranny but the right. 
 Forth skipp'd the cat ; not now replete 
 As erst with airy self-conceit, 100 
 
 Nor in her own fond apprehension, 
 A theme for all the world's attention, 
 But modest, sober, cur'd of all 
 11' r notions hyperbolical, 
 And wishing for a place of rest 
 Any thing rather than a chest : 
 Then stept the poet into bed, 
 With this reflexion in his head : 
 
 MORAL 
 
 Beware of too sublime a sense 
 
 Of your own worth and consequence ! no 
 
 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.
 
 97 
 EPITAPH ON FOP 
 
 A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON 
 
 Written August 1792. — Published 1803 
 
 Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name, 
 
 Here moulders one, whose bones some honour 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.' 10 
 
 AN EPITAPH 
 
 Written 1792. — Published 18 15 
 
 Here lies one, who never drew 
 
 Blood himself, yet many slew ; 
 
 Gave the gun its aim, and figure 
 
 Made in field, yet ne'er pulled trigger. 
 
 Armed men have gladly made 
 
 Him their guide, and him obey'd ; 
 
 At his signified desire, 
 
 Would advance, present, and fire — 
 
 Stout he was, and large of limb, 
 
 Scores have fled at sight of him ; 10 
 
 And to all this fame he rose 
 
 Only following his nose. 
 
 Neptune was he call'd, not he 
 
 Who controls the boist'rous sea, 
 
 But of happier command, 
 
 Neptune of the furrow'd land ; 
 
 And, your wonder vain to shorten, 
 
 Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton. 
 
 2179.8 G
 
 93 
 SONNET TO MRS. UNWIN 
 
 Written May 1793. — Published 1803 
 
 Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings ; 
 
 Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew I 
 
 An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new, 
 
 And undebas'd by praise of meaner things ! 
 
 That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 
 
 I may record thy worth, with honour due, 
 
 In verse as musical as thou art true, — 
 
 Wrse, that immortalizes whom it sings ! 
 
 But thou hast little need : there is a book, 
 
 By seraphs writ with beams of heav'nly light, 10 
 
 < >n 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. 
 
 ON A SPANIEL CALLED BEAU 
 
 KILLING A YOUNG BIRD 
 
 Written July 1793. — Published 1803 
 
 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. 8 
 
 Nor did you kill, that you might eat, 
 
 And ease a doggish pain, 
 For him, though chas'd with furious heat, 
 
 You left where he was slain.
 
 99 
 
 Nor was he of the thievish sort. 
 
 Or one whom blood allures, 
 But innocent was all his sport, 
 
 Whom you have torn for yours. 16 
 
 My dog ! what remedy remains, 
 
 Since, teach you all I can, 
 I see you, after all my pains, 
 
 So much resemble man ! 
 
 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. 8 
 
 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, 16 
 
 Well knowing him a sacred thing, 
 
 Not destin'd to my tooth, 
 I only kiss'd his ruffled wing, 
 
 And lick'd the feathers smooth. 
 G 2
 
 100 
 
 Let my obedience then excuse 
 
 My disobedience now, 
 N'T some reproof yourself refuse 
 
 From your aggriev'd Bow-wow ! 24 
 
 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 MARY 
 
 Written 1793. — Published 1803 
 
 The twentieth year is well-nigh past, 
 Since first our sky was overcast ; 
 Ah would that this might be the last ! 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy spints have a fainter flow, 
 I see thee daily weaker grow — 
 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 
 
 My Mary ! 8 
 
 Thy needles, once a shining store, 
 For my sake restless heretofore, 
 Now rust disus'd, 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 ! i5 
 
 But well thou play'd'st the housewife's part, 
 And all thy threads with magic art 
 1 lave wound themselves about this heart, 
 
 My Mary !
 
 101 
 
 Thy indistinct expressions seem 
 
 Like language utter'd in a dream ; 
 
 Yet me they charm, whate'er the themr, 
 
 My Mary ! 24 
 
 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 ? 
 The sun would rise in vain for me, 
 
 My Mary ! 32 
 
 Partakers of thy sad decline, 
 Thy hands their little force resign ; 
 Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And then I feel that still I hold 
 A richer store ten thousandfold 
 Than misers fancy in their gold, 
 
 My Mary ! 40 
 
 Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, 
 That now at every step thou mov'st 
 Upheld by two ; yet still thou lov'st, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And still to love, though prest with ill, 
 In wintry age to feel no chill, 
 With me is to be lovely still, 
 
 My Mary ! h8 
 
 But ah ! by constant heed I know, 
 How oft the sadness that I show 
 Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 102 
 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 With much resemblance of the past, 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 THE CASTAWAY 
 
 Written March 20, 1799. — Published 1803 
 
 Obscurest night involv'd the sky, 
 
 Th' Atlantic billows roar'd, 
 When such a destin'd wretch as I, 
 
 Wash'd headlong from on board, 
 Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 
 His floating home for ever left. 6 
 
 No braver chief could Albion boast 
 
 Than he with whom he went, 
 Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, 
 
 With warmer wishes sent. 
 He lov'd them both, but both in vain, 
 Nor him beheld, nor her again. 12 
 
 Not long beneath the whelming brine, 
 
 Expert to swim, he lay ; 
 Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 
 
 Or courage die away ; 
 But wag'd with death a lasting strife, 
 Supported by despair of life. iS 
 
 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. 24
 
 103 
 
 Some succour 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. 30 
 
 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. 36 
 
 He long survives, who lives an hour 
 
 In ocean, self-upheld ; 
 And so long he, with unspent pow'r, 
 
 His destiny repell'd ; 
 And ever, as the minutes flew, 
 Entreated help, or cried — Adieu ! 42 
 
 At length, his transient respite past, 
 
 His comrades, who before 
 Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast, 
 
 Could catch the sound no more. 
 For then, by toil subdued, he drank 
 The stifling wave, and then he sank. 48 
 
 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. 54
 
 104 
 
 I therefore purpose not, or dream, 
 
 I N scanting on his fate, 
 To give the melancholy theme 
 
 A more enduring date : 
 But misery still delights to trace 
 Its 'semblance in another's case. 60 
 
 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 gulphs than he. 66
 
 SELECTIONS FROM COWPER'S 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 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 upon sheep's heads, and liver and 
 lights, like the lions in the Tower ; and a joint of meat, in 
 so small a family, is an endless encumbrance. My butcher's 
 bill for last week amounted to four shillings and tenpcnce. 
 I set off with a leg of lamb, and was forced to give part of 
 it away to my washerwoman. Then I made an experiment 
 upon a sheep's heart, and that was too little. Next I put 10 
 three pounds of beef into a pie, and this had like to have 
 been too much, for it lasted three days, though my land- 
 lord was admitted to a share in it. Then as to small beer, 
 I am puzzled to pieces about it. I have bought as much 
 for a shilling, as will serve us at least a month, and it is 
 grown sour already. 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 countenance, for it is really a matter full of perplexity. 
 
 I have received but one visit since here I came. I don't 20 
 mean that I have refused any, but that only one has been 
 offered. This was from my woollen-draper ; a very 
 healthy, 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 h 
 undertaken, too, to get me the St. James's Chronicle tl 
 times a-week, and to show me Hinchinbrook House, and 
 to do every service for me in his power ; so that I did not 
 exceed the truth, you see, when I spoke of his civility.
 
 106 HUNTINGDON'S DIVERSIONS 
 
 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 ; especially 
 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 spec- 
 tator at a play is more entertained than the actor ; and 
 in real life it is much the same. You will say, perhaps, 
 that if I never frequent these places, I shall not come 
 within the description of a spectator ; and you will say 
 
 10 right. I have made a blunder, which shall be corrected in 
 the next edition. 
 
 You are an 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 premises, 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 toad ! I leave him entirely to your 
 
 20 mercy. 
 
 My dear Joe, you desire me to write long letters — 
 I have neither matter enough, nor perseverance enough 
 for the purpose. However, 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 tragedies of Lloyd and Bensley are both 
 
 30 very deep. If they are not of use to the surviving part of 
 society, it is their own fault. 
 
 I was debtor to Bensley seven pounds, or nine, I forget 
 which. If you can find out his brother, you will do me 
 a great favour, if you will pay him for me ; but do it at 
 your leisure. — Yours and theirs, YV. C.
 
 ACQUAINTANCES 107 
 
 To Lady Hesketii 
 
 Huntingdon, Oct. iS, 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 sympathy with you in the pleasure you 
 find in being once more blown to Droxford. I know 
 enough of Miss Morlcy to send her my compliments ; to 
 which, if I had never seen her, her affection for you would 10 
 sufficiently entitle her. If I neglected to do it sooner, it is 
 only because I am naturally apt to neglect 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 favourably of my Huntingdon 
 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 minute description. She is about eighteen years of age, 
 rather handsome and genteel. In her mother's company 20 
 she says little ; not because her mother requires it of her, 
 but because she seems glad of that excuse for not talking, 
 being somewhat inclined to bashfulness. There is the 
 most remarkable cordiality between all the parts of the 
 family ; and the mother and daughter seem to dote 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 had appointed me 
 to call upon him. Talking is necessary in a tele-d-tcic, to 
 distinguish the persons of the drama from the chairs they 30 
 sit on : accordingly she talked a great deal, and extremely 
 well ; and, like the rest of the family, behaved with as 
 much ease of address as if we had been old acquaintance.
 
 ioS MRS. UN WIN 
 
 She resembles her mother in her great piety, who is one of 
 the most remarkable instances of it I have ever seen. 
 They are altogether the cheerfulest 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 garden, 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 
 
 10 me, and I never see her without being the better for her 
 company. I am treated in the family as if I was a near 
 ri lation, and have been repeatedly invited to call upon 
 them at all times. You know what a shy fellow I am ; 
 I cannot prevail with myself to make so much use of this 
 privilege as I am sure they intend I should ; but perhaps 
 this awkwardness will wear off hereafter. It was my 
 earnest request before I left St. Albans, that wherever it 
 might please Providence to dispose of me, I might meet 
 with such an acquaintance as I find in Mrs. Unwin. How 
 
 20 happy it is to believe, with a steadfast 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 ! . . . My love to all who inquire 
 after me. — Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 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 translating an elegy of Tibullus. 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 
 xploits 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
 
 THE POET'S TEMPERAMENT 
 
 to the trifler that uses it, and very disagreeable to all 
 beside. But it has served to rid me of sonic m< lan< holy 
 moments, for I only take it up as a gentleman performi c 
 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 of its value, till I am at last 
 quite disgusted with it. I then throw it by, take it up 
 again perhaps ten years after, and am as much delighted 10 
 with it as at first. 
 
 Few people have the art of being agreeable when they 
 talk of themselves ; if you are not weary therefore by this 
 time 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 disposition 
 to be pleased, which whoever does is sure to find a visit 
 agreeable, because they make it so. — Yours, W. C. 20 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 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 parlour, from the opposite hou 
 
 I fancy Virgil was so situated when he wrote those two 
 
 beautiful lines : 
 
 Oh qais me gelidis in vallibus Hacmi 
 
 Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat mnbya ! 
 
 The worst of it is, that though the sunbeams strike as 
 forcibly upon my harp-strings as they did upon his, thy 3° 
 elicit no such sounds, but rather produce such groai^ .is they 
 are said to have drawn from those of the statue of Memnon.
 
 no TWOPENNY DISABILITIES 
 
 As you have ventured to make the experiment, your 
 own experience will be your best guide in the article of 
 bathing. An inference will hardly follow, though one 
 :~hould pull at it with all one's might, from Smollett's case 
 to yours. He was corpulent, muscular, and strong ; 
 whereas, if you were either stolen or strayed, such a descrip- 
 tion 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 your 
 
 10 sleeping at night, I should imagine it could not hurt you. 
 I remember taking a walk upon the strand at Margate, 
 where the cliff is high and perpendicular. At long intervals 
 there are cart-ways, cut through the rock down to the 
 beach, and there is no other way of access to it, or of return 
 from it. I walked near a mile upon the water edge, without 
 observing that the tide was rising fast upon me. When 
 I did observe it, it was almost too late. I ran every step 
 back again, and had much ado to save my distance. 
 I mention this as a caution, lest you should happen at any 
 
 20 time to be surprised as I was. It would be very unpleasant 
 to be forced to cling, like a cat, to the side of a precipice, 
 and perhaps hardly possible to do it, for four hours without 
 any respite. 
 
 It seems a trifle, but it is a real disadvantage to have 
 no better name to pass by than the gentleman you mention. 
 Whether we suppose him settled and promoted in the army, 
 the church, or the law, how uncouth the sound — Captain 
 Twopenny ! Bishop Twopenny ! Judge Twopenny ! The 
 abilities of Lord Mansfield would hardly impart a dignity 
 
 i~ to such a name. Should he perform deeds worthy of 
 
 poetical panegyric, how difficult would it be to ennoble the 
 
 sound of Twopenny ! 
 
 Muse ! place him high upon the lists of Fame, 
 i he wonderous man, and Twopenny his name ! 
 
 But to be serious, if the French should land in the Isle of
 
 TWOPENNY DISABILITIES in 
 
 Thanet, and Mr. Twopenny should fall into their hands, 
 he will have a fair opportunity to frcnchify liis name, and 
 may call himself Monsieur Deux Sous; which, when he 
 comes to be exchanged by Cartel, will easily resume an 
 English form, and slide naturally into Two Shoes, in my 
 mind a considerable improvement. — Yours affectionately, 
 
 VY. C. 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 Oct. 31, 1779. 
 
 My dear Friend — I wrote my last letter merely to inform 
 you that I had nothing to say ; in answer to which you 1° 
 have said nothing. I admire the propriety of your conduct 
 though I am a loser by it. I will endeavour to say some- 
 thing now, and shall hope for something in return. 
 
 I have been well entertained with Johnson's biographies, 
 for which I thank you : with one exception, and that 
 a swingeing one, I think he has acquitted himself with his 
 usual good sense and sufficiency. His treatment of Milton 
 is unmerciful to the last degree. A pensioner is not likely 
 to spare a republican ; and the Doctor, in order, I suppose, 
 to convince his royal patron of the sincerity of his 20 
 monarchical principles, has belaboured 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 
 everything royal in his public, are the two colours 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 memory has been 
 charged ; it is evident enough that if his biographer cod 1 I » 
 have discovered more, he would not have spared him. 
 As a poet, he has treated him with severity enough, and 
 has plucked one or two of the most beautiful feathers out
 
 112 JOHNSON AND MILTON 
 
 of his Muse's wing, and trampled them under his great 
 has passed sentence of condemnation upon 
 Lycidas, and has taken occasion, from that charming poem, 
 expose to ridicule (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 description, the sweetness of the numbers, 
 the classical spirit of antiquity that prevails in it, go for 
 nothing. I am convinced, by the way, that he has no ear 
 
 10 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 Paradise Lost ? It 
 is like that of a fine organ ; has the fullest and the 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 
 
 20 degenerate into declamation. Oh ! I could thresh his old 
 jacket, till I made his pension jingle in his pocket. 
 
 I could talk a good while longer, but I have no room ; 
 our love attends you. — Yours affectionately, W. C. 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton 
 
 May 3, 1780. 
 I draw mountains, valleys, woods, and streams, and 
 ducks, and dab-chicks. I admire them myself, and 
 Mrs. Unwin admires them ; and her praise, and my praise 
 put together, are fame enough for me. Oh ! I could spend 
 wh« le days and moonlight nights in feeding upon a lovely 
 rospect I 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
 
 THE POET'S PICTURES 113 
 
 many miserable men among them, but not an unawakened 
 one could be found from the arctic to the antarctic 1 Lri le. 
 At present, the difference between them and me is greatly 
 to their advantage. I delight in baubles, and know them 
 to be so ; for rested in, and 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 IO 
 my friend ! ' Their eyes have never been opened to see 
 that they are trifles ; mine have been, and will be till 
 they are closed for ever. They think a fine estate, a large 
 conservatory, a hothouse rich as a West Indian garden, 
 things of consequence ; visit them with pleasure, 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 20 
 accustomed visit, and watered it, and given it air, I say 
 to myself—' This is not mine, it is a plaything lent me 
 for the present ; I must leave it soon.' W . C. 
 
 To Mrs. Newton 
 
 June, 17S0. 
 You have never yet perhaps been made acquainted with 
 the unfortunate Tom Freeman's misadventure. He and 
 his wife returning from Hanslip fair, were coining down 
 Weston Lane ; to wit, themselves, their horse, and their 
 great wooden panniers, at ten o'clock at night. The h 
 having a lively imagination, and very weak nerves, fancied 3° 
 he either saw or heard something, but has never been able 
 to say what. A sudden fright will impart activity, and 
 
 2179.8 H
 
 114 AN OLNEY RUNAWAY 
 
 a momentary vigour, even to lameness itself. Accordingly, 
 he started, and sprung 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 contented with this effort, nor thinking 
 himself vet 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 
 
 10 a velocity and momentum continually increasing, 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 
 
 20 resume her occupation since. . . . Wm. Cowper. 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 June 8, 1780. 
 My dear Friend — It is possible I might have indulged 
 myself in the pleasure of writing 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 correspondence, that you 
 thought me entertaining and clever, and so forth : — now 
 you must know, I love praise dearly, especially from the 
 judicious, and those who have so much delicacy them- 
 3 Ives 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
 
 A CHARMING SIMILE 115 
 
 before, he shall think me ten times more witty hereafter ; 
 — where I joked once, I will joke five times, and for one 
 sensible remark I will send him a dozen. Now this foolish 
 vanity would have 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. Accordingly he is to me, except in 
 very few instances, the most disagreeable maker of epistles 
 that ever I met with. I was willing, therefore, to wait 10 
 till the impression your commendation had made upon the 
 foolish part of me was worn off, that I might scribble 
 away as usual, and write my uppermost thoughts, and 
 those only. . . . 
 
 An English Versification of 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, 
 Intent upon her destin'd course : 
 Graceful, and useful, all she does, 
 Blessing, and bless'd, where'er she goes : 
 Pure-bosom'd, as that watery glass, 
 And Heaven reflected in her face ! 
 
 Now this is 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. 
 
 h 2
 
 n6 'TO MAKE A FIGURE AT OLNEY' 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 May 23, 1781. 
 My dear Friend — ... If a writer's friends have need 
 of patience, how much more the writer ! Your desire to see 
 mv muse in public, and mine to gratify you, must both 
 suffer the mortification of delay. I 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 coming ! ' — But 
 
 10 man, especially man that writes verse, is born to disappoint- 
 ments, as surely as printers and booksellers are born to be 
 the most dilatory and tedious of all creatures. 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. . . . 
 
 My neckcloths being all worn out, I intend to wear 
 stocks, but not unless they are more fashionable than the 
 former. In that case, I shall be obliged to you if you will 
 
 20 buy me a handsome stock-buckle, for a very little money ; 
 for twenty or twenty-five shillings perhaps a second-hand 
 affair may be purchased that will make a figure at 
 Olney. 
 
 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, 
 
 30 which would be perfectly insipid in English ; and a trans- 
 lator 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 composi-
 
 VINNY BOURNE 117 
 
 tion, and could not perhaps, in many instances, 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 love the memory of Vinny Bourne. I think 
 him a better Latin poet than Tibullus, Propertius, Ausonius, 
 or any of the writers in his way, except Ovid, and not at all 10 
 inferior to him. I love him too with a love of partiality, 
 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 sloven, 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 humour is entirely 
 original ; he can speak of a magpie or a cat in terms so 
 exquisitely appropriated to the character he draws, that 20 
 one would suppose him animated by the spirit of the creature 
 he describes. And with all this 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 common to meet with an 
 author who can make you smile, and yet at nobody's ex- 
 pense ; who is always entertaining, and yet always harmless ; 
 and who, though always elegant, and classical to a degr 
 not always found even in the classics themselves, charms 30 
 more by the simplicity 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. . . .— 
 Yours affectionately, " . C.
 
 nS LAW AND CHRISTIANITY 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 July 29, 1781. 
 My dear Friend — Having given the case you laid before 
 me in your last all due consideration, I proceed to answer it ; 
 and in order to clear my way, shall, in the first place, set 
 down my sense of those passages in Scripture which, on 
 a hasty perusal, seem to clash with the opinion 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 your- 
 
 10 self of that remedy the law allows you, in the way of retalia- 
 tion, for that was the subject immediately under the dis- 
 cussion 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 myself to think, that the author 
 of that dispensation could possibly advise his followers to 
 consult their own peace at the expense of the peace of 
 society, or inculcate a universal abstinence from the use 
 of lawful remedies, to the encouragement of injury and 
 oppression. 
 
 20 St. Paul again seems to condemn the practice of going to 
 law, ' Why do ye not rather suffer wrong,' &c. But if we 
 look again, we shall find that a litigious temper had obtained, 
 and was prevalent among the professors of the day. This 
 he condemned, and with good reason ; it was unseemly to 
 the last degree, that the disciples of the Prince of Peace 
 should worry and vex each other with injurious treatment, 
 and unnecessary disputes, to the scandal of their religion in 
 the eyes of the heathen. But surely he did not mean any 
 more than his Master, in the place above alluded to, that 
 
 30 the most harmless members of society should receive no 
 advantage of its laws, or should be the only persons in the 
 world who should derive no benefit from those institutions, 
 without which society cannot subsist. Neither of them
 
 CHURCH MILITANT 119 
 
 could mean to throw down the pale of property, and to lay 
 the Christian part of the world open, throughout all ag< , 
 to the incursions of unlimited violence and wrong. 
 
 By this time you are sufficiently aware, that I think 
 you have an indisputable right to recover at law what 
 is so dishonestly withheld from you. The fellow, I suppose, 
 has discernment enough to see a difference between you and 
 the generality of the clergy, and cunning enough to conceive 
 the purpose of turning your meekness and forbearance to 
 good account, and of coining them into hard cash, which 10 
 he means to put in his pocket. But I would disappoint him, 
 and show him, that though a Christian is not to be quarrel- 
 some, he is not to be crushed ; and that though lie is but 
 a worm before God, he is not such a worm as every selfish 
 unprincipled wretch may tread upon at his pleasure. 
 
 I lately heard a story from a lady, who has spent many 
 years of her life in France, somewhat to the present purpose. 
 An Abbe, universally esteemed for his piety, and especially 
 for the meekness of his manners, had yet undesignedly 
 given some offence to a shabby fellow in his parish. The 20 
 man, concluding he might do as he pleased with so forgiving 
 and gentle a character, struck him on one cheek, and bade 
 him turn the other. The good man did so, and when he 
 had received the two slaps, which he thought himself 
 obliged to submit to, turned again, and beat him soundly. 
 I do not wish to see you follow the French gentleman's 
 example, but I believe nobody that has heard the story 
 condemns him much for the spirit he showed upon the 
 occasion. 
 
 I had the relation from Lady Austen, sister to Mrs. Jones, 30 
 wife of the minister of Clifton. She is a most agreeable 
 woman, and has fallen in love with your mother and me : 
 insomuch, that I do not know but she may settle at Olney. 
 Yesterday se'nnight we all dined together in the Spintny— 
 a most delightful retirement, belonging to Mrs. Throck-
 
 120 CHURCH MILITANT 
 
 morton of Weston. Lady Austen's lackey, and a lad that 
 waits on me in the garden, drove a wheelbarrow full of eat- 
 ables and drinkables to the scene of our Fete Champetre. 
 A board laid over the top of the wheelbarrow served us 
 for a table ; our dining-room was a root-house lined with 
 moss and ivy. At six o'clock, the servants, who had dined 
 under a great elm tree upon the ground, at a little distance, 
 boiled the kettle, and the said wheelbarrow served us for a 
 tea-table. We then took a walk into the wilderness, about 
 10 half a mile off, and were at home again a little after eight, 
 having spent the day together from noon till evening with- 
 out one cross occurrence, or the least weariness of each other: 
 a happiness few parties of pleasure can boast of. — Yours, 
 with our joint love, W. C. 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton 
 
 The Greenhouse, Sept. 18, 17S1. 
 
 My dear Friend — ... I have no objection in the world to 
 
 your conveying a copy to Dr. Johnson ; though I well know 
 
 that one of his pointed sarcasms, if he should happen to be 
 
 displeased, would soon find its ways into all companies, and 
 
 20 spoil the sale. He writes, indeed, like a man that thinks 
 a great deal, and that sometimes thinks religiously : but 
 report informs me that he has been severe enough in his 
 animadversions upon Dr. Watts, who was nevertheless, if 
 I am in any degree a judge of verse, a man of true poetical 
 ability ; careless, indeed, for the most part, and inattentive 
 too often to those niceties which constitute elegance of 
 .pression, but frequently sublime in his conceptions, and 
 masterly in his execution. Pope, I have heard, had placed 
 him once in the Dunciad \ but on being advised to read 
 
 30 before he judged him, was convinced that he deserved other 
 treatment, and thrust somebody's blockhead into the gap, 
 whose name, consisting of a monosyllable, happened to fit
 
 MR. NEWTON'S PIPE 121 
 
 it. Whatever faults, however, I may be chargeable with 
 a poet, I cannot accuse myself of negligence. I never suffer 
 a line to pass till I have made it as good as I can ; and 
 though my doctrines may offend this king of critics, he will 
 not, I flatter myself, be disgusted by slovenly inaccuracy, 
 either in the numbers, rhymes, or language. Let the 1 
 take its chance. It is possible he may be pleased ; and if 
 he should, I shall have engaged on my side one of the best 
 trumpeters in the kingdom. Let him only speak as favour- 
 ably of me as he has spoken of Sir Richard Blackmore (who, 10 
 though he shines in his poem called Creation, has written 
 more absurdities in verse than any writer of our country), 
 and my success will be secured. 
 
 I have often promised myself a laugh with you about 
 your pipe, but have always forgotten it when I have been 
 writing, and at present I am not much in a laughing humour. 
 You will observe, however, for your comfort and the honour 
 of that same pipe, that it hardly falls within the line of my 
 censure. You never fumigate the ladies, or force them out 
 of company ; nor do you use it as an incentive to hard 20 
 drinking. Your friends, indeed, have reason to complain 
 that it frequently deprives them of the pleasure of your own 
 conversation while it leads you either into your study or 
 your garden ; but in all other respects it is as innocent 
 a pipe as can be. Smoke away, therefore ; and remember 
 that if one poet has condemned the practice, a better than 
 he (the witty and elegant Hawkins Browne) has been 
 warm in the praise of it. 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 October 6, 17S1. 
 My dear Friend— What a world are you daily conversant 30 
 with, which I have not seen these twenty years, and shall 
 never see again ! The arts of dissipation (I suppose) are
 
 122 THE EVE OF PUBLICATION 
 
 nowhere practised with more refinement or success than at 
 the place of your present residence. By your account of it, 
 it seems to be just what it was when I visited it, a scene of 
 idleness and luxury, music, dancing, cards, walking, riding, 
 bathing, eating, drinking, coffee, tea, scandal, dressing, 
 yawning, sleeping ; the rooms perhaps more magnificent, 
 because the proprietors are grown richer, but the manners 
 and occupations of the company just the same. Though 
 my life has long been like that of a recluse, I have not the 
 
 10 temper of one, nor am I in the least an enemy to cheerfulness 
 and good humour ; but I cannot envy you your situation ; 
 I even feel myself constrained to prefer the silence of this 
 nook, and the snug fireside in our own diminutive parlour, 
 to all the splendour and gaiety of Brighton. 
 
 You ask me, how I feel on the occasion of my approaching 
 publication. Perfectly at my ease. If I had not been pretty 
 well assured beforehand that my tranquillity would be but 
 little endangered by such a measure, I would never have 
 engaged in it ; for I cannot bear disturbance. I have had 
 
 20 in view two principal objects ; first, to amuse myself, — and 
 secondly, to compass that point in such a manner, that 
 others might possibly be the better for my amusement. If 
 I have succeeded, it will give me pleasure ; but if I have 
 failed, I shall not be mortified to the degree that might 
 perhaps be expected. I remember an old adage (though not 
 where it is to be found), ' bene vixit, qui bene latuit,' and if 
 I had recollected it at the right time, it should have been the 
 motto to my book. By the way, it will make an excellent 
 one for Retirement, if you can but tell me whom to quote for 
 
 30 it. The critics cannot deprive me of the pleasure I have in 
 reflecting, that so far as my leisure has been employed in 
 writing for the public, it has been conscientiously employed, 
 and with a view to their advantage. There is nothing 
 agreeable, to be sure, in being chronicled for a dunce ; but 
 I believe there lives not a man upon earth who would be less
 
 THE EVE OF PUBLICATION 123 
 
 affected by it than myself. With all this indifference to 
 fame, which you know me too well to suppose me capable of 
 affecting, I have taken the utmost pains to deserve it. 
 This may appear a mystery or a paradox in practice, but 
 it is true. I considered that the taste of the day is refined, 
 and delicate to excess, and that to disgust the delicacy of 
 taste, by a slovenly inattention to it, would be to forfeit at 
 once all hope of being useful ; and for this reason, though 
 I have written more verse this last year than perhaps any 
 man in England, I have finished, and polished, and touched, 10 
 and retouched, with the utmost care. If after all I should 
 be converted into waste paper, it may be my misfortune, 
 but it will not be my fault. I shall bear it with the most 
 perfect serenity. 
 
 I do not mean to give Quarme a copy : he is a good- 
 natured little man, and crows exactly like a cock, but knows 
 no more of verse than the cock he imitates. 
 
 Whoever supposes that Lady Austen's fortune is pre- 
 carious, is mistaken. I can assure you, upon the ground of 
 the most circumstantial and authentic information, that 20 
 it is both genteel and perfectly safe. — Yours, W. C. 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 Jan. 5, 1782. 
 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 opinion 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, 30 
 we see indubitable marks of the most indefatigable industry 
 and labour. Writers who find it necessary to make such
 
 124 MAT. PRIOR 
 
 strenuous and painful exertions, are generally as phlegmatic 
 as they are correct ; but Pope was, in this respect, exempted 
 from the common lot of authors of that class. With the 
 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 succeeded by mere dint of genius, 
 and in spite of a laziness and carelessness almost peculiar 
 
 10 to himself. His faults are numberless, but so are his beauties. 
 His faults are those of a great man, and his beauties are such 
 (at least sometimes) as Pope with all his touching 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 introducing Venus and 
 
 20 Cupid into his love-verses, and concludes it impossible his 
 passion 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 now. His contemporary 
 writers, and some that succeeded him, did not think them 
 beneath their notice. Tibullus, in reality, disbelieved their 
 1 xistence 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 
 
 30 what shall we say of his old fusty-rusty remarks upon 
 Henry and Emma ? I agree with him, that morally con- 
 sidered 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
 
 ' HENRY AND EM MA ' 125 
 
 woman resolves to follow him at the expense of <l.li. :l« y, pro- 
 priety, and even modesty itself. But when the critic calls 
 it a dull dialogue, who but a critic will believe him ? 1 1 
 are few readers of poetry of either sex, in this country, who 
 cannot remember how that enchanting piece has bewitch) d 
 them, who do not know, that instead of finding it tedi 
 they have been so delighted with the romantic turn of 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 10 
 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 suppose he never felt in his life, he might as well 
 think himself qualified to pronounce upon a treatise on 
 horsemanship, or the art of fortification. . . . 
 —Yours, W. C. 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 Feb. 24, 1782. 20 
 My dear Friend — . . . Having imparted to you an 
 account of the fracas between us and Lady Austen, it 
 is necessary that you should be made acquainted with 
 every event that bears any relation to that incident. 
 The day before yesterday she sent me, by her brother-in- 
 law, Mr. Jones, three pair of worked ruffles, with advice 
 that I should soon receive a fourth. I knew they were 
 begun before we quarrelled. I begged Mr. Jones to 1. 11 
 her when he wrote next, how much I thought myself 
 obliged, and gave him to understand that I should make 30 
 her a very inadequate, though the only return in my power, 
 by laying my volume at her feet. This likewise she had
 
 126 LADY AUSTEN AGAIN 
 
 previous reason given to expect. Thus stands the affair 
 at present ; whether anything in the shape of a reconcilia- 
 tion is to take place hereafter, I know not ; but this I know, 
 that when an amicable freedom of intercourse, and that 
 unreserved confidence which belongs only to true friend- 
 ship, has been once unrooted, plant it again with what 
 care you may, it is very difficult, if not impossible, to make 
 it grow. The fear of giving offence to a temper too apt 
 to take it, is unfavourable to that comfort we propose to 
 
 10 ourselves even in our ordinary connexions, but absolutely 
 incompatible with the pleasures of real friendship. She 
 is to spend the summer in our neighbourhood, Lady 
 Peterborough and Miss Mordaunt are to be of the party ; 
 the former a dissipated woman of fashion, and the latter 
 a haughty beauty. Retirement is our passion and our 
 delight ; it is in still life alone we look for that measure of 
 happiness we can rationally expect below. What have we 
 to do therefore with characters like these ? shall we go to 
 the dancing school again ? shall we cast off the simplicity 
 
 20 of our plain and artless demeanour, to learn, and not in 
 a youthful day neither, the manners of those whose manners 
 at the best are their only recommendation, and yet can in 
 reality recommend them to none, but to people like 
 themselves ? This would be folly which nothing but 
 necessity could excuse, and in our case no such necessity 
 can possibly obtain. We will not go into the world, and if 
 the world would come to us, we must give it the French 
 answer — Monsieur et Madame ne sont pas visibles. . . . — 
 Yours, W. C. 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 3° June 12, 1782. 
 
 My dear Friend — Every extraordinary occurrence in 
 our lives affords us an opportunity to learn, if we will, 
 something more of our own hearts and tempers than we
 
 LONGING FOR PRAISE 127 
 
 were before aware of. It is easy to promise ourselvi 
 beforehand, that our conduct shall be wise, or moderal 
 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 ourselves much about 
 what the critics may say of our book. But having once 10 
 sent my wits for a venture, I soon became anxious about 
 the issue, and found that I could not be satisfied 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, I began to feel the workings of 
 ambition. It is well, said I, that my friends are pleased, 
 but friends are sometimes 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 20 
 Magazine, and the Gentleman's, particularly by that oft; 
 former, and by the plaudit of Dr. Franklin. 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 
 critical Rhadamanthus say, when my shivering genius 
 shall appear before him ? Still he keeps me in hot water, 
 and I must wait another month for his award. Alas ! 30 
 when I wish for a favourable sentence from that quart, r 
 (to confess a weakness that I should not confess to all), 
 I feel myself not a little influenced by a tender regard to 
 my reputation here, even among my neighbours at (Jim v. 
 Here are watchmakers, who themselves are wits, and who
 
 128 KITTENS AND SNAKE 
 
 at present perhaps tliink me one. Here is a carpenter, and 
 a baker, and not to mention others, here is your idol 
 Mr. Teedon, whose smile is fame. All these read the 
 Monthly Review, and all these will set me down for a dunce, 
 if those terrible critics show them the example. But oh ! 
 wherever else I am accounted dull, dear Mr. Griffith, let 
 me pass for a genius at Olney ! . . . — Yours, W. C. 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 Aug. 3, 1782. 
 My dear Friend — ... It is a sort of paradox, but it is 
 
 10 true : we are never more in danger than when we tliink 
 ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure than 
 when we seem to be most in danger. Both sides of this 
 apparent contradiction were lately verified in my experi- 
 ence. — Passing from the greenhouse to the barn, I saw 
 three kittens (for we have so many in our retinue) looking 
 with fixed attention at something, which lay on the 
 threshold of a door, coiled up. I took but little notice of 
 them at first ; but a loud hiss engaged me to attend more 
 closely, when behold — a viper ! the largest I remember 
 
 20 to have seen, rearing itself, darting its forked tongue, and 
 ejaculating the afore-mentioned 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 returning in a few seconds missed him : he was 
 gone, and I feared had escaped me. Still however the 
 kitten sat watching immoveably upon the 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 
 
 30 in close conversation with the old cat, whose curiosity 
 being excited by so novel an appearance, inclined her to 
 pat las head repeatedly with her fore foot ; with her claws
 
 KITTENS AND SNAKE 129 
 
 however sheathed, and not in anger; but in the 
 philosophical inquiry and examination. To prevent her 
 falling a victim to so laudable an exercise of her taints, 
 I interposed in a moment with the hoe, and perform* d upon 
 him an act of decapitation, which though not immediati 
 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 outhouses, it is hardly possible but that some of the 
 family must have been bitten ; he might have been trodden 10 
 upon without being perceived, and have slipped away 
 before the sufferer could have well distinguished what foe 
 had wounded him. Three years ago we discovered one in 
 the same place, which the barber slew with a trowel. 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 Nov. iS, 17S2 
 My dear William — ... I little thought when I was 
 writing the history 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 laughs, at least if they have the same relish for a tali 
 ridiculous in itself, and quaintly told, as we have. — Well — 
 they do not always laugh so innocently, or at so small an 
 expense — for in a world like this, abounding with subjects 
 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, Vivt 
 — a good wish for a philosopher of his complexion, t: 
 greater part of whose wisdom, whencesoever it came, ! 
 certainly came not from above. La bagatelle has n<> 
 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 30 
 because I am reduced to it by necessity— a melancholy, 
 2179.8 1
 
 130 INNOCENT LAUGHTER 
 
 that nothing else so effectually disperses, engages me some- 
 times in the arduous task of being merry 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. To say truth, it would be but a shocking vagary, 
 should the mariners on board a ship buffeted by a terrible 
 storm, employ themselves in fiddling and dancing ; yet 
 sometimes much such a part act I. . . . — Yours, my dear 
 10 William, W. C. 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. 
 
 Dec. 7, 17S2. 
 My dear Friend — At seven o'clock this 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 teapot 
 to the ceiling with his right hand, while in his left the 
 teacup descending 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 
 
 20 becomes a roaring sillabub. 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 circum- 
 stance 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 domestic fireside, in a retreat as silent as retirement can 
 make it ; where no noise is made but what we make for 
 our own amusement. For instance here are two rustics, 
 
 30 and your humble 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 meantime, howling under the chair of
 
 SIMPLE PLEASURES 
 
 the former, performed, in the vocal way, to admiration. 
 This entertainment over, I began my letter, and hr. 
 nothing more important to communicate, have given you 
 an account of it. I know you love dearly to be idle, when 
 you can find an opportunity to be so ; but as such op] 
 tunities are rare with you, I thought it possible I 
 a short description of the idleness I enjoy might give you 
 pleasure. The happiness we cannot call our own, we yi t 
 seem to possess, while we sympathize with our friends 
 who can. 10 
 
 The papers tell me that peace is at hand, and that it is 
 at a great distance ; that the siege of Gibraltar is aban- 
 doned, and that it is to be still continued. It is happy for 
 me, that though I love my country, I have but h 
 curiosity. There was a time when these contradictions 
 would have distressed me, but I have learnt by experience 
 that it is best for little people like myself to be patient, and 
 to wait till time affords the intelligence which no specula- 
 tions of theirs can ever furnish. Wm. Cowper. 
 
 To Joseph Hill, Esq. 
 
 Nov. ii, 1782. 20 
 My dear Friend — ... I am glad your health is such, that 
 you have nothing more to complain of than may bo expect. 1 
 on the downhill side of life. If mine is better than your . 
 it is to be attributed, I suppose, principally, to the constant 
 enjoyment of country air and retirement ; the most p 1 
 regularity in matters of eating, drinking, and sleeping ; 
 and a happy emancipation from everything that wears ti 
 face of business. I lead the life I always wished for, and 
 the single circumstance of dependence excepted (which, 
 between ourselves, is very contrary to my predominant 30 
 humour and disposition), have no want left broad < D 
 for another wish to stand upon. . . .Yours affectionately, 
 
 Wm. 1 el 
 
 1 2
 
 i .j ENGLAND AND AMERICA 
 
 To the Rev. Joiix Newton 
 
 Jan. 26, 1783. 
 My dear Friend — It is reported among persons of the 
 best intelligence at Olney — the barber, the schoolmaster, 
 and the drummer of a corps quartered at this place — that 
 the belligerent powers are at last reconciled, the articles of 
 the treaty adjusted, and that peace is at the door. 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 consultation was 
 
 10 a blacksmith's shed, very comfortably 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 oppor- 
 
 20 tunity to rejoice in the completion of it. The powers of 
 Europe have clashed with each other to a fine purpose ; 
 that the Americans, 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 
 1 >e, 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 neighbours. Your opinions 
 nd 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
 
 ENGLAND AND AMERICA 133 
 
 instances acted with a spirit of cruel animosity she v. 
 never chargeable with till now. But this is the v. 
 that can be said. On the other hand, the Americans, 
 who, if they had contented themselves with a struggle I 
 lawful liberty, would have deserved applai. 
 to have incurred the guilt of parricide, by n ing their 
 
 parent, by making her ruin their favourite object, and by 
 associating themselves with their worst enemy, for ti 
 accomplishment of their purpose. France, and of course 
 Spain, have acted a treacherous, a thievish part. They 10 
 have stolen America from England, and whether they are 
 able to possess themselves of that jewel or not hereafter, 
 it was doubtless what they intended. Holland <rs 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 threshed 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, 20 
 perhaps, call her the aggressor ; but if she were so, Ami 1 
 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, ti 
 proofs are found upon them. I think, therefore, that 
 whatever 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 un 
 the shed I described, and that I should make no small 
 figure among the quidnuncs of Olney. . . . — Yours, my dear 30 
 Friend, as ever, W • C.
 
 134 MR. BULL'S DEFECT 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 June 8, 1783. 
 You are not acquainted with the Rev. Mr. Bull, of 
 Newport ; perhaps it is as well for you that you are not. 
 You would regret still more than you do, that there are 
 so many miles interposed between us. He spends part of 
 the day with us to-morrow. A dissenter, but a liberal one ; 
 a man of letters and of genius ; master of a fine imagina- 
 tion, or rather not master of it, — an imagination which, 
 when he finds himself in the company he loves, and can 
 
 10 confide in, runs away with Mm into such fields of specula- 
 tion, as amuse and enliven every other imagination that 
 has the happiness to be of the party. At other times he 
 has a tender and delicate sort of melancholy in his dis- 
 position, not less agreeable in its way. No men are better 
 qualified for comparisons in such a world as this, than 
 men of such a temperament. Every scene of life has two 
 sides, a dark and a bright one, and the mind that has an 
 equal mixture of melancholy and vivacity is best of all 
 qualified for the contemplation of either ; it can be lively 
 
 2c without levity, and pensive without dejection. Such 
 a man is Mr. Bull. But — he smokes tobacco. Nothing is 
 perfect, — 
 
 Nihil est ab omni 
 
 Parte beatum. 
 . . . Y( mrs, W. C. 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 August 4, 17S3. 
 
 I have two goldfinches, which in the summer occupy the 
 
 greenhouse. A few days since, being employed in cleaning 
 
 out tli' ir cages, I placed that which I had in hand upon 
 
 30 tip- table, while the other hung against the wall: the 
 
 windows and the doors stood wide open. I went to fill
 
 THE TWO GOLDFINCH! DS 
 
 the fountain at the pump, and on my return w.is not 
 a little surprised to find a goldfinch sitting on the top 
 the cage I had been cleaning, and singing to and ki sing 
 the goldfinch within. I approached him, and he dis- 
 covered no fear; still nearer, and he discovered none. 
 I advanced my hand towards him, and he took no no: 
 of it. I seized him, and supposed I had caught a ; 
 bird, but casting my eye upon the other cage percei 
 my mistake. Its inhabitant, during my absence, had i 
 trived to find an opening, where the wire had been a little 10 
 bent, and made no other use of the escape it afforded 
 him, than to salute his friend, and to converse with him 
 more intimately than he had done before. I returned him 
 to his proper mansion, but in vain. In less than a niii 
 he had thrust his little person through the aperture again, 
 and again perched upon his neighbour's cage, kissing him, 
 as at the first, and singing, as if transported with t! 
 fortunate adventure. I could not but respect such friend- 
 ship, as for the sake of its gratification had twice declini d 
 an opportunity to be free, and, consenting to their union, 20 
 resolved that for the future one cage should hold them 
 both. I am glad of such incidents ; for at a pinch, and 
 when I need entertainment, the versification of them serves 
 to divert me. . . . — Yours ever, V\ . C. 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton 
 
 M v. 3, 1783. 
 
 My dear Friend — My time is short, and my opportunity 
 not the most favourable. My letter will consequently be 
 short likewise, and perhaps not very intelligible. I find it 
 no very easy matter to bring my mind into that d< 
 composure, which is necessary to the arrangement either 30 
 of words or matter. You will naturally expi ct to 1 
 some account of this confusion that I describ .
 
 136 FIRE! FIRE I 
 
 given for it. — On Saturday night, at eleven o'clock, when 
 1 had not been in bed five minutes, I was alarmed by 
 a cry of fire, announced by two or three shrill screams upon 
 our staircase. Our servants, who were going to bed, saw 
 it from their windows, and in appearance so near, that 
 they thought our house in danger. I immediately rose, and 
 putting by the curtain, saw sheets of fire rising above the 
 ridge of Mr. Palmer's house, opposite to ours. The decep- 
 tion was such, that I had no doubt it had begun with him, 
 
 10 but soon found that it was rather farther off. In fact, it 
 was at three places ; — in the outhouses belonging to George 
 Griggs, Lucy and Abigail Tyrrel. Having broke out in 
 three different parts, it is supposed to have been maliciously 
 kindled. A tar-barrel and a quantity of tallow made a most 
 tremendous blaze, and the buildings it had seized upon 
 being all thatched, the appearance became every moment 
 more formidable. Providentially, the night was perfectly 
 calm ; so calm that candles without lanterns, of which 
 there were multitudes in the street, burnt as steadily as 
 
 20 in a house. By four in the morning it was so far reduced, 
 that all danger seemed to be over ; but the confusion it 
 had occasioned was almost infinite. Every man who 
 supposed his dwelling-house in jeopardy, emptied it as fast 
 as he could, and conveyed his moveables to the house of 
 some neighbour, supposed to be more secure. Ours, in 
 the space of two hours, was so filled with all sorts of lumber, 
 that we had not even room for a chair by the fireside. 
 George Griggs is the principal sufferer. He gave eighteen 
 guineas, or nearly that sum, to a woman whom, in his 
 
 30 hurry, he mistook for his wife ; but the supposed wife 
 walk.-d off with the money, and he will probably never 
 recover it. He lias likewise lost forty pounds' worth of 
 wool. Pond'. 11 never exhibited a scene of greater depreda- 
 tion, drunkenness, and riot. Everything was stolen that 
 could be got at, and every drop of liquor drunk that
 
 A SPECIAL PROVIDIAN- 
 
 was not guarded. Only one thief has yet been detected ; 
 
 a woman of the name of J , who was stopped bv 
 
 Handscomb with an apron full of plunder. He was fori i 
 to strike her down, before he could wrest it from her. 
 Could you visit the place, 3^ou would see a most n 
 proof of a Providence interposing to stop the p » ol 
 
 the flames. They had almost reached, that is to 
 within six yards of Daniel Raban's wood-pile, in which 
 were fifty-pounds' worth of faggots and furze; and 
 exactly there they were extinguished ; otherwise, especially 
 if a breath of air had happened to move, all that side of 
 the town must probably have been consumed. After all 
 this dreadful conflagration, we find nothing burnt but the 
 outhouses ; and the dwellings to which they belonged 
 have suffered only the damage of being unroofed on that 
 side next the fire. No lives were lost, nor any limbs 
 broken. Mrs. Unwin, whose spirits served her while the 
 hubbub lasted, and the day after, begins to feel the effect 
 of it now. But I hope she will be relieved from it soon, 
 being better this evening than I expected. As for me, 20 
 I am impregnable to all such assaults. I have nothin 
 however, but this subject in my mind, and it is in vain 
 that I invite any other into it. Having, therefore, exhausted 
 this, I finish, assuring you of our united love, and hi 
 to find myself in a frame of mind more suited to my 
 employment when I write next. — Yours, my dear Friend, 
 
 W. C. 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton 
 
 Nov. 17, [783. 
 
 My dear Friend — . . . The country around us is mi 
 alarmed with apprehensions of fire. Two have happened 3° 
 since that of Olney. One at Hitchin, whore the damage is 
 said to amount to eleven thousand pounds, and anothi r, 
 at a place not far from Hitchin, of which I have not leamt
 
 I3S OLNEY IN DISORDER 
 
 the name. Letters have been dropped at Bedford, threaten- 
 ing to burn the town ; and the inhabitants have been so 
 intimidated as to place a guard in man}- parts of it, several 
 nights past. Some madman orsome devil has broke loose, 
 who it is to be hoped will pay dear for these effusions of his 
 malignity. Since our conflagration here, we have sent two 
 women and a boy to the justice, for depredation; Sue 
 Riviss, for stealing a piece of beef, which, in her excuse, she 
 said she intended to take care of. This lady, whom you will 
 
 io remember, escaped for want of evidence ; not that evidence 
 was indeed wanting, but our men of Gotham judged it 
 unnecessary to send it. With her went the woman I men- 
 tioned before, who, it seems, has made some sort of pro- 
 fession, but upon this occasion allowed herself a latitude of 
 conduct rather inconsistent with it, having filled her apron 
 with wearing apparel, which she likewise intended to take 
 care of. She would have gone to the county gaol, had 
 Billy Raban, the baker's son, who prosecuted, insisted upon 
 it ; but he good-naturedly, though I think weakly, inter- 
 
 20 posed in her favour, and begged her off. The young gentle- 
 man who accompanied these fair ones, is the junior son of 
 Molly Boswell. He had stolen some ironwork, the property 
 of Griggs, the butcher. Being convicted, he was ordered to 
 be whipt, which operation he underwent at the cart's tail, 
 from the stone-house to the high arch, and back again. He 
 seemed to show great fortitude, but it was all an imposition 
 upon the public. The beadle, who performed, had filled his 
 Ii It hand with red ochre, through which, after every stroke, 
 he drew the lash of his whip, leaving the appearance of 
 
 30 a wound upon the skin, but in reality not hurting him at all. 
 This being perceived by Mr. Constable Hinschcomb, who 
 followed the beadle, he applied his cane, without any such 
 management or precaution, to the shoulders of the too 
 n i tul executioner. The scene immediately became more 
 interesting. The beadle could by no means be prevailed
 
 THE MERCIFUL BEADLE 
 
 upon to strike hard, which provoked the constable to still 
 harder; and this double flogging continued, till a lass of 
 Silver-end, pitying the pitiful beadle thus suffering under 
 the hands of the pitiless constable, joined the procession, 
 and placing herself immediately behind the latter, seized 
 him by his capillary club, and pulling him backwards by the 
 same, slapt his face with a most Amazonian fury. This 
 concatenation of events has taken up more of my ] .1] 
 than I intended it should, but I could not forbear to inform 
 you how the beadle threshed the thief, the const able the 10 
 beadle, and the lady the constable, and how the thief was 
 t he only person concerned who suffered nothing. Mr. Teedon 
 has been here, and is gone again. He came to thank me for 
 an old pair of breeches. In answer to our inquiries alter his 
 health, he replied that he had a slow fever, which made him 
 take all possible care not to inflame his blood. I admitt. d 
 his prudence, but in his particular instance, could not very 
 clearly discern the need of it. Pump water will not h< at him 
 much ; and, to speak a little in his own style, more inebriat- 
 ing fluids are to him, I fancy, not very attainable. 1 1 
 brought us news, the truth of which, however, I do not 
 vouch for, that the town of Bedford was actually on fire 
 yesterday, and the flames not extinguished when the bearei 
 of the tidings left it. 
 
 Swift observes, when he is giving his reasons why the 
 preacher is elevated always above his hearers, that let I 
 crowd be as great as it will below, there is always room 
 enough overhead. If the French philosophers can carry 
 their art of flying to the perfection they desire, the 
 tion may be reversed, the crowd will be ov< rh< ad, and they 3 o 
 will have most room who stay below. I can u, 
 
 however, upon my own experience, that this way of travel- 
 ling is very delightful. I dreamt, a night or two since, that 
 I drove myself through the upper regions in a balloon a: 
 pair, with the greatest ease and security. Having finish) d
 
 i 4 o BALLOONING 
 
 the tour I intended, I made a short turn, and, with one 
 flourish of my whip, descended ; my horses prancing and 
 curvetting with an infinite share of spirit, but without the 
 lea-t (Linger, either to me or my vehicle. The time, we may 
 suppose, is at hand, and seems to be prognosticated by my 
 dream, when these airy excursions will be universal, when 
 judges will fly the circuit, and bishops their visitations ; 
 and when the tour of Europe will be performed with much 
 greater speed, and with equal advantage, by all who travel 
 xo merely for the sake of having it to say, that they have 
 made it. . . . — Yours, my dear Friend, 
 
 Wm. Cowper. 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 [Xo date.] 
 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, little more than a mile from 
 Olney, there lives a family whose name is Throckmorton. 
 The present possessor of the estate 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 
 
 20 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 
 favoured 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, I sent him a compli- 
 mentary card, requesting the continuance of that privilege, 
 having till then enjoyed it by the favour of his mother, who 
 on that occasion went to finish her days at Bath. You may 
 conclude that he granted it, and for about two years 
 
 30 nothing more passed between us. A fortnight ago, I received 
 an invitation in the ci vilest terms, in which he told me that 
 the next day he should attempt to fill a balloon, and if it
 
 MAKING NEW FRIENDS i ;r 
 
 would beany pleasure to me to be present, should be ha] 
 to see me. Your mother and I went. The whole country 
 were there, but the balloon could not be filled. The 
 endeavour was, I believe, very philosophically made, but 
 such a process depends for its success upon such nil I 
 as make it very precarious. Our reception was howevi r 
 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 them- 10 
 selves 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. observed 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 20 
 their only retreat in which they are not liable to inter- 
 ruption. She offered us a key of it in a manner that 
 made it impossible not to accept it, and said she would 
 send us one. A few days afterwards, in the cool of the 
 evening, we walked that way again. We saw them goii 
 toward the house, and exchanged bows and curtsies at 
 a little distance, but did not join them. Inafewminuti . 
 when we had passed the house, and had almost reached the 
 gate that opens out of the park into the adjoining field, 
 I heard the iron gate belonging to the courtyard ring, and 30 
 saw Mr. T. advancing hastily toward us ; we mad 
 haste to meet him, he presented to us the key, which 1 
 him I esteemed a singular favour, and after a few such 
 speeches as are made on such occasions, we parted. J his 
 happened about a week ago. I concluded nothing less, than
 
 142 MAKING NEW FRIENDS 
 
 that all this civility and attention was designed, on their 
 part, as a prelude to a nearer acquaintance : but here at 
 pr sent the matter rests. I should like exceedingly to be 
 on an easy footing there, to give a morning call, and now 
 and then to receive one, but nothing more. For though he 
 is one of the most agreeable men I ever saw, I could not 
 wish to visit him in any other way, neither our house, 
 furniture, servants, or income, being such as qualify us to 
 make entertainments ; neither would I on any account be 
 10 introduced to the neighbouring gentry, which must be the 
 consequence of our dining there, there not being a man in 
 the country, except himself, with whom I could endure to 
 associate. They are squires, merely such, purse-proud and 
 sportsmen. But Mr. T. is altogether a man of fashion, and 
 respectable on every account 
 
 I have told you a long story. Farewell. We number the 
 days as they pass, and are glad that we shall see you and 
 your sister soon. — Yours, &c. \V. C. 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton 
 
 March 29, 1784. 
 
 20 My dear Friend — It being his majesty's pleasure that 
 I should yet have another opportunity to write before he 
 dissolves the parliament, I avail myself of it with all 
 possible 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 tin- 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 
 
 30 we Live as undisturbed by the political element, as shrimps 
 or cockles that have been accidentally deposited in some 
 hallow beyond the water mark, by the usual dashing of the
 
 ENTER THE CANDIDA 1 I. 
 
 waves. We were sitting yesterday after dinner, the t 
 ladies and myself, very composedly, and without the lei 
 apprehension of any such intrusion in our snug parlour, one 
 lady knitting, the other netting, and the gentleman windii 
 worsted, when to our unspeakable Surprise a mob app< ar d 
 before the window ; a smart rap was heard at the door, the 
 boys halloo' d, and the maid announced Mr. Grenville. 
 
 Puss was unfortunately let out of her box, so that thf 
 candidate, with all his good friends at his heels, was refused 
 admittance at the grand entry, and referred to the back 10 
 door, as the only possible way of approach. 
 
 Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of affronts, 
 and would rather, I suppose, climb in at a window, than be 
 absolutely excluded. In a minute, the yard, the kitchen, 
 and the parlour, were filled. Mr. Grenville, 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, 20 
 which he was not equally inclined to believe, and the less, no 
 doubt, because Mr. Ashburner, the draper, addp 
 himself to me at this moment, informed me that I had 
 a great deal. Supposing that I could not be poss< tss< id 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. Grenville squeezed me by 
 the hand again, kissed the ladies, and withdrew. He kiss 
 likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed upon the whole }o 
 a most loving, kissing, kind-hearted gentleman. He is very 
 young, genteel, and handsome. He has a pair of v. ry gi >od 
 eyes in his head, which not being sufficient 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 riband from his
 
 i 4 4 A KISSING GENTLEMAN 
 
 button-hole. The boys halloo'd, the dogs barked, Puss 
 scampered, the hero, with his long train of obsequious 
 fol . 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 influence for which he sued ; and 
 which, had I been possessed of it, with my present views of 
 the dispute between the Crown and the Commons, I must 
 
 10 have refused him, for he is on the side of the former. It is 
 comfortable to be of no consequence in a world where one 
 cannot exercise any without disobliging somebody. The 
 town, however, seems to be much at his service, and if he 
 be equally successful throughout the county, he will 
 undoubtedly gain his election. Mr. Ashburner perhaps was 
 a little mortified, because it was evident that I owed the 
 honour of this visit to his misrepresentation of my impor- 
 tance. But had he thought proper to assure Mr. Grenville 
 that I had three heads, I should not I suppose have been 
 
 20 bound to produce them. . . . W. C. 
 
 M. U. 
 
 To the Rev. John Newton 
 
 Sept. 24, 1785. 
 My dear Friend — ... I remember 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 assembly-room in my 
 life. I never was fond of company, and especially disliked 
 it in the country. A walk to Netley Abbey, or to Free- 
 mantle, or to Redbridge, or a book by the fireside, had 
 30 always more charms for me than any other amusement 
 that the place afforded. I was also a sailor, and being of 
 Sir Thomas Hesketh's party, who was himself born one, 
 was often pressed into the service. But though I gave
 
 SOUTHAMPTON WATER M5 
 
 myself an air, and wore trousers, I had no genuine right to 
 
 that honour, disliking much to be occupied m gn at v. 
 unless in the finest weather. How th< rive to elu 
 
 the wearisomeness that attends a sea life, who t ng 
 
 voyages, you know better than I ; but for my own 
 I seldom have sailed so far as from Hampton river to I'm 
 mouth, without feeling the confinement irksome, and some- 
 times to a degree that was almost insupportable. '1 here is 
 a certain perverseness, of which I believe all men I. 
 a share, but of which no man has a larger share than I ;— ic 
 I mean that temper, or humour, or whatever it is to be 
 called, that indisposes us to a situation, though not un- 
 pleasant 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 20 
 a corn-field or a garden, I should have liked it well enough : 
 but being surrounded with water, I 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 
 abridgement of my liberty. I make little doubt but Noah 
 was glad when he was enlarged 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. W. C. 
 
 To Lady Hesketii 
 
 Olncy, Nov, g, 1785. 
 
 My dearest Cousin — Whose last most affectionate li tt< r 30 
 has run in my head ever since I received it, and whit h I 1 
 sit down to answer two days sooner than the post will sen e 
 
 2179.8 K
 
 i 4 6 LADY HESKETH 
 
 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 
 wop Is in describing it. I do not seek new friends, not being 
 altogether sure that I should find them, but have unspeak- 
 able pleasure in being still beloved by an old one. I hope 
 that now our correspondence has suffered its last interrup- 
 tion, and that we shall go down together to the grave, 
 chatting and chirping as merrily as such a scene of things as 
 this will permit. 
 
 10 I am happy that my poems have pleased you. My 
 volume has afforded me no such pleasure at any time, either 
 while I was writing it, or since its publication, as I have 
 derived 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 honour John Gilpin, 
 since it was he who first encouraged you to write. I made 
 
 20 him on purpose to laugh at, and he served his purpose well ; 
 but I am now in debt to him for a more valuable acquisition 
 than all the laughter in the world amounts to, the recovery 
 of my intercourse with you, which is to me inestimable. 
 My benevolent and generous 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 favour. 
 I n ith r suffer, nor have suffered, any such inconveniences 
 as I had not much rather endure than come under obliga- 
 
 30 tions 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 con- 
 straint, and from all fear of trespassing by acceptance. To
 
 HIS FINANCES 1)7 
 
 you, therefore, I reply, yes. Whensoever, and whatsoi ver, 
 and in what manner-soever you please ; and add more-over, 
 that my affection for the giver is such as will increase to mc 
 tenfold the satisfaction that I shall have in receiving. It is 
 necessary, however, that I should let you a little into the 
 state of my finances, that you may not suppose them more 
 narrowly circumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Unwin 
 and I have lived at Olney, we have had but one pui 
 although during the whole of that time, till lately, her 
 income was nearly double mine. Her revenues indeed are 10 
 now in some measure reduced, and do not much exceed 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, depend upon. My own 
 income has been better than it is, but when it was best, it 
 would not have enabled me to live as my connexions 
 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 20 
 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 yourself in 
 communicating (no matter what) that you can spare without 
 missing it, since by so doing you will be sure to add to the 
 comforts of my life one of the sweetest that I can enjoy — 
 a token and proof of your affection. 3° 
 
 I cannot believe but that I should know you, notwith- 
 standing 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 
 
 K 2
 
 148 HIS HAIR 
 
 woman upon earth can claim them but herself. As for me, 
 I am a very smart youth of my years ; I am not indeed 
 grown grey so much as I am grown bald. No matter : there 
 was more hair in the world than ever had the honour to 
 b long 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 behind, I appear, if you see me in an after- 
 noon, to have a very decent head-dress, not easily dis- 
 tinguished from my natural growth, which being worn with 
 10 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. 
 
 PS. — That the view I give you of myself may be com- 
 plete, I add the two following items — That I am in debt to 
 nobody, and that I grow fat. 
 
 To Lady Hesketh 
 
 Olney, Dec. 6, 17S5. 
 
 My dear Cousin — I write not upon my desk, but about 
 it. Having in vain expected it by the w^agon that followed 
 your letter, I again expected it by the next ; and thinking 
 20 it likely that it might arrive last night at Sherrington, I sent 
 a man owr thither this morning, hoping to see him return 
 with it ; but again I am disappointed. I have felt an 
 impatience to receive it that you yourself have taught me, 
 and now think it necessary to let you know that it is not 
 come, lest it should perhaps be detained in London, by the 
 
 gligence of somebody to whom you might entrust the 
 packing of it, or its carnage to the inn. 
 
 I shall be obliged to be more concise than I choose to be 
 
 wlun I write to you, for want of time to indulge myself in 
 
 citing more. How, will you say, can a man want time, 
 
 who hvcs in the country, without business, and without 
 
 j ighbours, who visits nobody, and who is visited himself
 
 COMMONS 149 
 
 so seldom ? My dear, I have been at the races this mi irning, 
 and have another letter to write this evening ; the post sets 
 out at seven, and it is now drawing near to six. A line day, 
 you will say, for the races, and the better, no doubt, because 
 it has rained continually ever since the morning. At what 
 races do you suppose that I have been ? I might l< iu 
 
 to guess, but loving you too well to leave you under 1. 
 burthen of an employment that must prove for ever vain, 
 I will even tell you, and keep you no longer in suspem 
 I have been at Troy, where the principal heroes of the 10 
 Iliad have been running for such a prize as our jockeys 
 would disdain to saddle a horse for ; and yet I assure you 
 they acquitted themselves most nobly, though a kettle and 
 a frying-pan were to reward their labours. 
 
 I never answered your question concerning my strong 
 partiality to a common. I well remember making the 
 speech of which you remind me, and the very place where 
 I made it was upon a common, in the neighbourhood of 
 Southampton, the name of which, however, I have forgot. 
 But I perfectly recollect that I boasted of the sagacity that 20 
 you mention just after having carried you over a dirty part 
 of the road that led to it. My nostrils have hardly been 
 regaled with those wild odours from that day to the present. 
 We have no such here. If there ever were any such in this 
 country, the enclosures have long since destroyed them ; 
 but we have a scent in the fields about Olncy, that 
 equally agreeable, and which, even after attentive examin 
 tion, I have never been able to account for. It proceeds, so 
 far as I can find, neither from herb, nor tree, nor shrub : 
 I should suppose therefore that it is in the soil. It is exactly 30 
 the scent of amber when it has been rubbed hard, only moi 
 potent. I have never observed it except in hot weather, or 
 in places where the sun shines powerfully, and from which 
 the air is excluded. I had a strong poetical desire t< 1 
 it when I was writing the Common-scene in The Task, but
 
 150 THE OLNEY PENELOPE 
 
 feared Lest the infrequency of such a singular property in the 
 earth, should have tempted the reader to ascribe it to a 
 fanciful nose, at least to have suspected it for a deliberate 
 fiction. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Unwin (who begs to be mentioned to you with 
 affectionate respect) sits knitting my stockings at my elbow, 
 with a degree of industry worthy of Penelope herself. You 
 will not think this an exaggeration when I tell you that I 
 have not bought a pair these twenty years, either of thread, 
 10 silk, or worsted. 
 
 Adieu, my most beloved Cousin ; if you get this before 
 I have an answer to my last, let me soon have an answer to 
 them both. — Truly } T ours, 
 
 Wm. Cowper. 
 
 To Lady Hesketh 
 
 Thursday, Dec. 15, 1785. 
 Dearest Cousin — My desk is always pleasant, but never so 
 pleasant as when I am writing to you. If I am not obliged 
 to you for the thing itself, at least I am for your having 
 decided the matter against me, and resolving that it should 
 20 come in spite of all my objections. Before it arrived, Mrs. 
 Unwin had spied out for it a place that exactly suits it. 
 A certain fly-table in the corner of the room, which I had 
 overlooked, affords it a convenient stand when it is not 
 wanted, and it is easily transferred to a larger when it is. 
 If I must not know to whom I am principally indebted for it, 
 at least let me entreat you to make my acknowledgements of 
 gratitude and love. As to my frequent use of it, I will 
 t( 11 you how that matter stands. When I was writing 
 my first volume, and was but just beginning to emerge 
 rom a state of melancholy that had continued some years 
 (from which, by the way, I do not account myself even now 
 delivt red . Mrs. Unwin insisted on my relinquishing the pen, 
 apprehending consequences injurious to my health. When
 
 DAILY ROUTINE 151 
 
 ladies insist, you know, there is an end of the bush 
 obedience on our part becomes necessary. I accordingly 
 obeyed, but having lost my fiddle, I became pensive and 
 unhappy ; she therefore restored it to me, convinced of its 
 utility, and from that day to this I have never ceased to 
 scrape. Observe, however, my dear, that I scrape not 
 always. My task that I assign myself is to translate forty 
 lines a day ; if they pass off easily I sometimes make them 
 fifty, but never abate any part of the allotted number. 
 Perhaps I am occupied an hour and a half, perhaps three 10 
 hours; but generally between two and three. This, you sec, 
 is labour that can hurt no man ; and what I have translated 
 in the morning, in the evening I transcribe. . . . 
 
 With respect to the enterprise itself, there arc certain 
 points of delicacy that will not suffer me to make a public 
 justification of it. It would ill become me avowedly to point 
 out the faults of Pope in a preface, and would be as impo- 
 litic as indecent. But to you, my dear, I can utter my mind 
 freely. Let me premise, however, that you answered the 
 gentleman's inquiry, whether in blank verse or not, to a 20 
 marvel. It is even so ; and let some critics say what they 
 will, I aver it, and will for ever aver it, that to give a just 
 representation of Homer in rhyme, is a natural impossi- 
 bility. Now for Pope himself : I will allow his whole merit. 
 He has written a great deal of very musical and sweet verse 
 in his translation of Homer, but his verse is not universally 
 such ; on the contrary, it is often lame, feeble, and Hat. He 
 has, besides, occasionally a felicity of expression peculiar to 
 himself ; but it is a felicity purely modern, and has nothin 
 to do with Homer. Except the Bible, there never was in the 3° 
 world a book so remarkable for that species of the sublime 
 that owes its very existence to simplicity, as the works of 
 Homer. He is always nervous, plain, natural. I refer v <u 
 your own knowledge of his copyist for a decision upon 1 •< ipe's 
 merits in these particulars. The garden in all the gaiety of
 
 152 POPE AGAIN 
 
 June is less flowery than his Translation. Metaphors of 
 which I Ii aner never dreamt, which he did not seek, and which 
 probably he would have disdained if he had found, follow 
 each other in quick succession like the sliding pictures in 
 a show-box. Homer is, on occasions that call for such a 
 style, the easiest and most familiar of all writers ; a circum- 
 stance that escaped Pope entirely, who takes most religious 
 care that he shall everywhere strut in buckram. The 
 speeches of his heroes are often animated to a degree that 
 
 10 Pope no doubt accounted unmannerly and rude, for he has 
 reduced numbers of them that are of that character to the 
 perfect standard of French goodbreeding. Shakespeare 
 himself did not excel Homer in discrimination of character, 
 neither is he more attentive to exact consistence and pre- 
 servation of it throughout. In Pope, to whatever cause it 
 was owing, whether he did not see it, or seeing it, accounted 
 it an affair of no moment, this great beauty is almost 
 absolutely annihilated. In short, my dear, there is hardly 
 anything in the world so unlike another, as Pope's version of 
 
 20 Homer to the original. Give me a great corking pin that 
 I may stick your faith upon my sleeve. There — it is done. 
 Now assure yourself, upon the credit of a man who made 
 Homer much his study in his youth, and who is perhaps 
 better acquainted with Pope's translation of him than 
 almost any man, having twenty-five years ago compared 
 them with each other line by line throughout ; upon the 
 credit of a man, too, who would not for the world deceive 
 you in the smallest matter, that Pope never entered into 
 the spirit of Homer ; that he never translated him ; I had 
 
 30 almost said, did not understand him : many passages it is 
 literally true that he did not. Why, when he first entered 
 on his task, did he (as he did, by his own confession) for 
 m that he was wandering in unknown ways, that 
 he was lost upon heaths and forests, and awoke in terror ? 
 1 will tell you, my dear, his dreams were emblems of his
 
 PLANS FOR A VISITOR 153 
 
 waking experience; and I am mistaken, if I could 1 
 near to prove that at his first setting out, he knew vei 
 little of Greek, and was never an adept in it, to the last. 
 Therefore, my beloved Cousin, once more take heart 
 I have a fair opportunity to acquire honour ; and if when 
 I have finished the Iliad, I do not upon cool consideration 
 think that I have secured it, I will burn the copy. 
 
 To Lady Hesketh 
 
 Olney, Feb. 9, 17S6. 
 . . . And now, my dear, let me tell you once more, that your 
 kindness in promising us a visit has charmed us both. 10 
 I shall see 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 described. 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 have 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 of June, because 20 
 before that time my green-house will not be ready to receive 
 us, and it is the only pleasant room belonging 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 honeysuckli 
 roses, and jasmine; and I will make you a bouquet of 
 myrtle every day. Sooner than the time I mention the 
 country will not be in complete beauty. And I will tell \ 
 what you shall find at your first entrance. Imprimis, as 
 soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a look on 30 
 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
 
 i 5 4 THE GREENHOUSE 
 
 hares, and in which lodges Puss at present : but he, poor 
 low, 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 I 
 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 purpose 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 
 
 10 will find the door of the parlour, 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 Jupiter keeps his wine. He swears that it 
 is a cask, and that it will never be anything better than a 
 
 20 cask to eternity. So if the god is content with it, we must 
 even wonder at his taste, and be so too. — Adieu ! my dearest, 
 dearest Cousin. W. C. 
 
 To Lady Hesketh 
 
 Olney, Feb. 11, 1786. 
 My dearest Cousin — ... 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 
 
 with Mrs. C e, and her sister, in King Street, 
 
 3 Bloomsbury, and there was the promise made. I said — 
 ' Thurlow, I am nobody, and shall be always nobody, and 
 you will be Chancellor. You shall provide for me when 
 you are.' He smiled, and replied, ' I surely will' — ' These
 
 NEIGHBOURLINESS 155 
 
 ladies,' said I, ' arc witnesses.' He still smiled, and said — 
 'Let them be so, for I will certainly do it.' Bui a] 
 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. Neither do I suppo 
 he could easily serve such a creature as I am, if he would. — 
 Adieu, whom I love entirely, \Y. C. 
 
 To Lady Hesketh 
 
 Olney, April 17, 17S6. 
 . . . The vicarage was built by Lord Dartmouth, and was 
 not finished till some time after we arrived at Olney, con- 10 
 sequently it is new. It is a smart stone building, well 
 sashed, by much too good for the living, but just what I 
 would wish for you. It has, as you justly concluded from 
 my premises, a garden, but rather calculated for use than 
 ornament. It is square, and well walled, but has neithi 
 arbour, 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 interposed nothing but an 
 orchard, into which a door opening out of our garden affords 
 us the easiest communication imaginable, will save th 
 roundabout by the town, and make both houses one. Your 
 chamber windows look over the river, and over the meadow 
 to a village called Emberton, and command the wh< >lc 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, you must bring them with you, or you will wish in 
 vain, for I have none but the works of a certain 
 Cowper, of whom perhaps you have heard, and they 
 as yet but two volumes. They may multiply hereafter ; 
 but at present they are no more. 3 ' 
 
 You are the first person for whom I have heard M 
 Unwin express such feelings as she does for you. She is not 
 profuse in professions, nor forward to enter into t; of
 
 I 5 6 * ANONYMOUS' 
 
 friendship with new faces ; but when her friendship is once 
 eu. it may be confided in even unto death. She loves 
 
 you already, and how much more will she love you before 
 this time twelvemonth ! I have indeed endeavoured to 
 describe you to her, but perfectly as I have you by heart, 
 I am sensible that my picture cannot do you justice. 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, 
 
 10 char 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 be unknown, and his choice is, 
 and ever shall be 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 
 
 20 thank him, I would 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 suffer by this laborious undertaking, are as 
 well as I could expect them to be, if I were never to touch 
 either book or pen. Subject to weakness, and occasional 
 slight inflammations, it is probable that they will always be ; 
 but I cannot remember the time when they enjoyed any- 
 thing so like an exemption from those infirmities as at 
 present. One would almost suppose that reading Homer 
 
 30 were the best ophthalmic in the world. I should be happy 
 
 to remove his solicitude on the subject, but it is a pleasure 
 
 that lie will not let me enjoy. Well then, I will be content 
 
 without it ; and so content that, though I believe you, my 
 
 ir, to be in full possession of all this mystery, you shall 
 
 r know me, while you live, cither directly, or by hints of
 
 EARLY LAW DAYS 157 
 
 any sort, attempt to extort, or to steal the secret from you. 
 I should think myself as justly punishable as the Beth- 
 shemites, 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 I cannot go for a thousand reasons. 
 The summer will set me up again. I grow fat evei 
 and shall be as big as Gog or Magog, or both put together, 
 before you come. 
 
 I did actually live three years with Mr. Chapman, a 10 
 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 giggling 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 into 
 that inimitable head of his, he may make a man of me yet. 
 I could love him heartily, if he would but deserve it at my 
 hands. That I did so once is certain. The Duchess of- -, 20 
 who in the world set her a-going ? But if all the duchesses 
 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 Tillotson did, and belter, 
 and the world 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, \\ . C. 
 
 To Lady Hesketh 
 
 Olney, June 4 and 5, 17S6. 
 Ah! my Cousin, you begin already to fear and quake. 3° 
 What a hero am I, compared with you ! I have no fea 
 of you ; on the contrary am as bold as a lion. I wish that 
 your carriage were even now at the door. You should » m >n
 
 i 5 S THE IDENTICAL COUSIN 
 
 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 Freemantle, and at 
 Bevis's Mount ? who used to read to you, laugh with you, 
 till our sides have ached, at anything, or nothing ? And am 
 I in these respects at all altered ? You will not find me so ; 
 but just as ready to laugh, and to wander, as you ever knew 
 me. A cloud perhaps may come over me now and then, 
 for a few hours, but from clouds I was never exempted. And 
 
 10 are not you the identical Cousin with whom I have per- 
 formed all these feats ? The very Harriet whom I saw, for 
 the first time, at De Grey's in Norfolk Street ? (It was on a 
 Sunday, when you came with my uncle and aunt to drink 
 tea there, and 1 had dined there, and was 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 conse- 
 quence follows ; and I do not promise myself more pleasure 
 from your company than I shall be sure to find. Then 
 you are my Cousin, in whom I always delighted, and 
 
 20 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 miserable 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 a note to invite us to dinner ; 
 
 30 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 welcome. Them- 
 Ives, and their chaplain, and we, were all the party. 
 After dinner we had much cheerful and pleasant talk, the 
 particulars of which might not perhaps be so entertaining
 
 TABLE TALK 159 
 
 upon paper, therefore all but one I will omit, and that I will 
 mention only because it will of itself be sufficient to give ; 
 an insight into their opinion on a very important subject, — ■ 
 their own religion. I happened to say that in all pro- 
 fessions and trades mankind affected an air of mystery. 
 Physicians, I observed, in particular, were objects of 
 that remark, who persist in prescribing in Latin, many 
 times no doubt to the hazard of a patient's life, through ti. 
 ignorance of an apothecary. Mr. Throckmorton assented 
 to what I said, and turning to his chaplain, to my infinite 10 
 surprise observed to him, ' That is just as absurd as our 
 praying in Latin.' 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 from Mrs. Unwin) on a most delight- 
 ful topic, viz. myself. In the first place, Mrs. Throckmorton 
 admired my book, from which she quoted by heart more 20 
 than I could repeat, though I so lately wrote it. . . . 
 
 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 interruption now and then occurring, 
 I have no objection. Lady Hesketh is, as you obsm 
 arrived, and has been with us near a fortnight. 
 pleases everybody, and is pleased in her turn with every- 
 thing she finds at Olney ; is always cheerful and sweet- 
 tempered, and knows no pleasure equal to that of com- 30 
 municating pleasure to us, and to all around her. '1 In- 
 disposition in her is the more comfortable, because it is 
 not the humour of the day, a sudden flash of benevolence
 
 1G0 LADY HESKETH 
 
 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 to 
 partake with us in our joy. I can now assure you that her 
 complexion is not at all indebted to art, having seen 
 a hundred times the most convincing proof of its authen- 
 ticity, her colour fading, and glowing again alternately as 
 the weather, or her own temperature has happened to 
 
 10 affect it, while she has been sitting before me. 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 compliment that our performers upon those instru- 
 ments have never paid to any other personage (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 honour. 
 Her first appearance was too much for me ; my spirits, 
 instead of being greatly raised, as I had inadvertently 
 
 20 supposed they would be, broke down with me under the 
 pressure of too much joy, and left me flat, or rather melan- 
 choly 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 intelligence that will give 
 you pleasure. When you first contemplated the front of 
 our abode, you were shocked. In your eyes it had the 
 
 30 appearance of a prison, and you sighed at the thought 
 that your mother dwelt in it. Your view of it was not 
 only just, but prophetic. It had not only the aspect of 
 a place built for the purpose of incarceration, but has 
 actually served that purpose through a long, long period, 
 and we have been the prisoners. But a gaol delivery is at
 
 WESTON'S CHARM 161 
 
 hand. The bolts and bars are to be loosed, and we shall 
 escape. A very different mansion, both in point of appear- 
 ance 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 
 England, and belongs to Mr. Throckmorton. We all tin 
 dine with him 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 si 
 will never let another year pass without a visit to us ; 10 
 and the house is large enough to contain 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 
 neighbourhood, there we shall have most agreeable neigh- 
 bours in the Throckmortons. Here we have a bad air in 
 winter, impregnated with the fishy smelling 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 20 
 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 constitution 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. A pretty deal of new furniture 
 will be wanted, especially chairs and beds, all which 
 my kind Cousin will provide, and fit up a parlour and 
 a chamber for herself into the bargain. So far is well, the 30 
 rest is left to Heaven. 
 
 Our love is with all your lovelies, both great and small. — 
 Yours ever, W. C. 
 
 2179.8
 
 r6a NEWTON'S VILE LETTER 
 
 To the Rev. William Unwin 
 
 Olney, Sept. 24, 17S6. 
 My dear William — . . . You have had your troubles, 
 and we ours. This day three weeks your mother received 
 a letter from Mr. Newton, which she has not yet answered, 
 nor is likely to answer hereafter. It gave us both much 
 concern, but her more than me ; I suppose because my 
 mind being necessarily occupied in my work, I had not so 
 much leisure to browse upon the wormwood that it con- 
 tained. The purport of it is a direct accusation of me, and 
 
 10 of her an accusation implied, that we have both deviated 
 into forbidden paths, and lead a life unbecoming the 
 Gospel. That many of my friends in London are grieved, 
 and the simple people of Olney astonished ; that he never 
 so much doubted of my restoration to Christian privileges 
 as now ; — in short, that I converse too much with people 
 of the world, and find too much pleasure in doing so. He 
 concludes with putting your mother in mind that there is 
 still an intercourse between London and Olney ; by which 
 he means to insinuate that we cannot offend against the 
 
 20 decorum that we are bound to observe, but the news of it 
 will most certainly be conveyed to him. We do not at 
 all doubt it ; — we never knew a lie hatched at Olney that 
 waited long for a bearer ; and though we do not wonder to 
 find ourselves made the subjects of a false accusation in 
 a place ever fruitful of such productions, we do and must 
 wonder a little, that he should listen to them with so much 
 credulity. I say this, because if he had heard only the 
 truth, or had believed no more than the truth, he would 
 not, I think, have found either me censurable or your 
 
 30 mother. And that she should be suspected of irregularities 
 is the more wonderful (for wonderful it would be at any 
 rate), because she sent him not long before a letter con- 
 ceived in such strains of piety and spirituality as ought to
 
 LADY HESKETII 
 
 have convinced him that she at least was no wanderer. 
 But what is the fact, and how do we spend our [time] in 
 reality ? What are the deeds for which we have 1 
 represented as thus criminal ? Our present course of In 
 differs in nothing from that which we have both held these 
 thirteen years, except that, after great civilities shown us, 
 and many advances made on the part of the Throcks, we 
 visit them. That we visit also at Gayhurst ; that we have 
 frequently taken airings with my cousin in her carriage ; 
 and that I have sometimes taken a walk with her on 10 
 a Sunday evening and sometimes by myself, which howe^ 
 your mother has never done. These are the only noveltii 
 in our practice ; and if by these procedures, so inoffensive 
 in themselves, we yet give offence, offence must needs be 
 given. God and our own consciences acquit us, and we 
 acknowledge no other judges. 
 
 The two families with whom we have kicked up this 
 astonishing intercourse are as harmless in their conversa- 
 tion and manners as can be found anywhere. And as to 
 my poor cousin, the only crime that she is guilty of against 20 
 the people of Olney is, that she has fed the hungry, clothed 
 the naked, and administered comfort to the sick ; — except 
 indeed that, by her great kindness, she has given us a little 
 lift in point of condition and circumstances, and has 
 thereby excited envy in some who have not the knack of 
 rejoicing in the prosperity of others. And this I take to 
 be the root of the matter. 
 
 My dear William, I do not know that I should have 
 teased your nerves and spirits with this disagreeable 
 theme, had not Mr. Newton talked of applying to you for 30 
 particulars. He would have done it, he says, when he 
 saw you last, but had not time. You are now qualified to 
 inform him as minutely as we ourselves could of all our 
 enormities! Adieu !— Our sincerest love to yourself 
 yours, * ' - v 
 
 l 2
 
 i6 4 THE PARISH CLERK CALLS 
 
 To Lady Hesketh 
 
 The Lodge, Nov. 27, 1787. 
 It is the part of wisdom, my dearest Cousin, to sit down 
 contented under the demands of necessity, because they 
 are such. I am sensible that you cannot in my uncle's 
 present infirm state, and of which it is not possible 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 Cansidice 
 mi once more, especially in the comfortable abode where 
 
 to you have placed him, and because after so long an imprison- 
 ment in London, you who love the country and have 
 a taste for it, would of course be glad to return to it. For 
 my own part, to me it is ever new, and though I have now 
 been an inhabitant of this village a twelvemonth, and 
 have during the half of that time been at liberty to 
 expatiate, and to make discoveries, I am daily finding out 
 fresh scenes and walks, which you would never be satisfied 
 with enjoying ; — some of them are unapproachable by you 
 cither on foot or in your carriage. Had you twenty toes 
 
 20 (whereas I suppose you have but ten) you could not reach 
 them ; and coach wheels have never been there since the 
 flood. Before it indeed (as Burnet says that the earth 
 was then perfectly free from all inequalities in its surface), 
 they might have been seen there every day. We have other 
 walks both upon hill-tops and in valleys beneath, some of 
 which by the help of your carriage, and many of them 
 without its help, would be always at your command. 
 
 On Monday morning last, Sam brought me word that 
 there was a man in the kitchen who desired to speak with 
 
 30 me. I ordered him in. A plain, decent, elderly figure made 
 its appearance, and being desired to sit, spoke as follows : 
 ' Sir, I am clerk of the parish of All-Saints, in Northampton ; 
 brother of Mr. Cox the upholsterer. It is customary for
 
 THE PARISH CLERK CALLS 165 
 
 the person in my office to annex to a bill of mortality, 
 which he publishes at Christmas, a copy of verses. Y< 
 would do me a great favour, Sir, if you would furnish me 
 with one.' To this, I replied. ' Mr. Cox, you have several 
 men of genius in your town, why have you not applied to 
 some of them ? There is a namesake of yours in par- 
 ticular, Cox, the statuary, who, everybody knows, is a 
 first-rate maker of verses. He surely is the man of all 
 the world for your purpose.' — ' Alas ! Sir, I have here- 
 tofore borrowed help from him, but he is a gentleman of 10 
 so much reading, that the people of our town cannot 
 understand him.' I confess to you, my dear, I felt all the 
 force of the compliment implied in this speech, and was 
 almost ready to answer, Perhaps, my good Friend, they 
 may find me unintelligible too for the same reason. But 
 on asking him whether he had walked over to Weston on 
 purpose to implore the assistance of my Muse, and on his 
 replying in the affirmative, I felt my mortified vanity a little 
 consoled, and pitying the poor man's distress which 
 appeared to be considerable, promised to supply him. 20 
 The wagon has accordingly gone this day to Northampton 
 loaded in part with my effusions in the mortuary sty] 
 A fig for poets who write epitaphs upon individuals ! 
 I have written one, that serves two hundred persons. . . . 
 
 A poor man begged food at the Hall lately. The cook 
 gave him some vermicelli soup. He ladled it about som* - 
 time with the spoon, and then returned it to her, saying, 
 ' I am a poor man it is true, and I am very hungry, but yet 
 I cannot eat broth with maggots in it.' Once more, my 
 dear, a thousand thanks for your box full of good things, 30 
 useful things, and beautiful things. — Yours ever, W. C.
 
 166 PRESENTS AND NEWS 
 
 To Lady Hesketii 
 
 Dec. 19, 17S7. 
 Saturday, my clearest Cousin, was a clay of receipts. 
 In the morning I received a box filled with an abundant 
 variety of stationery ware, containing, in particular, a 
 quantity of paper sufficient, well covered with good writing, 
 to immortalize any man. I have nothing to do, therefore, 
 but to cover it as aforesaid, and my name will never die. 
 In the evening I received a smaller box, but still more 
 welcome on account of its contents. It contained an 
 
 10 almanack in red morocco, a pencil of a new invention, 
 called an everlasting pencil, and a noble purse, with a noble 
 gift in it, called a Bank-note for twenty-five pounds. 
 I need use no arguments to assure you, my Cousin, that by 
 the help of ditto note, we shall be able to fadge very com- 
 fortably till Christmas is turned, without having the least 
 occasion to draw upon you. By the post yesterday — 
 that is, Sunday morning — I received also a letter from 
 Anonymous, giving me advice of the kind present which 
 I have just particularized ; in which letter allusion is made 
 
 20 to a certain piece by me composed, entitled, I believe, 
 The Drop of Ink. The only copy I ever gave of that piece, 
 I gave to yourself. It is possible, therefore, that between 
 you and Anonymous there may be some communication. 
 If that should be the case, I will beg you just to signify to 
 him, as opportunity may occur, the safe arrival of his 
 most acceptable present, and my most grateful sense of it. 
 My toothache is in a great measure, that is to say, 
 almost entirely, removed ; not by snipping my ears, as 
 poor Lady Strange's ears were snipped, nor by any other 
 
 30 chirurgical operation, except such as I could perform 
 myself. The manner of it was as follows : we dined last 
 Thursday at the Hall ; I sat down to table, trembling lest 
 the tooth, of which I told you in my last, should not only
 
 ADROIT DENTISTRY 
 
 refuse its own office, but hinder all the rest. Accordingly, 
 in less than five minutes, by a hideous dislocation of it, 
 I found myself not only in great pain, but under an absolute 
 prohibition not only to eat, but to speak another word. 
 Great emergencies sometimes meet with most effectual 
 remedies. I resolved, if it were possible, then and there to 
 draw it. This I effected so dexterously by a sudden twitch, 
 and afterwards so dexterously conveyed it into my pocket, 
 that no creature present, not even Mrs. Unwin, who sat 
 facing me, was sensible either of my distress, or of the 10 
 manner of my deliverance from it. I am poorer by one 
 tooth than I was, but richer by the unimpeded use of all 
 the rest. . . . 
 
 My dog, my dear, is a spaniel. Till Miss Gunning begged 
 him, he was the property of a farmer, and while he was 
 their property had been accustomed to lie in the chimney- 
 corner, among the embers, till the hair was singed from his 
 back, and till nothing was left of his tail but the gristle. 
 Allowing for these disadvantages, he is really handsome ; 
 and when nature shall have furnished him with a new 20 
 coat, a gift which, in consideration of the ragged condition 
 of his old one, it is hoped she will not long delay, he will 
 then be unrivalled in personal endowments by any dog in 
 this country. He and my cat are excessively fond of each 
 other, and play a thousand gambols together that it is 
 impossible not to admire. . . . 
 
 Returning from my walk to-day, while I was passing by 
 some small closes at the back of the town, I heard the 
 voices of some persons extremely merry at the top of the 
 hill. Advancing into the large field behind the house, 30 
 I there met Mr. Throck, wife, and brother George. Combine 
 in your imagination as large proportions as you can of 
 earth and water intermingled so as to constitute what is 
 commonly called mud, and you will have but an imp 
 conception of the quantity that had attached itself to her
 
 iGS MRS. THROCK AND THE MUD 
 
 petticoats : but she had half-boots, and laughed at her 
 own figure. She told me that she had this morning tran- 
 scribed sixteen pages of my Homer. I observed in reply, 
 that to write so much, and to gather all that dirt, was no 
 bad morning's work, considering the shortness of the 
 day at this season. — Yours, my dear, W. C. 
 
 To Lady Hesketh 
 
 The Lodge, Dec. 24, 17S7. 
 My dearest Cousin — The Throcks do not leave Weston 
 till after Easter. But this I hope will have no effect upon 
 
 10 your movements, should an opportunity present itself to 
 you of coming sooner. We dined there last Saturday. 
 After dinner, while we all sat round the fire, I told them, 
 as I related it to you, the adventure of my tooth. This 
 drew from Mrs. Throck (singular as it must appear), 
 a tale the very counterpart of mine. She, in like manner, 
 had a tooth to draw, while I was drawing mine ; and thus 
 it came to pass (the world, I suppose, could not furnish 
 such another instance) that we two, without the least 
 intimation to each other of our respective distress, were 
 
 20 employed in the same moment, sitting side by side, in 
 drawing each a tooth : an operation which we performed 
 with equal address, and without being perceived by 
 any one. 
 
 This morning had very near been a tragical one to me, 
 beyond all that have ever risen upon me. Mrs. Unwin 
 rose as usual at seven o'clock ; at eight she came to me, 
 and showi d me her bed-gown with a great piece burnt out 
 of it. Having lighted her fire, which she always lights 
 herself, she placed the candle upon the hearth. In a few 
 
 30 moments it occurred to her that, if it continued there, it 
 might possibly set fire to her clothes, therefore she put it 
 out. But in fact, though she had not the least suspicion
 
 MRS. UN WIN AND THE FIRE 
 
 of it, her clothes were on fire at that very time. She found 
 herself uncommonly annoyed by smoke, such as brought 
 the water into her eyes; supposing that some of the 
 billets might lie too forward, she disposed them differently ; 
 but finding the smoke increase, and grow more trouble- 
 some (for by this time the room was full of it), she cast hi 
 eye downward, and perceived not only her bed-gown, but 
 her petticoat on fire. She had the presence of mind to 
 gather them in her hand, and plunge them immediately 
 into the basin, by which means the general conflagration of i j 
 her person, which must have probably ensued in a few 
 moments, was effectually prevented. Thus was that which 
 I have often heard from the pulpit, and have often had 
 occasion myself to observe, most clearly illustrated, — that, 
 secure as we may sometimes seem to ourselves, we are in 
 reality never so safe as to have no need of a superintending 
 Providence. Danger can never be at a distance from 
 creatures who dwell in houses of clay. Therefore take care 
 of thyself, gentle Yahoo ! and may a more vigilant than 
 thou care for thee. ... 20 
 
 I forgot to tell you that my dog is spotted liver-colour 
 and white, or rather white and chestnut. He is at present 
 my pupil as well as dog, and just before I sat down to write 
 I gave him a lesson in the science of fetch and carry. He 
 performs with an animation past all conception, except 
 your own, whose poor head will never forget Tinker, i 
 I am now grown more reasonable, and never make such 
 a dreadful din but when Beau and I are together. 
 teach him is necessary, in order that he may take the 
 water, and that is necessary in order that he may be sweet 30 
 in summer. Farewell, my dearest Coz. I am, with 
 Mrs. U.'s affections, ever thine, most truly, \Ym. Cowper.
 
 170 IN AT THE DEATH 
 
 To Lady Hesketh 
 
 The Lodge, March 3, 17SS. 
 One day last week, Mrs. Unwin and I, having taken our 
 morning walk and returning homeward through the wilder- 
 ness, met the Throckmortons. A minute after we had met 
 them, we heard the cry of hounds at no great distance, and 
 mounting the broad stump of an elm which had been felled, 
 and by the aid of which we were enabled to look over the 
 wall, we saw them. They were all at that time in our 
 orchard ; presently we heard a terrier, belonging to Mrs. 
 
 10 Throckmorton, which you may remember by the name of 
 Fury, yelping with much vehemence, and saw her running 
 through the thickets within a few yards of us at her utmost 
 speed, as if in pursuit of something which we doubted not 
 was the fox. Before we could reach the other end of the 
 wilderness, the hounds entered also ; and when we arrived 
 at the gate which opens into the grove, there we found 
 the whole weary cavalcade assembled. The huntsman 
 dismounting, begged leave to follow his hounds on foot, for 
 he was sure, he said, that they had killed him : a conclusion 
 
 20 which I suppose he drew from their profound silence. He 
 was accordingly admitted, and with a sagacity that would 
 not have dishonoured the best hound in the world, pursuing 
 precisely the same track which the fox and the dogs had 
 taken, though he had never had a glimpse of either after 
 their first entrance through the rails, arrived where he found 
 the slaughtered prey. He soon produced dead reynard, and 
 r.joined us in the grove with all his dogs about him. Having 
 an opportunity to see a ceremony, which I was pretty sure 
 would never fall in my way again, I determined to stay and 
 
 30 to notice all that passed with the most minute attention. 
 The huntsman having by the aid of a pitchfork lodged 
 i' ynard on the arm of an elm, at the height of about nine 
 f ■ 1 t from the ground, there left him for a considerable time.
 
 A POET'S GIFT i 7 t 
 
 The gentlemen sat on their horses contemplating the fox, 
 
 for which they had toiled so hard, and the hounds asseinl -lr, 1 
 at the foot of the tree, with faces not less expressive of the 
 most rational delight, contemplated the same object. The 
 huntsman remounted ; cut off a foot, and threw it to the 
 hounds ; — one of them swallowed it whole like a bolus. 1 I- 
 then once more alighted and drawing down the fox by t ! 
 hinder legs, desired the people, who were by this time rather 
 numerous, to open a lane for him to the right and left. II- 
 was instantly obeyed, when throwing the fox to the distance 10 
 of some yards, and screaming like a fiend, ' tear him to 
 pieces' — at least six times repeatedly, he consigned him 
 over absolutely to the pack, who in a few minutes devoun d 
 him completely. Thus, my dear, as Virgil says, what none 
 of the gods could have ventured to promise me, time itself, 
 pursuing its accustomed course, has of its own accord pre- 
 sented me with. I have been in at the death of a fox, and 
 you now know as much of the matter as I, who am as well 
 informed as any sportsman in England. — Yours, W. C. 
 
 To Mrs. King 
 
 Weston Underwood, Oct. n, 17SS. 20 
 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 m 
 supposed to have exhausted all means of donation. They 
 are his only superfluity. There was a time, but that time 
 was before I commenced writer for the press, when I am 
 myself in a way somewhat similar to yours; allowing, 
 I mean, for the difference between masculine and female 
 operations. The scissors and the needle are your chief im 
 plements ; mine were the chisel and the saw. In 1 
 days you might have been in some danger cf too plentiful
 
 i-2 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 a return for your favours. Tables, such as they were, and 
 joint stools, such as never were, might have travelled to 
 Pertenhall in most inconvenient abundance. But I have 
 long since discontinued this practice, and many others 
 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 
 
 10 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 labours, which had, at least, the merit of 
 1 ii ing 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 
 
 20 deficiency, by dint alone of practice ; for I actually produced 
 three landscapes, which a lady thought worthy to be 
 framed and glazed. I then judged it high time to exchange 
 this occupation for another, lest, by any subsequent pro- 
 ductions of inferior merit, I should forfeit the honour I had 
 so fortunately acquired. But gardening was, of all employ- 
 ments, 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 proceeded to cucumbers ; 
 next to melons. I then purchased an orange-tree, to which, 
 
 30 in due time, I added two or three myrtles. These served 
 me day and night with employment during a whole severe 
 winter. To defend 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
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY 173 
 
 the bellows under my arm, just before going to bed, to 
 the latest possible puff to the embers, lest the frost should 
 seize them before morning. Very minute beginnings have 
 sometimes important consequences. 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 refuge from the misery 
 of having nothing to do. When I left Olney for Weston, 
 I could no longer have a green-house of my own ; but in a 10 
 neighbour's garden I find a better, of which the sole manage- 
 ment is consigned to me. 
 
 I had need take care, when I begin a letter, that I 
 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 paper. But self is a subject inexhaustible, which 
 is the reason that though I have said little or 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 Mrs. Bodiiam 
 
 Weston, Feb. 27, 1790. 20 
 My dearest Rose — Whom I thought withered, and fallen 
 from the stalk, but whom I still find alive : nothing could 
 give me greater pleasure than to know it, and to learn it 
 from yourself. I loved you dearly when you wei did, 
 
 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 1 
 remove distant from her: I love you, therefore, and I 
 you much, both for her sake, and for your own. The world 
 could not have furnished you with a present so acceptable to 30 
 me, as the picture which you have so kindly sent 
 I received it the night before last, and viewed it with a
 
 I 7 4 COWPER'S MOTHER 
 
 trepidation of nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what 
 I should have felt, had the dear original presented herself to 
 my embraces. I kissed it, and hung it where it is the last 
 object that I see at night, and, of course, the first on which 
 I open my eyes in the morning. She died when I completed 
 my sixth year ; yet I remember her well, and am an ocular 
 witness of the great fidelity of the copy. I remember, too, 
 a multitude of the maternal tendernesses which I received 
 from her, and which have endeared her memory to me 
 
 10 beyond expression. There is in me, I believe, more of the 
 Donne than of 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 natural temper, of which 
 at the age of fifty-eight I must be supposed to be a com- 
 petent 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, 
 
 20 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, the Dean of St. Paul's, and I think 
 
 I shall have 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 
 30 degree that I have seldom seen, and I often long with im- 
 patience to see him again. 
 
 My dearest Cousin, what shall I say to you in answer to 
 your affectionate invitation ? I must say this, I cannot 
 
 I I ime now, nor soon, and I wish with all my heart I could. 
 Liit 1 will tell you what may be done, perhaps, and it will
 
 EARLY MEMORIES 
 
 i .> 
 
 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 you 
 translating Homer. I am crazed that I 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 by whatever name dis- 
 tinguished. Mrs. Hewitt has particular claims upon me ; 
 she was my playfellow at Berkhamstead, and has a share in 10 
 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 receive 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. 20 
 Unwin's kind respects, am, my dear, dear Rose, ever 
 yours, VI . C. 
 
 PS. — I mourn the death of your poor brother Cast: 
 whom I should have seen had he lived, and should nave 
 seen with the greatest pleasure. He was an amiable boy, 
 and I was very fond of him. 
 
 Still another PS. — I find on consulting Mrs. Unwin, that 
 I have underrated our capabilities, 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 30 
 be happy to have it all so occupied. 
 
 Your nephew tells me, that his sister, in the qualil 
 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.
 
 176 CONSOLATION 
 
 To Lady Hesketh 
 
 The Lodge, June 2G, 1791. 
 ... It gives us true pleasure that you interest yourself 
 so much in the state of our turnpike. Learn then the 
 present state of it. From Gayhurst to Weston the road is 
 a gravel-walk, but Weston itself is at present in a chaotic 
 condition. About three weeks since they dug up the street, 
 and having done so, left it. But it will not continue long in 
 such disorder, and when you see it next you will find the 
 village wonderfully improved. Already they have filled 
 
 10 up two abominable ponds more fetid than any human 
 nostrils could endure ; they were to be found, as you must 
 remember, one just under Farmer Archer's window, and the 
 other a little beyond it. Covered drains are to be made 
 wherever drains are wanted, and the causey is to be new-laid. 
 When all this is done and the road well gravelled, we will 
 hold our heads as high as any villagers in the kingdom. 
 At the present time they are at work on the road from 
 Weston to Olney. Olney is also itself in a state of beauti- 
 fication, and the road between Olney and Bedford is, I 
 
 20 believe, nearly finished, but that I have never seen. The 
 sooner you come to look at these things with your own eyes, 
 the better. 
 
 I have hardly left myself room to tell you a story which 
 yet I must tell, but as briefly as possible. W r hile I reposed 
 myself yesterday evening in the shop of Mr. Palmer, lying 
 at my length on the counter, a labouring man came in. 
 11«- wanted a hat for his boy, and having bought one at 
 two shillings, said he must have a handkerchief for himself, 
 a silk one, to wear about his neck on Sundays. After much 
 Etrgaining he suited himself with one at last for four 
 shillings and sixpence. I liked the man's looks, and having 
 just one shilling in my purse, I held it to him, saying : Here, 
 honest friend, here's something toward paying for your
 
 THE NEW HAT 177 
 
 purchase ! He took the shilling and looked at me steadily for 
 a long time, saying nothing. At last his surprise burst 
 forth in these words — I never saw such a gentleman in 
 my life ! He then faced about, and was again for a long 
 time silent ; but at last, turning to me again he said — If 
 I had known you had been so stout I would have had a 
 better. Mr. Andrews told him that the cutting off would 
 make no difference to him, and he might have a better if he 
 pleased, so he took one at the price of five shillings, and 
 went away all astonishment at my great bounty. I have 10 
 [earned since that he is a very worthy industrious fellow, 
 and has a mother between seventy and eighty, who walks 
 every Sunday eight miles to hearing, as they call it, and 
 back again. This is another instance that my skill in 
 physiognomy never deceives me. 
 
 Adieu, my dearest Coz. With the love of all here, I 
 remain ever thine, Wm. Cowper. 
 
 To Lady Hesketh 
 
 The Lodge, Aug. 30, 1791. 
 
 . . . But now if thou hast the faculty of erecting thy ears, 
 lift them into the air, first taking off thy cap, that they may 20 
 have the highest possible elevation. Mrs. Unwin says, — 
 No, don't tell her ladyship all,— tell her only enough to 
 raise her curiosity, that she may come the sooner to \\ eston 
 to have it gratified. But I say,— Yes, I will tell her all, 
 lest she should be overcharged and burst by the way. 
 
 The Chancellor and I, my dear, have had a correspondence 
 on the subject of Homer. He had doubts it seems about t 
 propriety of translating him in blank verse, and wrote to 
 Henry to tell him so, adding a translation of his own in 
 rhyme of the speech of Achilles to Phoenix, in the ninth 30 
 book ; and referring him to me, who, he said, could elevate 
 it, and polish it, and give it the tone of Homer. Henry sent 
 
 2179.8 M
 
 173 THURLOW AND HOMER 
 
 this letter to me, and I answered it in one to his lordship, 
 but not meddling with his verses, for I remembered what 
 happened between Gil Bias and the Archbishop of Toledo. 
 His lordship sent me two sheets in reply, filled with argu- 
 ments in favour of rhyme, which I was to answer if I could ; 
 and containing another translation of the same passage, 
 only in blank verse, leaving it to me to give it rhyme, to 
 make it close, and faithful, and poetical. All this I per- 
 formed as best I could ; and yesterday I heard from him 
 10 again. In this last letter he says, — ' I am clearly convinced 
 that Homer may be best translated without rhyme, and that 
 you have succeeded in the passages I have looked into.' 
 
 Such is the candour of a wise man and a real scholar. 
 I would to Heaven that all prejudiced persons were like 
 him ! — I answered this letter immediately ; and here, 
 I suppose, our correspondence ends. Have I not made a 
 great convert ? You shall see the letters, both his and mine, 
 when you come. . . . — Adieu, my dearest Coz, ever thine, 
 
 W.M. COWPER. 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq. 
 
 20 Weston, July 22, 1792. 
 
 This important affair, my dear brother, is at last decided, 
 and we are coming. Wednesday se'nnight, if nothing occur 
 to make a later day necessary, is the day fixed for our 
 journey. Our rate of travelling must depend on Mary's 
 ability to bear it. Our mode of travelling will occupy three 
 days unavoidably, for we shall come in a coach. Abbot 
 finishes my picture to-morrow ; on Wednesday he returns 
 to town, and is commissioned to order one down for us, 
 with four steeds to draw it ; 
 
 xo hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, 
 
 That cannot go but forty miles a day. 
 
 Sond us our route, for I am as ignorant of it almost, as if
 
 A GREAT ENTERPRISE 
 
 I were in a strange country. We shall reach St. Albans, 
 1 suppose, the first day; say where we must finish our 
 second day's journey, and at what inn we may best re] m 
 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 beloved 
 Hayley. 
 
 General Cowper, having heard a rumour of this intended 
 migration, desires to meet me on the read, that we ma 
 once more see each other. He lives at Ham, near Kingston. 
 Shall we go through Kingston, or near it ? For I would givi 
 him as little trouble as possible, 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 inform) d 
 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 1 
 left. My Johnny of Norfolk, happy in the thought of 
 accompanying us, would be broken-hearted to be left 
 behind. 2 ° 
 
 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, hoi: 
 turned upside down, maids are turned out of their beds, all 
 the counties through which I pass appear to be in an 
 uproar. Surrey greets me by the mouth of the G< neral.and 
 Essex by that of Carwardine. How strange does all this 
 seem to a man who has seen no bustle, and made I 
 twenty years together ! — Adieu, ^ • C. 3° 
 
 To William Hayley, Esq. 
 
 Weston, Feb. 13- 
 
 ... Oh ! you rogue ! what would you give to I 
 a dream about Milton, as I had about a week sin 
 
 M 2
 
 1S0 A DREAM 
 
 I dreamed that being in a houss in the city, and with much 
 company, looking towards the lower end of the room from 
 the upper end of it, I descried a figure which I immediately 
 knew to be Milton's. He was very gravely, but very neatly 
 attired in the fashion of his day, and had a countenance 
 which filled me with those feelings that an affectionate child 
 has for a beloved 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 
 
 10 of joy to find him still alive ; my third, another transport 
 to find myself in his company ; and my fourth, a resolution 
 to accost him. I did so, and he received me with a com- 
 placence, in which I saw equal sweetness and dignity. 
 I spoke of his Paradise Lost, as every man must, who is 
 worthy to speak of it at all, and told him a long story of the 
 manner in which it affected me, when I first discovered it, 
 being at that time a schoolboy. 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, 
 
 20 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 
 much talking, 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 ? . . . — With 
 Mary's kind love, I must now conclude myself, my dear 
 
 30 Brother, ever yours, Lippus. 
 
 To the Rev. John Johnson 
 
 Weston, Sept. 6, 1793. 
 My dearest Johnny — To do a kind thing, and in a kind 
 manner, is a double kindness, and no man is more addicted
 
 THE SUN-DIAL 1S1 
 
 to both than you, or more skilful in contriving them. Your 
 plan to surprise me agreeably succeeded to admiration. It 
 was only the day before yesterday that, while we walked 
 after dinner in the orchard, Mrs. Unwin between Sam and 
 me, hearing the hall-clock, I observed a great difference 
 between that and ours, and began immediately to lament, 
 as I had often done, that there was not a sun-dial in all 
 Weston to ascertain the true time for us. My complaint 
 was long, and lasted till having turned into the grass walk, 
 we reached the new building at the end of it ; where we sat 10 
 awhile and reposed ourselves. In a few minutes we returned 
 by the way we came, when what think you was my astonish- 
 ment to see what I had not seen before, though I had passed 
 close by it, a smart sun-dial mounted on a smart stone 
 pedestal ! I assure you it seemed the effect of conjuration. 
 I stopped short, and exclaimed, — ' Why, here is a sun-dial, 
 and upon our ground ! How is this ? Tell me, Sam, how- 
 came it here ? Do you know anything about it ? ' At first 
 I really thought (that is to say, as soon as I could think at 
 all) that this factotum of mine, Sam Roberts, having often 20 
 heard me deplore the want of one, had given orders for th 
 supply of that want himself, without my knowledge, and 
 was half pleased and half offended. But he soon exculpate ( 1 
 himself by imputing the fact to you. It was brought up to 
 Weston (it seems) about noon : but Andrews stopped the 
 cart at the blacksmith's, whence he went to inquire if I was 
 gone for my walk. As it happened, I walked not till two 
 o'clock. So there it stood waiting till I should go forth, 
 and was introduced before my return. Fortunately too 
 I went out at the church end of the village, and conse- 30 
 quently saw nothing of it. How I could possibly pass it 
 without seeing it, when it stood in the walk, I know 1 
 but it is certain that I did. And where I shall fix it n< 
 I know as little. It cannot stand between the two 
 the place of your choice, as I understand from Samuel,
 
 182 HAYLEY AT WESTON 
 
 because the hay-cart must pass that way in the season. 
 But we are now busy in winding the walk all round the 
 orchard, and in doing so shall doubtless stumble at last 
 upon some open spot that will suit it. 
 
 There it shall stand, while I live, a constant monument 
 of your kindness. W. C. 
 
 To Mrs. Courtenay 
 
 Weston, Nov. 4, 1793. 
 I seldom rejoice in a day of soaking rain like this ; but 
 in this, my dearest Catharina, I do rejoice sincerely, 
 
 10 because it affords me an opportunity of writing to you, 
 which if fair weather had invited us into the orchard walk 
 at the usual hour, I should not easily have found. I am 
 a most busy man. busy to a degree that sometimes half 
 distracts me ; but if complete distraction be occasioned 
 by having the thoughts too much and too long attached to 
 a single point, I am in no danger of it, with such a perpetual 
 whirl are mine whisked about from one subject to another. 
 When two poets meet there are fine doings I can assure 
 you. My Homer finds work for Hayley, and his Life of 
 
 20 Milton work for me, so that we are neither of us one moment 
 idle. Poor Mrs. Unwin in the meantime sits quiet in her 
 corner, occasionally laughing at us both, and not seldom 
 interrupting us with some question or remark, for which 
 she is constantly rewarded by me with a ' Hush — hold your 
 peace.' Bless yourself, my dear Catharina, that you are 
 not connected with a poet, especially that 3 T ou have not 
 two to deal with ; ladies who have, may be bidden indeed 
 to hold their peace, but very little peace have they. How 
 should tiny in fact have any, continually enjoined as they 
 
 30 are to be silent ? . . . 
 
 I have persuaded Hayley to stay a week longer, and 
 again my hopes revive, that he may yet have an oppor-
 
 MRS. UN WIN TALKS 183 
 
 tunity to know my friends before he returns into Sussex. 
 I write amidst a chaos of interruptions : Hayley on one 
 hand spouts Greek, and on the other hand Mrs. Unwin 
 continues talking, sometimes to us, and sometimes, because 
 we are both too busy to attend to her, she holds a dialogue 
 with herself, — Query, is not this a bull — and ought I not 
 instead of dialogue to have said soliloquy ? 
 
 Adieu ! With our united love to all your party, and with 
 ardent wishes to see you all at Weston, I remain, my dearest 
 Catharina, ever yours, W. C. 10
 
 NOTES 
 
 HAZLITT'S ESSAY 
 
 This is extracted from Lecture V, On Thomson and Cowpcr, 
 in Hazlitt's Lectures on the English Poets, first published in 
 181S. 
 
 Page 11, 1. 8. unbought grace : from Burke's Reflections on 
 the Revolution in France. 
 
 11. 17-20. -finicalness . . . public : but cf. The Task, ii, 11. 2S5 et 
 seqq., and letter to Unwin, 6 Oct. 1781 (p. 121) ; also letter to 
 Unwin, 2 July 1780. ' To touch and retouch is . . . the secret 
 of almost all good writing, especially in verse.' Cowper took 
 great pains over the revision of all his poems, from his transla- 
 tion of Homer to the merest trifle of four lines. 
 
 1. 30. his Vashti : see The Task, ii. 715. 
 
 Page 12, 1. 3. crazy Kate : see The Task, i. 534-56. 
 
 1. 4. party of gypsies : see The Task, i. 557-91. 
 
 child on a common : perhaps Hazlitt is thinking of the 
 passage printed on p. 61. 
 
 1. 5. the sofa and the tea-kettle : see pp. 61 and 67. 
 
 1. 9. petit-mattre-ship : dandyism. 
 
 1. 29. frosty morning, &c. : see The Task, v, beginning. 
 
 Page 13, 1. 3. The night, &c. : The Task, vi. 57-117. 
 
 Page 14, 1. 31. comparison . . . pheasant : see Truth, 11. 58-70. 
 
 I. 36. Yon cottager, &c. : Tridh, 11. 317-36. 
 
 Page 15, 1. 19. Whitefield (1714-70), evangelist, leader of 
 the Calvinistic Methodists and friend of John Wesley ; called 
 Leuconomus by Cowper in Hope : 
 
 beneath well-sounding Greek 
 I slur a name a poet must not speak. 
 
 II. 22-34. But tf> unblameable , &c. : Hope, 11. 622-34. 
 
 1. 36. Monthly Reviewers. Hazlitt has confounded the 
 Critical Review with the Monthly Review. These lines were 
 quoted in the unfavourable notice of Cowper's Poems in 
 the Critical Review (April 1782). The notice in the Monthly 
 Review (June 1782), which quoted other lines, was favourable. 
 Both reviews praised The Task. The Monthly Rt June 
 
 1798) had some reason for boasting that ' we ei ired 
 
 on both occasions to do justice to the powers of Mr. Cowper, 
 and to point out to the public his strong claims U> 1 1 
 admiration and regard ; and we feci much self-gratulatiOD in 
 recollecting that the favourable decision of the world was 
 accelerated by our introduction of this poet to their regard '.
 
 1S6 NOTES 
 
 BAGEHOT'S ESSAY 
 
 This is taken from the National Review, July, 1855, where 
 it first appeared. It was afterwards included in Bagehot's 
 Estimates of some Englishmen and Scotchmen (1858). 
 
 Page 18, 1. 24-19,1. 8. Be it a weakness : Tirocinium, 11. 296-3 1 7. 
 
 I. 25. play-place : Westminster. 
 
 II. 34-7. The first game described is marbles, the third 
 trap bat and ball, the second explains itself. It should per- 
 haps be noted that boys went to public schools earlier in 
 Cowper's time than they do now. 
 
 Page 20, 1. 27. Gray : see Ode on a distant prospect of 
 Eton College. 
 
 I. 31. little footsteps: these words occur in a stanza of 
 Gray's Elegy, first printed in the third edition 1751 and 
 omitted again in 1753. 
 
 Page 22, 1. 35. Colman, Lloyd : see Notes, pp. 191-2. 
 
 Page 23, 1. 1 . an essay in the Connoisseur : Cowper wrote four 
 essays, reprinted by Southey in vol. xv of his edition of 
 Cowper's complete works (1837). 
 
 Page 24, 1. 9. cucumbers of the Task : see The Task, 
 iii. 440-543. 
 
 Page 25, 11. 9-10. Through tedious years, &c. : see On the 
 death of Sir W. Russell, 11. 9, 10 {Oxford Cowper, p. 285). 
 
 Page 26, 11. 3-4. the sights, &c. : from Milton's L' Allegro, 
 11. 129-30 (should be ' Such sights as youthful poets dream '). 
 
 II. 17-22. Lucrative offices, &c. : see Retirement, 11. 611-16. 
 Page 29, 1. 15-30, 1. 6. We breakfast, &c. : from a letter to 
 
 Mrs. Cowper, 20 Oct. 1766. 
 
 Page 29, 1. 27. Martin's collection: this refers to a ' col- 
 lection of psalms and hymns ' issued in 1760 by Martin Madan, 
 per's cousin, best known by his work called ' Thely- 
 phthora ' (1780), in which he advocated polygamy. Cowper 
 published anonymously an answer to it called ' Anti-Thely- 
 phthora ' (1781) ; see Oxford Cowper, p. 317. 
 
 Page 31, 1. 32. Perimus in licitis : may be paraphrased 
 ' we are lost if we enjoy even permitted pleasures '. 
 
 Page 33, 11. 18-19. An honest man, &c. : see An Epistle to 
 Joseph 11 ill, 11. 62, 63 {Oxford Cowper, p. 361). 
 
 Pagr 34, 1. 16. The Preacher : Ecclesiastes. 
 
 Page 35, 11. 22-4. Shelley: in his Defence of Poetry (see 
 Shelley's Literary and Philosophical Criticism, ed. Shawcross, 
 p. 121), He would hardly have agreed with Bagehot's expan- 
 sion of his definition. 
 
 , 5. many-headed monster thing : From Scott's Lady of the 
 1 I ' c , canto v, 1. 834. 
 
 Pag 36, 1. 1. liashi Dazouk : irregular Turkish infantry; 
 
 re used allusively to mean motley and irresponsible.
 
 BAGEHOT'S ESSAY 187 
 
 11. 33-4. natura naturans . . . natura naturata : terms of 
 philosophy, here meaning little more than cause and eliect. 
 Page 37, 1. 27. <Xea avbputv'. lays of men. 
 
 I. 34. We doubt whether any people, &c. : cf. with what 
 Bagehot says in a passage omitted from the beginning of this 
 essay : ' There is no writer more exclusively English. There 
 is no one — or hardly one perhaps — whose excellencies are 
 more natural to our soil, and seem so little able to bear 
 transplantation. We do not remember to have seen his name 
 in any continental book.' Bagehot had evidently not seen 
 Sainte-Beuve's Essay, which appeared the previous year 
 (1854) in three instalments (20 and 27 Nov., and 4 Dec.) in 
 the Constitution-net, and was republished among the famous 
 Causeries du Lundi. 
 
 Page 38, 1. 10. gross fog Boeotian : see The Task, iii. 495. 
 
 II. 19-23. 'Tis then, &c. : see The Task, iv. 296-300. 
 * Then ' should be ' thus '. 
 
 Page 39, 11. 1-5. Homeborn happiness, &c. : a misquotation 
 from The Task, iv. 139-43. 
 
 1. 10. Mr. Rushworth : in Mansfield Park. 
 
 1. 19. brow of Egypt : Shakespeare, M.N.D. v. i. 11. 
 
 Page 40, 1. 3. dreary intercourse : see Wordsworth's Tintern 
 Abbey, 1. 131. 
 
 1. 27. As a scold: cf. Hazlitt's essay, p. 14. Most critics 
 agree with Bagehot that Cowper does not shine as a satirist. 
 
 Page 41, 1. 14. Hazlitt : see his essay, p. 11. 
 
 Page 42, 11. 5-29. Oh Winter, &c. : from The Task, iv. 120-44. 
 
 I. 19. compensating : compensate is now accented on the 
 first syllable, but until the middle of the nineteenth century 
 was usually accented on the second. 
 
 Page 43, 11. 3-10. A sense sublime : from Tintern Abl 
 11. 95-102. 
 
 II. 34-6. A primrose, &c. : from Wordsworth's Peter J 
 Part First, 11. 248-50. 
 
 Page 44, 1. 35. the painted veil : from Shelley's Sonnet 
 {Oxford Shelley, p. 565). 
 
 Page 45, 1. 8. saying of Dryden : Bagehot is perhaps thinking 
 of Dryden's Epistle Dedicatory of The Rival Ladies [H 
 where the following remarks occur : 
 
 ' That benefit which I consider most in it [rhyme], 
 it bounds and circumscribes the fancy. . . . J hit, 1 
 that which most regulates the fancy, and gives the judgemi 
 its busiest employment, is like to bring forth the richest and 
 clearest thoughts.' 
 
 I cannot find any mention by Cowper of this or sir 
 remarks. But in a rhyming letter to New July ' 
 
 he writes : ' though I have run, many a time, after a rh . 
 as far as from hence, to the end of my sense.'
 
 iSS NOTES 
 
 Page 47, 1. 36. Thus did Hercules : Hercules spun wool 
 for Omphale, whom he served for three years in expiation of 
 a murder. 
 
 Pack 50, 1. 15. Sir Rowland Hill (1795-1879), the inventor 
 of penny postage. 
 
 Page' 52, 11. 2S-35. Armour rusting : from Wordsworth's 
 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, 11. 142-9. 
 
 1. 36. And this is the tone of Homer : much of Matthew 
 Arnold's On Translating Homer is devoted to proving that 
 Homer cannot be translated into ballad-metre, even if the 
 translator were as skilful as Scott in his use of it, because 
 ' Homer is sustainedly noble ' and ballads are not. Almost 
 every one now agrees with Arnold on this point. 
 
 Page 53,11. 4-5. Like a reappearing star, &c. : 11. 154, 155 of 
 the Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle. 
 
 1. 7. Dr. Johnson : see Johnson's Life of Milton (Birkbeck 
 Hill's edition of his Lives of the Poets, 1. 193), where, however, 
 the saying is attributed by Johnson to ' an ingenious critick '. 
 
 1. 16. Mr. Cobbett : William Cobbett (1762-1835), a stal- 
 wart reformer, soldier, farmer, member of Parliament, and 
 voluminous writer, with a most vigorous style on all kinds of 
 subjects. Cobbett might have used this expression, but did not, 
 as far as I know. It is from the first sentence of the introduc- 
 tion to The Hampshire Farmer's Address, a parody of Cobbett, 
 in Rejected Addresses (1812), by James and Horace Smith. 
 
 Page 55, 11. 12-27. And all day long, &c. : from Words- 
 worth's To the Daisy, ninth and seventh stanzas. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM POETRY 
 
 Pages 58-61. Retirement, 11. 365-480. 
 
 1. 394. Atlas of the state : i. e. the supporter of the state, as 
 Atlas, one of the Titans who fought against the Gods, was 
 fabled to be the supporter of the world. 
 
 1. 421. balk : a strip of ground left unploughed as a 
 boundary line between two ploughed portions. 
 
 Pages 61-4. The Sofa : The Task, i. 109-209. 
 
 1. no. swarth : grass land. 
 
 1. 121. crabs : crab-apples. 
 
 1. 126. Sofa : an allusion to the title of the first book of 
 The Task. Cowper's friend Lady Austen suggested to him 
 in June 1783 that he should write a poem in blank verse, and 
 en his replying that he could not think of a subject said, 
 ' <)h, you can never be in want of a subject ; you can write 
 on any, — write upon this Sofa.' The first words of the poem 
 are ' 1 sing the sofa ', and in 1. 6 he adds ' For the Fair com- 
 mands the song '. 
 
 1. 144. dear companion : Mrs. Unwin, whom Cowper first
 
 SELECTIONS FROM POETRY 1S9 
 
 met a few weeks after he settled at Huntingdon in June 1765. 
 The reference to the ' twentieth winter ' (1. 145) shows that 
 this passage was added late in 1784 in a revision of the poem 
 before it was sent to the printers. The Task was published 
 in 1785. 
 
 11. 154 et seq. : a description of a walk across the fields 
 from Olney to Weston. 
 
 1. 173. tower : of the church of Clifton Reynes, one mile to 
 the east of Olney. 
 
 1. 174. spire : of Olney church. 
 
 1. 176. villages : Steventon and Emberton. 
 
 1. 202. Nice-finger' d art : music. 
 
 1. 205. pie : magpie. 
 
 Pages 64-5. The Time-Piece : The Task, ii. 206-54. 
 
 I. 214. Ausonia : a poetical name for Italy. 
 
 II. 225 et seq. : Cowper thought that the Generals engaged 
 in the American war did not fight as energetically as they 
 might have fought. In a letter to Unwin (15 Dec. 1781) he 
 writes : 'Pitt himself could have done nothing with such 
 tools ; but he 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.' 
 
 1. 242. Wolfe was killed at the taking of Quebec, 13 Sept. 
 
 1759- 
 
 I. 244. Chatham died 11 May 1778, after being seized with 
 an apoplectic fit while speaking in the House of Lords on 
 8 April. 
 
 Pages 66-71. The Winter Evening : The Task, iv. 1-41, 
 243-66, 311-428. 
 
 II. i, 4. The first edition puts an exclamation mark after 
 ' horn ', and a comma instead of a semicolon after ' bright '. 
 The punctuation of the text was first adopted in the edition of 
 
 1793- 
 
 11. 25-7. Cf. note on Page 64, Task, ii. 225, et seqq. 
 
 11. 28-30. Warren Hastings was Governor-General under the 
 East India Company, from 1774 until 1785, when he retired. 
 ' During those years of strain the British Government had to 
 fight France, Spain, Holland, the revolted American colonies, 
 besides the Marathas, and Haidar Ali ' (V. A. Smith, Oxford 
 History of India, p. 531). The second Mysore war — against 
 Haidar and his son Tippoo — was concluded ' in dishonour ' 
 (V. A. Smith) by the treaty of Mangalore on 11 March 1784. 
 Cowper, while disliking the general policy of the Company in 
 India, considered that Hastings, an old schoolfellow of his at 
 Westminster, was unjustly treated by his impeachment. 
 
 I. 315. share : plough-share. 
 
 1. 402. skillet : a small kettle or boiler.
 
 IQO 
 
 NOTES 
 
 1. 427. the man : Mr. Robert Smith, afterwards Lord 
 Carrington (1752-1S38). He sent money, under strict injunc- 
 tions of secrecy, for the poor of Olney. 
 
 Page 71. The Shrubbery. The affliction referred to in 
 the title was Cowper's third attack of madness, which began 
 on 24 Jan. 1773. 
 
 Pages 73-4. Boadicea. Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni, 
 having been flogged by the Romans, raised an array against 
 them in a.d. 61, but was finally defeated, and poisoned herself. 
 
 I. 20. Gaul : the Goths (who were not Gauls) sacked Rome 
 in a.d. 40S. 
 
 II. 21-4. viz. when the Italians were famous only in the 
 arts, and Britain was planting colonies in the New World. 
 
 Pages 75-6. Verses by Alexander Selkirk. Selkirk 
 (born 1676) was marooned by his captain for insubordination 
 in 1704 and remained until taken off by another ship in 1709 
 after more than four years of solitude. Defoe founded Robin- 
 Crusoe (1719) on Selkirk's experiences. Juan Fernandez 
 is an island in the South Pacific, about 400 miles from Chile. 
 
 1. 35. endearing : here ' showing affection '. 
 
 Pages 77-8. Ox the Loss of the Royal George. The 
 Royal George was a man-of-war of 108 guns which suddenly 
 sank at Portsmouth in August 17S2 while being repaired ; 
 more than 500 officers and men out of 848, including Admiral 
 Kempenfelt (1715-82), were drowned. 
 
 Scipio : an opera (1726) by Handel. 
 
 1. 10. overset. This was not so ; the ship sank because she 
 was rotten, and some part of her bottom fell out. 
 
 1. 25. weigh : raise. After several unsuccessful attempts 
 to raise her, she was blown up (1839-44). 
 
 Pages 78-86. John Gilpin. See Cowper's letter to Unwin, 
 18 Nov. 17S2 (p. 129). Lady Austen, one evening in October 
 1782, tried to cheer Cowper, who was in low spirits, by telling 
 him the story of John Gilpin as one which had been told her 
 in her childhood. The story took Cowper's fancy, and he 
 spent the night in turning it into verse. The Diverting History 
 published anonymously in The Public Advertiser, 14 Nov. 
 2, and at once became popular. John Gilpin appears to 
 have been an actual London draper, who died in 1750. 
 
 1. 3. The Train-bands were the old Militia of London, com- 
 posed of the most substantial householders of the city. 
 
 1. 23. calender : one who smoothes and gives a gloss to 
 cloth or paper by passing it through a calender or press. 
 Calender is now used for the press only, calenderer for the 
 who works it. 
 
 1. 100. running such a rig : playing such tricks. 
 
 1. 142. balcony : now accented on the first syllable. 
 
 1. 178. in merry pin : in good spirits.
 
 SELECTIONS FROM POETRY 191 
 
 Page 88. The Poplar-Field. The earliest version of 
 the last stanza is as follows : 
 
 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. 
 
 Pages 88-90. The Dog and the Water-Lily. 
 
 1. 7. Two nymphs : daughters of Sir Robert Gunning. 
 
 Pages 90-93. On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture. 
 See letter to Mrs. Bodham, 27 Feb. 1790, and notes (p. 196). 
 
 1. 53. past'ral house : the rectory of Great Berkhampsted, 
 Hertfordshire, where Cowper was born. 
 
 1. 61. confectionary plum : sugar-plum. 
 
 1. 67. humour : i. e. uncertain temper. 
 
 I. 97. An inaccurate quotation from Garth's Dispensary, 
 canto iii. 1 ; it should be ' Where billows never break, nor 
 tempests roar '. 
 
 II. 108, 109. Mrs. Cowper was descended by four different 
 lines from King Henry III. 
 
 Page 97. Epitaph on Fop : the Throckmortons were 
 friendly Roman Catholic neighbours of Cowper. 
 
 Page 100. To Mary was written in the autumn of 1793. 
 and was the last poem that Cowper wrote at Weston. 
 Mrs. Unwin died in 1796 at East Dereham. 
 
 1. 1. the twentieth year : a reference to the year 1773, when 
 an attack of madness broke off Cowper's engagement to 
 Mrs. Unwin. 
 
 Page 102. The Castaway. The last original poem 
 written by Cowper (on 20 March 1790). It is founded on an 
 incident recounted in Anson's Voyages. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS 
 
 Page 105, 1. 5. lions in the Tower : in Henry I's reign 
 a portion of the Tower was given up to a menagerie, which 
 was dispersed in 1834 ; whence the saying, ' to see the lions,' 
 meaning, to visit the Tower. 
 
 1. 27. Hinchinbrook House : the seat of Oliver Cromwell's 
 ancestors. 
 
 Page 106, 11. 12-20. You are an old dog . . .to your mercy : Hill 
 was looking after Cowper's affairs in London, and this paragraph 
 refers to his efforts to get rent from a certain Welshman who 
 was occupying Cowper's chambers in the Temple. Eventually 
 the ' bad tenant ' was induced to pay after being threatened 
 with eviction. 
 
 1. 27. Colman : George Colman, the elder (1732-94), was 
 a successful dramatist. The Jealous Wife (1761), ' the most 
 popular piece of its epoch ', being his best known play. He
 
 192 NOTES 
 
 was at Westminster with Cowper, and met him frequently 
 when both were reading for the Bar. The ' good fortune ' 
 to which Cowper here refers was the very favourable reception 
 given to Colman's translation of Terence, which appeared in 
 1765. In 17S2 Cowper sent Colman a copy of his first volume 
 of poems, but received no acknowledgement of it. He was 
 deeply hurt, and showed his resentment in the lines in ' The 
 Valediction ', beginning : 
 
 Next, busy Actor, on a meaner stage. 
 
 [Oxford Cowper, p. 357, 11. 27-48.) 
 
 1. 29. tragedies of Lloyd and Bensley : Robert Lloyd (1733- 
 64), a minor poet, educated at Westminster and Cambridge ; 
 afterwards usher at Westminster, editor, and bookseller's 
 hack. His friendship with Churchill encouraged him in a dis- 
 sipated life which landed him in the Fleet prison, where he 
 died, soon after hearing the news of Churchill's death ; see 
 p. 266 of Oxford Cowper for Cowper, ' Epistle to Robert Lloyd, 
 Esq.' We know little about Bensley except that he was 
 a member of the Nonsense Club consisting of seven Old 
 Westminsters (namely, Cowper, Bonnell Thornton, Colman, 
 Lloyd, Joseph Hill, Bensley, and De Grey — afterwards Baron 
 Walsingham). 
 
 Page 108. Rev. William Unurin : son of the Rev. Morley 
 Unwin. 
 
 Page 109, 11. 27-8. Oh quis, &c. : Virgil, Georgics, ii. 488-9. 
 {Oh quis should be O qui.) 
 
 1. 32. statue of Memnon : Memnon, son of Tithonus and 
 Aurora, was killed by Achilles during the siege of Troy. A 
 colossal statue near Egyptian Thebes was said to represent 
 him, and to give forth musical sounds when touched by the 
 rays of the rising sun. 
 
 Page 110, 1. 4. Smollett's case : Tobias Smollett (1721-71), 
 novelist. He ' proposed ... to bathe in the sea, with a view 
 to strengthen and prepare my body for the fatigues of such 
 a long journey ' (to the South'of France). See Travels through 
 France and Italy, par. 5. 
 
 1. 29. Lord Mansfield : William Murray, first Earl of 
 Mansfield (1705-93), the famous judge. On the outbreak of 
 the Gordon Riots in 1780 the mob burned his house and all its 
 contents, including his fine library and pictures. See Oxford 
 Cowper, p. 306. 
 
 Pag] 111, 1. 4. Cartel : a written agreement relating to the 
 ;inge of prisoners. 
 
 1. 14. Johnson's biographies : see pp. 120, 123-5 ; the first 
 volumes of a collection of The English Poets with Johnson's 
 ■tory Lives appeared in 1779. Johnson received a pension 
 c f /300 a year from George III in 1762.
 
 SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS 193 
 
 Page 112, 1. 15. Dorian flute : the Dorian mode was one of 
 the ancient Greek modes in music, characterized by simplicity 
 and solemnity. Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost, i. 550-1 : 
 
 The Dorian mood of Flutes and soft Recorders. 
 
 Page 116, 1. 25. Bourne : Vincent Bourne (1695-1747) was 
 a master at Westminster when Cowper was at school there. He 
 published several volumes of Latin poems, many of which 
 Cowper translated. See Oxford Cowper, pp. 546—60. 
 
 Page 118, 1. 7. ' If a man smite,' &c. : Matt. v. 39, 40. 
 
 1. 21. ' Why do ye not rather suffer wrong ' : 1 Cor. vi. 7. 
 
 1. 23. professors : i.e. those who professed Christianity. 
 
 Page 120, 1. 3. Fete Champetre : picnic. 
 
 1. 23. Dr. Watts : see Johnson's life of Watts in Lives 
 of the Poets. Johnson writes : ' His devotional poetry is, 
 like that of others, unsatisfactory. ... It is sufficient for Watts 
 to have done better than others what no man has done well.' 
 
 1. 28. placed him once in the ' Dunciad ' : the lines in the 
 Dunciad, Book I, 145-6, which now run : 
 
 A Gothic Library ! of Greece and Rome 
 
 Well purg'd, and worthy Settle, Banks, and Broome. 
 
 were printed in the first edition with W-ly (Wesley), and W-s 
 (Watts), instead of Settle and Banks. 
 
 Page 121,1. 10. he has spoken of Sir Richard Blackmore : SirR. 
 Blackmore (1654-1729), physician, wrote enormous works in 
 prose and verse, all of which are now forgotten. His Creation 
 (i7i2)was warmly praised by Addison and others. He was one of 
 the four poets who were included among the English Poets at 
 Johnson's suggestion. Watts was another. Johnson writes : 
 ' In his descriptions both of life and nature the poet and the 
 philosopher happily co-operate ; truth is recommended by 
 elegance, and elegance sustained by truth.' 
 
 1. 26. one poet : Cowper himself ; see Conversation, 11. 245- 
 68, Oxford Cowper, p. 95. 
 
 Hawkins Browne : Isaac Hawkins Browne (1705-60). 
 ' A Pipe of Tobacco,' is the work referred to here. It is 
 a collection of six parodies, in the styles of Colley Cibber 
 (poet laureate), Ambrose Philips, Thomson, Young, Pope, 
 and Swift — all on the same subject. 
 
 Page 122, 1. 26. bene vixit, &c. : 
 
 Crede mihi, bene qui latuit, bene vixit. 
 
 Ovid, Tristia, ill. iv. 25. 
 Page 123, 1. 23. In the last Review : in the November (1781) 
 number of the Monthly Review, which was founded in 1749. 
 
 Page 124, 1. 17. his Solomon : Solomon on the Vanity of the 
 World, 1 718. Cowper is wrong ; Johnson devotes several 
 paragraphs to criticism of it.
 
 i 9 4 NOTES 
 
 I. 31. Henry and Emma : ' Henry and Emma : a poem upon 
 
 the model of the Nut-Brown Maid,' an old ballad. Johnson 
 calls it ' a dull and tedious dialogue, which excites neither 
 esteem for the man nor tenderness for the woman '. 
 
 Page 125, 11. 10-11. the Bacchanals served Orpheus : under the 
 influence of their Bacchanalian orgies, the Thracian women 
 tore Orpheus to pieces in revenge for his contempt of them. 
 
 Page 127, 1. 22. Dr. Franklin : Benjamin Franklin (1706- 
 90), the famous American journalist, philosopher, diplomatist, 
 and statesman. At this time he was in France representing 
 the revolting American colonies at the French court, and 
 encouraging Louis XVI to remain at war with England. 
 
 1. 28. Rhadamanthus : one of the judges of the dead. 
 
 Page 128, 1. 3. Mr. Teedon : Samuel Teedon, a poor 
 schoolmaster, who at first amused Cowper by his ignorant 
 fanaticism, but afterwards gained great and pernicious influence 
 over his mind, and encouraged him to talk of his delusions. 
 
 1. 6. Mr. Griffith : i.e. Ralph Griffiths, publisher of the 
 Monthly Review. See note on p. 15, 1. 36. 
 
 1. 19. a viper: see ' The Colubriad,' Oxford Cowper, p. 40. 
 
 Page 130, 1. 20. sillabub : a dish made of cream, or milk, 
 and wine. 
 
 Page 131, 1. 11. peace is at hand : peace was made with 
 America in April 17S3, and with France and Spain in September 
 
 1783- 
 
 1. 12. the siege of Gibraltar : Gibraltar was besieged by 
 combined French and Spanish forces from 1779 to September 
 1782, when Lord Howe finallv relieved the garrison. 
 
 Page 133, 11. 9, 10, 13. France . . . Spain . . . Holland : 
 while England was trying to recover her revolted American 
 colonies, France in 1778, Spain in 1779, and Holland in 1780, 
 seized the opportunity to declare war against her. 
 
 Page 133, 1. 30, quidnuncs : gossips. 
 
 Page 134, 11. 23-4. Nihil est, &c. : Horace, Odes, 11. xvi. 
 27-8. 
 
 Page 138, 1. 27. beadle : parish constable. 
 
 ! 'AGE 139, 1. 6. capillary club : pigtail knotted in the shape 
 of a club, fashionable in the latter half of the eighteenth 
 ccntur 1 
 
 1. 25. Swift observes : see Tale of a Tub, section 1, first 
 igraph. 
 
 Page 1+3,1. 4. netting: making small fancy-work articles, 
 sin h as purses, in network. 
 
 1. 7. Mr. Grenville : William Wyndham Grenville (1759- 
 ■1, afterwards Baron Grenville, Prime Minister in 1806. 
 He '■■ is rel urned head of the poll at this election, as a Pittite. 
 I ' tss : Cowper's tame hare. 
 
 Page 144, 1. 9. dispute between the Crown and the Commons :
 
 SELECTIONS FROM LETTERS 195 
 
 in December 1783 George III, in order to keep the hated 
 ' Coalition Ministry ' of Fox and North out of power, made Pitt, 
 then only twenty-three years old, Prime Minister. Pitt almost 
 at once dissolved Parliament, and in the ensuing general 
 election obtained a majority in his favour. This was in a sense 
 no doubt a victory for the Crown against the Commons ; 
 though the Crown, during Pitt's long tenure of office, accepted 
 many excellent measures from Pitt which it would have 
 bitterly opposed from the Whigs. 
 
 Page 145, 1. 1. trousers : at that time not generally worn 
 by landsmen, knee-breeches being in vogue on shore. 
 
 1. 27. Jonah: Jonah ii. 10. 
 
 Page 149, 1. 10. / have been at Troy, &c. : see Iliad, xxiii. 
 
 1. 35. Common-scene in ' The Task ' : see The Task, i. 520-33. 
 
 Page 152, 1. 4. sliding pictures in a show-box : i. e. a 
 ' camera obscura ' where the moving external objects are 
 imaged through a double convex lens on a surface of paper or 
 glass. 
 
 1. 8. buckram : lit. coarse linen stiffened with gum or 
 paste ; hence ' in buckram ' comes to mean ' stiffly '. 
 
 1. 20. corking pin : a pin of the largest size. 
 
 Page 155, 1. 16. the alcove : see The Task, i. 278 
 
 1. 24. described by a certain poet : see The Task, iv. 1. 
 
 Page 156, 1. 12. Anonymous: probably Theodora Cowper 
 (see Bagehot's Essay, pp. 24-5). 
 
 Page 157, 1. 2. Bethshemites : 1 Sam. vi. 19. 
 
 1. 5. Kerr : a Northampton physician. 
 
 1. 8. Gog or Magog : the names of two giants, statues of 
 whom have stood in the Guildhall for many centuries. The 
 names are Biblical. 
 
 1. 25. Tillotson : John Tillotson (1630-94), Archbishop of 
 Canterbury. 
 
 Page 158, 11. 3-4. Freemantle , and at Bevis's Mount : near 
 Southampton. Cowper was at Southampton with his cousin 
 Harriet and Mr. Hesketh in 1753. 
 
 1. 12. De Grey's : see p. 106, 1. 29, note. 
 
 Page 163, 1. 8. Gayhurst : where Mr. and Mrs. Wrighte 
 lived. 
 
 Page 164, 11. 8-9. Causidice mi : the appellation which 
 Sir Thomas Hesketh used to give Cowper in jest, when he was 
 of the Temple. 
 
 I. 22. as Burnet says : Thomas Burnet (1635 P-I7I5). In 
 a book called Telluris Theoria Sacra (1681) he put forward 
 a wild theory that the earth was like a huge egg whose shell 
 was crushed at the deluge, when the fragments of the shell 
 became mountains. 
 
 Page 165, 1. 1. bill of mortality : list of the persons who 
 had died in the parish during the year. For Cowpers verses
 
 196 NOTES 
 
 for this and subsequent bills of mortality see Oxford Cowper, 
 
 PP- 365-71. 
 
 Page 166, 1. 21. The Drop of Ink : not now extant. 
 
 Page 167, 1. 28. closes : enclosed fields. 
 
 Page 168, 1. 1. half -boots : boots reaching halfway to the 
 kn< 
 
 Page 169, 1. 19. Yahoo : see ' A Voyage to the Houyhnhnms ' 
 in Gulliver's Travels. 
 
 Page 171, 1. 14. as Virgil says : see Aeneidix. 6, 7 : ' Turne, 
 quod optanti divum promittere nemo Auderet, volvenda dies 
 en attulit ultro.' 
 
 Page 172, 1. 2. joint stools : see The Task, i. 19-27, for 
 Cowper's description of joint-stools. 
 
 1. 3. Pertenhall : in Bedfordshire, where Rev. John King, 
 Mrs. Kind's husband, was Rector. 
 
 Page 174, 1. 23. Dean of St. Paul's : the great poet, John 
 Donne (1573-1631). 
 
 PAGE 175, 11. 7-8. Hewitt, Bodham, Balls, or Johnson : the 
 married names of the four sisters, Elizabeth, Anne, Harriet, 
 and Catherine Donne. 
 
 Page 176, 1. 14. Causey : paved part of the road. 
 
 Page 177, 1. 6. So stout : i. e. such a fine fellow. 
 
 1. 13. hearing : attendance at church. 
 
 1. 26. the Chancellor : Lord Thurlow. 
 
 I. 29. Henry : son of General Cowper. 
 
 Page 178, 1. 3. Gil Bias : see Gil Bias, Book VII, ch. iv 
 (World's Classics, vol. ii, pp. 21 et seq.). 
 
 To William Hayley. Hayley (1 745-1 820) was the ' Bard 
 "f Sussex ', author of the Triumphs of Temper, patron of 
 William Blake, and first biographer of Cowper. 
 
 1. 26. Abbot: Lemuel Abbott (1760-1803), portrait-painter. 
 
 II. 30-31. hollow pamper' d jades of Asia, &c. Shakespeare, 
 Henry IV, 11. iv, 11. 177-8, misquoted : 
 
 And hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, 
 Which cannot go but thirty miles a day. 
 
 Page 179, 1. 18. Johnny of Norfolk : Cowper's cousin, John 
 Johnson. 
 
 PAGE 180, 1. 28. dreams of Pindus : Pindus was a mountain 
 in Thessaly, sacred to the Muses. ' Dreams of Pindus ' are 
 such dreams as come to poets. 
 
 1. 30. Lippus. blear-eyed: Cowper often complains of his 
 eyes. 
 
 1 . .1- 182, 11. 19-20. Life of Milton: this appeared in 1794.
 
 Date Due 
 
 1 ncr T 
 
 
 "v 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAI llRRAQvti 
 I! 
 
 AA 000 611 521 6 
 
 ^