Srom f ^e &i6rart of in (glemorg of 3ubge ^amuef (gtiffer QSrecHinribge ^reeenfc^ 6l? ^dmuef (gtiffer (jSrecftinribge feon^ fo f ^e &i6raifi? of (Princeton C^eofo^icaf ^eminarg sec inf THE LIFE POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS WILLIAM COWPERy Esq, THE LIFE POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. WITH AN INTRODUCTORY LETTER TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EARL COWPER. BY AVILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. " Obversatur oculis ille vir, quo neminem setas nostra graviorem, sanc- " tiorem, subtiliorem denique tulit : quern ego quum ex admiratione dili- " gere coepissem, quod evenire contra solet, magis admiratus sum, post- " quam penitus inspexi. Inspexi enim penitus : nihil a me ille secretum, * non joculare, non serium, non triste, non Ixtum." Plinii Epist. Lib. iv. Ep. 17- VOL. L NEW-VORK: PnlNTED AND SOLD BY T. AND J. SWORDS, Nu. 160 Tearl-Street. ISOS. CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. Introductory Letter. The Life, Part the First — the Family, Birth, and first Residence of Cow- per — his Eulogy on the Tenderness of his Mother, pages 1, 2. Her Portrait — her Epitaph by her Niece, 2, 3. The Schools that Cowper attended — his Sufferings in Childhood, 4, 5, 6. Leaves Westminster, and is stationed in the House of an Attorney, 6, 7. Verses on his early Afflictions, 7, 8. Setdes in the Inner Temple — his Acquaintance with eminent Authors, 8. His Epistle to Lloyd, 9. His Translations in Duncomhe's Horace, 11. His own Account of his early Life, 11. Stanzas on reading Sir Charles Grandison, 12. Verses written at Bath, 1748 — his Nomination to the Office of Reading Clerk in the House of Lords, 13, 14. His extreme dread of appearing in Public, 15. His Healtli deranged — his Retirement to the House of Dr. Cotton, at St. Alban's, 15. His Recovery, 16. He settles at Huntingdon, to be near his Brother residing in Cambridge, 17. The two Brothers employed on a Translation of Voltaire's Henriade, 17. The Origin of Cowper's Acquaiiitance with the Family of Unwin, 18. He becomes a Part of that Family, 19. His early Friendship with Lord Thurlow and Joseph Hill, Esq. 19. Letter 1 To Joseph Hill, Esq. June 24, 1765 Page 20 2 To Major Cowper Oct. 18, 1765 21 o To Joseph Hill, Esq. Oct. 25, 1765 22 4 To Mrs. Cowper March 11, 1766 23 5 To the same April 4, 1766 24 6 To the same April 17, 1766 25 7 To the same April 18, 1766 27 8 To the same Sept. 3, 1766 29 9 To the same Oct. 20, 1766 31 10 To the same March 11, 1767 32 11 To the same March 14, 1767 34 12 To the same April 3, 1767 ib. 13 To the same July 13, 1767 36 14 To Joseph Hill, Esq. July 16, 1767 ib. The Origin of Cowper's Acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Newton, 37- His Removal with Mrs. Unwin, on the Death of her Husband, to Ol- ney, in Buckinghamshire — his Devotion and Charity in his new Resi- dence, 37- vi CONTENTS. Letter 15 To Joseph Hill, Esq. June 16,1768 Page 38 16 To the same 1769 ib. A Poem in Memory of John Thornton, Esq. 39. Cowper's Beneficence to a Necessitous Child, 40. Composes a Series of Hymns, 41. Letter 17 To Mrs. Cowper without date Page 41 18 To the same Aug. 31, 1769 42 Cowper is hurried to Cambridge by the dangerous Illness of his Brother, 43 Letter 19 To Mrs. Cowper March 5, 1770 Page 44 A brief Account of the Rev. John Cowper, who died March 20, 1770— and the Tribute paid to his Memory by his Brother the Poet, 44, 45. Letter 20 To Joseph HiU, Esq. ■ May 8, 1770 Page 46 21 To Mrs. Cowper June 7, 1770 47 22 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Sept. 25, 1770 49 The Collection of the Olney Hymns interrupted by the Illness of Cowper, 49. His long and severe Depression — his tame Hares one of his first Amusements on his revival, 50, 51, 52. Letter 23 To Joseph Hill, Esq. May 6, 1780 Page 53 24 To Mrs. Cowper ' May 10, 1780 54, 25 To Joseph HUl, Esq. July 8, 1780 ib. 26 To Mrs. Cowper July 20, 1780 55 27 To the same Aug. 31, 1780 56 28 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Dec. 25, 1780 57 29 To the same Feb. 15, 1781 59 30 To the same May 9, 1781 60 31 To Mrs. Cowper Oct. 19, 1781 61 The Publication of his first Volume — not immediately successful— probable Reasons of the Neglect that it seemed for some Time to experience — an E.\ample of the Poet's amiable Ingenuousness in speaking of him- self— the various kinds of Excellence in liis first Volume, 62 to 65. PART THE SECOND. The Origin of Cowper's Acquaintance with Lady Austin — a Poetical Epistle to that Lady, 67, 68. A Billet to the same Lady, and three Songs, written for her Harpsichord, 71 to 74. She relates to Cowper the Story of John Gilpin, 75. Letter 32 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Feb. 13, 1783 Page 76 23 To the same, enclosing a Let- ter from Benjamin Franklin Feb. 20,1783 ib. 34 To the same without date 77 35 To the same May 26, 1783 78 56 To the same Oct. 20, 1783 ib. The Origin of the Task, 79. Extracts from Cowper's Letters to the Rev. Ml-. Bull, relating to the Progress of that Poem, 79, 80. A sudden end of the Poet's Intercourse v/ith Lady Austin, 81. CONTENTS. vii Letter 37 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Sept. 11, 1784 Page 81 38 To the same without date 82 39 To tlie same June 25, 1785 83 The Publication of Cowper's second Volume, in 1785, leads to a renewal of his Correspondence with his Relation, I.ady Hesketh, 83. Letter 40 To Lady Hesketh Oct. 12, 1785 Page • 84 41 To the same Nov. 9, 1785 85 42 To the same without date 88 43 To the same Dec. 24, 1785 89 44 To the same Jan. 10, , 1786 90 45 To the same Jan. 31, 1786 91 46 To the same Feb. 9, , 1785 93 47 To the same Feb. 11, 1786 94 48 To the same Feb. 19, 1786 95 49 To the same March 6, 1786 98 50 To Joseph Hill, Esq. April 5, 1786 100 51 To Lady Hesketh April 17, 1786 101 52 To the same April 24, 1786 103 5^ To the same May 8, 1786 104 54 To the same May 15, 1786 107 55 To the same May 25, 1786 110 56 To the same May 29, 1786 112 57 To the same June 4, 1786 114 58 To Joseph Hill, Esq. June 9, 1786 116 59 To the same June 9, 1786 117 60 To the same Oct. 6, 1786 ib. Cowper receives at Olney his Relation Lady Hesketh, 118. E.xtracts from his Letters to the Rev. Mr. Bull — Poem on Friendship, from 119 to 128. Extract from the Rev. Mr. Newton's ] Memoirs of Cowper, 129. The Removal of Mrs. Unwin and Cowper fi rom the To\v'n . of Olney to the Village of Weston, 130. Letter 61 To Lady Hesketh Nov. 26, 1786 Page 130 62 To the same Dec. 4, 1786 131 63 To the same Dec. 9, 1786 133 64 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Dec. 9, 1786 ib. 65 To Lady Hesketh Dec. 21, 1786 134 66 To the same Jan. 8, 1787 135 67 To the same Jan. 8, 1787 136 68 To Samuel Rose, Esq. July 24, 1787 137 69 To the same Aug. 27, 1787 138 70 To Lady Hesketh Aug. 30, 1787 139 71 To the same Sept. 4, 1787 140 72 To the same Sept. 15, 1787 141 73 To the same Sept. 29, 1787 142 74> To Samuel Rose, Esq. Oct. 19, 1787 143 75 To Lady Hesketh Nov. 10, 1787 ib. viii CONTENTS. The retired Cat, an occasional Poem, page 144, Letter 76 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Nov. 16, 1787 Page 147 77 To Lady Hesketh Nov. 27, 1787 148 78 To the same Dec. 4, 1787 149 79 To the same Dec. 10, 1787 150 80 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Dec. 13, 1787 151 81 To Lady Hesketh Jan. 1, 1788 153 82 To the same Jan. 19, 1788 154 83 To the same Jan. 30, 1788 155 84 To the same Feb. 1, 1788 156 85 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Feb. 14, 1788 157 85 To Lady Hesketh Feb. 16, 1788 159 87 To the same Feb. 22, 1788 160 88 To the same March 3, 1788 162 89 To the same March 12, 1788 163 90 To General Cowper Dec. 13, 1787 164 The Morning Dream, a ] Ballad, page ■ 164. 91 To Samiiel Rose, Esq. March 29, 1788 166 92 To Lady Hesketh March 31, 1788 167 93 To Joseph Hill, Esq. May 8, 1788 168 94 To Lady Hesketh May 12, 1788 ib. 95 To Joseph Hill, Esq. May 24, 1788 169 96 To Lady Hesketh May 27, 1788 170 97 To the same June j> 1788 171 98 To Joseph Hill, Esq. June 8, 1788 172 99 To Lady Hesketh June 10, 1788 173 100 To the same June 15, 1788 ib. 101 To Samuel Rose, Esq. June 23, 1788 174 102 To Lady Hesketh JiJy 28, 1788 176 103 To the same Aug. 9, 1788 177 104 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Aug. 18, 1788 'b. 105 To the same Sept. 11, 1788 179 Two Poems on a favourite Spaniel , page 180. 105 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Sept. 25, 1788 181 107 To the same Nov. 30, 1788 182 108 To the same Jan. 19, 1789 183 109 To the same Jan. 24, 1789 184 110 To the same M.iy 20, 1789 ib. A Poem on the Queen's Visit to Londor !, the IS! -ight of March 17, 1789, page 185 Letter 111 To Samuel Rose, Esq. June 5, 1789 Page 188 112 To the same June 20, 1789 ib. 113 To Mrs. Throckmorton Julv 18, 1789 189 114 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Julv 23, 1789 190 115 To the same Aug. 8, 1789 191 iir. To the same Sept. 24, 1789 i!>. CONTENTS. Letter 117 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 118 To Joseph Hill, Esq. 119 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 120 To Lady Hesketh 121 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 122 To Lady Hesketh Verses to Mrs. Throckmorton, on her Ode, Ad Librum sun Letter 123 To Lady Hesketh 124 To Mrs. Bodham 125 To John Johnson, Esq. 126 To Lady Hesketh 127 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 128 To Mrs. Throckmorton 129 To Lady Hesketh 130 To John Johnson, Esq. 131 To the same 132 To Lady Hesketh, 133 To the same 134 To Mrs. Throckmorton 135 To Lady Hesketh 136 To the same 137 To John Johnson, Esq. 138 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 139 To Mrs. Bodham 140 To Lady Hesketh 141 To John Johnson, Esq. 142 To the same 143 To Mrs. Bodham 144 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 145 To Mrs. Bodham 146 To John Johnson, Esq. 147 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 148 To John Johnson, Esq. 149 To the same 150 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 151 To Lady Hesketh 152 To John Johnson, Esq. 153 To Joseph Hill, Esq. 154 To the same 155 To John Johnson, Esq. 156 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 157 To Mrs. Throckmorton 158 To John Johnson, Esq. 159 To Samuel Rose. Esq. 160 To John Johnson, Esq. VOL, I. A Sept. 11, 1788 Page 192 Dec. 18, 1789 193 Jan. 3, 1790 ib. Jan. 23, 1790 194 Feb. 2, 1790 195 Feb. 9, 1790 196 beautiful 1 Transcript of Horace's im, page 197 Feb. 26, 1790 Page 197 Feb. 27, 1790 198 Feb. 28, 1790 200 March 8, 1790 202 March 11, 1790 ib. March 21, 1790 203 INIarch 22, 1790 204 March 23, 1790 205 April 17, 1790 206 April 19, 1890 208 April 30, 1790 ib. May 10, 1790 209 May 28, 1790 210 June •Ji 1790 ib. June 7, 1790 211 June 8, 1790 212 June 29, 1790 213 July 7, 1790 214 July 8, 1790 215 July 31, 1790 216 Sept. 9, 1790 ib. Sept. 13, 1790 217 Nov. 21, 1790 2J8 Nov. 26, 1790 219 Nov. 30, 1790 220 Dec. 18, 1790 ib. Jan. 21, 1791 221 Feb. 5, 1791 222 Feb. 13, 1791 ib. Feb. 27, 1791 223 March 6, 1791 224 March 10, 1791 ib. March 19, 1791 ib- March 24, 1791 225 April 1, 1791 226 April 6, 1791 ib. April 29, 1791 127 May 23, 1791 ib. X CONTENTS. The Judgment of the Poets, an occasional Poem, page 228. Letter 161 To Samuel Rose, Esq. June 15, 1791 Page 229 The first Publication of Covvper's Homer — the Pleasure he derived from that Work — Extract of a Letter on the Subject to his Kinsman, of Norfolk, page 230, to the end of the Volume. DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER. The Portrait of Cowper as a Frontispiece to Vol. I. The Portrait of Mrs. Cowper to face Page 3, Vol. I. llW INTRODUCTORY LETTER Right Honourable Earl COWPER. Y OUR family, my Lord, our country itself, and the whole literary world, sustained such a loss in the death of that amiable man and enchanting author who forms the subject of these volumes, as inspired the friends of genius and virtue with universal concern. It soon became a general wish, that some authentic and copious memorial of a character so highly interesting should be produced with all becoming dispatch ; not only to render due honour to the dead, but to alleviate the regret of a nation taking a just and liberal pride in the reputation of a poet, who had obtained and deserved her applause, her esteem, her affection. If this laudable wish was very sensibly felt by the public at large, it glowed with peculiar warmth and eagerness in the bosom of the few who had been so fortunate as to enjoy an intimacy with Cowper in some vmclouded periods of his life, and who knew, from such an intimacy, that a lively sweetness and sanctity of spirit were as truly the characteristics of his social enjoy- ments, as they arc allowed to constitute a principal charm in his poetical productions. — It has justly been regarded as a signal blessing, to have possessed the perfect esteem and confidence of such a man : and not long after his decease, one of his particular friends presumed to suggest to an ac- complished lady, nearly related both to him and to your Lordship, that she herself might be the biographer the most worthy of the poet. The long intimacy and correspondence which she enjoved with him, from their lively hours of in- xii INTRODUCTORY LETTER. fantile friendship to the dark evening of his wonderfully chequered life ; her cultivated and affectionate mind, which led her to take peculiar delight and interest in the merit and the reputation of his writings ; and, lastly, that generous attachment to her afflicted relation which induced her to watch over his disoi'dered health, in a period of its most calamitous depression ; — these circumstances, united, seemed to render it desirable that she should assume the office of Cowper's biographer; having such advantages for the perfect execution of that very delicate office as, perhaps, no other memorialist could possess in an equal degree. For the in- terest of literature, and for the honour of many poets, whose memories have suffered from some biographers of a very different description, we may wish that the extensive series of poetical biography had been frequently enriched by the memoirs of such remembrancers as feel only the influence of tenderness and truth. Some poets, indeed, of recent times, have been happy in this most desirable advantage. The Scottish favourite of nature, the tender and impetuous Burns, has found, in Dr. Currie, an ingenuous, eloquent, affectionate biographer; and in a lady also (whose memoir of her friend, the bard, is very properly annexed to his life) a zealous and graceful advocate, singularly happy in vindi- cating his character from invidious detraction. We may observe, to the honour of Scotland, that her national enthu- siasm has, for some years, been very laudably exerted in cherishing the memory of her departed poets. — But to return to the lady who gave rise to this remark. The na- tural diffidence of her sex, uniting with extreme delicacy of health, induced her, eager as she is to promote the celebrity of her deceased relation, to shrink from the idea of submit- ting herself, as an author, to the formidable eye of the public. Her knowledge of the very cordial regard wi^h which Cowper has honoured me, as one of his most confidential friends, led her to request that she might assign to me that arduous office, which she candidly confessed she had not the resolu- tion to assume. She confided to my care such materials for the work in question, as her affinity to the deceased had INTRODUCTORY LETTER. xUi thrown into her hands. In receiving a collection of many- private letters, and of several posthumous little poems, in the vi'ell-known characters of that beloved correspondent, at the sight of whose hand I have often exulted, I felt the blended emotions of melancholy regret, and of awful plea- sure. Yes, I was pleased that these aflFecting papers were entrusted to my care, because some incidents induce me to believe that, if their revered author had been solicited to appoint a biographer for himself, he would have assigned to me this honourable task. Yet, honourable as I considered it, I was perfectly aware of the difficulties and the dangers at- tending it. One danger, indeed, appeared to me of such a nature as to require perpetual caution as I advanced : I mean the danger of being led, in writing as the biographer of my friend, to speak infinitely too much of myself. To avoid the offensive failing of egotism, I had resolved, at first, to make no inconsiderable sacrifice, and to suppress, in his letters, every particle of praise bestowed upon myself. I soon found it impossible to do so without injuring the tender and generous spirit of my friend. I have, therefore, sufilered many expressions of his affectionate partiality towards me to appear, at the hazard of being censured for inordinate vanity. To obviate such a censure, I will only say, that I have en- tleavoured to execute what I regard as a mournful duty, as if I were under the immediate and visible direction of the most pure, the most truly modest, and the most gracefully virtuous mind, that I had ever the happiness of knowing in the form of a manly friend. It is certainly my wish that these volumes may obtain the entire approbation of the world ; but it is infinitely more my desire and ambition to render them exactly such as I think most likely to gratify the conscious spirit of Cowper himself in a superior exist- ence. The person who recommended it to his female relation to continue her exemplary regard to the poet, by appearing as his biographer, advised her to relate the particulars of his life in the form of letters addressed to your Lordship. He cited, on the occasion, a striking passage from the memoirs of Gibbon, in which that great historian pnys a just and a xiv INTRODUCTORY LETTER. splendid compliment to one of the early English poets, who, in the tenderness and purity of his heart, and in the vivid powers of description, may be thought to resemble Cowper. The passage I allude to is this: " The nobility of the Spen- cers has been illustrated and enriched by the trophies of Marlborough ; but T exhort them to consider the Fairy Queen as the most precious jewel of their coronet." If this lively metaphor is just in every point of view, we inay regard The Task as a jewel of pre-eminent lustre in the coronet belong- iiig to the noble family of Cowper. Under the influence of this idea, allow me, my Lord, to address to you such me- moirs of your admirable relation, as my own intimacy with him, and the kindness of those who knew and loved him most truly, have enabled me to compose. I will tell you, with perfect sincerity, all my motives for addressing them to your Lordship. First, I flatter myself it may be a pleasing, and, permit me to say, not an unuseful occupation to an in- g-envious young nobleman, to trace the steps by which a re- tired man, of the most diffident modesty, whose private vir- tues did honour to his name, arose to peculiar celebrity. iVIy second motive is, I ov/n, of a more selfish nature; for I amt persuaded, that, in addressing my v/ork to you, I give the public a satisfactory pledge for the authenticity of my materials. I \n\\ not pretend to say that I hold it in the power of any title, or affinity, to reflect an additional lustre on the memory of the departed poet : for I think so highly of poetical distinction, when that distinction is pre-eminently obtained by genius, piety, and benevolence, that all common honours appear to be eclipsed by a splendour more forcible and extensive. Great poets, my Lord, and that I may speak of thcni as they deserve, let me say, in the words of Horace, Frimum me illorum, dederim qulbus esse Poetas, Excerpam numero — Great poets have generally united in their destiny those ex- tremes of good and evil, which liomer, their immortal pre- sident, assigns to the bard he describes, and v/hich he ex- emplified himself in his own person. — Their lives have been INTRODUCTORY LETTER. xv frequently chequered by the darkest shades of calamity ; but their personal infelicities are nobly compensated by the pre- valence and the extent of their renown. To set this in the most striking point of view, allow me to compare poetical celebrity with the fame acquired by the exertion of different mental powers in the highest department of civil life. The Lord Chancellors of England may be justly regarded among the personages of the modern world, peculiarly exalted by intellectual endowments : with two of these illustrious cha- racters, the poet, whose life I have endeavoured to delineate, was in some measure connected; being related to one, the immediate ancestor of your Lordship, and being intimate, in early life, with a Chancellor of the present reign, whose elevation to that dignity he has recorded in rhyine. Much respect is due to the legal names of Cowper, and of Thurlow. Knowledge, eloquence, and political importance, conspired to aggrandize the men who added those names to the list of English nobility: yet, after the lapse of a few centuries, they .will shine only like very distant constellations, merely visi- ble in the vast expanse of history ! But, at that time, the poet of whom I speak, will continue to sparkle in the eyes of all men, like the radiant star of the evening, perpetually hailed by the voice of gratitude, affection, and delight. There is a principle of unperishablc vitality (if I may use such an expression) in the compositions of Cowper, which must en- sure to them in future ages, what we have seen them so happily acquire and maintain in the present — universal admi- ration and love ! His poetry is to the heart and the fancy, what the moral essays of Bacon are to the understanding, a never-cloying feast ! " As if increase of appetite had grown " By what it fed on." Like them it comes " home to the business and bosom of every man ;" by possessing the rare and double talent to fami- liarize and endear the most awful subjects, and to dignify the most familiar, the poet naturally becomes a favourite with readers of every description. His works must interest xvi INTRODUCTORY LETTER. every nation under heaven, where his sentiments are under- stood, and where the feelings of humanity prevail. Yet their author is eminently an EngUshman, in the noblest sense of that honourable appellation. He loved the consti- tution; he revered the I'eligion of his country; he was ten- derly, and generously alive to her real interest and honour; and perhaps of her many admirable poets, not one has touched her foibles, and celebrated her perfections, with a spirit so truly filial. — But I perceive that I am in danger of going far beyond my design in this introductory letter, for it was my intention not to enter into the merits of his character here, but to inform you in what manner I wish to make that character display itself to my readers, as far as possible, in his own most interesting language. — Perhaps no man ever possessed the powers of description in a higher degree, both in verse and prose. By weaving into the texture of these Memoirs, an extensive selection of his private letters, and several of his posthumous poems, I trust that a faithful re- presentation of him has been formed, where the most strik- ing features will appear the work of his own inimitable hand. The result of the whole production will, I am confident, establish one most satisfactory truth, interesting to society in general, and to your Lordship in particular: the truth I mean is expressed in the final verse of an epitaph, which the hand of friendship inscribed to your excellent relation: " His virtues form'd the magic of his song." May the affectionate zeal with which I have endeavoured to render all the justice in my power to his variety of merit, atone for whatever deficiencies may be found in this imper- fect attempt, and lead both your Lordship and our Country to honour with some degree of approbation, Your very faithful servant, WILLIAM HAYLEY. THE LIFE OF COWPER. PART THE FIRST. JNGENIUM PROBITAS, ARTEMQUE MODESTJA VJNCIT. X HE family of Cowper appears to have held, for several cen- turies, a respectable rank among the merchants and gentry of Eng- land. We learn from the life of the first Earl Cowper, in the Bio- graphia Britannica, that his ancestors were inhabitants of Sussex, in the reign of Edward the Fourth. The name is found repeatedly among the Sheriifs of London ; and John Cowper, who resided as a country gentleman in Kent, was created a Baronet by King Charles the First, in 1641. But the family rose to higher distinc- tion in the beginning of the last century, by the remarkable cir- cumstance of producing two brothers, who both obtained a seat in the house of peers by eminence in the profession of the law. William, the eldest, became Lord High Chancellor in 1707. Spencer Cowper, the youngest, was appointed Chief Justice of Chester in 1717, and afterwards a judge in the court of Common Pleas, being permitted, by the particular favour of the King, to hold those two oJRfices to the end of his life. He died in Lincoln's Inn, on the 10th of December, 1728, and has the higher claim to our notice as the immediate ancestor of the Poet. By Theodora, his second wife, the widow of George Stepney, Esq. Judge Cowi^er left several children ; among them a daughter Judith, who, at the age of eighteen, discovered a striking talent for poetry, in the praise of her cotemporary poets Pope and Hughes. This lady, the wife of Colonel Mudan, transmitted her own poetical ^nd de- vout spirit to her daughter Frances Maria, who was married to her cousin. Major Cowper, and whose amiable character will un- fold itself in the course of this work, as the friend and correspon- dent of her more eminent relation, the second grandchild of the judge, destined to honour the name of Cowper, by displa)ing, witli peculiar purity and fervour, the double enthusiasm of poetry and devotion. The father of the great author to whom I allude, was John Cowper, the judge's second son, who took his degrees in di- vinity, was chaplain to King George the Second, and resided at VOL. I. B 3 LIFE OF COWPER. his Rectory of Great Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, tlie scene of the Poet's infancj^, which he has thus commemorated in a sin- gularly beautiful and pathetic composition on the portrait of his mother. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'iy floor, And where the gard'ner Robm, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way ; Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 'Tis now become a history little known. That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 1 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 plumb ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow 'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd. All this, and more endearing still than all. Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall ; Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, That humour interpos'd too often makes. All this, stiU legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pa.y Such honours to thee as my numbers may. The parent whose merits are so feelingly recorded by the filiab tenderness of the Poet, was Ann, daughter of Roger Donne, Esq. of L\idliam Hall, in Norfolk. This lady, whose family is said to have been originallj' from Wales, was married, in the bloom of youth, to Dr. Cowper ; after giving l^irth to several children, wlio died in their infancy, and leaving two sons, William, the immediate" subject of this memorial, born at Berkhamstead on the 26th of November, N. S. 1731, and John (whose accomplishments and memorable death will be described in the course of this compilation), i^ie died in childbed at the early age of thirty-four, in 173". It may be wished that the painter emplo} cd to preserve a resemblance of iuch a. Avoman had possessed tliose powers of graceful and per- / J MotJier of tJiePoet . LIFE OF COWPER. :? •feet delineation which, in a different art, beloug»^d to the pen of her «on ; but her portrait, executed by Heins in oil-colours, on a small scale, is a production infinitely inferior to the very lieautiful poem to which it gave rise. Yet such as it is, I apprehend it will gratify my reader to find it in this volume correctly engraved ; for what lover of poetry can fail to take an affectionate interest in the mother of Cowper? Those who delight in contemplating the best affec- tions of our nature, will ever admire the tender sensibility with which the Poet has acknowledged liis obligaticxis to this amiable mother, in a poem composed moi-e than fifty years after her decease. Readers of this tlescription may find a pleasure in observing how the praise so liberally bestowed on this tender parent, at so late a period, is confirmed (if praise so unquestionable may be said to re- ceive confirmation) by another poetical record of her merit, which the hand of affinii;y and affection bestowed upon her tomb. A re^ cord written at a time when the Poet, who was destined to prove, in his advanced life, her more powerful eulogist, had hardly begun to show the dawn of that genius which, after years of silent afflic- tion, arose like a star emerging from tempestuous darkness. The monument of Mrs. Cowiier, erected by her iiusbaud in the chancel of St. Peter's chui-ch, at Berkhamstead, contains the fol- lowing verses, composed by a young lady, her niece, the late Lady Walsingham; •Here lies, in early 5'ears bereft of life, The best of mothers, and the kindest wife ; W'ho neither knew, nor practis'd any art, Secure in all she wish'd, her husband's heart. Her love to him still prevalent in death, , Pray'd Heaven to bless him with her latest bl'eath. Still was she studious never to offend, And glad of an occasion to commend : With ease would pardon injuries receiv'd. Nor e'er was cheerful when another griev'd. Despising state, with her own lot content, Enjoy'd the comforts of a life well-spent. Resigned when Heaven demanded back her breatli, Fler mind heroic 'midst the pangs of deatli. Whoe'er thou art that dost this Tomb draw near, (■) stay awhile, and shed a friendly tear. These lines, tho' weak, are as herself sincere. } The truth and tenderness of this Epitaph will more than com- pensate with every candid reader the imperfection asciibed to it by 4 LIFE OF COWPER. its young and modest Author. To have lost a parent of a charac- ter so virtuous and endearing, at an early period of his childhood, was the prime misfortune of Cowper, and what contributed, per- haps in the highest degree, to the dark colouring of his subsequent life. The influence of a good mother on the first years of her chil- dren, whether nature has given them peculiar strength, or pecu- liar delicacy of frame, is equally inestimable: It is the prerogative and the felicity of such a mother to temper the arrogance of the strong, and to dissipate the timidity of the tender. The infancy of CoAvper was delicate in no common degree, and his constitution discovered, at a very early season, that morbid tendency to diffi- dence, to melancholy, and despair, which darkened as he advanced in years into periodical fits of the most deploi-able depression. It may afford an ample field for useful reflection to observe, in speaking of a child, that he was destined to excite, in his progress through life, the highest degrees of admiration and of pity — of admiration for mental excellence, and of pity for mental disorder. We understand human nature too imperfectly to ascertain in what measure the original structure of his frame, and the casual incidents of his life, contributed to the happy perfection of his ge- nius, or to the calamitous eclipses of his effulgent mind. Yet such were the talents, the virtues, and the misfortunes of this wonderfiil person, that it is hardly possible for Biography, extensive as her province is, to speak of a more interesting individual, or to select a subject on which it may be more difficult to satisfy a variety of readers. In feeling all the weight of this difficulty, I may still be confident that I shall not utterly disappoint his sincerest admirers, if the success of my endeavours to make him more known, and more beloved, is proportioned, in any degree, to the zeal witli which I cultivated his friendship, and to the gratification that I feel in recalling to my own recollection the delightful extent and diver- sity of his literary powers, with the equally delightfid sweetness of his social character. But the powerful influence of such recollection has drawn me imperceptibly from the proper course of my narrative. — I return to the childhood of Cowper. In first quitting the house of his parents, he was sent to a reputable school at Market-Street,, in Hertfordshire, under the care of Dr. Pitman, and it is probable that he was removed from it in consequei>ce of an ocular complaint. From a circumstance which he relates of himself at that period, in a letter written to me in 1792, he seems lo have been in danger of resembling Milton in the misfortune of blindness, as he resembled him, more happily, in the fervency of a devout and poetical spirit. " I have been all my life," says Cowper, " subject to inflamma- LIFE OF COWPER. 5 ^ions of the eye, and in my boyish days had specks on both that threatened to cover them. My father, alarmed for the conse- quences, sent me to a female oculist of great renown at that time, in whose house I alwde two years, but to no good purpose. From her I went to Westminster school, where, at the age of fourteen, the small-pox seized me, and proved the better oculist of the two, for it delivered me from them all. Not, however, from great lia- bleness to inflammation, to which I am in a degree still subject, though nmch less than formerly, "since I have bepn constant in the use of a hot foot-bath every night, the last thing before going to rest." It appears a strange process in education to send a tender child from a long residence in the house of a female oculist immediately into all the hardships that a little delicate boy must have to encoun- ter at a public school. But the mother of Cowper was dead, and fathers, though good men, are, in general, utterly unfit to manage their young and tender orphans. The little Cowper was sent to hia first school in the year of his mother's death, and how ill-suited the scene was to his peculiar character, must be evident to all who have heard him describe his sensations in that season of life, which is often, very erroneously, extolled as the happiest period of human existence. He has been frequently heard to lament the persecu- tion that he sustained in his childish years, from the cruelty of his school-fellows, in the two scenes of his education. His own forci- ble expression represented him at Westminster as not daring to raise his eye above the shoe-buckle of the elder boys, who were too apt to tyrannize over his gentle spirit. The acuteness of his feel- ings in his childhood rendered those impoi-tant j^ears (which might have produced, under tender cultivation, a series of lively enjoy- ments) miserable years of increasing timidity and depression, Avhich, in the most cheerful hours of his advanced life, he could hardly describe to an intimate friend, without shuddering at the recollection of his early wretchedness. Yet to this, perhaps, the world is indebted for the pathetic and moral eloquence of those forcible admonitions to parents which give interest and beauty to his admirable Pcem on Public Schools. Poets may be said to rea- lize, in some measure, the poetical idea of the Nightingale singing ■with a thorn at her breast, as their most exquisite songs have often originated in the acuteness of their personal sufferings. Of this oljvious truth, the Poem I ha\ e just mentioned is a very memora- ble example ; and if any readers have thought the Poet too severe in his strictures on that system of education to whicli we owe some of the most accomplished characters that ever gave celebrity to a ci\'ilized nation, such readers will Ijc candidly reconciled to that moral severity of reproof, in recollecting that it flowed from sc- 6 LIFE OF COWPER. vere personal experience, united to the purest spirit of philan- thropy and patriotism. Cowper's exhortation to fathers, to educate their own sons, is a model of persuasive eloquence, and not inferior to similar exhor- tations in the eloquent Rousseau, or in the accomplished translator of TansiUo's poem, the Nurse, by which these enchanting writers have induced, and wiU continue to induce, so many niothers in polished life to suckle their o^vn children. Yet similar as these ex- hortations maybe esteemed, in their benevolent design, and in their graceful expi-ession, there are two powerfiil reasons, which must, in all probability, prevent their being attended with similar success. In the first place, woman has, in general, much stronger prcpenr bity than man to the perfect discharge of parental duties ; and, se- condly, the avocations of men are so imperious, in their different lines of life, that few fathers could command sufficient leisure (if nature furnished them with talents and inclination) to fulfil the ar- duous office of preceptor to their own children ; yet arduous and irksome as the office is generally thought, there is perhaps no spe- cies of mental labour so perfectly sweet in its success; and the Poet justly exclaims: O 'tis a sight to be with joy perus'd, ^ A sight surpass'd by none that we can show ! A Fathei' blest with an ingenuous Son; Father, and Friend, and Tutor, all in one. Had the constitutional shyness and timidity of Cowper been gradually dispelled by the rare advantage tliat he describes in these verses, his early years would certainly have been happier ; but men who are partial to public schools will probably doubt if any system of private tuition could ha-\e proved more favourable to the future display of his genius, than such an education as he received at West- minster, where, however the peculiar delicacy of his nature might expose him to an extraordinary portion of juvenile discomfort, he undoubtedly acquired the accomplishment and the reputation of scholarsliip, with the advantage of being known and esteemed by some aspiring youths of his own age, who were destined to become conspicuous and powerful in the splendid scenes of the world. With these acquisitions he left Westminster, at the age of eighteen, in 1749; and, as if destiny had detei*m.ined that all his early situations in life should be peculiarly irksome to his delicate feelings, and tend rather to promote than to com.teract a constitu- LIFE OF COWPEH. 7 tional terrdency to a morbid sensibility in his frame, he was re- moved from a public school to the office of an attorney. He re- sided three years in the house of a Mr. Chapman, to whom he was engaged by articles for that time. Here he was placed for the. study of a profession which nature seemed resolved that he never should practise. The law is a kind of soldiership, and, like the profession of arms, it may be said to require for the constitution of its hd^ocs " A frame of adamant, a soul of fire." The soul of Cowper had indeed its fire, but fire so refined and etherial, that it could not be expected to shine in the gross at- mosphere of worldly contention. Perhaps there never existed a mortal who, possessing, with a good person, intellectual powers nararally strong, and highly cultivated, was so utterly unfit to en- counter the bustle and perplexities of public life. But the extreme modesty and shyness of his nature, which disqualified him lor scenes of business and ambition, endeared him inexpressibly to those who had opportunities to enjoy his society, and faculties to appreciate the uncommon excellence of his interesting character. Reserved as he was, to an extraordinary and painful degree, his heart and mind were yet admirably fashioned by nature for all the refined intercourse and confidential delights, both of friendship and of love : but though apparently formed to possess, and to commu- nicate an extraordinary portion of mortal felicity, the incidents of his life were such, that, conspiring with the peculiarities of his na- ture, they rendered him, at different times, the most unhappy of mankind. The variety and depth of his sufferings, in early life, from extreme tenderness of heart, are very forcibly displayed in the following verses, which formed part of a letter to one of his female relations at the time they were composed. The letter has perished; and the verses owe their preservation to the affectionate memory of tlie lady to whom they were addressed. Doom'd, as I am, in solitude to waste The present moments, and regret the past; Depriv'd of every joy I valued most, My Friend torn from me, smd my Mistress lost ; Call not this gloom, I wear, this anxious mien, The dull effect of humour, or of spleen ! Still, still I moui'n, with eaph returning day. Him* snatch'd by Fate, in early youth, away. ♦ Sir William Riissel, rtie favourite friend of the young Puci. 8 LIFE OF COWPER. And her — through tedious years of doubt and pain^' Fix'd in her choice, and faithful — ^but in vain 1 O prone to pity, genei'ous, and sincere, Whose eye ne'er yet refiised the wretch a tear; Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows. Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes ; See me — ere yet my destin'd course half done, Cast forth a wand'rer on a wild unknown ! See me neglected on the world's rude coast, Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow ! And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! Why all that sooths a heart, from anguish free, All that delights the happy — palls with me 1 When he quitted the house of the solicitor, where he was placed to acquire the rudiments of litigation, he settled himself in cham- bers of the Inner-Temple, as a regular student of laAv ; but although he resided there to the age of thirty-three, he rambled (according^ to his own colloquial account of his early years) from the thorny road of his austere patroness, Jurisprudence, into the primrose paths of Literature and Poetry. Even here his native diffidence confined him to social and subordinate exertions. He wrote and printed both prose and verse, as the concealed assistant of less diffident authors. During his residence in the Temple, he cultivated the friendship of some eminent literary characters, who had been his School -fellows at Westminster, particularly Colman, Bonnel Thorn- ton, and Lloyd. His regard to the two first induced him to contri- bute to their periodical publication, entitled the Connoisseur, three excellent papers, which the reader will find in the Appendix to tliese volumes, and from which he will perceive, that Cowper had such talents for this pleasant and useful species of composition, as might ha^'e rendered him a woi'thy associate, in such labours, to AdcUson himself, whose graceful powers have never been surpassed in that province of literature, which may stiU be considered as pe- culiarly his own. The intimacy of Cowper and Lloyd may have given rise perhaps to some early productions of our Poet, which it may now be hardly possible to ascertain; the probability of this conjectm-e arises from the necessities of Lloyd, and the affectionate liberality of his friend. As the former was tempted, by his narrow finances, to engage in periodical works, it is highly probable that the pen of Cow]jer, ever ready to second the charitable wishes of his heart, might be de- voted tq tJie service of an indigent Avithor, whom he appears to LIFE OF COWPER. 9 have loved with a very cordial affection. I find that affection agree- ably displayed in a sportive poetical epistle, which may claim a place in tWs volume, not only as an early specimen of Cowper's poetry, but as exhibiting a sketch of his own mind at the age of twenty-three. AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ. 1754. 'Tis not that I design to rob Thee of thy birth-right, gentle Bob, For thou art born sole heir, and single^ Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle j Nor that I mean, while thus I knit My thread-bare sentiments together, To show my genius, or my wit. When God and you know I have neither ; Or such, as might be better shown By letting Poetry alone. 'Tis not with either of these views That I presume to address the Muse * But to divert a fierce banditti, (Sworn foes to every thing that's witty !) That, with a black, infernal train, Make cruel inroads in my brain, And daily threaten to drive thence My little garrison of sense : The fierce banditti which I mean, Are gloomy thoughts, led on by spleen^ Then tliere's another reason yet, Wliich is, that I may fairly quit The debt, which justly became due The moment when I heard from you: And you might grumble, crony mine. If paid in any otlner coin ; Since twenty sheets of lead, God knowfc (I would say twenty sheets of prose) Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so mucU As one of gold, and yours was such. Thus, the preliminaries settled, I fairly find myself fiitch-kettled ;* And cannot see, tho' few see better, How I shaU hammer out a letter* • Piti-h-ieltleJ, a favourite phrase at the time when this Epistle was written, expretslva of being puzzled; or what, in the Siiectatoi's time, would lia»e been called bamboozM, VOL, I. C 1» LIFE OF COWPER. First, for a thought — since all agree—' A th'^ught — I have it — let me see — 'Tis gone again — Plague on't ! I thought I had it — ^but I have it not. Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son, That useful thing, her needle, gone ; Rake well the cinders ; — sweep the floor, And sift the dust behind the door ; While eager Hodge beholds the prize- In old Grimalkin's glaring eyes; And Gammer finds it on her knees In every shining straw she sees. This simile were apt enough j But I've another critic-proof I The Virtuoso thus, at noon Broiling beneath a July sun, The gilded Butterfly pursues, O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and me-vfs; And after many a vain essay To captivate the tempting prey» Gives him at length the lucky pat, And has him safe, beneath his hat r Then lifts it gently from the ground; But ah I 'tis lost as soon as found ; Culprit his liberty regains, FUts out of sight, and mocks his pains. The sense was dark ; 'twas therefore fit With simile t' illustrate it; But as too much obscures the sight, As often as too little light, We have our similies cut short. For matters of more grave import. That Matthew's numbers run with ease, Each man of common sense agrees ; All men of common sense allow, That Robert's lines are easy too : Where then the preference shall we place ? Or how do justice in this case ? Matthew (says Fame), with endless pains, Smooth'd, and refin'd, the meanest strains; Nor suffer'd one ill chosen rh}me T' escape him at the idlest time ; And thus o'er all a lustre cast, That, while the language lives, shall last^ LIFE OF COWPER. 11 Ari't please your Ladyship (quoth I), For 'tis my business to reply; Sure so much labour, so much toil, Bespeak at least a stubborn soil: Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed. Who Ijotli write well, and write full speed I Who throw their Helicon about As freely as a conduit spout ! Friend Robert, thus like chien scavant^ Let's fall a poem en fmssant ; ' Nor needs his genuine ore refine, 'Tis ready polish'd from the mine. It may be proper to observe, that this lively praise on the playful talent of Lloyd was Avritten six years before that amiable but un- fortunate author published the best of his serious poems, " The Actor," a composition of considerable merit, which proved a pi'e- lude to the more powerful and popular Rosciad of Churchill ; who, after surpassing Lloyd as a rival, assisted him very liberally as a friend. While Cowper resided in the Temple, he seems to have been personally acquainted with the most eminent writers of the time ; and the interest which he probably took in their recent works tended to increase his powerful though diffident passion for poetry, and to train him imperceptibly to that masterly command of lan- guage, which time and chance led him to display, almost as a new talent, at the age of fifty. One of his first associates has informed me, that before he quitted London he frequently amused himself in translation from ancient and modern poets, and devoted his com- position to the service of any friend who requested it. In a copy of Duncombe's Horace, printed in 1759, I find two of the Satires translated by Cowper. The Buncombes, father and son, were amiable scholars, of a Hertfordshire family; and the elder Dun- eombe, in his printed letters, mentions Dr. Cowper (the father of the Poet) as one of his friends, who possessed a talent for poetry, exhibiting, at the same time, a respectable specimen of his verse. The Duncombes, in the preface to their Horace, impute the size of their work to the poetical contributions of their friends. At what time the two Satires I have mentioned were translated by William Cowper, I have not been able to ascertain ; but they are worthy his pen, and will, therefore, appear in the Appendix to thes? volumes. Speaking of his own early life, in a letter to Mr. Park, dated March, 1792, Cow])er says, with that extreme modesty which was one of his most remarkable characteristics, " From the age of ^12 I^IFE OF COWPER. twenty to thirty-three, I was occupied, or ought to have been, in the study of the law; from thirty-three to sixty I have spent my time in the country, where my reading has been only an apology for idleness; and where, when I had not either a Magazine or a Review, I was sometimes a carpenter, at others a bird-cage maker, or a gardener, or a drawer of landscapes. At fifty years of age I commenced an author : it is a whim that has served me longest and best, and will probably be my last." Lightly as this most modest of Poets has spoken of his own ex- ertions, and late as he appeared to himself in producing his chief poetical works, he had received from nature a contemplative spirit, perpetually acquiring a store of mental treasure, which he at last unveiled, to delight and astonish the world with its unexpected magnificence. Even his juvenile verses discover a mind deeply impressed with sentimehts of piety ; and, in proof of this assertion, I select a few stanzas from an Ode written, when he was very young, on reading Sir Charles Grandison. To rescue from the tyrant's sword The oppress'd ; — unseen, and unimplor'd, To cheer the face of woe ; From lawless insult to defend An orphan's right — a fallen friend, And a forgivei;! foe ; These, these distinguish, from the crowd, And these alone, the great and good, The guardians of mankind ; Whose bosoms with these virtues he&\e, O, with what matchless speed they leave The multitude behind I Then ask ye from what cause on earth Virtues like these derive their birth? Derived from Heaven alone, Full on that favour'd breast they shine, Where Faith and Resignation join To call the blessing down. Such is that heart : — But while the Muse Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues. Her feebler spirits faint: She cannot reach, and would not wrong That subject for an Angel's song. The Hero and the Saint. LIFE OF COWPER. IS His eai-ly turn to moralize, on the slightest occasion, ■will appear from the following Verses, which he wrote at the age of eighteen; and in which those who love to trace the rise and progress of ge- nius will, I think, be pleased to remark the very promising seeds of those peculiar powers which unfolded tliemselves in the richest maturity, at a distant period, and rendered that beautiful and sub- lime poem, The Task, the most instructive and interesting of mo- dern compositions. Verses ivritten at Bath, in 1748, onjiiiding the Heel of a Shoe. Fortune ! I thank thee : gentle Goddess ! thanks ! Not that my Muse, though bashful, shall deny, She would have thank'd thee rather, hadst thou cast A treasure in her way ; for neither meed Of early breakfast to dispel the fumes, And bowel-racking pains of emptiness, Nor noon-tide feast, nor evening's cool repast, Hopes she from this, presumptuous, tho' perhaps The Cobler, leather-carving artist I might. Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon Whatever, not as erst the fabled Cock, Vain-glorious fool ! unknowing what he found, Spurn 'd the rich gem thou gav'st him. Wherefore ah! Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure!) Conferr'dst thou, Goddess'. Thou art blind, thou say'st: Enough I — Thy blindness shall excuse the deed. Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found j Illustrious hints to moralize my song! This pond'rous Heel of perforated hide Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks) The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown Upbore: on this supported, oft he stretch 'd, With uncouth strides, along the furrow 'd glebe, Flatt'ning the stubborn clod, till cruel time, (What will not cruel time?) on a wiy step, Sever'd the strict cohesion : when, alas ! He, who could erst, with even, equal pace, Pursue his destin'd way, vt'ith symmetry, And some proportion form'd, now, on me side, Curtail'd and niaim'd, tlie s[)ort of vagrant boys, 14 LIFE OF CGWPER. Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop ! With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on. Thus fares it oft with other, than the feet Of humble villager — ^the statesman thus, Up the steep road, where proud ambition l^ads, Aspiring first, uninterrupted winds His prosp'rous way; nor feai's miscarriage foul, Wliile policy prevails, and friends prove true : But that support soon failing, by him left. On whom he most depended, basely left, Betray'd, deserted, from his airy height Head-long he falls; and through the rest of life Drags the dull load of disappointment on. ©f a youth, who, in a scene like Bath, could produce such a wieditation, it might fairly be expected tliat he would, " In riper life, exempt fi-om public haunt, Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in eveiy thing." These few words of Shakspeare have often appeared to me as ai^ absolute portrait of Cowper, at that happiest period of his days, when he exercised and enjoyed his rare poetical powers in privacy, at the pleasant village of Weston. But before we contemplate the poetical Recluse in that scene, it is the duty of his biographer to relate some painful incidents, that led him, by extraordinary steps, to his favourite retreat. Though extreme diffidence, and a tendency to despond, seemed early to preclude Cowper from the expectation of climbing to the splendid summit of the profession he had chosen ; yet, by the in- terest of his family, he had prospects of emolument, in a line of public life, that appeared better suited to the modesty of his nature, and to his moderate ambition. In his thirty-first year he was nominated to the offices of reading Clerk, and Clerk of the private Committees in the House of Lords. A situation the more desirable, as such an establishment miglit enable him to marry early in life ; a measure to which he was doubly disposed by judgment and inclination. But the pecuharities of his wonderful mind rendered him unable to support the ordinary duties of his new office ; for the idea of reading in public proved a source of torture to his tender and apprehensive spirit. An expe- dient,was devised to promote his interest, without wounding his feelings. Resigning his situation of reading Clerk, he was appointed LTFE OF COWPER. W Clerk of the Journals in tlie same House of Parlianient, with a hope that his personal appearance in that assembly might not be required; but a parliamentary dispute made it necessary for him to appear at the bar of the House of Lords to entitle himself pub- licly to the office. Speaking of this important incident in a sketch, which he once formed himself, of passages in his early life, he expresses what he endured at the time, ii> these remarkable words : " They whose spirits are formed like mine, to whom a public exhibition of them- selves is mortal poison, may have some idea of the hori'ors of my situation — others can have none." His terrors on this occasion arose to such an astonishing height, that they utterly overwhelmed his reason ; for although he had en- deavoured to prepare himself for his public duty, by attending closely at the office for several months, to examine the parli imen- tary journals, his application was rendered useless by that excess of diffidence, which made him conceive that whatever knowledge he might previously acquire, it would all forsake him at the bar of the House. This distressing apprehension increased to such a de- gree, as the time for his appearance approached, that when the day so anxiously dreaded arrived, he was unable to make the experi- ment. The very friends who called on him for the purpose of at- tending hinpr to the House of Loi'ds, acquiesced in the cruel neces- sitv of his relinquishing the prospect of a station so severely for- midable to a frame of such singular sensibility. The conflict between the wishes of just affectionate ambition and the terrors of diffidence, so entirely overwhelmed his health and faculties, that after two learned and benevolent Divines (Mr. John Cowper, his brother, and the celebrated Mr. Martin Madan, his first cousin) had vainly endeavoured to establish a lasting tranquil- lity in his mind, by friendly and religious conversation, it was found necessary to remove him to St. Alban's, where he resided a consi- derable time, vmderthe care of that eminent phvsician. Dr. Cotton, a scholar and a poet, who added to many accomplishments a pecu- liar sweetness of manners, in very advanced life, when I had the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with him. The misfortune of mental derangement is a topic of such awhil delicacy, that I consider it as the duty of a biographer ratlicr to sink in tender silence, than to proclaim, with circumstantial and offensive temerity, the minute particulars of a calamity to which all human beings are exposed, and perhaps in proportion as they have received from nature those delightful l)ut dangerous gifts, a heart of exquisite tenderness, and a mind of creative energy. U LIFE OF COWPER* This is a sight for pity to peruse, Till she resembles, faintly, what she views j Till sympathy contract a kindred pain, Pierc'd with the woes, that she laments in vain* This, of all maladies that man infest, Claims most compassion, and receives the leasta But, with a soul that ever felt the sting Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing. 'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, Forg'ry of fancy, and a dream of woes. Man is a harp, whose chords e!ude the sight. Each yielding harmony, dispos'd aright; Tlie screws revers'd (a task which, if he please^ God in a moment executes with ease), Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose ; Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use. No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels ; No cure for such, till God, who makes them, heals» And thou, sad sufferer, under nameless ill. That yields not to the touch of human skill, Improve the kind occasion, understand A Father's frown, and kiss the chast'ning hand! It is in this awful and instructive light that Cowper himself teaches us to consider the calamity of which I am now speaking, and of which he, like his illustrious brother of Parnassus, the younger Tasso, was occasionally a most affecting example. Heaven appears to have given a striking lesson to mankind, to guard both virtue and genius against pride of heart, and pl-ide of intellect, by thus suspending the affections and the talents of two most tender and sublime poets, who, in the purity of their lives, and in the splendour of their intellectual powers, will be ever deservedly reckoned among the pre-eminent of the earth. From December, 1763, to the following July, the pure mind of Cowper appears to have laboured under the severest sufferings of morljid depression ; but the medical skill of Dr. Cotton, and the cheerful, benignant manners of that accomplished physician, gra- dually succeeded, with the blessing of Heaven, in removing the undescribable load of religious despondency which had clouded the LIFE OP COWPER. 17 admirable faoilties of this innocent and upright man. His ideas of religion were changed from the gloom of terror and despair to tlie lustre of comfort and dehght. This juster and happier view of Evangelical truth is said to have arisen in his mind while he was reading the third chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans. Devout contemplation became more and more dear to his reviving spirit: resolving to relinquish all thoughts of a laborious profession, and all intercourse with the busy- world, he acquiesced in a plan of settling at Huntiiigdon, by the advice of his brother, who, as a minister of the Gospel, and a Fellow of Bcnnet College, in Cambridge, resided in that Univer- sity; a situation so near to the place chosen for Cowper's retire- ment, that it afforded to these affectionate brothers opportunities of easy and frequent intercourse. I regret that all the letters which passed between them have perished, and the more so as they some- times corresponded in verse. John Cowper was also a poet. He had engaged to execute a translation of Voltaire's Henriade ; and, in the course of the work, requested and obtained the assistance of Wil- liam,.who translated, as he informed me himself, two entire Caritos of the Pcem. A specimen of this fraternal prroduction, which ap- peared in a Magazine of the year 1759, will be found in the Ap- pendix to these volumes. In June, 1765, the reviving invalid removed to a private lodging in the town of Huntingdon ; but Providence soon introduced him into a family which afforded him one of the most singular and va- luable friends that ever watched an afflicted mortal in seasons of overwhelming adversity; that friend to whom the Poet exclaims, in the commencement of the Task, And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm this twentieth winter, I perceive Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure, such as love, Confirm 'd by long experience of thy worth. And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire ; Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long! Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere; And that my raptures are not c<;njured up To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all. These verses would be alone sufficient to make every poetical teader take a lively interest in the lady they describe ; but these are far from being the only tribute which the gratitude of Cowper has paid to tlie endearing virtues of his female companion. More poe- VOI-. I. a 18 LIFE OF COWTER. tical memorials of her merit will be found in these volumes, and in verse so exquisite, that it may be questioned if the most passionate love ever gave rise to poetry more tender or more sublime. Yet, in this place, it appears proper to apprize the reader that it was not love, in the common acceptation of the word, which in- spired these admirable eulogies. The attachment of Cowper to Mrs. Unwin, the Mary of the Poet ! was an attachment perhaps unparalleled. Their domestic union, though not sanctioned by the common forms of life, was supported with perfect innocence, and endeared to them both, by their having struggled together through a series of sorrow. A spectator of sensibility, who had contem- plated the uncommon tenderness of their attention to the wants and infirmities of each other in the decline of life, might have said of their singular attachment, L'Amour n'a rien de si tendre, Ni L'Amitie de si doux. As a connection so extraordinary forms a striking feature in the history of the Poet, the reader will probably be anxious to inves- tigate its origin and progress. It arose from the folloAving little incident. The countenance and depoilment of Cowper, though they indi- cated his native shyness, had yet very singular powers of attrac- tion. On his first appearance in one of the churches at Hunting- don, he engaged the notice and respect of an amiable young man, William Cawthorne Unwin, then a student at Cambridge, who, having observed, after divine service, that the interesting stranger was taking a solitary turn under a row of trees, Avas irresistably led to share his walk, and to solicit his acqviaintance. They were soon pleased with each other; and tlie intelligent youth, charmed with the acquisition of such a friend, was eager to communicate the treasure to his parents, who had long resided in Huntingdon. Mr. Unwin, the father, had, for some years, been master of a free-school in the town; but, as he advanced in life, he quitted that laborious situation, and, settling in a large convenient house, in the High-Street, contented himself with a few domestic pupils, whom he instructed in classical literature. This worthy Divine, who was now far advanced in years, had been Lecturer to the two Churches in Huntingdon, before he ob- tained, from his College at Cambridge, the Living of Grimston. While he lived in expectation of this preferment, he had attached himself to a young lady of lively talents, and remarkably fond of. LIFE OF COWPER. 10 reading. This lady, who, in the process of time, and by a scries of singular events, became the friend and guardian of Cowpcr, ■was the daughter of Mr. Cawthorne, a draper in Ely. She was married to Mr. Unwin on his succeeding to the preferment that he expected from his College, and settled with him on his Living of Grimston ; but not liking the situation and society of that seques- tered scene, she prevailed on her husband to establish himself in the town of Huntingdon, where he was known and respected. They had resided there many years ; and with their two oidy children, a son and a daughter (whom I remember to have noticed at Cambridge, in the year 1763, as a youth and a damsel of coun- tenances imcommonly pleasing), tliey formed a cheerfiU and social family, when the younger Unwin, described by Cowper as " A friend. Whose worth deserves the warmest lay That ever friendship penn'd," presented to his parents the solitary stranger, on whose retirement he had benevolently intruded, and whose welfare he became more and more anxious to promote. An event highly pleasing and com- fortable to Co^x'per soon followed this introduction: he was affec- tionately solicited by all the Unwins to relinquish his lonely lodging, and become a part of their family. I am now arrived at that period in the personal history of my friend, when I am fortunately euribled to employ his own descriptive powers in recording tl'.e events and characters that particularly interested him, and in disp1a}ing the state of his mind at a remark- able season of his checkered life. The following ai'e the most early Letters of this affectionate writer, with which time and chance, with the kindness of his friends and relations, have afforded me the advantage of adorning this work. Among his juvenile intimates and correspondents he particularly regarded tv/o gentlemen, who devoted themselves to different branches of the law, the pre'.ent Lord Thiirlcjw, and Joseph Hill, Esq. whose name appears in the second volume cf Cowpcr's Poems, prefixed to a few verses of exquisite beauty; a brief epistle, that seems to have more of the genuine ease, spirit, and moral gaiety of Horace than any origiuid epistle in the English langiiag-e ! Fror,i these two confidential associates of the Poet, in his unclouded years, I expected materials for the display of his early genius; but in the torrent of busy and splendid life, whirh bore the first of them to a mighty distance from his less ambitious fcUow-studcnt of Se LIFE OF COWPER. the Temple, the private letters and verses that arose from thefr youthfal intimacy have perished. Mr. Hill has kindly favoured me with a very copious collection of Cowper's letters to himself, through a long period of time ; and although many of them are of a nature not suited to publication, 5^et many others will illustrate and embellish these volumes. The steadiness and integrity of Mr. Hill's regard for a person so much sequestered from his sight, gives him a peculiar title to stand first among those whom CoAvper has honoured by addressing to them his highly intevpsting and affectionate letters. Many of these, which I shall occasionally introduce in the parts of the narrative to which they belong, may tend to confirm a tnith, not unpleasing to the majority of readers, that the temperate zone of moderate for- tune, equally removed fi-om high and low life, is most favourable to the permanence of friendship. LETTER L To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. Cook's Court, Carey-Street, London. Huntingdon.^ June 24, 1765. Dear Joe, The only recompense I can make you for your kind attenticm to my affairs during my illness, is to tell you that, by the mercy of God, I am restored to perfect health both of mind and body. This, I believe, will give you pleasure, and I would gladly do any thing from which you could receive it. I left St. Alban's on the 17th, and arrived that day at Cambridge, spent some time there with my brother, and came hither on the 22d. I have a lodging that puts me continually in mind of our summer excvirsions: we have had many worse, and, except the size of it (which, however, is sufficient for a single man), but few better. I am not quite alone, having brought a servant with me from St. Alban's, who is the very mirror of fidelity and affection for his master. And whereas the Turkish Spy says he kept no serv?.nt, because he would not have an enemy in his house, I hired mine because I would have a friend. Men do not usually bestow these encomiums on their lackeys, nor do they usually deserve them ; but I have had experience of mine, both in sickness and in health, and never saw his ftllow. The river Ouse, I forget how they spell it, is the most agreeable circumstance m this part of tlie world; at this town it is, I believe, as wide as the Thames at Windsor ; nor does tlie silver Thames lt)etter deserve that epithet, nor has it more flowers upon its banks j LIFE OF COWPER. 21 these being attributes which, in strict truth, belong to neither. Fluellin would say they arc as like as my hngcrs to my fingers, and there is salmon in both. It is a noble stream to Ijathe in, and I shall make that use of it three times a Aveek, having introduced myself to it for the first time this morning. I beg you will remember me to all my fi-iends, which is a task that will cost you no great pains to execute — particulai'ly remember me to those of your own liouse, and believe me / Your very affectionate Wm. cowper. LETTER II. To Majior COWPER, at the Park-House, near Hartford. Huntingdon^ Oct. 18, 1765. My DEAR Major, I have neither lost the use of my fingers nor my memory, though my unaccountable silence might incline you to suspect that I had lost both. The history of those things which have, from time to time, prevented my scribbling, would be not only insipid, but extremely voluminous ; for which reasons they will not make their appearance at present, nor probably at any time hereafter. If my neglecting to write to you were a proof that I' had never thought of you, and that had been really the case, five shillings a piece would have been much too little to give for the sight of such a monster ! but I am no such monster, nor do I perceive in myself the least tendency to such a transformation. You may recollect that I had but very uncomfortable expectations of the ac- commodation I should meet with at Huntingdon. How much better is it to take our lot, where it shall please Providence to cast it, without anxiety! Had I chosen for myself, it is impossible I could have fixt upon a place so agreeable to me in all respects. I so much dreaded the thought of having a new acquaintance to make, Avith no other recommendation than that of being a perfect stranger, that I heartily wished no creature here might take the least notice of me. Instead of which, in about two months after my arri\ al, I became known to all the visitable people here, and do verily tliink it the most agreeable neighbourhood I ever saw. Here are three families who have received me with the utmost civility, and two in particular have treated me with as much cordi- ality as if their pedigree and mine had grown upon the same sheep- skin. Besides these, there are three or four single men wlio suit ray temper to a hair. 'I'he town is one of the neatest in ]'..igland, the country is fine for several miles about it, and tlie roads, wluch 22 LIFE OF COWPER. are all turnpike, and strike out four or five different ways, aKC perfectly good all the year round. I mention this, latter circum- stance chiefly because my distance from Cambridge has made a horseman of me at last, or at least is likely to do so. My brother and I meet every week, by an alternate reciprocation of intercourse, as Sam Johnson would express it ; sometimes I get a lift in a neigh- bour's chaise, but generally ride. As to my own personal condi- tion, I am much happier than the day is long, and sunshine and candle-light alike see me perfectly contented. I get books in abun- dance, as much company as I choose, a deal of comfortable leisure, and enjoy better liealth, I think, than for many years past. What 5s there wanting to make me happy ? Nothing, if I can but be as thankful as I ought, and I trust that he who has bestowed so many blessings upon me will give me gratitude to crown them all, I beg you will give my love to my dear cousin Maria, and to every body at the Park. If Mrs. Maitland is with you, as I suspect by a pas- sage in Lady Hesketh's letter to me, pray remember me to her very affectionately ; and believe me, my dear friend, ever yours, Wm. COWPER. LETTER TIL To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. October 25, 1765. Bear Joe, I am afraid the month of October has proved rather unfavourable to the belle assemblee at Southampton, high ■winds and continual rains being bitter enemies to that agreeable lounge, which you and I are equally fond of. I have very cordially betaken myself to my books and my fire-side, and seldom leave them unless merely for exercise. I have added another family to the number of those I was acquainted with when you Avere here. Their name is LTnwin — the most agreeable people imaginaljle, quite sociable, and as free from the ceremonious civility of country gen- tlefolks as any I ever met vath. They treat me more like a near relation than a stranger, and their house is always open to me. The old gentleman can ies me to Cambridge in his chaise. He is a man of learning and good sense, and as simple as Parson Adams. His wile has a very uncommon understanding, has read much to excellent purpose, and is more polite tlipn a dutchess. The son, who belongs to Cambridge, is a most amiable young man, and the daughter quite of a piece with the rest of the family. They see but little company, which suits me exactly ; go when I will, I find a house lull of peace and cordiality in aU its parts, and am sure to LIFE OF COWPER. 23 liear no scandal, but such discourse instead of it as wc are all the better for. You remember Rousseau's description of an English morning; such are the mornings I spend with these good people, and the evenings differ from them in nothing, except that they are still more snug and quieter. Kow I know them, I wonder that I liked Huntingdon so well before I knew them, and am apt to think I should find every place disagreeable that had not an Unwin be- longing to it. This incident convinces me of the truth of an observation I have often made, that when we circumscribe our estimate of all that is clever within the limits of our own acquaintance (which I at least have been always apt to do) we are guilty of a very uncharitable censure upon the rest of the world, and of a narrowness of thinking disgracefid to ourselves. Wapping and Redriff may contain some of the most amiable persons living, and such as one would go to Wapping and Redriffto make acquaintance with. You remember Mr. Gray's stanza, Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The deep unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; Full many a rose is born to blusli unseen, And waste its fragrance on the desei*t air. Yours, dear Joe, W M. COWPER. LETTER IV. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, near Hartford. My dear Cousin, I am nrmch obliged to you for Pearsall's Meditations, especially as it furnishes me with an occasion of writ- ing to you, wliich is all I have waited for. My friends must excuse me if I write to none but tliose wlio lay it fairly in my way to do so. The inference I am apt to draw from their silence is, that they wish me to be silent too. I have great reason, my dear cousin, to be thankful to the graci- ous Providence that conducted me to this place. The lady in Avhose house I live is so excellent a person, and regards me with a iriend- ship so truly christian, that I could almost fancy my own mother restored to life again, to compensate to me for all tlie friends I have lost, and all my connections broken. She has a son at Camln'idge, in all respects worthy of such a mother, the most amiable young man I ever ki^.ew. His natural and acquired enUo^vments are very 24 LIFE OF COWPER. considerable; and as to his virtues, I need only say that- he is a christian. It ought to be a matter of daily thanksgiving to me that I am admitted into the society of such persons, and I pray God to make me, and keep me worthy of them. Your brother Martin has been very kind to me, having wrote to me twice in a stile which, though it once was irksome to me, to say the least, I now know how to value. I pray God to forgive me the many light things I have both said and thought of him and his la- bours. Hereafter I shall consider him as a burning and a shining light, and as one of those who, having turned many to righteous- ness, shall shine hereafter, as the stars, for ever and ever. So much for the state of my heart ; as to my spirits, I am cheer- ful and happy, and having peace with God, have peace within myself. For the continuance of this blessing I trust to him who gives it, and they who trust in him shall never be confounded. Yours affectionately, Wm. covvper. Huntingdon, at the Rev. Mr. Ufiwi?i's, March 11, 1766. LETTER V. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Plartford. Jfii'il4, 1T66. My dear Cousin, I agree with you that letters are not essential to friendship ; but they seem to be a natural fruit of it when they are the only intercourse that can be had. And a friendship pro- ducing no sensible effects is so like indifference, that the appear- ance may easily deceive even an acute discerner, I retract, how- ever, all that I said in my last upon this subject, having reason to' suspect that it proceeded from a principle which I would discourage in myself upon all occasions, even a pride that felt itself hurt upon a mere suspicion of neglect. I have so much cause for humility, and so nnich need of it too, and every little sneaking resentment is such an enemy to it, that I hope I shall never give quarter to any thing that appears in the shape of sullenness or self-consequence hereafter. Alas ! if my best friend, \A\o laid down his life for me, were to remember all the instances in which I have neglected him, and to plead them against me in judgment, where should I hide my guilty head in the day of recompcPise ? I will pray, thei-eibre, for blessings upon my friends, even though they cease to be so, and upon my enemies, though they continue such. The dcceitfulness of the natural heart is hiconceivable: 1 know well that I passed upon my friends for a person at least religiously inclined, if not ac- LIFE OF CO\^TER. 25 tually religious; and what is more wonderful, I thought myself a Christian, when I had no faith in Christ, when I saw no heauty in him, that I should desire him ; in short, when I had neither faith nor love, nor any Christian grace whatever, but a thousand seeds of rebellion instead, ever more springing up in enmity against him. But blessed be God, even the God who is become my salvation. The hail of affliction, and rebuke for sin, has swept away the re- fuge of lies. It pleased the Almighty in great mercy to set all my misdeeds before me. At length the storm being past, a quiet and peaceful serenity of soul succeeded, such as ever attends the gifts of lively faith in the all-sufficient atonement, and the sweet sense of mercy and pardon purchased by the blood of Christ. Thus did he break me and Ijind me up ; thus did he wound nle, and his hands made me whole. My dear cou ;in, I make no apology for enter- taining you with the history of my conversion, because I know you to be a Christian in the sterling import of the appellation. This is, however, but a very summary account of the matter, neither would a letter contain the astonishing particulars of it. If we ever meet again in this world, I will relate them to you by word of mouth ; if not, they will serve lor the subject of a conference in the next ; where, I doubt not, I shall remember and recoi-d them with a gra- titude better suited to the subject. Yours, my dear cousin, affectionately, Wm. COWPER. LETTER VI. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. J/jrillT, 1766. My dear Cousik, As ill matters tinattainable by reason, and Unrevealed in the Scripture, it is impossible to argue at all ; so in matters concerning which reason can only give a probable guess, and the Scripture has made no explicit discovery, it is, though not impossible to argue at all, yet impossible to argue to any certain Conclusion. This seems to me to be the very case with the point in question — Reason is ablis to form many plausilile conjectures con- cerning the possibility of our knowing each other in a future state, and the Scripture has, here and there, favoured us with an expres- sion that looks at least like a slight intimation of it; but because a conjecture can never amount to a proof, and a slight intimation cannot be construed into a positive assertion, therefore I think we can never come to any absolute conclusion upon the subject. We may, indeed, reason about the plausibility of our conjectures, and VOL. I. E 26 LIFfi OF COWPER. we may discuss, with great industry, and shrewdness of argument, those passages in the Scripture which seem to favour the opinion ; but strll no certain means having been afforded us, no certain end can be attained ; and after all that can be said, it will still be doubt* ful whether we shall know each other or not. As to arguments founded upon human reason only, it would be easy to muster up a much greater number on the affirmative side of the question than it would be worth my while to write of yours to read. Let lis see, therefore, what the Scripture says, or seems to say, towards the proof of it ; and of this kind of argument also I shall insert but a few of those which seem to me to be the fairest and clearest for the purpose : for, after all, a disputant on either side of this question is in danger of that censure of our blessed' Lord's, " Ye do err, not knowing the Scripture, nor the power of God." As to parables, I know it has been said, in the dispute Concern- ing the intermediate state, that they are not argumentative ; but this having been controverted by very wise and good men, and the parable of Dives and Lazarus having been used by such, to prove an intermediate state, I see not why it may not be as fairly used for the proof of any other matter, which it seems fairly to imply. In this parable we see that Dives is repi'esented as knowing Lazarus, and Abraham as knowing them both ; and the discourse between them is entirely concerning their respective characters and cir- cumstances upon earth. Here, therefore, our Saviour seems to countenance the notion of a mutual knowledge and recollection, and if a soul that has perished shall know th6 soul that is saved, surely the heirs of salvation shall know and recollect eaCh other. In the first Epistle to the Thessalonians, the 2d chapter, and 19th verse, St. Paul says, " What is our hope, or joy, or Crown of re- joicing ? Are not even ye in the presence of cur Lord Jesus Christ at his coming? For ye are ovu' glory and our joy." As to the hope which the Apostle has formed concerning them,- he himself rrfers the accomplishment of it to the coming of Christ, meaning that then he should receive the recompense of his labours in their behalf: his joy and glory he refei's likewise to the same period, both which would result from the sight of such numbers redeemed by the blessing of God upon his ministration, when he should present them before the great Judge, and say in the words of a greater than himself, " Lo ! I, and the children whom thou hast given me." This seems to imply that the Apostle should know the converts, and the converts the Apostle, at least at the day of judgment; and if then, why not afterwards? See also the 4th chapter of that Epistle, 13, 14, 16, which I have LIFE OF COWnPER. 2/ not room to transcribe. Here the Apostle comforts them under their affliction, for their deceased brethren, exhorting them " Not to sorrow as without hope:" and what is the hope by wliich he teaches them to support their spirits ? Even this, '• That them which sleep in Jesus shall God bring with him." In other words, and by a fair paraphrase surely, telling them they are only taken 4rom them for a season, and that they should receive them at the resurrection. If you can take off the force of these texts, my dear cousin, you will go a great way towards shaking my opinion ; if not, I think they must go a great way towards shaking yours. The reason why I did not send you my opinion of Pearshall was, because I had not then read him. I have read him since, and like him much, especially the latter part of him ; but you have wlictted my curiosity to see the last letter by tearing it out. Unless you can give me a good reason why I should not see it, I shall inquire for the book the next time I go to Cambridge. Pei-haps I may be par- tial to Hervey for the sake of his other writings, but I cannot give Pearshall the preference to him, for I think him one of tlie most .scriptural writers in the world. Yours, Wm. CQWPER, LETTER VII. To Mrs. GOWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. April 18, 1/66. My dear Cousin, Having gone as far as I thought needful to justify the opinion of our meeting and knowing each other hereafter, I find, upon reflection, that I have done but half my business, and tliat one of the questions you proposed remains entirely unconsi- dered, viz. " Whether the things of our present state will not be of too low and mean a nature to engage our thoughis, or make a l)art of our communications in Heaven." The common and ordinary occurrences of life no doubt, and even the ties of kindred, and of all temporal interests, will be entirely discarded from amongst that happy society, and possibly c\ en the remembrance of them done away. But it does not, tlicrefore, fol- low that our spiritual concerns, even in this life, will be forgotten ; ncitlicr do I think that they can ever appear tiiiling to us in any the most distant pei-iod of eternity. God, as you say in rcll'rcnce to the Scripture, will be all in all. Hut docs not that expression mean, that being ^'Amittcd to so near an approach to our heavenly 2& LIFE OF COWPER. Father and Redeemer, our whole nature, the soul, and all its facul- ties, "will be employed in praising and adoring him ? Doubtless, liowe\'er, this will be the case ; and if so, will it not furnis,h out a glorious theme of thanksgiving to recollect " The rock whence we wei'e hewn, and the hole of the pit whence we were digged?" To recollect the time when our faith, which, under the tuition and nur- ture of the Holy Spirit, has produced such a plentiful harvest of immortal bliss, was as a grain of mustard-seed, small in itself, pro- mising but little fruit, and producing less? To recollect the various attempts that were made upon it by the world, the flesh, and the devil, and its various triumphs over all, by the assistance of God, through our Lord Jesus Christ? At present, whatever our convic- tions may be of the sinfulness and corruption of our nature, we can make but a very imperfect estimate either of our weakness or cur guilt. Then, no doubt, we shall understand the full value of the wonderful salvation wrought out for us : and it seems reasonable to suppose, that, in order to form a just idea of our redemption, we shall be able to form a just one of the danger we have escaped; when we know how weak and frail we were, surely we shall be more able to render due praise and honour to his strength who fought for us ; when we know completely the hatefulness of sin in the sight of God, and how deeply we were tainted by it, we shall know how to value the blood by which we are cleansed as we ought. The twenty- four Elders in the 5th of the Revelations, give glory to God for their redemption, out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation. This surely implies a retrospect to their respective conditions upon earth, and that each remembei-ed cut of what par- ticular kindred and nation he had been redeemed; end if so, then surely the minutest circumstance of their rederrptirn did net escape their memory. They who triumph over the I east in the 15th chapter, sing the Song of Moses, the servant of Grd : and what was that Song? A sublime recoi'd cf Israel's deliverance, and the de- struction of her enemies in the Red-Sea, typical no dcubt of the Song which the redeemed in Sim shall sing to celebrate their own salvation, and the defeat of their spiritual enemies. This again implies a recollection of the dangers thev had before encountered, and the supplies of strength and ardour they had in every emei-- gency received from the great Delivei'er rut of all. These quota- tions do not indeed prove that their warfare upon earth inckides a part cf their converse with each other, but they preve that it is a theme not unworthy to be heard even before the throne of God, ?ind therefore it cannot be unfit for reciprocal communication. But you doubt whether there is a??t/ communication between the blessed at all, neither do I recollect any Scripture that proves it, LIFE OF eOWPER, 29 OV that bears any relation to the subject. But reason seems to re- quire it so peremptorily, that a society without socitil intercourse seems to be a solecism, and a contradiction in terms and the in- habitants of those regions are called, you knr^w, in Scripture, an innumerable company, and an assembly, which seems to convey the idea of society as clearly as the word itself. Human testimony weighs but little in matters of this sort ; but let it h ive all the weight it can : I know no greater names in divinity than Watts and Dod- dridge ; they were both of this opinion, and I send you the words of the latter: " Our companions in glory may probably assist us by their wise and good observations when we come to make the Providence of God, here upon earth, under the guidance and direction of our Lord Jesus Christ, the subject of our mutual converse," Thus, my dear cousin, I have spread out my reasons be ore you for an opinion which, whether admitted or denied, affects not the state or interest of our soul : — May our Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier, conduct us into his own Jerusalem, where there shall be no night, neither any darkness at all, where we shall be free even from innocent error, and perfect in the light of the knowledge of ijod in the face of Jesus Christ. Yours faithfully, Wm. cowper. LETTER VIIL To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. Huntingdon, Sept, 3, 1766. My dear Cousin, It is reckoned, you know, a great achieve- ment to silence an opponent in disputation, and your silence was of so long continuance, that I might well begin to please myself with the apprehension of having accomplished so arduous a matter. To be serious, however, I am not s^rrythat whit I have said concerning our knowledge of e^idi other in a future state, has a little inclined you to the affirmative : For though the redeemed of the Lord shall be sure of being as happy in th.t state :s infinite power, employed by infinite goodness, can make them, and there- fore it may seem immaterial whether we shall cr shall not recol- lect each other hereafter; yet our present happiness at least is a little interested in the question. A parent, a friend, a wife, must needs, I think, feel a Httle heart-ache at the thought of an eternal separation from the oljjccts of her regard: and n^t to know theni v/hen she meets them in another life, or never to meet them at all,- so LIFE OF COWPER. amounts, though not altogether, yet nearly to the same thing. Re- member them, I think, she needs must. To hear that they are happy will indeed be no small addition to her o^vn felicity ; but to see them so will surely be a greater. Thus, at least, it appears to our present human apprehension; consequently, therefore, to think that when we leave them, we lose them for ever, that we must remain eternally ignorant whether they that were flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone, partake with us of celestial glory, or are disinherited of their heavenly portion, must shed a dismal gloom o\^er all our present connections. For my own part, this life is such a momentary thing, and all its interests have so shrunk in my estimation, since, by the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, I became attentive to the things of another, that, like a worm in the bud of all my friendships and affections, this very thought would eat out the heart of them all, had I a thousand ; and were their date to terminate with this life, I think I should have no inclination to cul- tivate and improve such a fugitive business. Yet friendship is ne- cessary to our happiness here, and built upon Christian principles, upon whidi only it can stand, is a thing even of religious sanction : for what is that love which the Holy Spirit, speaking by St. John, so much inculcates, but friendship ? The only love which deserves the name ; a love which can toil, and watch, and deny itself, and go to death for its brother. Woi-ldly friendships are a poor weed compared with this, and even this union of spirit, in the bond of peace, would suffer in my mind at least, could I think it were only coeval with our earthly mansions. It may possibly argue great ■weakness in me, in this instance, to stand so much in need of future hopes to support me in the discharge of present duty. But so it is: I am far, I know, very far, from being perfect in Christian love, or any other divine attainment, and am therefore unwilling to forego whatever may help me in my progress. You are so kind as to inquire after my health, for which reason I must tell you, what otherwise would not be worth mentioning, that I have lately I^een just enough indisposed to convince me that not only human life in general, but mine in particular, hangs by a slender thread. I am stout enough in appearance, yet a little ill- ness demolishes me. I have had a severe shake, and the building is not so firm as it was. But I bless God for it with all my heart. If the inner man be but strengtliened day by day, as I hope, imder the renewing influences of the Holy Ghost, it will be no matter how soon the outward is dissolved. He who has in a manner raised me fi-om the dead, in a literal sense, has given me the grace, I trust, to l)e ready at the shoi'test notice, to surrender up to him that life V hich I have twice received from him. Whether I live or die, I LIFE OF COWPER. Sl desire it may be to his glory, and it must be to my happiness. I thank. God that I have those amongst my kindred to whom I can write without reserve of sentiments upon this subject, as I do to you. A letter upon any other subject is more insipid to me than ever my task was when a school-boy ; and I say not this in vain glory, God forbid ! but to show you what the Almighty, whose name I am vmworthy to mention, has done for me, the chief of sinners. Once he was a terror to me ; and his service, O what a weariness it was ! Now I can say I love him and his holy name, and am never so happy as when I speak of his mercies to me. Yours, dear cousin, Wm. COWPER. LETTER IX, To Mi-s. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. Huntingdon^ Oct. 20, 1766. My dear Cousin, I am very sorry for poor Chai^les's illness, and hope you will soon have cause to thank God for his complete recovery. We have an epidemical fever in this country likewise, which leaves behind it a continual sighing, almost to suffocation ; not that I have seen any instance of it, for blessed be God our fa- mily have hitherto escaped it, but such was the account I heard of it this morning. I am obliged to you for the interest you take in my welfare, and for your inquiring so particularly after the manner in which my time passes here. As to amusements, I mean what the world calls such,- we have none : the place indeed swarms with them, and cards and dancing are the professed business of almost all the gentle in- habitants of Huntingdon. We refuse to take part in them, or to be accessaries to this way of miirdering our time, and by so doing have acquired the name of Method'sts. Having told you how we do not spend our time, I will next say how we do. We breakfast commonly between eight and nine; till eleven we read either the Scripture, or the Sermons of some faithful preacher of these holy mysteries : at eleven we attend divine service, which is performed here twice every day ; and from twelve to three we sepai-atc, and amuse ourselves as wc please. During tliat hiterval I either read in my own apartment, or walk, or ride, or work in the garden. We seldom sit an hour after dinner, but, if the weather permits, adjourn to the garden, where, with Mrs. L^nwin and her son, I have generally the pleasure of religio\is conversation till tea-time. If it rain<;. or is too windv For walking-, wc cither converse withire S2 LIFE OF COWPER. doors, cr sing some hymns of Martin's collection, aAd, by the help of Mrs. Un win's harpsichord, make up a tolefab e concert, in which our hearts, I l\ope, are the best and most musical performers. After tea we sally forth to walk in good earnest. Mrs. Unwin is a jgood walker, and we have generally travelled about four miles be- fore we see home again. \Vhen the days are short, we make this excursion in the formel* part of the day, between church-time and dinner. At night we read and converse as before, till supper, and commonly finish the evening either with hymns -or a sermon; and, last of all, the family are called to prayers. I need not tell you, that such a life as this is consistent with the utmost cheerfulness, accordingly we are all happy, and dwell together in unity as bre- thren. Mrs. Unwin has almost a maternal aiFection for me, and I have something very like a filial one for her, and her son and I are brothers. Blessed be the God of our salvation for such compa- nions, and for such a life ; above all, for an heart to like it. I have had many anxious thoughts about taking orders, and I believe every new convert is apt to think himself called upon for that purpose ; but it has pleased God, by means which there is no need to particularize, to give me full satisfaction as to the propriety of declining it: indeed, they who have the least idea of what I have suffered from the dread of public exhibitions, will readily excuse my never attempting them hereafter. In the mean time, if it please the Almighty, I may be an instrument of turning many to the truth in a private way, and hope that my endeavours in this way have not been entirely unsuccessful. Had I the zeal of Moses, I should want an Aaron to be my spokesman. Yours ever, my dear cousin, Wm. COWPER. LETTER X. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. March 11, 1767^ My dear Cousin, To find those whom I love clearly and strongly persuaded of Evangelical truth, gives me a pleasure superior to any that this world can afford me. Judge then whether your letter, m which the body and substance of a saving faith is so evidently set forth, could meet with a lukewarm reception at my hands, or be entertained with indifference ! Would you know the true reason of tny long silence ? Conscious that my religious principles are gene- rally excepted against, and that the conduct they produce, where- ever they are heartily maintained, is still more the object erf disap- LIFE OF COWPER. »3 probation than those principles themselves; and remembering that I had made both the one and the other known to you, without hav- ing any clear assurance that our faith in Jesus w;;s of the same stamp and character, I could not help thinking it possible that you might disappi'ove both my sentiments and practice ; that you might think the one unsupported by Scripture, and the other whimsical and unnecessarily strict and rigorous, and, consequently, would be rather pleased with the suspension of a correspondence, which a different way of thinking upon so momxntous a subject as that we wrote upon, was likely to render tedious and irksome to you. I have told you the truth from my heart ; forgive me these inju- rious suspicions, and never imagine that I shall hear from you upon this delightful theme without a real joy, or without prayer to God to prosper you in the way of his truth, his sanctifying and saving truth. The book you mention lies now upon my table. Marshal is an old acquaintance of mine ; I have both read him and heard him read with pleasure and edification. The doctrines he maintains are, under the influence of the Spirit of Christ, the very life of my soul, and the soul of all my happiness; tint Jesus is a. present Sa- viour from the guilt of ?in l)y his most precious blood, and from the power of it by his Spirit ; that corrupt and wretched in ourselves, in him, and in him only, we are complete; that being united to Jesus by a lively faith, we have a solid and eternal interest in his obedience and sufferings, to justify us before the face of our hea- venly Father; and that all this inestimable treasure, the earnest of which is in grace, and its consummation in glory, is given, freely given to us of God; in short, that he hath opened the kingdom of Heaven to all believej's. These are the truths which, by the grace of God, shall ever be dearer to me than life itself; shall ever be placed next my heart as the throne whereon the Saviour himself shall sit, to sway all its motions, and reduce that world of iniquity and rebellion to a state of filial and affectionate obedience to the will of the most Holy. These, my dear cousin, are the truths to which by nature we are enemies — they debase the sinner, and exalt the Saviour to a degree which the pride of our hearts (till almighty grace subdues them) is determined never to allow. May the Almighty reveal his Son in our hearts, continually more and more, and teach us to in- crease in love towards him continually, for having give7i us tlie unspeakable riches of Christ. Yours faithfully, Wm. COWPER. $4. LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER XI. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. My dear Cousin, March 14, 176T^ I just add a line by way of Postscript to my last, to apprize you of the arrival of a very dear friend of mine at the Park on Friday next, the son of Mr. Unwin, whom I have desired to call on you in his way from London to Huntingdon. If you knew him as well as I do, you would love him as much. But I leave the young man to speak for himself, which he is very able to do. He is ready possessed of an answer to every question you can possibly ask concerning me, and knows my whole story.) from first to last. I give you this previous notice, because I know you are not fond of strange faces, and because I thought it would, in some degree, save him the pain of announcing himself. I am become a great florist and shrub doctor. If the Major can make up a small packet of seeds that will make a figure in a gar- den, where we have little else besides jessamine and honeysuckle ; such a packet I mean as may be put in one's fob, I will promise to take great care of them, as I ought to value natives of the Park» They must not be such, however, as require great skill in the ma- nagement, for at present I have no skill to spare. I think Marshal one of the best writers, and the most spiritual expositor of Scripture, I ever read. I admire the strength of hia argument, and the clearness of his reasonings upon those parts oi' our most holy Religion which are generally least imderstood (even by real Christians) as master-pieces of the kind. His section upon the union of the soul with Christ is an inst2.nce of what I mean, in which he has spoken of a most mysterious truth with admirable perspicuity, and with great g-ood sense, making it all the while sub- servient to his main piu'portj of proving holiness to be the fruit and effect of faith. I subjoin thus much upon that author, because, tliough you de. sire my opinion of him, I remember that in my last I rather left you to find it out by inference than expressed it as I ought to have done. I never met with a man who understood the plan of salva'. tion better, or was more happy in explaining it. LETTER XII. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartfoixl. Huntingdon, April 3, 1767. My dear Cousin, -T^y You sent my friend Unwin home to us charmed Avith your kind reception of him, and with evexy thing he LIFE OF COWPER. 33 saw at the Park. Shall I once more give you a peep into my vile and deceitful Heart ? What motive do you think lay at the bottom of my conduct when I desired him to call upon you? I did not sus- pect at first that pride and vain-glory had any share in it, but q\iickly after I had recommended the visit to him I discovered in tJiat fruitful soil the very root of the matter. You know I am a stranger here ; all such are suspected characters, unless they bring their credentials with them. To this moment, I believe, it is mat- ter of speculation in the place whence I came, and to whom I belong. Though my friend, you may suppose, before I was admitted an inmate here, was satisfied that I was not a mere vagabond, and has since that time received more convincing proofs of my s/ionsi- bility, yet I could not resist the opportunity of furnishing him with ocular demonstration of it, by introducing him to one of my most splendid connections; that when he hears me called that fellow Cofvjicr^ which has happened heretofore, he may be able, upon unquestionable evidence, to assert my gentlemanhood, and relieve me from the weight of that opprobrious appellation. Oh Pride, Pride ! it deceives with tlie subtlety of a serpent, and seems to walk erect though it crawls upon the earth. How will it twist and twine itself about to get from under the Cross, which it is the glory of our Christian calling to be able to bear with patience and good will. They who can guess at the heart of a stranger, and you especially, who are of a compassionate temper, will be more ready perhaps to excuse me in this instance than I can be to excuse myself. But in good truth it was abominable pride of heart, in- dignation and vanity, and deserves no better name. How should such a creature be admitted into those pure and sinless mansions where nothing shall enter that defileth, did not the Blood of Christ, applied by the hand of Faith, take aAvay the guilt of sin, and leave no spot or stain behind it ? Oh what continual need have I of an Almighty, all-sufficient Saviour ? I am glad you are acquainted so particularly with all the circumstances of my story, for I kno\» tliat your secrecy and discretion may be trusted with any thing. A thread of mercy run through all the intricate maze of those afflictive providences, so mysterious to myself at the time, and v/hich must ever remain so to all who will not see wliat was tlie great design of them : at the judgment seat of Christ the whole shall be laid open. How is the rod of iron changed into a sceptre of love! I thank you for the seeds; I have committed some of each sort to the grjun'l, Avhence they will soon spring up like so many me* pientos ip remiud me of my friends at the Park. Se LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER XIIL To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. Huntingdon^ July 13, l/ST* My dear Cousin, The newspaper has told you the truth, ' Poor Mr. Unwin, being flung from his horse, as he was going to his church on Sunday morning, received a dreadful fracture on the back part of his scull, under which he languished till Thursday evening, and then died. This awful dispensation has left an im- pression on our spirits which will not presently be worn off. He died in a poor cottage, to which he was carried immediately after his fall, about a mile from home, and his body could not be brought to his house till the spirit was gone to him who gave it. May it be a lesson to us to watch, since we know not the day nor the hour when our Lord cometh. The effect of it upon my circumstances will only be a change of the place of my abode: for I shall still, by God's leave, continue with Mrs. UnAvin, whose behaviour to me has always been that of a mother to a son. We know not yet where we shall settle, but we trust that the Lord, whom we seek, will go before us, and prepare a rest for us. We have employed our friend Haweis, Dr. Conyers, of Helmsley, in Yorkshire, and Mr. Newton, of Olney, to look out for us, but at present are entirely igncr mt under which of the three we shall settle, or whether under either. I have wrote to my aunt Madan to desire Msrtin to as ist us with his inquiries. It is probable we sha^U stay here till Michaelmas. LETTER XrV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. July 16, irer. Dear Joe, Your wishes that the newspaper may have mis- informed you are vain. Mr. Unwin is dead, and died in the manner there mentioned. At nine o'clock on Sunday morning he was in perfect health, and as likel)^ to live twenty years as either of us, and before ten was stretched speechless and senseless upon a fleck- bed in a poor cottage, where (it being impossible to remove him) he died en Thursday evening. I heard his dying groans, the eiTect of great agony, for he was a strong man, and much ccnvuked iu his last moments. The few short intervals of sense that were in- dulged hiiTi, he spent in earnest prayer, and in expressions of a firm trust and ccnfidence in the onrr Saviour. To that strong held LIFE OF COWPEl?. ST sve must all resort at last, if we would have hope in our death; when every other refuge fails, we are glad to fly to the only shelter, to which we can repair to any purp-^se ; and happy is it for us when the false ground we have ch'^sen for ourselves being broken under us, we find ourselves obliged to have recourse to the Rock which can never be shaken — when this is our lot, we receive great and undesem^ed mercy. Our society will not break up, but we shall settle in some other place, where is at present unknown. Yours, Wm. COWPER. These tender and confidential letters describe, in the clearest Ught, the singularly peaceful and devout life of this amiable wri- ter during his residence at Huntingdon, and the melancholy acci- dent which occasioned his removal to a distant county. Time and chance now introduced to the notice of Cowper the zealous and venerable friend, who became his intimate associate for many years, after having advised and assisted him in the important concern of fixing his future residence. Mr. New'on, then Curate of Olney, in Buckinghamshire, had been requested, by the late Dr. Conyers (who, hi taking his degree in Divinity at Cambridge, had formed a friendship with young Mr. Unwin, and learned from him the religious character of his mother), to seize an op- portunity, as he was passing through Huntingdon, of making a visit to an exemplary lady. This visit (so important in its conse- quences to the destiny of Cowper ! ) happened to take place within a few days after the calamitous death of Mr. Unwin. As a change of scene appeared desirable both to Mrs. Unwin and to the interesting Recluse, whom she had generously requested to con- tinue under her care, Mr. Newton offered to assist them in remov- ing to the pleasant and picturesque county in which he resided. They Avere willing to enter into the flock of a benevolent and ani- mated pastor, v/hose religious ideas were so much in harmony with their own. He engaged for them a house at Olney, where they arrived on the 14th of October, 1767. The time of Cov/per, in his new situation, seems to have been chiefly devoted to religious contemplation, to social prayer, and to active charity. To this first of Christian virtues his heart was eminently inclined, and Providence very graciously enabled him to exercise arid enjoy it to an extent far superior to what his own scanty fortune appeared to allow. He was very far from inherit- ing opulence on the death of his father, in 1756; and the singu- lar cast of his own mind ivas such, that nature seemed to liave ren- SB LIFE OF COWPER. dered it impossible for him either to covet or to acquire riches. His perfect exemption from worldly passions is forcibly displayed in the two following letters. LETTER XV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. c Ohiey, June 16, 1768, Dear Joe, I thank you for so full an answer to so empty an epistle. If Olney furnished any thing for your amusement you should have it in return, but occurrences here are as scarce as cucumbers at Christmas. I Aasited St. Alban's about a fortnight since in person, and I visit it every day in thought. The recollection of what passed there, and the consequences that followed it, fill my mind con- tinually» and make the circumstances of a poor transient half-spent life so insipid and unafFecting, that I have no heart to think or tvrite much about them. Whether the nation are worshipping Mr. Wilkes, or any other idol, is of little moment to one who hopes and believes that he shall shortly stand in the presence of the great and blessed God. I thank him that he has given me such a deep impressed persuasion of this awful truth as a thousand "Worlds would not purchase from me. It gives a relish to every blessing, and makes every trouble light. Affectionately yours, W. C. LETTER XVI. To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. Bear Joe, 1769, Sir Thomas crosses the Alps, and Sir Cowper, /or tliat is his title at Olney, prefers his home to any other spot of earth in the world. Horace, observing th.is difference of tem- per in different persons, cried out, a good many years ago, in the true spirit of poetry, " How much one man difiei-s from another!'' This does not seem a very sublime exclamation in English, but I remember we were taught to admire it in the original. My dear friend, I am obliged to ycu for your invitation ; but being long accustomed to retirement, which I was always fond of, I am now more than ever unwilling to revisit those noisy and crowded scenes which I never loved, and which I now abhor. I remember you with all the friendship I ever professed, which is as much as I exev entertained for any man. But the strange and nr.eoiiiinon incidents of my life have given an entire new tiivj» 1g LIFE OF COWPER. si my whole character and conduct, and rendered me incapable of receiving pleasure from the same employments and amusements of which I could readily partake in former days, I love you and yours; I thank you for your continued remem- brance of me, and shall not cease to be their and your J. Affectionate friend and servant, VV. COWPER. His retirement was ennobled by many private acts of benefi- cence, and his exemplary virtue was such, that the opulent some- times delighted to make him their almoner. In his sequestered life at Olney, he ministered abundantly to the wants of the poor, from a fund, with which he was supplied by that model of exten- sive and unostentatious philanthropy, the late John Thornton, Esq, whose name he has immortalized in his Poem on Charity, still ho- nouring his memory by an additional tribute to his virtues, in the following unpublished Poem, written immediately on his decease, in the year 1790. Poet5 attempt the noblest task they can. Praising the author of all good in man ; And next commemorating worthies lost, The dead, in whom that good abounded most. Thee therefore of commercial fame, but more Fam'd for thy probity, from shore to shore ; Thee, Thornton, worthy in some page to shine As honest, and more eloquent than mine, I mourn ; or since thi'ice happy thou must be. The world, no longer thy abode, not thee ; Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed ; It were to weep, that goodness has its meed, That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, And glory for the virtuous, when they die. What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard, Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford. Sweet, as the privilege of healing woe Suffer'd by virtue, combating below ? That privilege was thine ; Heaven gave thee means To illumine with delight the saddest scenes. Till thy appearance chas'd the gloom, forlorn As midnight;, and despairing of a morn. 40 LIFE OF COWPER. Thou had'st an industry in doing good, Restless as his, who toils and sweats for food. Av'rice in thee was the desire of wealth By rust unperishable, or by stealth. And if the genuine worth of gold depend On application to its noblest end, Thine had a va'ue in the scales of Heaven, Surpassing all, that mine or mint had given : And though God made thee of a nature prone To distribution, boundless of thy own, And still, by motives of religious force, Impell'd thee more to that heroic course; Yet was thy liberality discreet ; Nice in its choice, and of a temp'rate heat ; And though in act unwearied, secret still, As, in some solitude, the summer rill Refireshes, where it winds, the faded green. And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen. Such was thy Charity ; no sudden start, After long sleep of passion in the heart, But steadfast principle, and in its kind Of close alliance with th' eternal mind ; Trac'd easily to its true source above, To him, whose works bespeak his nature, love. Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make This record of thee for the Gospel's sake ; That the incrediUous themselves may see Its use and power exemplified in thee. This simple and sublime eulogy was perfectly merited ; and among the happiest actions of this truly liberal man, we may reckon his furnishing to a character so reserved, and so retired as Cowper, the means of his enjoying the gratification of active and costly beneficence ; a gratification, in which the sequestered Poet had nobly indulged himself before his acquaintance with Mr. Newton afforded him an opportunity of being concei-ned in distri- buting the private, yet extensive bounty of an opulent and exem- plary merchant. Co^vper, before he quitted St. Alban's, ass^umed the charge of a necessitous child ; to extricate him from the perils of being edu- cated by very profligate parents, he put him to school at Hunting- don, removed him on his own removal to Olney, and finally settled him as an apprentice in St. Alban's. LIFE OF COWPER. 41 The warm, benevolent, and chterful enthusiasm of Mr. Newton induced his friend Cowper to participate so abundantly in his de- vout occupation, that the Poet's time and thoughts were more and more engrossed by religious pursuits. He wrote many hymns, and occasionally directed the pra}'ers of the poor. Where the nerves are tender, and the imagination tremblingly alive, any little excess, in the exercise of the purest piety, may be attended with such perils to corporeal and mental health, as men of a more firm imd hardy fibre would be far from apprehending. Perhaps the life that Cowper led, on his settling in Olney, had a tendency to increase the morbid propensity of his fi'ame, though it was a life of admirable sanctity. Absorbed as he was in devotion, he forgot not his distant fi-iends, and particularly his amiable relation and correspondent of the Park-House, near Hartford. The following letter to that lady has no date, but it was probably written soon after his esta- blishment at Olney. The remarkable memento in the postscript was undoubtedly introduced to counteract an idle rumour, arising from the circumstance of his having settled himself under the roof of a female friend, whose age, and whose virtues, he considered as» sufficient securities to ensure her reputation. LETTER XVII. To Mrs. COWPER. My dear Cousin, I have not been behind-hand in reproach- ing myself with neglect, but desire to take shame to myself for my unprofitableness in this, as well as in all other respects. I take the next immediate opportunity however of thanking you for yours, and of assuring you that instead of being surprized at your silence, I rather wonder that you, or any of my friends, have any room left for so careless and negligent a correspondent in your memories. I am obliged to you for the intelligence you send me of my kindred, and rejoice to hear of their v»elfare. He who settles the bounds of our habitations has at length cast our lot at a great distance from each other; but I do not therefore forget their former liindness to me, or cease to be interested in their well-being. You live in the centre of a world I know you do not delight in. Happy- are you, my dear friend, in being able to discern the insufficiency of all it can affiard to fill and satisfy the desires of an immortal soul. That God who created us for the enjoj-ment of himself, has determined, in mercy, that it shall fail us here, in order that the blessed result of all our inquiries after happiness in tlie creature maybe a warm pursuit, and a close attachment to our true in- VOL. I. m 42 LIFE OF COWPER. terest, in fellowship and communion with him, through the name' and mediation of a dear Redeemer. I bless his goodness and grace that I have any reason to hope I am a partaker with you in the de- sire after better things than are to be found in a world polluted with sin, and therefore devoted to destruction. May he enable us. both to consider our present life in its only true light, as an oppor- tunity put into our hands to glorify him amongst men, by a conduct suited to his word and will. I am miserably defective in this holy and blessed art ; but I hope there is at the bottom of all my sinful infirmities, a sincere desire to live just so long as I maybe enabled, in some poor measure, to answer the end of my existence in this respect, and then to obey the summons, and attend him in a world where they who are his servants here shall pay him an unsinful obedience for ever. Your dear mother is too good to me, and puts a more charitable construction upon my silence than the fact will warrant. I am not better employed than I should be in corres- ponding Avith her. I have that within which hinders me wretch- edly in every thing that I ought to do, but is prone to trifle, and let time and every good thing run to waste. I hope, however, to write to her soon. My love and best wishes attend Mr. Cowper, and all that in-' quire after me. May God be with you, to bless you, and do you^ good by all his dispensations : don't forget me when you are speak- ing to our best Friend before his mercy-seat. Yours ever, W. COWPER. N. B. I am not married. In the year 1769 the Lady to Avhom the preceding letters arc addressed was involved in domestic affliction ; and the following, Avhich the Poet wrote to her on the occasion, is so full of genuine piety and true pathos, that it would be an injur)' to his memory to suppress it. LETTER XVIII. Olneij, Aug. 31, 17&9k^- To Mrs. COWPER. Dear Cousin, A letter from your brother Frederick brought me yesterday the most afflicting intelligence that has reached me these many years. I pray to God to comfort you, and to enable you to sustain this heavy stroke with that i-esignation to his will Avhich none but himself can give, and which he gives to none but bis own children. How blessed and happy is your lot, my dear LIFE OF COWPER. 4% friend, beyond the common lot of tlie greater part of mankind, that you know what it is to draw near to God in prayer, and are acquainted with a Throne of Grace ! You have resources in the infinite love of a dear Redeemer, which are withheld from mil- lions ; and the promises of God, which are yea and amen in Jesus, are sufficient to answer all your necessities, and to sweeten the bitterest cup which your heavenly Father will ever put into your hand. May he now give you liberty to drink at these wells of sal- vation, till you are filled with consolation and peace in the midst of trouble. He has said, when thou passest through the fire, \ will be with thee, and when through the floods, they shall not overflow thee. You have need of such a word as this, and he knows your need of it, and the time of necessity is the time w^hen he will be sure to appear in behalf of those who trust him. I bear you and yours upon my heart before him night and day, for I never expect to hear of a distress which shall call upon me with a louder voice to pray for the sufferer. I know the Lord hears me for myself, v-ile and sinful as I am, and believe, and am sure, that he will hear me for you also. He is the friend of the widow, and the fa- ther of the fatherless, even God in his holy habitation ; in all our afflictions he is afflicted, and chastens us in mercy. Surely he will sanctify this dispensation to you, do you great and everlasting good by it, make the world appear like dust and vanity in your sight, as it truly is, and open to your view the glories of a better country, where there shall he no more death, neither sorrow nop pain, but God shall v/ipe away all tears from your eyes for ever. Oh that comfortable word ! " I have chosen thee in the furnaces of afiiiction ;" so that our very sorrows are evidences of our calling, and he chastens us because we are his children. My dear cousin, I commit you to the word of his grace, and to the comforts of his Holy Spirit. Your life is needful for your fa- mily ; may God in mercy to them prolong it, and may he preserve you from the dang-erous effects which a stroke like this might have upon a frame so tender as yours. I grieve with you — I pray for you — could I do more I would, but God must comfort you. Yours, in our dear Lord Jesus, W. COWPER. Li the following year the lender feelings of Cowper were called foi'th by family affliction, tliat pressed more immediately on himself; he was hurried to Cambridge by the dangerous illucKS of his brother, tlien residing as a Fellow in Bennet College. An af- fection truly fraternal had ever sul)sisted betv/ccu the lirothers, U LIFE OF COWPER. and the reader will recollect what the Poet has said in one of his letters concerning their social intercourse while he resided at Huntingdon. In the two first years of his residence at Olney, he had been re- peatedly visited by Mr. John Cowper ; and how cordially he re- turned his kindness and his attention the following letter will tes- tify', which Avas probably written in the chamber of the invalid, whom the writer so fervently wished to restore. LETTER XIX. X To Mrs. COWPER. March 5, 1770, My brother continues much as he was. His case Is a very dangerous one ; an imposthume of the liver, attended by an asthma and dropsy. The Physician has little hope of his recover}^ ; I believe I might say none at all, only being a friend, he does not formally give him over by ceasing to visit him, lest it should sink his spirits. For my own part I have no expectation of his recovery, except by a signal interposition of Providence in an- swer to prayer. His case is clearly out of the reach of medicine ; but I have seen many a sickness healed, where the danger has been equally threatening, by the only Physician of value. I doubt not he will have an interest in your prayers, as he lias in the prayers of many. May the Lord incline his ear, and give an an- swer of peace. I know it is good to be afflicted. I trust that you have found it so, and that xmder the teaching of God's oAvn Spirit we shall both be purified. It is the desire of my sod to seek a better covmtry, where God shall wipe away all tears from the eyes of his people, and where, looking back upon the ways by wliich he has led us, we shall be filled with everlasting wonder, Jove and praise. I must add no more. Yours ever, W. COWPER. The sickness and death of his learned, pious, and affectionate brother, made a very strong impression on the tender heart and mind of Cowper — an impression so strong that it induced him to write a narrative of the remarkable circumstances which occurred at the time. He sent a copy of this narrative to Mr. Nev/tcn. The paper is curious in every point of view, and so likely to awaken sentiments of piety in minds where it may be most desira- ble to have them awakened, that Mr. Kewtcn has thought it liis duty to print it. LIFE OF COWPER. 4S- Here it is incumbent on me to introduce a Ijrief account of tlie interesting person -wliom the Poet regarded so tciiderl}-. John Cowper was born in 1737 ; being designed for the Church, he was privately educated by a Clergyman, and became eminent for the extent and variety of his erudition in the University of Cambridge. His conduct and sentiments, as a Minister of the Gospel, are copi- ously displayed by his brother, in recording tlie remarkable close of his life. Bennet College, of which he was a Fellow, was his usual residence, and it became the scene of his death, on the 20tli of March, 1770. Fraternal affection has executed a perfectly just and gracefiil description of his character, both in prose and verse, I transcribe both, as highly honourable to these exemplary brethren, who may indeed be said to have dwelt together in unity. " He was a man," says the Poet in speaking of his deceased brother, " of a most candid and ingenuous spirit ; his temper re- markably sAveet, and hi his behaviour to me he had always mani- fested an uncommon affection. His outward conduct, so far as it fell under my notice, or I could learn it by the report of others, was perfectly decent and unblameable. There was noticing vicious in any part of his practice ; but being of a studious, thoughtful turn, he placed his chief delight in the acquisition of learning, and made such acquisitions in it, that he had but few rivals in that of a classical kind. He was critically skilled in the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages ; was beginning to make himself master of the Syriac, and perfectly understood the Fi'ench and Italian ; the latter of which he could speak fluently. Learned, however, «s he was, he was easy and cheerful in his conversation, and en- tirely free from the stiffness which is generally contracted by men {Icvoted to such pursuits." I had a brother once : Peace to the memory of a man of worth I A man of letters, and of manners too ! Of manners sweet as virtue always wears When gay good humour dresses her in smiles i He grac'd a College, in which order yet Was sacred, and was honour'd, lov'd, and v/cpt By mcfre than one, themselves conspicuous there. Another interesting tribute to liis mcrnci-y v,ill Lo found jij the following letter. •^ ' LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER XX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. May 8, 1770, Dear Joe, Your letter did not reach me till the last post, ■when I had not time to answer it. I left Cambridge immediately- after my brother's death. I am obliged to you for the particular account you have sent He to whom I have surrendered myself and all my concerns, has otherwise appointed, and let his will be done. He gives me much, which he withholds from others ; and if he was pleased to withhold all that makes an outward difference between me and the poor mendicant in the street, it would still become me to say, his wiU be done. It pleased God to cut short my brother's connections and ex- pectations here, yet not without giving him lively and glorious views of a better happiness than any he could propose to himself in such a world as this. Notwithstanding his great learning (for he was one of the chief men in the University in that respect) he was can- did and sincere in his inquiries after truth. Though he could not come into my sentiments when I first acquainted him with them, nor in the many conversations which I afterwards had with him upon the subject, could he be brought to acquiesce in them as scrip- tural and true, yet I had no sooner left St, Alban's than he began to study with the deepest attention those points in which we dif- fered, and to furnish himself with the best writers upon them. His mind was kept open to conviction for five years, during ail which time he laboured in this pursuit with unwearied diligence, as lei- sure and opportunity were afforded. Amongst his dying words were these, " Brother, I thought you wrong, yet wanted to believe as you did. I found myself not able to believe, yet always thought I should one day be brought to do so." From the study of books he was brought, upon his death-bed, to the study of himself, and there learnt to renounce his righteousness, and his owai most ami- able character, and to submit himself to the righteousness which is of God by faith. \'\''ith these views he was desirous of death. Satisfied of his interest in the blessing purchased by the blood of Christ, he prayed for death with earnestness, felt the approaches ©f h with joy, and died in peace. Yours, my dear friend, \\. CO^^TER. LIFE OF COWPER. 4T The exquisite sensibilitj' of Cowper could not fail to suffer deeply on the loss of such a brother ; but it is the peculiar blessing of a religious turn of mind, that it serves as an antidote against the cor- rosive influence of sorrow. Devotion, if it had no other beneficial effect on the human character, would be still inestimable to man, as a medicine for the anguish he feels in losing the objects of his affection. How far it proved so in the pi'esent case the reader will be enabled to judge by a letter, in which Cowper describes his sen- sations on this awful event to one of his favourite correspondents, LETTER XXL To Mrs. COWPER, Holies-Street, Cavendish-Square. Ohinj, June 7, 1770. Dear Cousin, I am obliged to you for som.etimes thinking of an unseen friend, and bestowing a letter upon me. It gives me pleasure to hear from you, especially to find that our gracious Lord enables you to weather out the storms you meet with, and to cast anchor within the veil. You judge rightly of the manner in which I have been affected by the Lord's late dispensation towards my brother. I found in it cause of sorrow, that I lost so near a relation, and one so deserv- edly dear to me, and that he left me just when our sentiments upon the most interesting subject became the same; but much more cause of joy, that it pleased God to give me clear and evident proof that he had changed his heart, and adopted him into the number of his children. For this I hold myself peculiarly bound to thank him, becavise he might have done all that he was pleased to do for him, and yet have afforded him neither strength nor op- portunity to declare it. I doubt not that he enlightens the under- standings, and works a gracious change in the hearts of many in their last moments, whose surrounding friends are not made ac- quainted with it. He told me, that from the time he v/as first ordained he began to be dissatisfied with his religious opinions, and to suspect that there were greater things concealed in the Bible than were gene- tally believed or allowed to be there. From the time when I first visited him after my release from St. Alban's, he began to read upon the subject. It was at that time I informed him of the viev.'s of divine truth which I had received in that school of affliction. He laid what I said to heart, and begun to furnish himself with the best writers on the controverted points, whose works he read with great diligence and attention, comparing them all the wiiile with the Scripture. None e^cr truly and ingenuously sought the U'uth 48 LIFE OF COWPER. fcut they found it. A spirit of earnest inquiry is the gift of God, who never says to any, seek ye my face in vain. Accordingly, about ten days before his death, it pleased the Lord to dispel all his doubts, to reveal in his heart the knowledge of the Saviour, and to give him firm and unshaken peace in the belief of his ability and willingness to save. As to the affair of the fortune-teller, he never mentioned it to me, nor was there any such paper found as }rou mention. I looked over all his papers before I left the place, and, had there been such a one, must have discovered it. I have heard the report from other quarters, but no other particulars than that the woman foretold him when he should die. I suppose there may be some tmth in the matter ; but whatever he might think of it before liis knowledge of the truth, and hov/ever extraordinary iier predictions might really be, I am satisfied that he had then re- ceived far other views of the Avisdom and majesty of God than to suppose that he would entrust his secret counsels to a vagrant, who did not mean, I suppose, to be understood to have received her in- telligence from the Foimtain of Light, but thought herself suffici- ently honoured by any who would give her credit for a secret inter- course of this kind with the Prince of Darkness. Mrs. Unwin is much obliged to you for your kmd inquiry after her. She is well, I thank Gud, as usual, and sends her respects to ji-ou. Her son is in the ministry, and has the Living of Steele, in Essex. We were last week alarmed with an account of his being dangerously ill. Mrs. Unwin went to see him, and in a few days left him out of danger. Tlie letters of the afflicted Poet to this amiable and sympathetic relation have already afforded to my reader an insight into the pure recesses of Cowper's Avonderful mind at some remarkable periods of his life, and if my reader's opinion of these letters is consonant to my own, he will feel concerned, as I do, to find a chasm of ten years in this valuable correspondence ; the more so, as it was chiefly occasioned by a new, a long, and severe visitation of that mental malady, which periodically involved in calamitous oppression the superior faculties of this interesting sufferer. His extreme depression seems not to have recurred immediately on the sliock of his brotlier's death. In the autumn of the year in which he sustained that affecting loss, he wrote the following serious but ■auimuted letter to Mr, Hill. LIFE OF COWPER. 49 LETTER XXIL To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. Dear Joe, Scfit. 25, 1770. I have not clone conversing with terrestial objects, though I should be happy were I able to hold more continual con- verse with a friend above the skies. He has my heart, but he allows a corner in it for all who show me kindness, and therefore one for you. The storm of '63 made a wreck of the friendships I had con- tracted in the course of many years, yours excepted, which has survived the tempest. I thank you for your repeated invitation. Singular thanks arc due to you for so singular an instance of your regard. I could not leave Olney unless in a case of absolute necessity, without muck inconvenience to myself and others. In his sequestered life he seems to have been much consoled and entertained by the society of his pious friend, Mr. Newton, in whose religious pursuits he appears to have taken an active part, by the composition of sixty-eight hymns. Mr. Newton wished and ejj- pected him to have contributed a much largei* number, as he has declared in the preface to that collection of hymns which contains these devotional effusions of Cowper distinguished by the initial letter of his name. The volume composed for the. inhabitants of Olney was the joint production of the Divine and the Poet, and in- tended, as the former expressly says in his Preface, " as a monu- ment to perpetuate the remembrance of an intimate and endeared! friendship. With this pleasing view," continues Mr. Newton, " I entered upon my part, which would have been smaller than it is, and the book would have appeared much sooner, and in a very dif- ferent form, if the wise though mysterious Providence of God had iiot seen fit to cross my wishes. We had not proceeded far upon our proposed plan, before my dear friend was prevented, by a long and affecting indisposition, from affording me any further assist- ance." The severe illness of the Poet, to which these expressions relate, began in 1~73, and extended beyond the date of the Preface (from which they are quoted), February 15, 1779. These social labours of the Poet with an exemplary man of God, for the purpose of promoting simple piety among the lower classes of the people, must have been delightful, in a high degree, to the benevolent heart of Cowper ; and I am persuaded he alludes to his own feelings on this subject in the following passage from his Poem on Conversation, VOL. I. » so LIFE OF COWPER. True bliss, if man may reach it, is compos'd Of hearts in union mutually disclos'd ; And, farewell else all hope of pure delight I Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, upright i Bad men, profaning friendship's hallowed name, Form in its stead a covenant of shame : * 'H? * * » * But souls that carry on a blest exchange Of joys they meet, with in their heavenly range. And with a fearless confidence make known The sorrows sympathy esteems its own ; Daily derive increasing light and force From such communion, in their pleasant course;' Feel less the journey's roughness, and its length, Meet their opposers with united strength. And one in heart, in interest, and design, Gird up each other to the race divine. Such fellowship in literary labour, for the noblest of purposes^ must be delightful indeed, if attended with success, and, at all events, it is entitled to respect: yet it may be doubted if the intense zeal with which Cowper embarked in this fascinating pursuit, had not a dangerous tendency to undermine his very delicate health. Such an apprehension naturally arises from a recollection of what medical writers of great ability have said on the awful sub- ject of mental derangement. Whenever the slightest tendency to that misfortune appears, it seems expedient to guard a tender spirit from the attractions of Piety herself. So fearfully and wonderfully are v/e made, that man, in all conditions, ought, perhaps, to pray that he never may be led to think of his Creator and of his Re- deemer either too little or too much. But if the charitable and religious zeal of the Poet led him into any excesses of devotion, injurious to the extreme delicacy of his nervous system, he is only the more entitled to admiration and to pity : indeed, his genius, his virtues, and his misfortunes were cal- culated to excite those tender and temperate passions in their purest state, and to the highest degree. It may be questioned if any mortal could be more sincerely beloved and revered than Cowper was by those who were best acquainted with his private hours. The season was now arrived when the firm friendship of Mrs. Unwin was put to the severest of trials, and when her conduct was such as to deserve those rare rewards of grateful attention and ten- derness, which, when she herself became the victim of age and- LIFE OF COWPER. 51 infirmit}', she received from that exemphiry being, who considered himself indebted to her friendly vigilance for his hfe, and who never forgot an obligation when his mind was itself. In 1773 he sunk into such severe paroxysms of religious despon- dency, that he required an attendant of the most gentle, vigilant, and inflexible spirit. Such an attendant he found in that faithful guardian whom he had professed to love as a mother, and who watched over him, during this long fit of depressive malady, ex- tended through several years, with that perfect mixture of tender- ness and fortitude which constitutes the inestimable influence of ma- ternal protection. I wish to pass rapidly over this calamitous period, and shall only observe, that nothing could surpass the suf- ferings of the patient, or the care of his nurse. That meritorious care received from Heaven the most delightful of rewards, in seeing the pure and powerful mind, to whose restoration it had con- tributed so much, not only gradually restored to the common enjo\ - ments of life, but successively endowed with new and marvellous funds of diversified talents, and courageous application. The spirit of Cowper emerged, by slow degrees, from its very deep dejection ; and before his mind was sufficiently recovered to employ itself on literary composition, it sought, and found, much salutary amusement in educating a little group of tame Hares, On his expressing a wish to divert himself by rearing a single Le- veret, the good-nature of his neighbours supplied him with three. The variety of their dispositions became a source of great entertain- ment to his compassionate and contemplative spirit. 'One of the trio he has celebrated in the Task; and a very animated minute account of this singular family humanized, and described most ad- mirably by himself, in prose, appeared first in the Gentleman's Magazine, and has been recently inserted in the second volume of his Poems. These interesting animals had not only tlie honour of being cherished and celebrated by a poet, but the pencil has also contributed to their renown ; and their portraits, engraved from a drawing presented to Cowper by a friend unknown, may serve as a little embellishment to this life of their singularly tender and benevolent protector. His three tame Hares, Mrs. Unwin, and Mr. Newton, were, for a considerable time, the only companions of Cowper ; but as Mr. Newton was removed to a distance from his afilictcd friend, by preferment in London, to which he was presented by that libe- ral encouragcr of active piety, Mr. Thornton, the friendly Divine, before he left Olney, in 1780, humanely triumplicd over tlie strong reluctance of Cowper to see a stranger, and kind!}' introduced him to the regard and good offices of the Rev. Mr. Bull, of Newport- 52 LIFE OF COWPER. Pagnell, who, from that time, considering it as a duty to visit the invalid once a fortnight, acquired, by degrees, his cordial and confidential esteem. The affectionate temper of CoAvper inclined him particularly to exert his talents, at the request of his friends, even in seasons wheJii such exertion could hardly have been made without a painful de- gree of self-command. At the suggestion of Mr. Newton we have seen him writing a series of hymns : at the request of Mr. Bull he translated several spiritual songs from the mystical poetry of Madame de la Mothe Guyon, the tender and fanciful enthusiast of France, whose talents and misfortunes drew upon her a long series of persecution from many acrimonious bigots, and secured to her the friendship of the mild and indulgent Fenelon ! We shall perceive, as we advance, that the greater works of Cowper were also written at the express desire of persons whom he particularly regarded ; and it may be remarked, to the honour of friendship, that he considered its influence as the happiest in- spiration ; or, to use his own expressive words, The Poet's lyi-e, to fix his fame, Should be the Poet's heart : Affection lights a brighter flame Than ever blaz'd by art. The poetry of Cowper is itself an admirable illustration of this maxim ; and perhaps the maxim may point to the prime source of that uncommon force and felicity with which this most feeling poet commands the affection of his reader. In delineating the life of an author, it seems the duty of bio- graphy to indicate the degree of influence which the warmth of his heart produced on the fertility of his mind. Bat those mingled flames of friendship and poetry which were to burst forth with the most powerfiil effect in the compositions of Cowper, were not yet kindled. His depressive malady had suspended the exercise of his genius for several years, and precluded him from renewing his correspondence with the relation whom he so cordially re- garded, in Hartfordshire, except by the brief letters on pecuniary concerns, in 1779. But in the spring of the following year, a let- ter to Mr. Hill abundantly proves that he had regained the free exercise of his talents, both serious and sportive. LIFE OF COWPER. Si LETTER XXUL To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. Ohiey, May 6, 17S0. My dear Friend, I am much obliged to you for your speedy ■answer to my queries. I know less of the law th m a country at- torney, yet sometimes I think I have almost as much business. My former connection with the profession has got wind, and though I earnestly profess, and protest, and proclaim it abroad, that I knov/ nothing of the matter, they cannot be persuaded to be- lieve that a head once endued with a legal perriwig can ever l)e deficient in those natural endov/ments it is rupposed to cover. I have had the good fortune to be once or twice in the ri:^ht, which, added to the cheapness of a gratuitous counsel, has advanced my credit to a degree I never expected to attain in the capacity of a Lawyer. Indeed, if two of the wisest in the science of jurispru- dence may give opposite opinions upon the same point, which does not unfrequently happen, it seems to be a matter of indifference whether a man answers by rule or at a venture. He that stumbles upon the right side of the question is just as useful to his client as he that arrives at the same end by regular approaches, and is con- ducted to the mark he aims at by the greatest authorities. ********** These violent; attacks of a distemper, so often fatal, are very alarming to all who esteem and respect the Chancellor as he de- serves. A life of confinement, and of anxious attention to impor- tant objects, where the habit is bilious to such a terrible degree, threatens to be but a short one ; and I wish he may not be made a text for men of reflection to moralize upon, affording a conspi- cuous instance of the transient and fading nature of all human ac- complishments and attainments. Yours aflfectionately, W. COWPER. At this time his attention was irrcsistably recalled to his cou- sin, Mrs. Cowper, by heaving that she was deeply afflicted ; and he wrote to her the following letter on the loss of her brother, Frederick Madan, a soldier, v/ho died in America, after havini^ distinguished himr.clf I)y poetical talcjits, as well as by military virtues. S4 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER XXIV. To Mrs. COWPER. My dear Cousin, May lOj 1780. I do not write to comfort you; that cffice is not likely to be well performed by one who has no comfort for himself; nor to comply with an impertinent ceremony, which, in general, might well be spared upon such occasions ; but because I would not seem indifferent to the concerns of those I have so much reason to esteem and love. If I did not sorrow for your brother's death, I should expect that nobody would for mine : when I knew him he was much beloved, and I doubt not continued to be. so. To live and die together is the lot of a few happy families, who hardly know what a separation means, and one sepulchre serves them all ; but the ashes of our kindred are dispersed in- deed. Whether the American gulf has swallowed up any other, of my relations I know not ; it has made many mourners. Believe me, my dear cousin, though after long silence, which perhaps nothing less than the present concern could have prevailed with me to interrupt, as much as ever, Your affectionate kinsman, W. C. The next letter to Mr. Hill affords a striking proof of Cowper's. compassionate feelings towards the poor around him. LETTER XXV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. MoN Ami, July 8, 1780. If ever you take the tip of the Chancellor's ear between j^our finger and thumb, you can hardly improve the op- portunity to better purpose, than if you should whisper into it the voice of compassion and lenity to the lace-makers. I am an eye witness of their poverty, and do know, that hundreds in this little town are upon the point of starving, and that the most unremit- ting industry is but barely sufficient to keep them from it. I know that the bill by which they would have been so fatally affected is thrown out; but Lord Stormont threatens them with another; and if another like it should pass, they are undone. We lately sent a petition from hence to Lord Dartmouth ; I signed it, and am sure the ct^ntents are true. The purport of it was to inform him that there are very near one thousand two hundred lace-makers in this beggarly town, the most of whom had reason enough, while the bill LIFE OF COWTER. 55 was in agitation, to look xipon every loaf they bought as the last they should ever be able to earn. I can never think it good policy to incur the certain inconvenience of ruining thirty thousand, in order to prevent a remote and possible damage, though to a much greater number. The measure is like a scythe, and the poor lace- makers are the sickly crop that trembles before the edge of it. The prospect of peace with America is like the streak of dawn in their horizon ; but this bill is like a black cloud behind it, that threatens their hope of a comfortable day with utter extinction. I did not perceive till this moment that I had tacked two simi- lies together, a practice, which, though warranted by the example of Homer, and allowable in an epic poem, is rather luxuriant and licentious in a letter ; lest I should add another, I conclude. His affectionate effort in renewing his correspondence with Mrs. Cowper, to whom he had been accustomed to pour forth his heart without reserve, appears to have had a beneficial effect on his re- viving spirits. This pathetic letter was followed, in the course of two months, by a letter of a more lively cast, in which the reader will find some touches of his native humour, and a vein of plea- santry peculiar to himself. LETTER XXVL To Mrs COWPER, Park-Street, Grosvenor-Square. My dear Cousin, July 20, 17S0. Mr. Newton having desired me to be of the party, I am come to meet him. You see me sixteen years older, at the least, than when I saw you last ; but the effects of time seem to have taken place rather on the outside of my head than within it. Wliat was brown is become grey, but what was foolish remains foolish still. Green fruit must I'ot before it ripens, if the season is such as to afford it nothing but cold winds and dark clouds, that interrupt every ray of sunshine. My days steal away silently, and march on (as poor mad King Lear would have made his soldiers march) as if they were shod with felt ; not so silently but that I hear them ; yet were it not that I am always listening Xa their flight, having no infirmity that I had not when I was muck younger, I should deceive myself with an imagination that I am still young. I am fond of writing, as an amusement, but I do not always find it one. Being rather scantily furnished with subjects that are good for any thing, and corresponding only with those who have no relish for such as are good for nothing, I often find myself reduced 55 LIFE or COWPEK. fo the necessity, the disagreeable necessity, of writing about myself* This docs not mend the matter much, for though in a description of my own condition, I discover abundant materials to employ my pen upon, yet as the task is not very agieeable to ?ne, so I am suf- ficiently aware, that it is likely to prove irksome to others. A painter who should confine himself, in the exercise of his art, to the drawing of his own picture, must be a wonderful coxcomb, if he did not sobn gTow sick of hrs occupation, and be peculiarly fortunate, if he did not make others as sick as himself. Remote as your dwelling is from, the late scene of riot arid con- fusion, I hope that tlioug-h you could not but hear the report, yoil heard no more, and that the roarings of the mad multitude did not reach you.. That was a day of terror to the mnocent, and th6 present is a day of still greater terror to the guilty. The law was for a few moments like an arrow in the quiver, seemed to be of no use, and did no execution; now it is an arrow upon the string, and many v/ho despised it lately, ai'e trembling as they stand before the point of it. I have talked more already than I have formerly done in three f isits ; you remember my taciturnity, never to be forgotten by fhdse who knew me ; not to depart entirely from what might be, for aught I know, the most shining part of my character.' I iTere shut my mouth, make my bow, and return to Olne}'. W. C. The next is a little more serious than its predecessor, yet' equally a proof that the affections of his' heart, and the energy of kis mind, were now happily restored. I-ETTER XXVII. To Mrs. COWPER, Park-Street, Grosvenor-Square. My dear Cousin, August 31, 1780, I am obliged to you for your long letter, wliich did not seem so, and for your short one, which was more than I had reason to expect. Short as it was, it conveyed to me two interesting articles of intelligence. An account of your reco- vering from a fever, and of Lad)- Cowper's death. The latter T,-as, I suppose, to be expected, for by what remembrance I have of licr Ladyship, who was never much acquainted with her, she had reached those years that are always found upon the borders (if another woi-ld. As for you, your time of life is comparatively cf a J cuthful date. You may think of death as much as you please (\cu cannot think of it too much), but I hope you will live to think cf it maTsy jears. LIFE OF COWPER. 57 It costs me not much difficulty to suppose that my friends, who were already grown old, when I saw thcni last, are old still ; but it costs me a good deal sometimes to think of those who were at that time young, as being older than they were. Not having been an eye witness of the change that time has made in them, and my former idea of them not being corrected by observation, it remains the same; my memory presents me with this image unimpaired, and while it retains the resemblance of what they were, forgets that by this time the pictui-e may have lost much of its likeness, througli the alteration that succeeding years have made in the original. I know not what impressions time may have made upon your per- son ; for while his claws (as our Grannams called them) strike deep furrows in some faces, he seems to slieath them with much ten- derness, as if fearful of doing injury to others. But though an ^nemy to the person, he is a friend to the mind, and you have found him so. Though even in this respect his treatment of us de- pends upon Avhat he meets with at our hands ; if we use him well, and listen to his admonitions, he is a friend indeed, but otherwise the worst of enemies, who takes from us daily something that we valued, and gives us nothing better in its stdad. It is well with them, who, like you, can stand a tip -toe oh the mountain top of human life, look down with pleasure upon the valley they have passed, and sometimes stretch their wings in joyful hope of a happy flight into eternity. Yet a little while and your hope will be accomplished. When you can favour me vi'ith a little account of your ov/n fa- mily without inconvenience, I shall be glad to receive it ; for though separated from my kindred by little more than half a cen- tury of miles, I know as little of their concerns as if oceans and continents were interposed between us. Yours, my dear cousin, Wm. COWPGR. I'hc following letter to Mr. Hill contains a poem already printed in the works of Cowper, but the reader will probably be gratifi'xl in finding a little favourite piece of pleasantry introduced to him, as it v/as originally dispatched by the author for the amusement of a friend. LETTER XXVIIL To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. Mv DKAR Friend, Dec. 25, 1780. Weary with rather a long walk in tlie snow, I am not likely to write a very sprightly letter, or to produce any VOL. I. I 58 LltE OF COWPER. tiling that ma}'' cheer this gloomy season, unless I have recoiu'se to my pocket-book, where, perhaps, I may find something to tran« scribe ; something that was written before the Sun had taken leave of our hemisphere, and when I was less fatigued than I am at present. Happy is the man who knows just so much of the law as to make himself a little merry now and then with the solemnity of juridical proceedings. I have heard of common law judgments before now, indeed have been present at the delivery of some, that, according to my poor apprehension, while they paid the utmost re- spect to the letter of a statute, have departed widely from the spirit of it, and, btfing governed entirely by the point of law, have left equity, reason, and common sense behind them at an infinite distance. You will judge whether the following I'eport of a case, drawn up by myself, be not a proof and illustration of this sa- tyrical assertion. NOSE, Flaintif— EYES, Defendants, 1. BetAveen Nose and Eyes a sad contest arose, The Spectacles set them unhappily wrong, The point in dispute was, as all the world knows. To which the said Spectacles ought to belong. 2. So the Tongue Avas the Lawer, and argued the cause V\^ith a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning. While chief Baron Ear, sat to balance the laws. So fam'd for his talents at nicely di-scerning. 3. In behalf of the Nose, it Avill quickly appear. And your Lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had Spectacles always in wear, "Which amounts to possession, time out of mind. 4. Then holding the Spectacles up to the Court, Your Lordship obsei-ves they are made with a straddle As wide as the ridge of the Nose is, in short, Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 5. Again would your Lordship a moment suppose, (Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear Spectacles then ? LIFE OF COWPEH. $9 6. On the whole it appears, and my ai'gument shows, With a reasoning the Court will never condemn. That the Spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. 7. Then shifting his side, as a Lawj'er knows how, He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes ; But what were his arguments few people know, For the Court did not think they wei*e equally wise. ■ 8. So his Lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or but, That whenever the Nose put his Spectacles on. By day-light, or candle-light — Eyes should be shut ! Yours affectionately, VV. COWPER. LETTER XXIX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. Feb. 15, irsi. Mv DEAR Friend, I am glad you were pleased with my report of so extraordinary a case. If the thought of versifying the decisions of our Courts of Justice had struck me, while I had the honour to attend them, it would perhaps have been no difficult matter to have compiled a volume of such amusing and interesting prece- dents, which, if they wanted the eloquence of the Greek or Roman oratory, would have amply compensated that deficiency by the harmony of i-hjTne and metre. Your account of my uncle and your mother gave me great plea- sure. I have long been afraid to inquire after some in whose wel- fare I always feel myself interested, lest the question should pro- duce a painful answer. Longevity is the lot of so few, and is so seldom rendered comfortable by the associations of good health and good spirits, that I could not very reasonably suppose either your relations or mine so Iiappy in those respects as it seems they are. May they continue to enjoy those blessings so long as the date of life shall last. I do not think that in these coster-monger days, as I have a notion Falstaff calls them, an antediluvian age is at all a desirable thing; but to live comfortcibly, while we do live, is a great matter, and comprehends in it every thing that can be wished for pn this bide the curtain t)iathanc:s bctvvxcn Time and Eternity, 60 LIFE OF COWPER. Farewell my better friend than any I have to boast of eithei' among the Lords or Gentlemen of the House of Commons, Yours ever, Wm. COWPER. The reviving Poet, who had hved half a century with such a mo- dest idea of his own extraordinary talents, that he had hitherto given no composition professedly to the public, now amused himself with preparations to appear as an author. But he hoped to con- duct those preparations with a modest secrecy, and was astonisheci to find one of his intimate friends apprized of his design. LETTER XXX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esg. May 9, irSl. My DEAR Sir, I am in the press, and it is in vain to deny it* But how mysterious is the conveyance of intelligence from one end to the other of your great city ! — Not many days since, except one man, and he but little taller than vourself, all London v.as ignorant of it ; for I do not suppose that the public prints have yet announced the most agi-eeable tidings, the title-page, which is the basis of the advcrtipemeiit, having so lately reached the publisher; and now ii is known to you, who live at least two miles distant from my confi- dant upon tlie occasion. My labours are principally the production of the last winter ; all indeed, except a few of the minor pieces. When I can find no other occupation, I think ; ai d when I think, I am very apt to do it in rhyme. Hence it comes to pass that the season of the year which generally pinches off the flowers of poetry, unfolds mine, such as they are, and cro-svns me with a winter garland. In this respect, therefore, I and my cotemporary Bards are by no means upon a par. They write when the delightful influences of fine "weather, fine prospects, and a brisk motion of the animal spirits make poetry almost the language of nature : and I, when icicles depend from all the leaves of the Parnassian laurel, and when a reasonable man would as little expect to succeed in verse as to hear a. black-bird whistle. This must be my apology to you for whatever •want of fire and animation you may observe in what you will shortly have the perusal of. As to the public, if they like me not, there is no remedy. A friend will weigh and consider all disadvantages, and make as large allowances as an author can wish, and larger perhaps than he has any right to expect ; but not so the world at large; whatever they do not like, they will not by uny apology be LIFE OF COWPER. 61 I>ersuadecl to forgive, and it would be in vain to tell them that I Vfotc my verses in January, for tlicy would immediately reply, " why did not you write them in May?" A question that might puzzle a wiser head than we Poets are gencrall} blessed with. I was informed by Mrs. Unwin that she strongly solicited her friend to devote his thoughts to Poetiy, of considerable extent, on his recovery from his very long fit of mental dejection, suggesting to him, at the same time, the first subject of his song, " The pro- grees of Errorl" which the reader will recollect as the second poem in his first volume. The time when that volume was completed, and the motives of its excellent author for giving it to the world, are clearly displayed in the following very intei'esting letter to liis fair poetical cousin. LETTER XXXL To Mrs. COWPER. October 19, 1781. My dear Cousin, Your fear lest I should think you unwor- thy of my correspondence on account of your delay to answer, may change sides now, and more properly belongs to me. It is long- since I received your last, and yet I believe I can say truly that not a post has gone by me since the receipt of it, that has not ^ i-e- minded me of the debt lov/e you for your obliging and unreserved cornmimications, both in prose and verse, especially for the latter, because I consider them as marks of your peculiar confidence. The truth is, I have been such a verse-maker myself, and so busy in preparing a volume for the press, which I imagine will make its appearance in the course of the winter, that I hardly had lei- sure to listen to the calls of any other engagement. It is, however, finished, and gone to the printer's, and I have nothing now to do with it, but to correct the sheets as they are sent to me, and consign it over to the judgment of the public. It is a bold un- dertaking at this time of day, when so many writers of the greatest abilities have gone before, who seem to have anticipated every valuable subject, as well as all the graces of poetical embellish- ment, to step forth into the world in the character of a bard, especially when it is considered that luxury, idleness, and vice liave debauched the public taste, and that nothing hardly is wel- come, but childish fiction, or what has at least a tendency to excite a laugh. I thought, however, that I had stumliled upon some sub- jects that had never before been pc^eticalh" treated, and upon some VrUicx-s, to which I imagined it wouhl not be difficult to gi\ c an air €2 LIFE OF COWPER. of novelty, by the manner of treating them. My sole drift is to be tisefal ; a point which, however, I knew I should in vain aim at, unless I coiild be likewise entertaining. I have, therefore, fixed these two strings upon my bow, and by the help of both have done my best to send m}' arrow to the mark. My readers will hardly have begmi to laugh, before they will be called upon to correct that le- vity, and peruse me with a more serious air. As to the effect, I leave it alone in his hands who can alone produce it ; neither prose nor verse can reform the manners of a dissolute age, much less can they inspire a sense of religious obligation, unless assisted and made efficacious by the power who superintends the truth he has vouchsafed to impart. You made my heart ache with a sympathetic sorrow, Avhen you described the state of your mind on occasion of your late visit into Hartfordshire. Had I been previously informed of your journey before you made it, I should have been able to have foretold aU your feelings with the most unerring certainty of prediction. You ■will never cease to feel upon that subject ; but with your principles of resignation and acquiescence in the divine will, you will always feel as becomes a Christian. We are forbidden to murmur, but ■we are not forbidden to regret ; and whom we loved tenderly while living, we may still pursue with an affectionate remembrance, without having any occasion to charge ourselves with rebellion against the Sovereignty that appointed a separation. A day is coming, when I am confident you will see and know that mercy to both parties was the principal agent in a scene, the recollection of which is still painful. Those who read what the Pcet has here said of his intended pub- lication, may perhaps think it strange that it was introduced to the world with a preface not written by himself, but by his friend, Mr. Newton. The circumstance is singular ; but it arose from two amiable peculiarities in the character of Cowper, his extreme diffidence in regard to himself, and his kind eagerness to gratify the affectionate ambition of a friend, whom he tenderly esteemed ! Mr. Newton has avowed the fervency of this ambition in a very ingenuous and manly manner ; and they must have little candour, indeed, who are disposed to cavil at his alacrity in presenting him- self to tlie public as the bosom friend of that incomparable author •whom he had attended so faithfully in sickness and in sorrow ! — I hope it is no sin to covet honour as the' friend of Cowper, for if it is, I fear I may say but too truly in the words of Shakspearcj " I am the most offending soul alive," LIFE OF COWPER. 63 Jiappy, however, if I may be able so to conduct and finish this biographical compilation, that those Avho knew and loved him best may be the most willing to applaud me as his friend ; a title that my heart prefers to all other distinction ! The immediate success of his first volume was very far from being equal to its extraordinary merit. For some time it seemed to be neglected by the public, and although the first poem in the collection contains such a powerful image of its author, as might bethought sufficient not only to excite attention, but to secure at- tachment : for Cowper had undesignedly executed a masterly por- trait of himself, in describing the true poet : I allude to the fol- lowing verses in " Table Talk." Nature, exerting an unwearied power, Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower ; Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads : She fills profuse ten thousand little throats With music, modulating all their notes ; And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds unknow% With ai'tless airs, and concerts of her own : But seldom (as if fearful of expense) Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence — Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought. Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought ; Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky Brings colours, dipt in Heaven, that never die ; A soul exalted above eai'th, a mind Skill'd in the characters that form mankind ; And, as the Sun, in rising beauty drest, Looks from the dappled orient to the West, And marks, Avhatever clouds may interpose, Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close ; An eye like his to catch the distant goal, Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll, Like his to shed illuminating rays On every scene and subject it surveys : Thus grac'd the man asserts a poet's name, And the world cheerfiilly admits the claim. The concluding lines may be considered as an omen of that ce- lebrity, which such a writer, in the process of time, could not fail to obtain. Yet powerful as the claims of Cowper were to in- stant admiration and applause, it must be allowed (as an apology 64 LIFE OF COVVPER. for the inattention of the public) that he hazarded some senti men'':1 in his first volume which were very likely to obstruct its immediate success in the Avorld. I particularly allude to his bold eulogy on Whitfield, whom the dramatic satire of Foote, in his Comedy of the Minor, had taught the nation to deride as a mischievous fa- natic. I allude also to a little acrimonious censure, in which he had indulged himself, against one of Whitfield's devout rivals, Mr. Charles Wesley, for allowing sacred music to form a part of his occupation on a Simday evening. Such praise, and such reproof, bestowed on popular enthusiasts, might easily induce many care- less readers, unacquainted with the singular mildness and purity of character that really belonged to the new Poet, to reject his book, without giving it a fair perusal, as the production of a recluse, in- flamed witli the fierce spirit of bigt)try. No supposition could have been wider from the truth; for Cowper was indeed a rare example of true Christian' benevolence : yet, as the best of men have their little occasional foibles, he allowed himself, sometimes with his pen, but never, I believe, in conversation, to speak rather acrimoniously of several pursuits and pastimes, that seem not to deserve any austerltv of reproof. Of this he was aware himself, and con- fessed it, in the most ingenuous manner, on the following occasion. One of his intim.ate friends had written, in the first volume of his Poems, the following passage from the younger Pliny, as descrip- tive of the Book : " Malta ienuiter, multa sublimiter^ multa ve- 7iuste, multa tenere, viulta dulciter^ multa cum bile." Many passages are delicate, many sublime, many beautiful, many tender, many sweet, many acrimonious. Cowper was pleased with the application, and said, with the ut- most candour and sincerity, " The latter part is veiy true indeed ; yes! yes! there are " multa cum bile," many acrim'onious. These little occasional touches of austerity would naturally arise in a life so sequestered; but how just a subject of surprize and adipiration is it, to l)chokl an author starting under such a load of disadvantages, and displaying, on the sudden, such a variety of excellence ! For, neglected as it was for a few years, the first vo- lume of Cowper exhibits such a diversity of poetical powers, as have been given very rarely indeed to any individual of the modern or of the ancient world. He is not only great in passages of pathos and sublimity, but he is equally admirable in wit and humour. After desc'jnting most copiously on sacred subjects, with the anima- tion of a Prophet, and the simplicity of an Apostle, lie paints the ludicrous characters of common life with the comic force of Mo- licre; particulaj-ly in his Poem on Conversation, and his exquisite portrait of a fretful temper : a piece of moral painting so highly LIFE OF COWPER. 6S finished, and so happily calculated to promote good humour, that a transcript of the verses shall close the first part of these Me- moirs, Some fretfiil tempers wince at every touch; You always do too little or too much : You speak with life, in hopes to entertain ; Your elevated voice goes through the brain: You fall at once into a lower key ; That's worse : — the drone-pipe of an humble Bee! The Southern sash admits too strong a light ; You rise and drop the curtain : — now its night. He shakes with cold ; — you stir the fire, and strive To make a blaze: — that's roasting him alive. Serve him with ven'son, and he chooses Fish; With soal — that's just the sort he would not wish. He takes what he at first profess'd to loath ; And in due time feeds heartily on both : Yet, still o'erclouded with a constant frown ; He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. Your hope to please him vain on every plan, Himself should work that wonder, if he can. Alas I his efforts double his distress ; He likes yours little, and his own still less. Thus always teazing others, always teaz'd. His only pleasure is — to be displeas'd. END OF THE FIRST PART. VOL. 1, THE LIFE OF COWPER. PART THE SECOND. J\ NEW ssra opens in the history of the Poet, from an incident that gave fresh ardour and vivacity to his fertile imagination. In September, 1781, he happened to form an acquaintance with a lady, highly accomplished herself, and singularly happy in animating and directing the fancy of her poetical friends. The world will perfectly agree with me in this eulogy, \Then I add, that to this lady we are primarily indebted for the Poem of the Task, for the Ballad of John Gilpin, and for the Translation of Homer. But in my lively sense of her merit, I am almost forgetting my immediate duty, as the Biographer of the Poet, to introduce her circumstan- tially to the acquaintance of my Reader* A lady, whose name was Jones, was one of the few neighbours admitted in the residence of the retired Poet. She was the wife of a Clergyman, who resided at the village of Clifton, within a mile of Olney. Her sister, the widow of Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, came to pass some time with her in the Autumn of 1781; and as the two ladies chanced to call at a shop in Olney, opposite to the house of Mrs. Unwin, Cowper olDserved them from his window. — Altliough naturally shy, and now rendered more so by his very long illness, he was so struck, with the appearance of the stranger, that on hearing she was sister to Mrs. Jones, he requested Mrs. Unwiix to invite them to tea. So strong was his reluctance to admit the company of strangers, that after he had occasioned this invitation, he was for a long time unAvilling to join the little party; but iiaving forced himself at last to engage in conversation with Lady Austen, he was so reanimated by her uncommon colloquial talents, that he attended the Ladies on their return to Chiton, and from that time continued to cultivate the regard of his new acquaintance with such assiduous attention, that she soon received from him Uic familiar and endearing title of Sister Ann. 68 LIFE OF COWPER. The great and happy influence which an incident, that'seemss at first sight so trivial, produced very rapidly on the imagination of Cowper, will best appear from the following Epistle, which, soon after Lady Austen's return to London for the winterj the Poet addressed to her, on the irth of December, 1781. Dear Anna— Between friend and friend, Prose answers every common end ; Serves, in a plain, and homely way, T' express th' occurrence of the day ; Our health, the weather, and the news ; What walks we take, what books we choose j And all the floating thoughts, we find Upon the sui'face of the mind. But when a Poet takes the pem, Far mdre alive than other men, He feels a gentle tingling come Down to his finger and his thumb, Deriv'd from nature's noblest part, The centre of a glowing heart ! And this is what the world, who knows Ko flights above the pitch of prose. His more sublime vagaries slighting, Denominates an itch for writing. No wonder I, who scribble rhyme, To catch the triflers of the time. And tell them truths divine and clear. Which, couch'd in pi'ose, they will not hear; Who labour hard to allure, and draw The loiterers I never saw. Should feel that itching, and that tingling, With all my purpose intermingling. To your intrinsic merit true. When call'd to address myself to you. Mysterious are his ways, whose power Brings forth that unexpected hour, When minds that never met before. Shall meet, unite, and part no more : It is th' allotment of the skies. The Hand of the Supremely Wise, That guides and governs our affections, And plans and orders our connections j LIFE OF CO\^TER. $9 Directs us in our distant i-oacl, And marks the bounds of our abode. Thus we were settled when you found us, Peasants and children all around us, Not dreaming of so dear a friend, Deep in the abyss of Silver-End.* Thus Martha, even against her will, Perch 'd on the top of yonder hill; And you, though you must needs prefer The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,t Are come from distant Loire, to choose A cottage on the Banks of Ouse. This page of Providence quite new, And now just opening to our view. Employs our present thoughts and pains, To guess, and spell, what it contains: But day by day, and year by year. Will make the dark xnigma clear ; And furnish us, perhaps, at last, Like other scenes already past, With proof, that we and our affairs Are part of a Jehovah's cares: For God unfolds, by slow degrees, The purport of his deep decrees ; Sheds every hour a clearer light In aid of our defective sight ; And spreads at length, before the soul, A beautiful and perfect whole. Which busy man's inventive brain Toils to anticipate in vain. Say, Anna, had you never known The beauties of a Rose full blown, Could you, though luminous your eye, By looking on the bud, descry. Or guess, with a pi-ophetic power, The future splendour of the flower ? Just so th' Omnipotent, who turns The system of a world's concerns, From mere minutix can educe Events of most important use, » An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the iCMiiencc of Cowpei, whicli faced tlie iiiarkct-place. + Lady Austen's residence in France. yo Life of cowpek* And bid a dawning sky display Tlie blaze of a meridian day. The works of man tend, one and all, As needs they must, from great to small ; And vanity absorbs at length The monuments of human strength. But who can tell how vast the plan Wliich this day's incident began ? Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion For our dim-sighted observation ; It pass'd unnotic'd, as the bird ' That cleaves the yielding air unheard, And yet may prove, when understood, An harbinger of endless good. Not that I deem, or mean to call. Friendship a blessing cheap or small ; But merely to remark, that ours. Like some of nature's sweetest flowers, Rose from a seed of tiny size. That seem'd to promise no such prize: A transient visit intervening. And made almost without a meaning, (Hardly the effect of inclination. Much less of pleasing expectation!) Produc'd a friendship, then begim, That has cemented us in one ; And plac'd it in our power to prove, By long fidelity and love. That Solomon has wisely spoken : " A three-fold cord is not soon broken." In this interesting Poem the Author expresses a lively and devolit presage of the superior productions that were to arise, in the pro- cess of time, from a friendship so unexpected, and so pleasing; but he does not seem to have been aware, in the slightest degree, of the evident dangers that must naturally attend an intimacy so very close, yet perfectly innocent, between a Poet and two Ladies, who, with very different mental powers, had each reason to flatter herself that she could agreealjly promote the studies, and animate the fancy of this fascinating Bard. Genius of the most exquisite kind is sometimes, and perhaps generally, so modest and diffident, as to require continual solici- tation and encouragement from the voice of sympathy and frioiid- LIFE OF COWPER. 71 ship, to lead it into permanent and successful exertion. Such was the genius of Cowper ; and he therefore considered the cheerful and animating society of his new accomplished friend, as a bless- ing conferred on him by the signal favour of Providence. She re- tvu-ned the following summer to the house of her sister, situated on the brow of a hill, the foot of which is washed by the River Ouse, as it flows between Clifton and Olney. Her benevolent ingenuity was exerted to guard the spirits of Cowper from sinking again into that hypochondriacal dejection to which, even in her company, he still sometimes discovered an alarming tendency. To promote his occupation and amusement, she furnished him with a small porta- ble printing-press, and he gratefully sent her the following verses, printed by himself, apd enclosed in a billet, that alludes to the occa- fi^a on which they were composed — a very unseasonaljle flood, that ii)terrupted the communication between Clifton and Qln^y. To watch the storms, and hear the sky Give all cur Almanacks the lie ; To shake with cold, and see the plains In Autumn drown 'd with Wintry I'ains ; 'Tis thus I spend my moments here. And wish myself a Dutch Mynheer ; I then should have no need of wit For lumpish Hollander unfit ! Nor should I then repine at mud, Or meadows delug'd by a flood ; But in a bog live well content, And find it just my element ; Should be a clod, and not a man, Nor wish in vain for Sister Ann, With charitable aid to drag My mind out of its proper quag; Should have the genius of a boor, And no ambition to have more. My dear Sister, You see my beginning — I do not know but in time I may proceed even to the printing of halfpenny Bal. lads — Excuse the coarseness of my paper — I wasted such a quan- tity before I could accomplish any thing legiljlc, that I could not afford finer. I intend to employ an ingenious mechanic of the town to make me a longer case : for you may oljscrve, that my lines turn up their tai:s like Dutch mastifl's, so difficult do I find it to make the two halves exactly coincide with each other. *r2 LIFE OF COWPER. We wait with impatience for the departure of this unseasonable flood — ^We think of you, and talk of you, but we can do no n\ore, till the waters shall subside. I do not think our correspondence should drop because we are within a mile of each other. It is but an imaginary approximation, the flood having in reality as effectu- ally parted us, as if the British Channel rolled between us. Yours, my dear Sister, with Mrs. Unwin's best love. Wm. COWPER. August 12, 1782. A flood that precluded him from the conversation of such an enlivening friend was to Co^vper a serious evil ; but he was hap- pily relieved from the apprehension of such disappointment in fu- ture, by seeing the friend so pleasing and so useful to him very comfortably settled as his next door neighbour. Lady Austen became a tenant of the Parsonage in Olney; when Mr. Newton occupied that Parsonage he had opened a door in the garden wall that admitted him, in the most commodious manner, to visit the sequestered Poet, who resided in the next house. Lady Austen had the advantage of this easy intercourse, and so captivating was her society, both to Cowper and to Mrs. Unwin, that these intimate neighbours might be almost said to make one family, as it became their custom to dine always together, alter- nately, in the houses of the two ladies. The musical talents of Lady Austen induced Cowper to write a few songs of peculiar sweetness and pathos, to suit particular airs that she was accustomed to play on the Harpsichord. I insert three of these as proofs, that even in his hours of social amusement, the Poet loved to dwell on ideas of tender devotion and pathetic so- lemnity. SONG IVrlttcn in the Sunwier of 1783, at the recfiest of Lady Austen, Air — " My fond Shepherds of late," 8cc. No longer I follow a sound; No longer a dream I pursue : 0 Happiness, not to be found, Unattainable treasure, adieu ! <' 1 have sought thee in splendour and dress ; In the regions of pleasure and taste : I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess, But have prov'd thee a vision at last. LIFE OF COWPEFvi 7% An humble ambition and liope Tlie v;Mce of ti-ue wisdom inspires; 'Tis sufficient if Peace be the scope, And the summit of ail ouj' desires. Peace may be the lot of the mind, That seeks it in meekness and love ; But rapture and bliss are confin'd To the glorified Spirits above. SONG 2i Air—" The Lass of Pattie's Mill." When all within is peace, How Nature seems to smile ! Delights that never cease, The livelong day beguile. From morn to dewy eve. With open hand she showers Fresh blessings, to deceive And soothe the silent hours. It is content of heart • Gives Nature power to please; The mind that feels no smart Enlivens all it sees ; Can make a wint'ry sky Seem bright as smiling May, And evening's closing eye As peep of early day. Tlie vast majestic globe. So bcauteously arrayed In Nature's various robe. With wond'rnus skill display'd, Is, to a mourner's heart, A dreary wild at best : It flutters to depart. And longs to be at rest. I add the following Song (adapted to tlie March in Scipio) for two reasons; because it is pleasing to promote the celebrity of a VOL. I. I. 74 LIFE OF COWPER. brave man, calamitously cut off in his career of honour, and be- cause the Song was a favourite production of the Poet's ; so much so, that, in a season of depressive illness, he amused himself by translating it iiito Latin verse. SONG 3. On the Loss of the Royal George. Toll for the brave ! The brave ! that are no more I 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 shroudsj And she was overset ; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave ! Brave Kempenfelt is gone: His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done. It was not in the battle ; No tempest gave the sliock t She sprang no fatal leak ; She ran upon no rork. His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen. When Kempenfelt went down, With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes'. And mingle with our cup The tear, that England owes. LIFE OF COWPER. 75 ^lei' timbei's yet are sound, And she may float again, Full cliarg'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 Shall plough the wave no more,. Let the reader who wishes to impress on his mind a just idea of the variety and extent of Cowper's poetical powers, contrast this heroic Ballad, of exquisite pathos, with his divei'ting history of John Gilpin ! That admirable and highly popular piece of pleasantry was composed at the period of which I am now speaking (1783). An elegant and judicious writer, who has recently favoured the public ■with three interesting volumes relating to the early poets of our country, conjectures, that a poem, written by the celebrated Sir Thomas More in his youth, (the merry jest of the Sergeant and Frere), may have suggested to Cowper his tale of John Gilpin : but that fascinating Ballad had a different origin ; and it is a very remarkable fact, that, full of gaiety and humour, as this favourite of the public has abundantly pro^■ed itself to be, it was really com- posed at a time when the spirit of the Poet, as he informed me himself, was very deeply tinged with his depressive malady. It happened one afternoon, in those years when his accomplished friend, Lady Austen, made a part of his little evening circle, that she observed him sinking into increasing dejection: it was her cus- tom, on these occasions, to try all the resources of her sprightly powers for his immediate relief. She told him the story of John Gilpin (which had been treasured in her memory from Iier child- hood) to dissipate the gloom of the passing hour. Its effect en the fancy of CoAvper had the air of enchantment : he informed her the next morning, tliat convulsions of laughter, brought on by iiis recollection of her story, had kept him waking duiing the greatest part of the night, and that he had turned it into a Ballad. So arose the pleasant Poem of John Gilpin. It was eagerly copied, and find- ing its way rapidly to the newspapers, it was seized by tlie li\ ely spirit of Henderson, the Comedian, a native of Newjjort-Pagnell, and a man, like the Yorick described by Shakspeare, " of infinite jest, and most excellent fancy ;" it was seized by Henderson as a })roper subject for the display of his own comic powers j uijd by re^ y$ LIFE OF COWPER. citing it in his public readings, he gave uncommon celebrity to the Ballad, before the public suspected to what Poet they were indebted for the sudden burst of ludicrous amusement. Many readers were astonished when the Poem made its first authentic appearance in the second volume of Cowper. In some letters of the Poet to Mr. Hill, which did not reach me till my work was nearly finished, I find an account of John Gilpin's first introduction to the world, and a circumstance relating to the first volume of Cowper's Poems, which may render the following selection from this correspondence peculiarly interesting. LETTER XXXn. To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. Feb.lSiSf 20, 1783. My dear Friend, In writing to you I never want a subject. Self is always at hand, and Self, with its conceras, is always inter- esting to a friend. You may think, perhaps, that having commenced Poet by pro- fession, I am always writing verses. Not so — I have written nothing, at least finished nothing, since I published — except a cer- tain facetious history of John Gilpin, which Mr. Unwin would send to the Public Advertiser ; perhaps you might read it without suspecting the Author. My Book procures me favours, which my modesty will not per- mit me to specify, except one, which, modest as I am, I cannot suppress, a very handsome Letter from Dr. Franklin, at Passy — . These fruits it has bi'ought me. I have been refreshing myself with a walk in the garden, where I find that January (who, according to Chaucer, was the husbantl «f May) being dead, February has married the widow. Yours, See. W. C. LETTER XXXin. To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. 0/ney, Feb. 20, 17S5, Suspecting that I should not have hinted at Dr. Franklin's encomium under any other influence than that of vanity, I was several times on the point of burning my letter for that very reason. But not having time to write another I)y the same post', and believing that you would have the grace to pardon a little seli- complaccncy in an Author on so trying an occasion, I let it pass, pne sill naturall)- leads to another and a greater, and tlius it haj..' LIFE OF CO\V?EK. f? pens now: for I have no way to gratify your curiosity, but by transcribing the letter in question. It is addressed, by the way, not to me, but to an acquaintance of mine, who had transmitted the vohime to liim without my knowledge. "Sir, Passij, May 8, 1^82. I received the letter yen did me the honour of ■writing to me, and am much obliged by your kind present of a book. The relish for reading of Poetry had long since left me ; but there is something so new in the manner, so easy and yet so correct in the language, so clear in the expression, yet concise, and so just in the sentiments, that I have read the whole with great pleasure, and some of the pieces more than once. I beg you to accept my thankful acknowledgments, and to present my j-espects to the author. Your most obedient, humble servant, B. FRANKLIN.' LETTER XXXIV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. Mv DEAR Friend, Great revolutions happen in this Ant's nest of ours. One Emmet of illustrious cliaracter and gi-eat abi- lities pushes out another ; parties are formed ; they range them- selves in formidable opposition ; they threaten each other's ruin ; they cross over, and are mingled together; and, like the corrus- cations of the Northern Aurora, amuse the spectator, at the same time that, by some, they are supposed to be forerunners of a general dissolution. There are political earthquakes as well as natural ones; the former less shocking to the eye, but not always less fatal in their influence than the latter. The image which Nebuchadnezzar saw in his dream was made up of heterogeneous and incompatible ma- terials, and accordingly broken. Whatever is so formed must expect a like catastrophe. I have an etching of the late Chancellor hanging over the par- lour chimney. I often contemplate it, and call to mind the day when I was intimate with the original. It is very like him, but he is disguised by his hat, which, though fashionable, is aukward; by his great wig, the tie of which is hardly discernable in profile; and by his band and gown, which give him an a])pearance clumsily i-acerdotal. Our friendship is dead and Iniricd; yours is the oniy j^urviving cue of all with which I was cnce honoured. Adieu. 78 LIFE OF COWPER, LETTER XXXV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. May 26, 1?'83. I feel for my uncle, and do not wonder that his loss afflicts him. A connection that has subsisted so many years could not be rent asunder without great pain to the survivor. I hope, however, and doubt not but when he has had a little more time for recollection, he will find that consolation in his own fa- mily which is not the lot of every father to be blessed with. It seldom happens that married persons live together so long or so happily : but this, which one feels onesel f ready to suggest as mat- ter of alleviation, is the very circumstance that aggravates his distress ; therefore he misses her the more, and feels that he can but ill spare her. It is, however, a necessary tax, which all who live long must pay for their longevity, to lose many whom they ■Would be glad to detain (perhaps those in whom all their happmess is centered), and to see them step into the grave before them. In one respect at least this is a merciful appointment. When life has lost that to which it owed its principal relish, we may our- selves the more cheerfully resign it. I beg you would present him with my most affectionate remembrarxe, and tell him, if you think fit, how much I wish that the evening of his long day may be serene and happy. LETTER XXXVI. To JOSEPH HILL, Esq. October 20, 1783. I shovild not have been thus long silent, liad I known with certainty where a letter of mine might find you. Your summer excursions, however, are now at an end» iind addressing a line to you in the centre of the busy scene in which you spend your winter, I am pretty sure of my mark. I see the winter approaching without much concern, tliough a passionate lover of fine weather, and the pleasant scenes of sum- mer; but the long evenings have their comforts too, and there is hardly to be found upon the earth, I suppose, so snug a crea- ture as an Englishman by his fire-side in the winter. I mean, however, an Englishman that lives in the country, for in London it is not very easy to avoid intrusion. I have two ladies to read to — sometimes more, but never less. At present we are circum- navigating the globe, and I find the old story with v/hicli I amused myself some years iiuce, through the great felicity of a mcniioiT' LIFE OF COWPER. 79 not very retentive, almost new. I am, however, sadly at a loss for Cook's Voyage : Can you send it ? I shall be glad of Forster's too. These together will make the winter pass merrily, and you •will much oblige me. The last letter contains a slight sketch of those happy winter evenings which the Poet has painted so exquisitely in verse. The two ladies whom he mentions as his constant auditors were Mrs. Unwin and Lady Austen. The public, already indebted to the friendly and cheerful spirit of the latter for the pleasant Ballad of John Gilpin, had soon to thank her inspiring benevolence for a •work of superior dignity, the veiy master-piece of Cowper's un- bounded imagination ! This lady happened, as an admirer of Milton, to be partial to blank vei-se, and often solicited her poetical friend to try his powers in that species of composition. After repeated solicitation, he pro- mised her, if she would furnish the subject, to comply with her request. — "O," she replied, " you can never be in want of a sub- ject— you can write upon any — write upon this sofa !" The Poet obe3"ed her command, and from tlie lively repartee of familiar conversation arose a Poem of many thousand verses, unexampled perhaps both in its origin and its excellence ! A Poem of such in- finite variety, that it seems to include every subject, and every style, without any dissonance or disorder; and to have flowed, without effort, from inspired philanthropy, eager to impress upon the hearts of all readers whatc\ er may lead them most happilv to the full enjoyment of human life, and to tlie final attainment of Heaven. The Task appears to have been composed in the winter of 1784, A cii'cumstance the more remarkable, as v/inter was, in general, particularly unfavourable to the health of the Poet. In the com- mencement of the Poem he marks both the season and the year, in tiie tender address to his companion. " Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive ■" Fast lock'd in mine." If such can be the proper date of this most interesting Poem, it must have ijeen written with inconceivable rapidity, for it was certainly fuiislied very early in Novemlser. This appears from the following passage in a letter of the Poet's to his friend Mr. Pull, in which he not only mentions the completion of his great work, but gives a particular account of his next production. " The Task, as you know^ is gone to the press : since it went I 8(J LIFE OF COWPER. have befen elhployed in writing another Poem, which I am novf transcribing, and which, in a slxort time, I design shall follow. It is entitled Tirocinium, or a Review of Schools: the business and purpose of it are to censure the want of discipline, arid the scan- dalous inattention to morals, that obtain in them ; especially in the largest; and to recommend private tuition as a mode of educaticn preferable on all accounts j to call upon fathers to become tutors of their own sons, where that is practicable; to take home to them a domestfc tutor, where it is not; and if neither can be done, to place tnem under the care of such a man as he to whom I am writing; some rural Parson, whose attention is limited to a few." The date of this letter (Nov. 8, 1784), and the information it Contains, induce me to imagine that the Task was really begun before the winter of 1784, and that the passage which I have citedy as marking the sera of its composition, was added in the course of a revisal. The following passages from Cowper's letters to his last men- tioiied corr-espondent confirm this conjecture. August 3, 1783 — " Your sea-side situation, your beautiful pros- pects, your fine rides, and the sight of the palaces, which you have seen, we have not envied you; but are glad that you 'have enjoyed them. Why sliould we envy any man ? Is not our green- house a cabinet of perfumes ? It is at this moment fronted with carnations and balsams, with mignonette and roses, with jessamine and woodbine, and wants nothing but your pipe to make it truly Arabian; — a wilderness of sweets! The Sofa is ended, but not finished; a paradox v/hich your natural acumen, sharpened by ha- bits of logical attention, v/ill enable you to reconcile in a moment. Do not imagine, however, that I lounge over it— on the contrary, I find it severe exercise to mould and fashion it to my mind!" Ftbfuarij 22, 1784 — " I congratulate you on the thaw — I sup- pose it is an universal blessing, and probably felt all over Europe. I myself am the better for it, who wanted nothing that might make the frost supportable : what reason, therefore, ha^•e they to rejoice who, being in want of all things, Avere exposed to its utmost ri- gour?— "^he ice in my ink, however, is not yet dissolved — It was ioil? bc.'bre the frost seized it, but at last it prevailed — The Sofa has consequently received little or no addition since — It consists at present of four Books, and part of a fifth: when the sixth is finished, the Avork is accomplished; but if I may judge by my pre- sent inability,, that period is at a considerable distance." The year 17S4 vv'as a memorable period in the life of the Poet, not onl)- as it witnessed the completicn of cue e^iteiisive worky LIFE OF COWPER. 8% and the commencement of another, (his Translation of Homer) but as it terminated his intercourr-e with that highly pleasing and valuable friend whose alacrity of attention and advice had induced him to engage in both. Delightful and advantageous as his friendship with Lady Austen had proved, he now began to feel that it grew impossible to pre- serve that triple cord, which his own pure heart had led him to suppose not speedily to be broken. Mrs. Unwin, though by no means destitute of mental accomplishments, was eclipsed by the brilliancy of the Poet's new friend, and naturally became uueasy under the apprehension cyf being so ; for, to a woman of sensibility, what evil cm be more afflicting than the fear of losing all mental influence over a man of genius and virtue whom she has been long accustomed to inspirit and to guide? Cowjier perceived the pdnftil necessity of sacrificing a great portioa of his present gratifications. He felt that he must relin- quish that ancient friend, whom he regarded as a venerable parent, or the new associate, whom he idolized as a sister of a heart and mind peculiarly congenial to his own. His gratitude for past ser- vices of unexampled magnitude and weight would not allow liim to hesitate, and, with a resolution and delicacy that do the highest honour to his feelings, he wrote a farewell letter to Lady Austen, explaining and lamenting the circumstances that forced him to re- tounce the society of a friend, whose enchanting talents and kind- ness had proved so agreeably instrumental to the revival of his spirits, and to the exercise of his fancy. The letters addressed to Mr. Hill at this period express, in a jjmost pleasing manner, the sensibility of Cowpei> LETTER XXXVIL To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. My dear Friend, Se/it.U, 1784. I have never seen Dr. Cotton's book, con- cerning which your sisters question me ; nor did I know, 'till you mentioned it, that he had written any thing newer than his Visions: I have no doubt that it is so far worthy of him as to be pious and sensible, and I believe no man li\ ing is better qualified to write on such subjects as his title seems to announce. Some years have passed since I heard from him, and, considering his great age, it is probable that I shall hear from him no more ; but I shall alwa^'s respect him. He is truly a philosopher, according to my judg- ment of the character; every tittle of his knowledge in natural subjects being connected, in his mmd, with the firm belief of an^ Omnipotent Agent. Yours, &c. W. C. VOL. I. H 82 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER XXXVm. To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. My dear Friend, To condole with you on the death of a mother aged eighty-seven would be absurd — Rather, therefore, as is reasonable, I congratulate you on the almost singular felicity of having enjoyed the company of so amiable and so near a relation so long. Your lot and mine, in this respect, have been very differ- ent, as, indeed, in almost every other. Your mother lived to see you rise, at least to see you comfortably established in the world. Mine dying when I was six years old, did not live to see me sink in it. You may remember, with pleasure, while you live, a bless- ing vouchsafed to you so long, and I, while I live, must regret a comfort of which I was deprived so early. I can truly say that not a week passes, (perhaps I might with equal veracity say a day) in which I do not tliink of her. Such was the impression her tender- ness made upon me, though the opportunity she had for showing it was so short. But the ways of God are equal — and when I re- flect on the pangs she would have suffered had she been a witness of all mine, I see more cause to rejoice than to mourn that she was hidden in the grave so soon. We have, as you say, lost a lively and sensible neighbour in Lady Austen ; but we have been long accustomed to a state of re- tirement, within one degree of solitude, and being naturally lovers>' of still life, can relapse into our former duality without being un- happy at the change. To me, indeed, a third Is not necessary, while I can have the companion I have had these twenty years. I am gone to the press again ; a volume of mine will greet your- hands some time either in the course of the winter or early in the spring. You will find it, perhaps, on the whole, more entertaining than the former, as it treats of a greater variety of subjects, and- those, at least the most, of a sublunary kind. It will consist of a Poem in six books, called the Task. To which will be added an- other, which I finished yesterday, called, I believe, Tirocinium, on the subject of Education. You perceive that I have taken your advice, and given tJie pen, iao rest. LIFE OF COWPER. 83 LETTER XXXIX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. June 25, IJ'85. My dear Friend, I write in a nook that I call my Boudoir, It is a summer-house not much bigger than a sedan-chair, the door of which opens into the garden that is now crowded with pinks, roses and honey-suckles, and the window into my neighbour's orchard. It formeily served an apothecary, now dead, as a smok'. ing-room, and under my feet is a trap-door, which once covered a hole in the ground, where he kept his bottles. At present, how- ever, it is dedicated to sublimer uses. Having lined it with garden mats, and furnished it with a table and two chairs, here I write all that I write in summer time, whether to my friends, or to the public. It is secure from all noise, and a refuge from all intrusion; for intruders sometimes trouble me in the winter cA^enings at Olney. But thanks to my Boudoir^ I can now hide myself from them. A Poet's retreat is sacred: they acknowledge the truth of that pro- position, and never presume to violate it. The last sentence puts me in mind to tell you, that I have ordered Yny volume to your door. My bookseller is the most dilatory of aU his fraternity, or you would have received it long since : it is more than a month since I returned him the last proof, and consequently since the printing was finished. I sent him the manuscript at the beginning of last November, that he might publish while the town is full, and he wilj hit the exact moment when it is entirely empty. Patience you will perceive is in no situation exempted from the severest trials ; a remark that raay serve to comfort you under the fiumberles^ trials of your own. W, C. His second volume, of whose delay in the press he speaks so feelingly, was published in the summer of 1785. It not only raised him to the summit of poetical reputation, but obtained for him a blessing infinitely dearer to his affectionate heart, another female friend, and lively associate, now providentially led to con- tribute to his comfort, when the advanced age and infirmities of Mrs. Unwin made such an acquisition of new, or rather revived friendship, a matter of infinite importance to the tranquility and welfare of the sequestered Poet. The Lady to whom I allude had the advantage of being nearly related to Cowper. Their intercourse had been frequent, an4 «# LiM ot" cbwpfik. endeared by reciprocal esteem in their early years ; but the whifT- •winds of life had driven them far from the sight of each other. During the Poet's ?ong retirement his fair cousin had passed some years with her husband abroad, and others, after her return, in-a variety of mournful duties. She was at this time a widow, alKi her indelible regard for her poetical relation, being agreeably inspirited by the publication of his recent works, she wtote to him, on that occasion, a very kind letter. It gave rise to many from him, which T am particularly happy* in being enabled to make a part of this work, because they give a minute account of their admirable author, at a very interesting period of his life ; and because I persuade myself they will reflect peculiar honour on my departed friend in various points of view, and lead the public to join with me in thinkmg that his letters ai-e rivals to his Poems, in the rare excellence of representing life ani fiature with graceful and endearing fideUty. LETTER XL. To Lady HESKETH, New Norfolk Street, Grosvenor-Square* October 12, J785w Mv DEAR Cousin-, It is no new thing with j'^ou to give plea- sure, but I will venture to say that you do not often give more than you gave me this morning. When I came down to breakfast, and found upon the table a letter franked by my uncle, and when open- ing that frank I found that it contained a letter from you, I sard within myself, this is jdft as it should be ; we are all grown young again, and the days that I thought I should see no more, are ac- tually returned. You perceive therefore that you judged well when you conjectured that a line from you would not be disagree- ■ able tome. It could not be otherwise than, as in fact it proved, a most agreeable surprize, for I can truly boast of an affection for you .' that neither years nor interrupted intercourse have at all abated. •."IfneCd only recollect how much I valued you once, and with how ■" Inuch caifce, immediately to feel a revi\'al of the same value ; if that ■ tan be said to revive, which at the most has only been dormapt for \vafiftSf Employment. But I slander it when I say that Jt has slept. ' A thousand times have I recollected a thousand scenes in which our two selves have formed the whole of the drama, with the greatest pleasure ; at times too when I had no reason to suppose that I ' should ever hear from you again. I have laughed with you at the ■ Arabian Nights Entertainment, which aflForded us, as you well know, a fund of merriment that deserves never to be forgot. I Jrtave walked with you to Ncttley Abbey, and have scrambled with LIFE OF COWTER. W you ovei' hedges in every direction, and many other feats we have performed together, upon the iield of my remembrance, and all within these few years, should I say within this twelvemonth I should not transgress the truth. The hours thiit I have spent with you were among the pleasantest of my former days, and are there- fore chronicled in my mind so deeply as to fear no erasure. Nei- ther do I forget my poor friend Sir Thomas : I should remember him indeed at any rate on account of his personal kindnesses to myself, but the last testimony that he gave of his regard for you, endears Jiim to me still more. With his uncommon understanding (for -with many peculiarities he had more sense than any of his acquaint- ance) and with his generous sensibilities, it was hardly possible that he should not distinguish you as he has done: as it was the last, sp it was the best proof that he could give of a judgment that never deceived him, when he would allow himself leisure to consult it. You say that you have often heard of me: that puzzles me. I cannot imagine from what quarter ; but it is no matter. I must tell you, however, my Cousin, that your information has been a little defective. That I am happy in my situation is true: I live and have lived these twenty years with Mrs. Unwin, to whose affec- tionate care of me during the far greater part of that time, it is, under Providence, owing that I live at all. But I do not account myself happy in having been for thirteen of those years in a state of mind that has made all that care and attention necessary : an attention and a care that have injured her health, and which, had she not been uncommonly supported, must have brought her to the grave. But I will pass to another subject; it would be cruel to particularize only to give pain ; neither would I by any means give a sable hue to the first letter of a correspondence so unex- pectedly renewed. I am delighted with what you tell me of my uncle's good health ; to enjoy any measure of cheerfulness at so late a day is much, but to have that late day enlivened with the vivacity of youth, is much more, and in these postdiluvian times a rarity indeed. Happy, fojr the most part, are parents who have daughters. Daughters are not apt to outlive their natural affections, which a son has general'y survived even before his boyish years are expired. I rejoice parti- cularly in my uncle's felicity, who has three female descendants from his little person, who leave him nothing to wish for upon that head.- My dear Cousin, dejection of spii-its, which I suppose may have prevented many a man from becoming an Author, made me ■One. 1 find constant employment necessary, and therefore take care to be coastautly employed. Manual occupations do not exit 85 LIFE OF CO\^TER. gage the mind sufficiently, as I know by experience, having tried many: but composition, especially of verse, absorbs it wholly, I write therefore generally three hours in a morning, and in an evening I transcribe. I read also, but less than I write, for I must have bodily exercise, and therefore never pass a day without it. You ask me where I have been this summer. I answer at Olney. Should you ask me where I spent the last seventeen sum^ mers, I should still answer at Olney. Ay, and the winters also, I have seldom left it, and except when I attended my brother in his last illness, never I believe a fortnight together. Adieu, my beloved Cousin : I shall not always be thus nimble in reply, but shall always have gi'eat pleasure in answering you when I can. Yours, my Friend and Cousin, Wm. cowper. LETTER XLI. To Lady HESKETH, Olney^ Mv. 9, IfSo, My dearest Cousin, Whose last most affectionate letter has fun in my head ever since I received it, and which I now sit do\vn lo answer two days sooner than the post will serve me. I thank you for it, and with a warmth for which I am sure you will give tne credit, though I do not spend many words in describing it. I do Ji.ot seek nevj fi'Jends, not being altogether sure that I should find them, but have unspeakable pleasure in being still beloved by an old one. I hope that nov>^ our correspondence has suifered its last in- terruption, and that we shall go down together to the grave chat« ting and chirping as merrily as such a scene of things as this will Jjermit. I am happy that my Poems have pleased you. My volume has afforded me no svich pleasure at any time, either while I was writ- ing it, or since its publication, as I have derived from yours and my uncle's opinion of it. I make cei'tain allowances for par- tiality, and for that peculiar quickness of taste with which you both relish what you like, and after all draw-backs upon those accoimts duly made, find- myself rich in the measure of your appi'obation that still remains. But above all I honour John Gilpin, since it was he who first encouraged you to write. I made him on purpose to laugh at, and he served his purpose well; but I am now in debt to him for a more valua'ile acquisition than all the laughter in the world amounts to, the recovery of my intev- LIFE OF COWPER. SY course with you, which is to me inestimable. My benevolent and generous Cousin, when I was once asked if I wanted any thing, and given delicately enough to understand that the enquirer was ready to supply all my occasions, I thankfully and civil)-, but posi- tively declined the favour. I neither suffer, nor have suifered any such inconveniences as I had not much rather endure, than come under obligations of that sort lo a person comparatively with your- self 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 sei've me, that delivers me from all aukward constraint, and from all fear of trespassing by acceptance. To you, therefore, I reply, yes; whensoever, and whatsoever, and in what manner soever you please ; and add, moreover, that my aifection for the giver is such as will increase to me 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 purse ; although, during the whole of that time, till lately, her income was nearly double mine. Her revenues, indeed, are now in some measiu'e 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 alile to afford ; but they are sucli things as neither life nor the well-being of life depend upon. My own in- come has been better than it is, but when it was best, it would not have enabled me to live as my connections demanded that t should, had it not been combined with a better than itself, at least at this end of the kingdom. Of this I had full proof during three months that I spent in lodgings at Huntingdon, in which time, by the help of good management, and a clear notion of ceconomical 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 comm.unicating (no matter what) that you can spare without missing it, since by so doing you will be sui-e to add to the comfoi'ts of my life, one of the sweetest that I can enjoy, a token and proof of yoiu- affection. In the affairs of my next publication, toward which you also oflTer me so kindly your assistance, there Avill be no need that you should help me in the manner that you propose. It will be a large woi-k, consisting, I should imagine, of six volumes at least. The twelfth of this month I shall have spent a j-ear upon it, and it will coit me more than another. I do not love the booksellers v.-dl 6§ LIFE OF COWPER. enough to make them a present of such a labour, but intend to pub- lish by subscription^ Your vote and interest, my dear Cousin, upon the occasion, if you please, but nothing more! I will trovible you with some papers of proposals, Avhen the time shall come, and am sure that you will circulate as many for me as you can. Now, my dear, I am going to tell you a secret. It i:> a great secret, that you must not whisjier even to your cat. No creature is at this moment appi'ised of it, but Mrs. Unwin and her Son. I am making a new fi'anslation of Homer, and am upon the point of finishing the twenty -first book of the Iliad. The reasons upon which I under- take this Herculean labour, and by which I justify an enterprize in which I ^eem so effectually anticipaled by Pope, although, in fact, he has not anticipated me at all, I may possibly give you, if you wish for them, when I can find nothing more interesting to say ; a period which I do not conceive to be very near ! I have not an- swered many things in your letter, nor can do it at present for want of room. I cannot believe but that I should know you, not- withstanding all that time may have done. There is not a feature of your face, could I meet it upon the road by itself, that I should not instantly recollect. I should say, that is my Cousin's nose, or those are her lips and her chin, and no woman upon earth can claim them but herself. As for me, I am a very smart youth of my years. I am not indeed groAvn grey so much as I am grown bald. No matter. There was more hair in the woi-ld than ever had the honour to belong to me. Accordingly, having found just enough to curl a little at my ears, and to intermix with a little of my own that still hangs behind, I appear, if you see me in an afternoon, to have a very decent head-dress, not easily distinguished from my natural growth; which being worn by a small bag, and a black riband about my neck, continues to me the charms of my youth, *ven on the verge of age. Away with the fear of writing too <)ften. Yours, my dearest Cousin, W. C. P. S. That the view I give you of myself may be complete, I ^dd the two following items — That I am in debt to nobody, and that I grow fat. LETTER XLII, To Lady HESKETH. My dearest Cousin, I am glad tliat I ahvays loved you as 1 did. It releases me from any occasion to suspect that my present ftlTection for you is indebted for its exif;teuce to any selfish consi- LIFE OF COWPER. "89 derations. No. I am si^re Hove you disinterestedly, and for your own sake, because I never thought of you with any other sensa- tions than tliose of the truest aifection, even when I was under the influence of a persuasion, that I should never hear from you again. . But with my present feelings, superadded to those that I always had for you, I find it no easy matter to do justice to my sensations. ^ I perceive myself in a state of mind similar to that of the traveller, , described in Pope's Messiah, who, as he passes through a sandy desart, starts at the sudden and unexpected sound of a waterfall. You have placed me in a situation neW to me, and in which I feel myself somewhat puzzled how I ought to behave. At the same time that I would not grieve you by putting a check upon your bounty, I would be as careful not to abuse it, as if I were a miser, and the question not about your money but my own. Although I do not suspect that a secret to you, my cousin, is any burthen, yet having maturely considered that point since I wrote my last, I feel myself altogether disposed to release you from ' the injunction to that eifect under which I laid you. I have now hiade such a progress in my translation, that I need neither fear that I shall stop sliort of the end, nor that any other rider of Pe- * gasus should overtake me. Therefore, if at any time it should fall fairly in your way, or you should feel yourself invited to say that I am so occupied, you have my Poetship's free permission. Dr. Minson read and recommended my first volumci W. C. LETTER XLIIL To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. Dec, 24, 1785. Mv DEAR Friend, 'Till I had made such a pi'ogress in my present undertaking as to put it out of all doubt that, if I lived, I should pi-oceed in and finish it, I kept the matter to myself. • It would have done me little honour to have told my friends that I had an arduous enterprize in hand, if afterwards I must have told them that I had dropped it. Knowing it to have been universally the opinion of tlie literati, ever since they have allowed them- selves to consider the matter coolly, that a translation, properly so called, of Homer, is, notwithstanding wliat Pope has done, a de- sideratum in the English language, it struck me tliat an attempt to supi)ly the deficiency would be an honourable one ; and having made myself, in former years, somewhat critically a master of the VQI.. I. N 90 LIFE OF COWPER. original, I was, by this double consideration, induced to mak* the attempt myself. I am now translating into blank verse the last book of the Iliad, and mean to publish by subscription. W. C. LETTER XLIV. To Lady HESKETH Jan. 10, 1786. It gave me great pleasure that you foiuid my friend Unwin, Avhat I was sure you would find him, a most agree- able man. I did not usher him in with the marrow-bones and clea- vers of high-sounding panegyric, both because I. was certain that whatsoever merit he had, your discernment would mark it, and because it is possible to do a man material injury, by making his praise his harbinger. It is easy to raise expectation to such a pitch that the reality, be it ever so excellent, must necessarily fall below it. I hold myself much indebted to Mr. , of whom I have the first information from yourself, both for his friendly dispositions towards me, and for the manner in which he marks the defects in my volume. An author must be tender indeed, to wince on being touched so gently. It is undoubtedly as he sa}'s, and as you and my uncle say. You cannot be all mistaken, neither is it at all pro- bable that any of you should be so. I take it for granted, there- fore, that there are inequalities in the composition ; and I do assure you, my dear, most faithfully, that if it should reach a second edi- tion, I will spare no pains to improve it. It may serve me for an agreeable amusement, perhaps, when Homer shall be gone and done Avith. The first edition of poems has generally been suscep- tible of improvement. Pope, I believe, never published one in his life, that did not undergo variations, and his longest pieces many. I will only observe, that inequalities tliere must be always, and in every work of length. There are level parts of every sub- ject, parts v.'hich we cannot, with propriety, attempt to elevate. They are by nature humble, and can only be made to assume an aukwavd and uncouth appearance by being mounted. But again, I take it for granted that this remark docs not apply to the matter of your objection. You were sufficiently aware of it before, and have no need that I should suggest it as an apology, could it have served that office, but would ha^e made it for me yourself. In truth, my dear, had you known in what anguish of mind I wrote the whole of that poem, and under what perpetual in- terruptions from a cause that has since been removed, so that LIFE OF COWPER. 91 s'sometimes I liad not an opportunity of writing more than three lines at a sitting, you would long since have wondered as much as J do m)^self, that it turned out any thing better than Grub-street. My cousin, give yourself no trouble to find out any of the Magi to scnitinize my Homer. I can do without them ; and if I were not conscious that I have no need of their help, I would be the first to call for it. Assure yourself that I intend to be careful to the utmost line of all possible caution, both with respect to language and versification. I will not send a verse to the press, that shall not have undergone the strictest examination. A subscription is surely on every account the most eligible mode of publication. When I shall have emptied the purses of my friends and of their friends into my own, I am still free to levy contribu- tions upon the world at large, and I shall then have a fund to de- fray the expenses of a new edition. I have ordered Johnson to print the proposals immediately, and hope that they will kiss your hands before the week is expired. I have had the kindest letter from Josephus that I ever had. He mentioned my purpose to one of the masters of Eton, who replied, that " such a work is much wanted." vv. c. LETTER XLV. To Lady HESKETH. Olneij., Jan, 31, 1786, It is very pleasant, my dearest cousin, to receive a present so delicately conveyed as that which I re- ceived so lately from Anonymous, but it is also very painful to have nobody to thank for it. I find myself, therefoi-e, driven by stress of necessity to the following resolution, viz. that I will constitute you my Thank-receiver-general, for whatsoever gift I shall re- ceive hereafter, as well as for those that I have already received from a nameless benefactor. I therefore thank you, my cousin, for a most elegant present, including the most elegant compliment that ever Poet was honoured with ; for a snuff-box of tortoise-shell, with a beautiful landscape on die lid of it, glazed with chrystal, having the figures of three hares in the foi^e-ground, and inscribed above with the words. The Pheasant's A''cst., and below with tlicse, Tiney^ Puss, and Bess. For all, and every of these, I thank you, and also for standing proxy on this occasion. Nor must I forget to thank you, that so soon after I had sent you the first let- ter of Anonymous, I received another in the same hand. Tlierc-w now I am a little easier. 92 LIFE OF COWPER. I have almost conceived a design to send up half a dozen stout coiintry-fellows, to tie by the leg to their respective bed-posts, the company that so abridges your opportunity of writing to me. Your letters are the joy of my heart, and I cannot endure to be robbed by, I know not whom, of half my treasure. But there is no com- fort without a drawback, and therefore it is that I, who have un- known friends, have unknown enemies also. Ever since I wrote last, I find myself in better health, and my nocturnal spasms and fever considerably abated. I intend to write to Dr. Kerr on Thurs- day, that I may gratify him with an account of my amendment; for to him I know that it will be a gratification. Were he not a physician, I should regi-et that he lives so distant, for he is a most agi'eeable man ; but being what he is, it would be ijnpossible to have his company, even if he were a neighbour, unless in time, of sickness, at which time, whatever charms he might have himself, my own must necessarily lose much of their effect on him. When I write to you, my dear, what I have already related to the General, I am always fearful least I should tell you that for news with which you are well acquainted. For once, however, I ■will venture. On Wednesday last I received from Johnson the mar nuscript copy of a specimen that I had sent to the General, and in- closed in the same cover notes upon it by an unknown critic. Johnson, in a short letter, recommended him to me as a man of unquestionable learning and ability. On pei'usal and consideration of his remarks, I found him such, and having nothing so much at heart as to give all possible security to yourself and the General, that my work shall not come forth unfinished, I answered John- son, " that I would gladly submit my manuscript to his friend. '^ He is, in truth, a veiy clever fellow, perfectly a stranger to me, and one who, I promise you, will not spare for severity of animad- version where he shall find occasion. It is impossible for you, my clearest cousin, to express a Avish that I do not equally feel a wish to gratify. You are desirous that Maty should see a book of my Homer, and for that reason, if Maty nvill see a book of it, he shall be welcome, although time is likely to be precious ; and, conse- quently, any delay that is not absolutely necessary, as much as pos- sible, to be avoided. I am now revising the Iliad ; it is a business that will cost me four months, perhaps five, for T compare the very "words as I go, and if much alteration should occur, must tran- scribe the whole. The first book I have almost transcribed al- ready. To these five months, Johnson says that nine more must be added for printing, and, upon my own experience, I will ven- ture to assure you, that the tardiness of printers v/ill make those nine months twelve. There is danger, therefore, that my sub- LIFE OF COWPER. 93 scribei's may think that I make them wait too long, and that they •who know me not may suspect a bubble. How glad I shall be to read it over in an evening, book by book, as fast as I settle the copy, to you, and to Mrs. Unwin ! She has been my touchstone al- ways, and without reference to her taste and judgment, I lia\ e printed uotliing. With one of you at each elbow, I should think myself the happiest of all poets. The General and I, having broken the ice, are upon the most comfortable terms of correspondence. He writes very affection- ately to me, and I say every thing to him that comes uppermost. I could not write frequently to any creature li\ ing upon any other terms than those. He tells me of infirmities that he has, which make him less active than he was. I am sorry to hear that he has any such. Alas ! alas ! he was young when I saw him only twenty years ago. I have the most affectionate letter imaginable from Colman, who writes to me like a brother. The Chancellor is yet dumb. May God have you in his keeping, my beloved cousin. Farewell. W. C. LETTER XLVL To Lady HESKETH. Olmy^ Feb. 9, irS6. My dearest Cousin, I have been impatient to tell you, that I am impatient to see you again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in all my feelings upon this subject, and longs also to see you. I should have told you so by the last post, but have been so com- pletely occupied by this tormenting specimen, that it was impos- sible to do it. I sent the General a letter on Monday, that would distress and alarm him : I sent him another yesterday, that will, I hope, quiet him again. Johnson has apologized very civilly for the multitude of his friend's strictures, and his friend has promised to confine himself in future to a comparison of me with the origi-. nal, so that I doubt not we shall jog on merrily together. And now, my dear, let me tell you once more, that your kindness in promis- ing us a visit has charmed us both. 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 Ousc and its l)anks, every thing that I have described. I anticipate the pleasure of those days not very far distant, and feel a part of it at tliis mo- ment. Talk not of an inn, mention it not for your life. W'c have pever had so many visitors but we could easily accommodate theuj 94 LIFE OF COWPER. all, though we have received Unwin, and his wife, and his sister, and his son, all at once. My dear, I will net let you come till the end of Maj', or beginning of June, because before that time my green-house will not be ready to receive us, and it is the only plea- sant 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 ho- ney-suckles, 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 you what you shall find at your first entrance. Imprimis, as soon as you have en- tered the vestibule, if you cast a look on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box of my making. It is the box in v/hich have been lodged all my hares, and in which lodges Puss at present. But he, poor fellow, is worn out with age, and promises to die before you can see him. On the right hand stands a cup- board, the work of the same author. It was once a do^'e-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite to }^ou 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 will find the door of the parlour, into which I will conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs, Unwin, (unless wc should meet her before), and where we will be as happy as the day is long. Order yourself, my cousin, to the SAvan, at Newport, and there you sliall 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 stpears that it is a cask, and that it will never be any thing better than a cask to eternity. So if the god is content witli it, v/e must even wonder at his taste, and be so tor. Adieu, my dearest cousin. W. C. LETTER XLVII. To Lady HESKETH. Obiey, Feb, 11, 1786, Mv DLAREST CoUSIN, It must be, I suppose, a fortnight or there- about, since I wrote last, I feel myself so alert and so ready to write again. Ee that as it may, here I come. We talk of nobody but you ; what we will do with you, Avhen v/e get you ; where yoi^ LIFE OF COWPER. 95 shall walk, where you shall sleep ; in short, every thing that bears the remotest relation to your well-being at Olncy, occupies all our talking time, which is all that I do not spend at Troy. I have every reason for writing to you as often as I can, but I have a particular reason for doing it now. I want to tell you that by the Diligence on Wednesday next I mean to send you a qiure of my Homer for Maty's perusal. It will contain the first book, and as much of the second as brings us to the catalogue of the ships, and is every morsel of the revised copy that I have tran- scribed. My dearest cousin, read it yourself — Let the General read it. Do what you please with it, so that it reach Johnson in due time ; but let Maty be the only Critic that has any thing to do with it. The vexation, the perplexity that attends a multiplicity of criticisms by various hands, many of which are sure to be futile, many of them ill-founded, and some of them contradictory to others, is inconceivable, except by the author whose ill-fated work happens to be the subject of them. This also appears to me self-evident ; that if a work have past under the review of one man of taste and learning, and have had the good fortune to please him, his approbation gives security for that of all others qualified like himself. I speak tlius, my dear, after having just escaped from such a storm of trouble, occasioned by endless remarks, hints, suggestions, and objections, as drove me almost to despair, and to the very edge of a resolution to drop my undertaking for- ever. With infinite difficulty I, at last, sifted the chaff from the wheat, availed myself of what appeared to me to be just, and re- jected the rest; but not till the labour and anxiety had nearly un- done all that Kerr had been doing for me. My beloved cousin, trust me for it, as you safely may, that temper, vanity and self- importance had nothing to do in all this distress that I suffered. It was merely the effect of an alarm that I could not help taking, when I compared the great trouble I had with a few lines only, thus handled, with that which I foresaw such handling of the whole must necessarily give me. I felt before-hand tliat my constitu- tion would not bear it. I shall send up this second specimen in a box that I have had made on jnirpcse ; and when Maty has done with the copy, and you have done with it yourself, then }-oii must return it in said box to my translatorship. Though John- son's friend has teased me sadly, I verily believe that I shall have' no more such cause to complain of him. We now understand one aiwther, and I firmly believe that I might have gone the world through, before I had found his equal in an accurate and familiar acquaintance with the original. A letter to Mr. Urban, in the last Gentleman's Magazine, of 96 LIFE OF COWPER. which I's book is the subject, pleases me more than any thing I have seen in the way of eulogium yet. I have no guess of the author. I do not wish to remind the Chancellor of his promise. Ask you why, my cousin ? Because, I suppose, it would be impossible. He has, no doubt, forgotten it entirely, and would be obliged to take my word for the truth of it, which I could not bear. We drank tea together with Mrs. C e and her sister, in King's- street, Bloomsbury, and there was the pi'omise made. I said, Thurlow, I am nobod}', and shall be always nobody, and you will be Chancellor : you shall pi'ovide for me when you are. He smiled and replied, I surely will. These ladies, said I, are witnesses. He still smiled, and said, let them be so, for I will certainly do it. But alas ! twenty-four years have passed since the day of the date thereof, and to mention it now would be to upbraid him with inat- tention to his plighted troth. Neither do I suppose he could easily Ferve such a creature as I am if he would. Adieu, whom I love entirely. W. C. LETTER XLVIIL To Lady HESKETH^ Olney^ Feb. 19, irsg. My DEAREST Cousin, Since so it must be, so it shall be. If you will not sleep under the roof of a friend, may you never sleep un- der the roof of an enemy. An enemy, however, you will not presently find. Mrs. Unwin bids me mention her affectionately, and tell you, that she willingly gives up a part for the sake of the rest, willingly, at least as far as willingly may consist with some reluctance : I feel my reluctance too. Our design was, that you should have slept in the room that serves me for a study, and its having been occupied by you would have been an additional recom- mendation of it to me. But all reluctances are supei'seded by the thought of seeing you; and because we have nothing so much at heart as the wish to see you happy and comfortable, we are desirous, therefore, to accommodate you to your own mind, and not to ours. Mrs. Unwin has already secured for you an apart- ment, or rather two, just such as we could wish. The house in w^hich you will find them is within thirty yards of our own, and opposite to it. The whole affair is tlms commodiously adjusted; and now I have nothing to do but to wish for June, and June, my cousin, w^s never so wished for since June \yas made. I shall have LIFE OF COWPER. 9f ' a thousand things to liear, and a thousand to say, and they will all rush into my mind together, till it will be so crowded with things impatient to be said, that for some time I shall say nothing. But no matter — Sooner or later they will all come out ; and since we shall have you the longer, for not having you under our own roof, (a circumstance that more than any thing reconciles us to that measure) they will stand the Ijetter chance. After so long a se- paration, a separation that, of late, seemed likely to last for life, we shall meet each other, as alive from the dead; and, for my own part, I can truly say, that I have not a friend in the other world whose resurrection would give me greater pleasure. I am truly happy, my dear, in having pleased you with what you have seen of my Homer. I wish that all English readers had your unsophisticated, or rather unadulterated taste, and could relish simplicity like you. But I am well awai-e that in this respect I am under a disadvantage, and that many, especially many ladies, missing many turns and prettinesses of expression that they have admired in Pope, will account my translation in those particulars ■defective. But I comfort myself with the thought, that in reality it is no defect ; on the contrary, that the want of all such embellish- ments as do not belong to the original, will be one of its principal merits with persons indeed capable of relishing Homer. He is the best Poet that ever lived for many reasons, but for none more than for that majestic plainness that distinguishes him fi-om all others. As an accomplished person moves gracefully without thinking of it, in like manner the dignity of Homer seems to cost him no labour. It was natural to him to say great things, and to say them well, and little ornaments were beneath his notice. If Maty, my dearest cousin, should return to you my copy with any such strictures as may make it necessary for me to see it again before it goes to Johnson, in that case you shall send it to me ; otherwise to Johnson immediately : for he writes me word he \vishes his friend to go to work upon it as soon as possible. When you come, my dear, we will hang all these critics together, for they have worried me without remorse or conscience, at least one of them has : I had actually murthered more than a few of the best lines in the speci- men, in compliance with his requisitions, but plucked up my cou- rage at last, and in the very last opportunity that I had, recovered them to life again by restoring the original reading. At the same time I readily confess that the specimen is the better for all this discipline its author has undergone ; but then it has been more in- debted for its improvement to that pointed accuracy of examina- tion, to which I was myself excited, than to any proposed amend- ments from Mr. Critic; for as sure as you are my cousin, whom VOL, I. o 98 LIFE OF COWPER. I long to see at Olney, so surely would he have done me irrepara- ble mischief, if I would have given him leave. My friend Bagot writes to me in a most friendly strain, and calls loudly upon me for original poetry. When I shall have done with Homer, probably he will not call in vain ; having found the prime feather of a swan on the banks of the snug and silver Trent, he keeps it for me. Adieu, dear cousin. W. C. I am sorry that the General has such indifferent health. He must not die. I can by no means spare a person so kind to me. LETTER XLIX. To Lady HESKETH. Olney, March 6, 1786. My dearest Cousin, Your opinion has more weight with me than that of all the critics in the world, and to give you a proof of it, I make you a concession that I would hardly have made to them all united. I do not, indeed, absolutely covenant, promise, and agree, that I will discard all my elisions, but I hereby bind myself to dismiss as many of them, as, without sacrificing energy to sound, I can. It is incumbent upon me, in the mean time, to say something in justification of the few that I shall retain, that I may not seem a Poet mounted rather on a mule than on Pegasus. In the first place. The, is a barbarism. We are indebted for it to the Celts, or the Goths, or to the Saxons, or perhaps to them all. In the two best languages that ever were spoken, the Greek and the Latin, there is no similar incumbrance of expression to be found. Secondly, the perpetual use of it in our language is, to us miser- able poets, attended with two great inconveniences. Our verse consisting only of ten syllables, it not unfrequently happens, that the fifth part of a line is to be engrossed, and necessarily too, (unless elision prevents it) by this abominable intruder : and which is worse in my account, open vowels are continuall}' the conse- quence:— The element — The air. Sec. Thirdly, the French, who are equally with the English chargeable with barbarism in this par- ticular, dispose of their Le and their ha without ceremony, and always take care that they shall be absorbed, both in verse and in prose, in the vowel that immediately follows them. Fourthly, and I believe lastly, (and for your sake I wish it may prove so) the practice of cutting short a T}ie is warranted by Milton, who, of all English poets that ever lived, had certahily the finest ear. Dr. VVarton indeed has dared to say that he had a bad one, for which LIFE OF COWPER. 99 he deserves, as far as ci'itical demerit can deserve it, to lose his own. I thought I had done, but there is still a fifthly behind, and it is this ; that the custom of abbreviating The belongs to the stile in wlaich, in my advertisement annexed to the specimen, I profess to write. The use of that stile would have Avarranted me in the practice of much greater liberty of this sort than I ever intended to take. In perfect consistence with that stile I might say I' th' tem- pest, r th' door-way, Sec. which, however, I would not allow my- self to do, because I was aware that it would be objected to, and with reason. But it seems to me, for the causes above said, that when I shorten Thc^ before a vowel, or before wA, as in the line jT)u mention, " Than th' whole broad Hellespont in all his parts," my licence is not equally exceptionable. Because W^ though he rank as a consonant in the word wholc^ is not allowed to announce himself to the ear, and H is an aspirate. But as I said at the be- ginning, so say I still, I am most willing to conform myself to your very sensible observation, that it is necessary, if we would please, to consult the taste of our own day. Neither would I have pelted you, my dearest cousin, with any part of this volley of good rea- sons, had I not designed them as an answer to those objections which you say you have heard from others. But I only mention them. Though satisfactory to myself, I wave them, and will al- low to The his whole dimensions, whensoever it can be done. Thou only Critic of my verse that is to be found in all the earth whom I love, what shall I say in answer to your own objection to tliat passage — " Softly he placed his hand " On th' Old man's hand, and push'd it gently away," I can say neither more nor less than this, that when our deai- friend the General sent me his opinion of the specimen, quoting those very words from it, he added, "With this part I was pai'- ticularly pleased: there is nothing in poetry more descriptive." Such were his very words. Taste, my dear, is various ; there is nothing so various, and even between persons of the best taste there are diversities of opinion on the same subject, for which it is not possible to account. So much for these matters. You advise me to consult the General, and to confide in him. I follow your advice, and have done both. By the last post I asked his permission to send him the Books of my Homer, as fast as I slioukl finish them oft'. I sliall I)e glad of his renuirks, and more glad than of any tiling, to(i; but she desires that licr 104 LIFE OF COWPER. authorship may be a secret. And in my answer I promised not to divulge it, except to you. It is a pretty copy of verses neatly ■written, and well turned, and when you come you shall see them. I intend to keep all pretty things to myself till then, that they may serve me as a bait to lure you hither more effectually. The last letter that I had from i, I received so many years since, that it seems as if it had reached me a good while before I was born. I was grieved at the heart that the General could not come, and that illness was in part the cause that hindered him. I have sent him, by his express desire, a new edition of the first book, and half the second. He would not suflFer me to send it to you, my dear, least you should post it away to Maty at once. He did not give that reason, but being shi'ewd, I found it. The grass begins to grow, and the leaves to bud, and every thing is preparing to be beautiful against you come. Adieu. W.C. You inquire of our walks, I perceive, as well as of our rides. They are beautiful. You inquire also concerning a cellar. You have two cellars. Oh ! what years have passed since we took tlie same walks, and drank out of the same bottle I but a few move weeks, and then ! LETTER LIIT. To Lady HESKETH. Olney, May 8, 1786, I did not at all doubt that your tenderness for my feelings had inclined you to suppress in your letters to me the intelligence concerning Maty's critique, that yet reached me from another quarter. When I wrote to you I had not learned it from the General, but from my friend Bull, who only knew it by hear-say. Tlie next post brought me the news of it from the first mentioned, and the critique itself inclosed. Together with it came also a squib discharged against me in the Public Advertiser. Tlie General's letter found me in one of my most melancholy moods, and my spirits did not rise on the receipt of it. Tlie letter, indeed, that he had cut from the news-paper gave me little pain, both because it contained nothing formidable, though written with malevolence enough, and because a nameless author can have no more weight with his readers than the reason which he has on his side can give him. . But Maty's animadversions hurt me more. In part they appeared to me unjust, and in part ill- natured ; and yet the man himself being an oracle in every body's account, I apprehended that he had done me much mischief* LIFE OF COWPER. 105 Why he says that the translation is far from exact, is best kno-\vn to himself: for I know it to be as exact as is compatible with poetry; and prose translations of Homer are not wanted; the world has one already. But I will not fill my letter to you with hypercriticisms ; I will only add an extract from a letter of Col- man's, that I received last Friday, and will then dismiss the sub- ject. It came accompanied by a copy of the specimen, which he himself had amended, and with so much taste and candour that it charmed me. He says as follows: " One copy I have returned, with some remarks, prompted by my zeal for your success ; not. Heaven knows, by aiTogance or impertinence. I know no other way, at once so plain and so shortj of delivering my thoughts on the specimen of your translation, which, on the whole, I admire exceedingly; tliinking it breathes the spirit, artd conveys the manner of the original ; though hav- ing here neither Homer, nor Pope's Homer, I cannot speak pre- cisely of particular lines or expressions, or compare your blank verse \vith his rhyme, except by declaring, that I think blank verse infinitely more congenial to the magnificent simplicity of Ho- mer's hexameters, than the confined couplets, and the jingle of rhyme." His amendments are chiefly bestowed on the lines encumberedf with elisions ; and I will just take this opportunity to tell you, my dear, because I know you to be as much interested in what I write as myself, that some of the most offensive of these elisions were occasioned by mere criticism. I was fairly hunted into them by vexatious objections made without end by • and his friend, and altered, and altered, till at last I did not care how I altered. Many thanks for .'s verses, which deserve just the character you give of them : they are neat and easy — ^but I would mumble her well if I could get at her, for allowing herself to suppose for a moment that I praised the Chancellor with a view to emolument. I wrote those stanzas merely for my own amusement, and they slept in a dark closet years after I composed them ; not in tlie least designed for publication. But when Johnson had printed off" the longer pieces of which the first volume principally consists, he wrote me word that he wanted yet two thousand lines to swell it to a proper size. On that occasion it was, that T collected every scrap of verse that I could find, and tliat among the rest. None of the smaller poems had been introduced, or had been published at all with my name, but for this necessity. Just as I wrote the last word, I was called dovm to Dr. Kerr, who came to pay me a voluntary visit. Were I sick, his cheerful and friendly manner would almost restore me. Air and exer- voi.. I. p ^106 OFE OF COWPER. cise are his them^ ; them, he recommends as the best phjrsic far me, and in air weathers. Come, therefore, my dear, and take a little of this good physic with me, for you will find it beneficial as wen as I ; come and assist Mrs. Unwin in the re-establishment of 'your cousin's health. Air and exercise, and she and you together^ will make me a perfect Samson. You will have a good house over your head, comfortable apartments, obliging neighbours, good roads, a pleasant country, and in us your constant companions, two who will love you, and do already love you dearly, and with all our "hearts. If you are in any danger of trouble, it is from myself, if ■■ my fits of dejection seize me ; and as often as they do, you will be grieved for me : but perhaps by your assistance I shall be able to resist them better. If there. is a creature under Heaven, from whose co-operations with Mrs. Unwin I can reasonably expect such a blessing, that creature is yourself. I was not without such attacks when I lived in London, though at that time they were less oppressive ; but in your company I was never unhappy a whole day in all my life. Of how much importance is an author to himself I I return to that abominable specimen again, just to notice Maty's impatient censure of the repetition that you mention. I mean of the word Hand. In the original there is not a repetition of it* Btit to re- peat a word in that manner, and on such an occasion, is by no means what he calls it, a modem invention. In Homer I could show him many such, and in Virgil they abound. Colman, who in his judgment of classical matters is inferior to none, says, " Iknoiti not why Maty objects to this exfiressiov." I could easily change it, but the case standing thus, I know not whether my proud sto- inach will condescend so low. I rather feel myself disinclined to it. Oxie evening last week Mrs. Unwin and I took our walk to Wes- ton, and as we were returning through the grove, opposite the house, the Throckmortons presented themselves at the door. They are owners of a house at Weston, at present empty. It is a ryery good one, infinitely superior to ours. When we drank cho- ■ colate with them, they both expressed their ardent desire that we would take it, wishing to have us for nearer neighbours. If you, my cousin, were not so well provided for as you are, and at our ' Very elbow, I. verily believe I should have- mustered all my rheto- ric to recommend it to you. Yx)u might have it for ever without danger of ejectment ; whereas j^our possession of the vicarage de- pends on the life of the vicar, who is eighty-six. The environs sire most beautiful, and the village itself one of the prettiest I ever saw. Add to this, you would step immediately into Mr. Throckmorton's pleasure-ground, where you would not soil your slipper even ia LIFE OF COWPER. 107 winter. A most unfortunate mistake was made by that gentleman's bailiff in his absence. Just before he left Weston last year, for the •winter, he gave him orders to cut short the tops of the flowering shrubs, that lined a serpentine walk in a delightful grove, cele- brated by my poetship in a little piece that you remember was ■called the " Shrubbery." The dunce, misapprehending the order, cut down and faggotted up the whole grove, leaving neither tree, Jbush, nor twig; nothing but stumps about as high as my ankle. Mrs. Throckmorton told os that she never saw her husband so angry in his life. I judge indeed by his physiognomy, which has -^eat sweetness in it, that he is very little addicted to that infernal passion ; but had he cudgelled the man for his cruel blunder, and . the havoc made in consequence of it, I could have excused him.. I felt myself really concerned for the Chancellor's illness, and ; from what I learned of it, both from the papers and from General Cowper, concluded that he must die. I am accordingly delighted in the same propo?rtion with the news of his recovery. May he live, and live to be still the support of government I If it shall be his good pleasure to render me personally any material service, I ' have no objection to it ; but Heaven knows that it is impossible I for any living wight to bestow less thought on Uiat subject than jnysejf. fe.i {2 -i .. May God be ever with you, my beloved cousin. foIoo:> I lariJoH jyi ^vfi-.-bas'tti ■x^-ih.-\^ ^r ,A' Jiir.i sd t? W. C. LETTER LIV. To Lady HESKETH. :'^" J, , , Olney, May 15, 1786. From this very morning I begin to date the last month of our long separation, and confidently, and most comfortably hope, that before the 15th of June shall present itself, we shall have seen each other. Is it not so? And will it not be one of the most extraordinary sras of my extraordinary life ? A year ago, we neither corresponded nor expected to meet in this world. But this world is a scene of marvellous events, many of them more marvellous than fiction itself would dare to hazard; and, blessed be God ! they are not all of the distressing kind ; now and then, in the course of an existence whose hue is for the most part sable, a day turns up that makes amends for many sighs, and many subjects of complaint. Such a day shall I account the day of your arrival at Olney. Wherefore is it,, canst thou tell me, that, together with all those delightful sensations to.whicli tlic iight of a long absent 105 LIFE OF COWPER. dear friend gives birth, there is a mixture of somethiiig painftil? Flutter ings, and tumults, and I know not what accompaniments of our pleasure, that are, in fact, perfectly foreign from the occasion? Such I feel when I think of our meeting, and such, I suppose, feel you; and the nearer the crisis approaches the more I am sensible of them. I know, beforehand, that they will increase with every turn of the wheels that shall convey me to Ne\vport, when I shall set out to meet you, and that when we actually meet, the pleasure, and this unaccountable pain together, will be as much as I shall be able to support. I am utterly at a loss for the cause, and can only resolve it into that appointment, by which it has been fore-ordained that all human delights shall be quahfied and mingled with their contraries. For there is nothing formidable in you, to me at least, there is nothing such. No, not even in your menaces, unless when you threaten me to •xvrite no more. Nay, I verily believe, did I not know you to be what you are, and had less affection for you than I have, I should have fewer of these emotions, of which I would have none if I could help it. But a fig for them all I Let us resolve to combat with, and to conquer them. They are dreams, they are illusions of the judgment : some enemy that hates the happiness of human kind, and is ever industrious to dash it, works them in us, and their being so perfectly unreasonable as they are is a proof of it. Nothing that is such can be the work of a good agent. This I know too by experience, that, like all other illusions, they exist only by force of imagination — are indebted for their pre- valence to the absence of their object, and in a few moments after its appearance cease. So, then, this is a settled point, and the case stands thus : You will tremble as you draw near to Newport, and so shall I: but we will both recollect that there is no reason why ■we should, and this recollection will at least have some little effect in our favour. We will likewise both take the comfort of what we know to be true, that the tumult will soon cease, and the pleasure long survive the pain, even as long, I trust, as we ourselves shall survive it. VVhat you say of Maty gives me all the consolation that you in- tended. VVe both think it highly probable that you suggest the true cause of his displeasure, when you suppose him mortified at not having had a part of the translation laid before him, ere the specimen was published. The General was very much hurt, and calls his censure harsh and unreasonable. He likewise sent me a consolatory letter on the occasion, in which he took the kindest pains to heal the wound that he supposed I might have suffered. I am not naturally insensible, and the sensibilities that I had by na- t\ire have been v/onderfully enhanced by a long scries of shocks, LIFE OF COWPEK. 109 g^iven to a frame of nerves that was nevei* very athletic. I feel ac- cordingly, Avhether painful or pleasant, in the extreme — am easily elevated, and easily cast down. The fro-wh of a critic freezes my poetical poAvers, and discourages me to a degree that makes me ashamed of my own weakness. Yet I presently recoA er my confi- dence again. The half of what you so kindly say in your last, would at any time restore my spirits, and being said by you, is infallible. I am not ashamed to confess, that having commenced an Autlior, I am most abundantly desirous to succeed as such. I have (Kvhat perhaps you little susfiect me of) in my nature^ an ivjinite share of ambition. But with it, I have, at the same time, as you well know, an equal share of diffidence. To this combination of op- posite qualities it has been owing, that till lately I stole through life without undertaking any thing, yet always wishing to distinguish myself. At last I ventui-ed, ventured too in the only path that, at so late a period, was yet open to me, and am determined, if God have not determined othervv^ise, to work my way through the ob- scurity that has been so long my portion into notice. Every thing, therefore, that seems to threaten this my favourite purpose with tlisappointment, affects me nearly. I suppose that all ambitious minds are in the same predicament. He who seeks distinction must be sensible of disapprobation exactly in the same proportion as he desires applause. And now, my precious cousin, I have unfolded my heart to you in this particular without a speck of dissimulation. Some people, and good people too, would blame me, but ycni will not, and they I think would blame without just cause. We cer- tainly do not honour God when we bur}', or when we neglect to im- prove as far as we may whatever talent he may have bestowed on us, whether it be little or much. In natural things, as well as in spiritual, it is a never-failing truth, that to him who hath, that is, to him who occupies what he hath diligently, and so as to increase it, more shall be given. Set me down, therefore, my dear, for an industrious rhymer, so long as I shall have the ability ; for in this only way is it possible for me, so far as I can see, either to honour f iod, or to serve man, or even to serve myself. I rejoice to hear that Mr. Throckmorton wishes to be on a more intimate footing. I am shy, and suspect that he is not very much otherwise; and tlic consequence has been, that we have mutually wished an acquaintance without i)cing able to accomplish it. Bles- sings on you for the hint that you dropt on the subject of the house at \\'cston ; for the burthen of my song is, since we ha\e met once pgain, let us never be separated, as we have been, more. W. C. 310 LIFE OF COWPER. sc yi s^nidi hnR^vcd^ s fens ^zids to8l Jevh neo ■ssftifef LETTER LV. jir rrriof .^,,.To Lady HESKETH. ,1-- 0/«*i/, May IS, 1786i jnc I have at length, my cousin, found iny ^way into my summer abode. I believe that I described it to you some time since, and will therefore now leave it undescribed. . -I will only say that I am writing in a band-box, situated, at least in my account, delightfully, because it has a window in one side th^ opens into that orchard through which, as I am sitting here, I shall see you often pass, and which, therefore, I already prefer to all the orchards in the world. You do well to prepare me for all possible delays, because in this life all sorts of disappointments are possible, and I shall do well, if any such delay of your journey should happen, to practise that lesson of patience which you incul- cate. But it is a lesson which, even with you for my teacher, I shall be slow to learn. Being sure, however, that you will not procrastinate without cause, I will make myself as easy as I can about it, and hope the best. To convince you how much I am under discipline and good advice, I will lay aside a favourite mea- sure, influenced in doing so by nothing but the good sense of your contrary opinion. I had set my heart on meeting you at Newport. In my haste to see you once again, I was willing to overlook many ankwardnesses I could not but foresee would attend it. I put them aside so long as I only foresaw them myself, but since I find that you foresee them too, I can no longer deal so slightly with them. It is therefore determined that we meet at Olney. Much I shall feel, but I Avill not die if I can help it, and I beg that you will take all possible care to outlive it likewise, for I know what it is to be balked iathe moment of acquisition, and should be loth to know it again, .■* ^i. Last Monday, in the evening, we walked to Weston, according to OUT usual custom. It happened, owing to a mistake of time, that we set out half an hour sooner than usual. This mistake we :discovered while we were in the wilderness ; so, finding that we had time before us, as they say, Mrs. Unwin proposed that \/t should go into the village, and take a view of the house tliat I had just mentioned to you. We did so, and found it such a one as in most respects would suit you well. But Moses Brovv^n, our vicar, who, as I told you, is in his eighty-sixth year, is not bound t^ 4ie for that reason. He said himself, when he was here last sum- iner, that he should live ten years longer, and for aught that ap« ;pears, so he may. In which case, for the sake of its near neigh bourhood to us, the vicarage haa charms for me that no otlier LIFE OF COWPER. Ill ^ace can rival. But this, and a thousand things more, shall be talked over when you come. We have been industriously cultivating our acquaintance with our Weston neighbours since I wrote last, and they, on their part, have been equally diligent in the same cause. I have a notioi> that we shaU all suit well. I see much in them both that I admire. You know, perhaps, that they are Catholics. It is a delightful bundle of praise, my cousin, that you have seht me: all jasmine and lavender. Whoever the lady is, she has evidently an admirable pen, and a cultivated mind. If a per- son reads, it is no matter in what language ; and if the mind be informed, it is no matter whether tliat mind belongs to a man or a woman. The taste and the judgment will receive the benefit alike in both. — Long before the Task was published, I made an experi- ment one day, being in a frolicksome mood, upon my fi'iend : We were walking in the garden, and conversing on a subject similar to these lines : — " -. The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss, And seeking grace t' improve the present good, Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. J repeated them, and said to him with an air of non-chalance^ -" Do you recollect those lines ? I have seen them somewhere;- where are they?" He put on a considering face, and after some deliberation replied — " Oh, I will tell you where they must be—' in the Night Thoughts." I was glad my trial turned out so well, and did not undeceive him. I mention this occurrence only in confirmation of the letter-writer's opinion ; but, at the same time, I do assure you, on the faith of an honest man, that I never in my "life designed an imitation of Young, or of any other writei*; for mimicry is my abhorrence, at least in poetry. Assure yourself, my dearest cousin, that both' for your sake,- since you make a point of it, and for my own, I will be as philo- sophically careftd as possible that these fine nerves of mine shall not be beyond measure agitated when you arrive. In truth, there ife much greater probability that they will be benefited, and greatly too. Joy of heart, from whatever occasion it may arise, is the best of all nervous medicines, and I should not wonder if such a turn given to my spirits, should have even a lasting effect, of the most advantageous kind, upon them. You must not imagine, nei- ther, that I am, on the whole, in any great degree, subject to nervous affections ; occasionally I am, and have been these many years much liable to dejection. But at intervals, and sometimes for *n interval of weeks, no creature would suspect it. For I 312 LIFE OF COV^'PER. have not that which commonly is a symptom of such a case belong- ing to me : I mean extraordinary elevation in the absence of Mr. Blue-Devil. When I am in the best health, my tide of animal i.prighthness flows with great equality, so that I am never, at any time, exalted in proportion as I am. sometimes depressed. My depression has a cause, and if that cause were to cease, I should be as clieerful thenceforth, and pei-haps for ever, as any man neeS be. But as I have often said, Mrs. Unwrn shall be my expositor. Adieu, my beloved cousin. God grant that our friendship^ which, while Ave could see each other, never suffered a moment's intei-ruption, and which so long a separation has not in the least abated, ma}' glow in us to our last horn*, and be renewed in a bet- ter world, there to be perpetuated for ever. For you must know that I should not love you half so well, if I did not believe you- would be my friend to eternity. There is not room enough for friendship to unfold itself in full bloom, in such a nook of life as this. Therefore I am, and mu'-t, and will be, yoitrs for ever, W.C, LETTER LVI. To Lady HESKETH. Olney, May 29, 1786. Thou dear, comfortable cousin, vvhose letters, among all that I receive, have this property peculiarly their own, that I expect them without trembling, and never find any thing in them that does not give me pleasure ! for which, therefore, I would take nothing in exchange that the world could give me, save and except that for which I must exchange them soon, (and happy shall I be to do so) your own company. That, indeed, is delayed a little too long, to my impatience, at least, it seems so, who find the spi'ing, backward as it is, too forward, because many of its beauties will have faded before you will have an opportunity to see them. We took our customaiy walk yester- day in the wilderness at Weston, and saw, with regret, the la- burnums, syringas, and guelder-roses, some of them blown, and others just upon the point of blowing, and could not help observ- ing— all these will be gone before Lady Hesketh comes. Still, Iiowever, there will be roses, and jasmine, and honey-suckle, and shady walks, and cool alcoves, and you will partake them with" us. But I want you to have a share of every thing that is de- lightful here, and cannot bear that the advance of the season^ sliould steal away a single pleasure before you can come to en- joy it. LIFE OF COWPER. 113 Every day I think of you, and almost all the day long ; I will venture to say that even you were never so expected in your life. I called last week at the Quaker's to see the furniture of your bed, the fame of which had reached me. It is, I assure you, superb, of printed cotton, and the subject classical. Every morning you will open your eyes on Phxton kneeling to Apollo, and imploring his father to grant him the conduct of his chariot for a day. May your sleep be as sound as your bed will be sumptuous, and your nights, at least, will be well provided for. I shall send up the sixth and seventh books of the Iliad shortly, and shall address them to you. You will forward them to the Ge- neral. I long to show you my workshop, and to see you sitting on the opposite side of my table. We shall be as close packed as two wax figures in an old-fashioned picture-frame* I am writing in it now. It is the place in which I fabricate all my verse in summer time. I rose an hour sooner than usual this morning, that I might finish my sheet before breakfast, for I must write this day to the General. The grass under my windows is all bespangled with dew-drops, and the birds are singing in the apple-trees among the blossoms* Never poet had a more commodious oratory in which to invoke his muse; I have made your heart ache too often, my poor dear cousin, with talking about my fits of dejection. Something has happened that has led me to the subject, or I would have mentioned thein more sparingly. Do not suppose or suspect that I treat you with reserve ; there is nothing in which I am concerned that you shall not be made acquainted with. But the tale is too long for a letter. I will only add for your present satisfaction, that the cause is not exterior, that it is not within the reach of human aid, and that yet I have a hope myself, and Mrs. Unwin a strong persuasion, of its removal. I am indeed even now, and have been for a considerable time, sensible of a change for the better, and expect with good! reason, a comfortable lift from you. Guess, then, my beloved cousin, with what wishes I look forward to the time of your arri- val, from whose coming I promise myself not only pleasure, but peace of mind, at least an additional share of it. At present it is an uncertain and transient guest with me, but the joy with which I shall see and converse with jou at Ohiey may, perhaps, make it an abiding one. w. c. VOL. I. C^ 114 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER LVIL To Lady HESKETH. Olney^ June 4 b' 5, l/Se.- Ah ! my cousin, yon begin already to fear and quake. What a hero am I, compared with you ! I have no fears of you : on the contrary, am as bold as a lion. I wish that your carriage were even now at the door: you should soon 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, to laugh with you, till our sides have ached, at any thing, 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 ms now and then for a few hours, but from clouds I was never ex- empted. And are not you the identical cousin with whom I have performed 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 I had dined there, and was just goii^g back to Westminster.) If these things are so, and I am sure that you cannot gainsay a syl- lable of them all, tlien this consequence follows ; that I do not pro- mise myself more pleasure from your company than I shall be sure to find. Then you are my cousin, in whom I always delighted, and in whom I doubt not that I shall delight, even to my latest hour. But this wicked coach-maker has sunk my spirits. What a miserable thing it is to depend, in any degree, for the accom- plishment of a wish, and that wish so fervent, on the punctuality of a ci'eature who, I suppose, was never punctual in his life I Da tell him, my dear, in order to quicken him, that if he per- fbtms his promise he shall make my coach when I want one, and that if he perform.s it not, I will most assuredly employ some other man. The Throckmoi-tons sent a note to invite us to dinner — we went, and a very agi'eeable 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. Themselves, 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 upon paper ; therefore, all but one I will omit, and that I will mention only because it will of itself be sufficient to give you an insight into their opinion on a very important sub- ject— their own religion. I happened to say, that in all profes» LIFE OF COWPER. 115 sjons and trades mankind affected an air of mysterj\ 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 the ignorance of an apothecary. Mr. Throckmorton assented to what I said, and turning to his chap- lain, to my infinite surprize, 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 there- fore heard it with pleasure, and kept my pleasure to myself. The two ladies, in the mean time, were tete-a-tete in the drawing-room. Their conversation turned principally (as I afterwards learned from Mrs. Unwin) on a most delightful topic, viz. myself. In the first place, Mrs. Throckmorton admired my book, from which she quoted by heart more than I could repeat, though I so lately wrote it. In short, my dear, I cannot proceed to relate what she said of the book, and the book's author, for that abominable modesty that I cannot even yet get rid of. Let it suffice to say, that you^ who are disposed to love every body who speaks kindly of your cousin, will certainly love Mrs. Throckmorton, when you shall be told what she said of him, and that you ivill be told is equallj^ cer- tain, because it depends on Mrs. Unwin. It is a very convenient thing to have a Mrs. Unwin, who will tell you many a good and long story for me, that I am not able to tell for myself. I am, however, not at all in arrears to my neighbours in the matter of admiration and esteem, but the more I know, the more I like them, and have nearly an aflFection for them both. I am delighted that the Task has so large a share of the approbation of your sensible Suffolk friend. I received yesterday, from the General, another letter of T. S. an unknown auxiliary having started up in my behalf. I believe I shall leave the business of answering to him, having no leisure myself for conti-oversy. He lies veiy open to a very effectual reply. My dearest cousin, adieu! I hope to write to you but once more before we meet. But Oh ! this coach-maker, and Oh ! this holiday week J Yours, with impatient desire to see you, vv. c. 116 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER LVIII. To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. Olney-, June 9, l^Se, My dear Friend, The little time that I can devote to any other purpose than that of poetry is, as you may suppose, stolen. Homer is urgent. Much is done, but much rem ains undone, and no school-boy is more attentive to the performance of his daily task than I am. You will therefore excuse me, if at present I am both linfrequent and short. The paper tells me that the Chancellor has relapsed, and I am truly sorry to hear it. The first attack was dangerous, but a se- cond must be more formidable still. It is not probable that I should ever hear from him again, if he survive; yet, of the much that I should have felt for him, had our connection never been inter^ rupted, I still feel much. Every body will feel the loss of a man whose abilities have made him of such general importance. I correspond again with Col man, and upon the most friendly footing, and find in his instance, and in some others, that an inti- mate intercourse which has been only casually suspended, not for- feited on either side by outrage, is capable not only of revival, but improvement. I had a letter some time since that gave me great pleasure, from your sister Fanny. Such notices from old friends are always plea- sant, and of such pleasures I have received many lately. They refresh the remembrance of early days, and make me young again. The noble institution of the Nonsense Club will be forgotten when ■we are gone, who composed it ; but I often think of your most he- roic line, written at one of our meetings, and especially think of it when I am translating Homer — " To whom replied the Dgvil yard-Ion g-tail'd." There never was any thing more truly Grecian than that triple epithet, and were it possible to introduce it into cither Iliad or Odyssey, I should certainly steal it. I am now flushed with expectation of Lady Hesketh, who spends the summer with us. We hope to see her next week. We have found admirable lodgings both for her and her suite, and a Quaker in this town, still more admirable than they, who, as if he lovecl her as much as I do, furnishes them for her with real elegance. W. C, LIFE OF COWPER. 117 LETTER LIX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. Ohiey, June 9, 1^86. My dear cousin's arrival has, as it could not fail to do, made us happier than we ever were at Ohiey. Her great kindness in giving us lier company is a cordial that I shall feel the effect of, not only while she is here, but while I live. Olney will not be much longer the place of our habitation. At a village, two miles distant, we have hired a house of Mr. Throck- morton, a much better than we occupy at present, and yet not more expensive. It is situated very near to our most agreeable landlord, and his agreeable pleasure grounds. In him, and in his wife, we shall find such companions as will always make the time pass pleasantly while they are in the country, and his grounds will afford us good air, and good walking room in the winter; two advantages which we have not enjoyed at Olney, where I have no neighbour with whom I can* converse, and where, seven months in tlie year, I have been imprisoned by dirty and impassable ways, till both my health and Mrs. Unwin's have suffered materially. Homer is ever importunate, and will not suffer me to spend half the time with my distant friends that I would gladly give them. W. C- LETTER LX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. Olney, Oct. 6, ir86. You have not heard, I suppose, that the iiinth book of my translation is at the bottom of the Thames. But it is even so. A storm overtook it in its way to Kingston, and it simk, togetlier with the whole cargo of the boat in which it was a passenger. Not figuratively foreshowing, I hope, by its submer- sion, the fate of all the rest. My kind and generous cousin, who leaves nothing undone that she thinks can conduce to my comfort, encouragement, or convenience, is my transcriber also. S/ie wrote the copy, and she will have to write it again — Hers, therefore, is the damage. I have a thousand reasons to lament that the time approaches when we must lose her. She has made a winterly summer a most delightful one, but the winter itself we must spend without her. W. C. 318 LIFE OF COWPER. The letters which I have just imparted to my reader exhibit a picture so minute and so admirable, of the life, the studies, and the affections of Cowper, during the period to which they relate, that they require no comment fi'om his biographer. They must render all who read them intimately acquainted with the writer, and the result of such intimacy must be, what it is at once my duty and my delight to promote, an increase of public affection for his enchanting character, an effect which all his posthumous compositions are excellently suited to exten d and confirm. It is now incumbent on me to relate the consequences of a visit, so fondly expected by the poet, and happily productive of a change in his local situation. It does not always happen, when the heart and fancy have in- dulged themselves with such fervency in a prospect of delight, from the renewed society of a long absent friend, it does not al- ways happen, that the pleasure, on its arrival, proves exactly what it promised to be on its approach. But in the present case, to the honour of the two friends concerned, the delightful vision was followed by a reality of delight. Cowper was truly happy in receiving and settling his beloved, though long unseen relation, as his neighbour: she was comfortably lodged in the vicarage of Olney, a mansion so near to his residence, and so commodious from the private communication between their two houses, that the long separated and most seasonably re-united friends here enjoyed all the easy intercourse of a domestic union. Cowper derived from this foitunate event not only the advan- tage of daily conversation with another cultivated mind, in affec- tionate unison with his own, but, as his new neighbour had brought her carriage and horses to Olney, he was gradually tempted to survey, in a wider range, the face of a country that he loved, and to mix a little more with its most worthy inhabit- ants. His life had been so retired at Olney that he had not even extended his excursions to the neighbouring town of Newport-Pag- nell, in the course of many j ears ; but the convenience of a car- riage induced him, in August, to visit Mr. Bull, who resided there ; the friend to whose assiduous attention he had felt himself much obliged in a season of mental depression. A few letters of Cowper to this gentleman are so expressive of cordial esteem, and so agree- ably illustrate the character of each, that I shall take this oppor- tunity of making a short selection from the private papers, of which the kindness of the person to whom they are addressed has enabled me to avail myself. When Cowper published the first volume of his poems, Mr. Bull wrote to him on the occasion. The answer of the poet, March 24, 1782, I reserve for a future LIFE OF COWTER. 119 part of mywork. A subsequent letter, dated October 2rth, in the same year, opens with this lively paragraph :— " Mon aimable and tres cher Ami, " It is not in the power of chaises, or cha- riots, to carry you where my affections will not follow you: if I heard that you were gone to finish your days in the moon, I should not love you the less ; but should contemplate the place of your abode as often as it appeared in the Heavens, and say, Farewell, my fi-iend, for ever ! Lost, but not forgotten ! Live happy in thy lantern, and smoke the remainder of thy pipes in peace ! Thou art rid of earth, at least of all its cares, and so far can I rejoice in thy i-emoval ; and as to the cares that are to be found in the moon, I am resolved to suppose them lighter than those below — heavier they can hai'dly be." The letter closes with a sentence that ascertains the date of those translations from the poetry of Madame Guion which I have already mentioned, as executed at the request of Mr. Bull. " Madame Guion is finished, but not quite transcribed." In a subsequent letter he speaks of these and of other poems. I transcribe the passage, and a preceding paragraph, in which he expatiates on thunder storms with the feelings of a poet, and with his usual feli- city of expression. " I was always an admirer of thunder storms, even before I knew whose voice I lieard in them ; but especially an admirer of thunder i-olling over the great waters. Tliere is something singularly majestic in the sound of it at sea, where the eye and the ear have uninterrupted opportunity of observation, and the concavity above being made spacious, reflects it with more ad- vantage. I have consequently envied you your situation, and the enjoyment of those refreshing breezes tliat belong to it. We have, nideed, been regaled with some of these bursts of xtherial music. The peals have been as loud, by the report of a gentleman who lived many years in the West-Indies, as were ever heard in those islands, and the flashes as splendid; but when the thunder preaches, an horizon bounded by the ocean is the only sounding-board." " I have had but little leisure, strange as it may seem, and that little I devoted for a month after your departure to Madame Guion. I have made fair copies of all the pieces I have produced on this last occasion, and Avill put them into your hands when we meet. They are yours, to serve you as you please : you may take and leave as you like, for my purpose is already served ; they have amused me, and I have no further demand upon them: The lines upon Friendship, however, which were not sufficiently of a piece 120 LIFE OF COWPER. with the others, will not now be wanted. I have some other littl© things, which I will communicate, when time shall serve ; but I cannot now transcribe them." What the author here modestly calls " The Lines on Friend- ship," I regard as one of the most admirable among his minor poems. Mr. Bull, who has been induced to print the translations from Madame Guion, by an apprehension of their being surrepti- tiously and inaccurately published, has inserted these stanzas on Friendship, in the little volume that he has recently imparted to the public from the press of Newport-Pagnell ; but as the poem is singularly beautiful, and seems to have been re-touched by its au- thor, with an attention proportioned to its merit, I shall introduce it here in a corrected state, and notice such variations as I find in the two copies before me. ON FRIENDSHIP. Amicitia nisi inter bonos esse non potest. Cicxro, 1. What virtue can we name, or grace. But men unqualified and base Will boast it their possession ? Profusion apes the noble part Of liberality of heart, And dulness of discretion^ 2. But as the gem of richest cost Is ever counterfeited most ; So always imitation Employs the utmost skill she can To counterfeit the faithful man, The friend of long duration. VARIATIONS. I. — 1. What virtue, or what mental grace, II. — If ev'ry polish'd gem we find, . Illuminating heart or mind, Provoke to imitation, No wonder friendship does the same. That jewel of the purest flame> Or r.ither constellation. LIFE OF COWPER. 121 3. Some will pronounce me too severe, But long experience speaks me clear, Therefore, that censure scorning, I will proceed to mark the shelves On which so many dash themselves, And give the simple warning. 4. Youth, unadmonish'd by a guide, Will trust to any fair outside — An eri'or soon corrected! For who but learns, with riper years. That man, when smoothest he appears, Is most to be suspected ? 5. But here again a danger lies ; Lest, thus deluded by our eyes, And taking trash for treasure. We should, when undeceiv'd, conclude Friendship imaginary good, A mere Utopian pleasure. 6. An acquisition rather rare Is yet no subject of despair : Nor should it seem distressful, If either on forbidden ground, Or where it was not to be found, We sought it unsuccessful. VARIATIONS. III. — No knave, but boldly will pretend The requisites that form a friend, A real and a sound one ; Nor any fool he would deceive. But prove as ready to believe, And dream that he has found one, IV. — 1. Candid, and generous, and just, 2. Boys care but little whom they trust. V. — 2. Lest, having misemploy'd our eyes, 4. We sliould unwarily conclude 5. Friendship a false ideal good. VI. — 3. Nor is it wise complaining, 6. We sought without attaining. VOL. I, R 122 LIFE OF COWPER. r. No friendship will abide the test That stands on sordid interest And mean self-love erected ; Nor such, as may awhile subsist 'Twixt sensualist and sensualist, For vicious ends connected. 8. Who hopes a friend, should have a heart Himself, well furnish'd for the part, And ready, on occasion, To show the virtue that he seeks; For 'tis an union that bespeaks A just reciprocation. 9. A fretful temper will divide The closest knot that may be tied, By ceaseless sharp corrosion : A temper passionate and fierce May suddenly your joys disperse At one immense explosion. VARIATIONS. VII. — 5. Between the sot and sensualist, VIII. — Who seeks a friend, should come dispos'd T' exhibit, in full bloom disclos'd. The graces and the beauties That form the character he seeks. For 'tis an union that bespeaks Reciprocated duties. Mutual attention is implied. And equal truth on either side. And constantly supported : 'Tis senseless arrogance t' accuse Another of sinister views. Our own as much distorted. But will sincerity suiEce ? It is, indeed, above all price. And must be made the basis ; But ev'ry virtue of the soul Must constitute the charming wholcj All shiiiing 'm tUeir pUces. LIFE OF COWPER. 423 10. In vain the talkative unite With hope of permanent delight: The secret just committed They drop, through mere desire to prate, Forgetting its important weight, And by themselves outwitted. 11. How bright soe'er the prospect seems, All thoughts of friendship are but dreams, If envy chance to creep in. An envious man, if you succeed, May prove a dang'rous foe indeed. But not a friend worth keeping. 12. As envy pines at good possess'd, So jealousy looks forth distress'd, On good that seems approaching; And, if success his steps attend, Discerns a rival in a friend, And hates him for encroaching. 13. Hence authors of illustrious name, Unless belied by common fame, Are sadly prone to quarrel I To deem the wit a friend displays So much of loss to their own praise, And pluck each other's laurel. 14. A man, renown'd for repartee, Will seldom scruple to make free With friendship's finest feeling; Will thrust a dagger at your breast. And tell you, 'twas a special jest, By way of balm for healing, 15. Beware of tattlers ! keep your ear Close stopt against the tales they bear, Fruits of their own invention ! VARIATIONS. XIV.— 5. And say he wounded you in jest. 124 LIFE OF COWPEai. The separation of chief friends Is what their kindness most intends; Their sport is your dissension. 16. Friendship, that wantonly admits A joco-serious play of wits In brilliant altercation, Is union such as indicates, Like hand-in -hand insurance plates, Danger of conflagration. 17. Some fickle creatures boast a soul True as the needle to the pole ; Yet shifting like the weather. The needle's constancy forego For any novelty, and show Its variations rather. 18. Insensibility makes some; Unseasonably deaf and dumb, When most you need their pity. 'Tis waiting tiU the tears shall fall From Gog and Magog in Guildhall, Those playthings of the city.* VARIATIONS. XV. — Who keeps an open ear For tattlers, will be sure to hear The trumpet of invention. Aspersion is the babbler's trade. To listen is to lend him aid, And rush into contention. XVI. — 1. A friendship, that in frequent fits Of controversial rage emits The sparks of disputation. XVII. — 3. Their humour yet so various, They manifest their whole life tlu-ough The needle's deviation too ; Their love is so precarious. * Tl:us was written before the removal of theia, LIFE OF COWTER. 133 19. The great and small but rarely meet On terms of amity complete. Th' attempt would scarce be madder, Should any, from the bottom, hope At one huge stride to reach the top Of an erected ladder. 20. Courtier and patriot cannot mix Their het'rogeneous politics Without an effervescence, Such as of salts with lemon-juice, But which is rarely knoAvn t' indue©, Like that, a coalescence. 21. Religion should extinguish strife, And make a calm of human life. But even those who diflfer Only on topics left at large, How fiercely will they meet and charge I No combatants are stifFer. 22. To prove, alas ! my main intent, Needs no great cost of argument, No cutting and contriving. VARIATIONS. XIX. — 3. Plebeians must surrender, And yield so much to noble folk, It is combining fire with smoke, Obscurity with splendour. Some are so placid and serene (As Irish bogs are always green), They sleep secure from waking, And are, indeed, a bog that bears Your unparticipated cares Unmov'd, and without quaking. XX. — 4. Like that of salts with lemon-juice, Which does not yet like that produce A friendly coalescence. XXI. — 4. On points which God has left at large. XXII. — 1. To prove at last my main intent Needs no expense of argument. l^e LIFE OF COWPER. Seeking a real friend, we seem T' adopt the chemist's golden dream, With still less hope of thriving. 23. Then judge, before you choose your man. As circumspectly as you can ; And, having made election, See that no disrespect of yours, Such as a friend but ill endures, Enfeeble his affection. 24. It is not timber, lead and stone, An architect requires alone To finish a great building ; The palace were but half complete, Could he by any chance forget The carving and the gilding. 25. As similarity of mind, Or something not to be defin'd, First rivets our attention ; VARIATIONS. Sometimes the fault is all your own, Some blemish in due time made known By trespass or omission : Sometimes occasion brings to light Our friend's defect, long hid from sight. And even from suspicion. XXIII. — 1. Then judge yourself, and prove your man, 4. Beware no negligence of yours. That secrets are a sacred trust. That friends should be sincere and just. That constancy befits them. Are observations on the case. That savour much of common-place, And all the world admits them. XXIV. — 1. But 'tis not timber, lead and stone. 3. To finish a fine building. 5. If he could possibly forget; XXV. — 3. First fixes our attention. LIFE OF COWPER. 123^ So manners decent and polite, The same we practis'd at first sight, Must save it from declension. 26. The man who hails you Tom or Jack, And proves, by thumpmg on your back, His sense of your great merit, Is such a friend that one had need Be very much his friend indeed. To pardon or to bear it. 27. Some friends make this their pi'udent plan- Say little, and hear all you can — Safe policy, but hateful ! So barren sands imbibe the show'r, But render neither fruit nor flow'r — Unpleasant and ungrateful. 28. They whisper trivial things, and small; But to communicate at all Things serious, deem improper. Their feculence and froth they show, But keep their best contents below. Just like a simm'ring copper. 29. These samples (for, alas! at last These are but samples, and a taste Of evils yet unmention'd) VARIATIONS. XXVI. — 1. The man that hails you Tom or Jack, And proves, by thumps upon your back. How he esteems your merit. XXVII. — 1. Some act upon this prudent plan. XXVIII. — The man I trust, if shy to me. Shall find me as reserv'd as he : No subterfuge or pleading Shall win my confidence again; 1 will by no means entertain A spy on my proceeding. XXIX.— Pursue the search, and you will find Good sense ^ud knowledge of nwnkind. 128 LIFE OF COWPER, May prove the task a task indeed, In which 'tis much if we succeed, However well intention'd. 30. Pursue the theme, and you shall find A disciplin'd and furnish'd mind To be at least expedient ; And, after summing all the vest, Religion ruling in the breast A principal ingredient. 31. True friendship has, in short, a grace More than terrestrial in its face, That proves it Heaven-descended. Man's love of woman not so pure, Nor when sincerest, so secure, To last till life is ended. VARIATIONS. The noblest friendship ever shown The Saviour's history makes known, Though some have turn'd and turn'd it, And, whether being craz'd or blind. Or seeking with a bias'd mind, Have not, it seems, discem'd it. O friendship, if my soul forego Thy dear delights while here below. To mortify and grieve me, May I myself at last appear Unworthy, base, and insincere. Or may my friend deceive me I This sprightly little poem contains the essence of all that has been said on this interesting subject, by the best writers of differ- ent countries. It is pleasing to reflect, that a man who enter- tained such refined ideas of friendship, and expressed them so hap- pily, was singulai'ly fortunate in this very important article of hu- man life. Indeed, he was fortunate in this respect to such a degree, that Providence seems to have supplied him most unexpectedly, at different periods of his troubled existence, with exactly such friends as the peculiar exi^nces of his situation required. The tnith of this remark is exemplified in the seasonable assistance tliat his tender spirits derived from the kindness of Mrs. Unwin, at Hun« LIFE OF COWPER. 129 t'mgdon ; of Lady Austen, and Lady Heski'th, at Olney, and of his young kinsman in Norfolk, who will soon attract the notice and obtain the esteem of my reader, as the aftectionate superintendent of Cowjier's declining days. To the honour of human nature, and of the present times, it will appear, that a sequestei'cd poet, pre- eminent in genius and calamity, was beloved and assisted by his friends of both sexes, with a purity of zeal, and an inexhaustible ardour of affection, more resembling the friendship of the heroic ages, tlian the precarious attachments of the modern world. The visit of Lady Hesketh, to Olney, led to a very favourable cliange in the residence of Cowper. He had now passed nineteen years in a scene that was far from suiting him. The house he in- habited looked on a market-place, and once, in a season of illness, he was so apprehensive of being incommoded by the bustle of a fair, that he requested to lodge, for a single night, under the roof of his friend, Mr. Newton ; and he was tempted, by the more com- fortable situation of the vicarage, to remain fourteen months in the house of his benevolent neighbour. His intimacy with this vener- able Divine was so great, that Mr. Newton has described it in the following remirkable terms, in Memoirs of the Poe:, which affec- tion induced him to begin, but which the troubles and ir.firmities of vei'y advanced life have obliged him to relinquish. " For nearly twehe years we Avere seldom separated for seven hours at a time, when we were awake, and at home : — The first six I passed in daily admiring, and aiming to imitate him: dur- ing the second six, I walked pensively with him in the valley of the shadov/ of death." Mr. Newton records, with a becoming satisfaction, the evan- gelical charity of his friend; " He loved the poor," says his de- vout Memorialist : " He often visited them in their cottages, con- versed with them in the most condescending manner, sympathized with them, counselled and comforted them in their distresses; and those who were seriously disposed Avere often cheered and ani- Biated by his prayers!" — After the removal of Mr. Newton to London, and the departure of Lady Austen, Olney had no par- ticular attractiojis for Cowper ; and Lady Hesketh was happy in promoting the project, which had occurred to him, of removing with Mrs. Unwin, to the near and pleasant village of Weston. A scene highly favourable to his health and amusement ! For, with a very comfortable mansion, it afforded him a garden, and a field of considerable extent, which he delighted to cultivate and embel- lish. With these he had advantages still more desirable — easy, perpetual access to the spacious and tranquil pleasure grounds of his accomplished and benevolent landlord, Mr. Throckmorton, VOL. I. 5 130 LIFE OF COWPER. whose neighbouring house suppUed him "with society pecidiar-ly suited to his gentle and delicate spirit. He removed from Olney to Weston in November, 1786. The course of his life in his new situation (the spot most pleasing to his fancy) will be best described by the subsequent series of his letters to that amiable relation to whom he considered himself as particu-^ larly indebted for this improvement in his domestic scenery. With these I shall occasionally connect a selection of his letters to parti- cular friends, and particularly the letters addressed to one of his most intimate correspondents, who happily commenced an acquaint-- ance with the poet in the beginning of the year 1787. I add with' pleasure the name of Mr. Rose, the Barrister, whose friendship I was so fortunate as to share, by meeting him at Weston in a sub- sequent period, and whom T instantly learnt to regard by finding that he held very justly a place of the most desirable distinction in. the heart of Cowper. LETTER LXL To Lady HESKETH Weston Lodge^ JVov. 26, l786.- It is my birth-day, my beloved cousin, and I determine to employ a part of it, that it may not be destitute of festivity, in writing to you. The dark thick fog that has ob- scured it would have been a burthen to me at Olney, but here I have hardly attended to it. The neatness and snugness of our abode compensates aU the dreariness of the season, and whether the ways are wet or dry, our house at least is always warm and commodious. Oh ! for you, my cousin, to partake these comforts with us ! I will not begin already to tease you upon that subject, but Mrs. Unwin remembers to have heard from your own lips, that you hate London in the spring. Perhaps, therefore, by that time, you ma)' be glad to escape from a scene, which will be every day growing more disagreeable, that you may enjoy the comforts of the Lodge. You well know, that the best house has a desolate appear- ance unfurnished. This house, accordingly, since it has been oc- cupied by us, and our Meubles, is as much superior to what it was when you saw it, as you can imagine. The parlour is even ele- gant. \\nien I say that the parlour is elegant, I do not mean to insinuate that the study is not so. It is neat, warm, and silent, and a much better study than I deserve, if I do not produce in it an incomparable translation of Homer. I think every day of those lines of Milton, and congratulate myself on having obtained, be- fore I am quite superannuated, what he seems not to have hoped for sooner. LIFE OF COWPER. ISl " And may at length my weary age " Find out the peaceful hermitage!" For if it is not a hermitage, at least it is a much better thing ; and you must always understand, my dear, that when poets talk of cot- tages, hermitages, and such like things, they mean a house with six sashes in front, two comfortable parlours, a smart stair-case, and three bed-chambers of convenient dimensions ; in short, ex- actly such a house as this. The Throckmortons continue the most obliging neighbours in the world. One morning last week they both went with me to the Cliffs — a scene, my dear, in which you would delight beyond mea- sure, but which you cannot visit except in the spring or autumn. The heat of summer, and the clinging dii't of winter, would de- sti'oy you. What is called the Cliff, is no cliff, nor at all like one, but a beautiful terrace, sloping gently down to the Ouse, and from the brow of which, though not loft)', you have a view of such a valley as makes that which you see from the hills near Olney, and which I have had the honour to celebrate, an affair of no consi- deration. Wintry as the weather is, do not suspect that it confines me. I ramble daily, and every day change my ramble. Wherever I go, I find short grass under my feet, and when I have travelled, per- haps, five miles, come home with shoes not at all too dirty for a drawing-room. I was pacing yesterday under the elms that sur- round the field in which stands the great alcove, when, lifting my eyes, I saw two black genteel figures bolt through a hedge into the path where I was walking. You guess already who they were, and that they could be nobody but our neighbours. They had seen me from a hill at a distance, and had traversed a great turnip- field to get at me. You see, therefoi-e, my dear, that I am in some request. Alas! in too much request with some people. The verses of Cadwallader have found me at last. I am charmed with your account of our little cousin* at Ken- ■sington. If the woi'ld does not spoil him hereafter, he will be a valuable man. Gootl night, and may God bless thee. W. C. LETTER LXII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Dec. A, 1786. I sent you, my dear, a melancholy letter, and I do not know that I shall now send you one very unlike it, * Loid Cpwper. 132 LIFE OF COWPER. Not that any thing occurs, in consequence of our late loss, more afflictive than was to be expected, but the mind does not perfectly i-ecover its tone after a shock like that which has been felt so lately. This I observe, that though my experience has long since taught me that this world is a world of shadows, and that it is the more prudent, as well as the more Christian course, to possess the comforts that we find in it as if we possessed them not, it is no easy matter to reduce this doctrine into practice. We forget that that God whp gave it may, when he pleas s, take it away ; and that, perhaps, it may please him to take it at a time wh^n we least expect jt, or are least disposed to part from it. Thus it has happened in the present case. There never was a moment in Unwin's life when there seemed to be more urgent want of him than the moment in which he died. He had attained to an age when, if they are at any time useful, men become more use- ful to their families, their friends, and the world. His parish be- gan to feel, and to be sensible of the advantages of his ministry. The clergy around him were many of them awed by his example. His children were thriving under his own tuition and management, and his eldest boy is likely to feel his loss severely, being, by his years, in some respect qualified to understand the value of such ^ parent, by his literaiy proficiency — too clever for a school-boy, and too young, at tlie same time, for the university. The re- moval of a man in the prime of life, of such a character, and ■with such connections, seems to make a void in society that never can be filled. God seemed to have made him just what he was, that he might be a blessing to others, and when the influence of his character and abilities began to be felt, removed him. These are mysteries, my dear, that we cannot contemplate witliout asto- nishment, but which will, nevertheless, be explained hereafter^ and must, in the mean time, be revered in silence It is well for his mother that she has spent her life in the practice of an ha- bitual acquiescence in the dispensations of Providence, else I know that this stroke would ha\'e been heavier, after all that she has suffered upon another account, than she could have borne. She derives, as she well may, great consolation from the thought, that he lived the life and died the death of a Christian. The consequence is, if possible, more unavoidable than the most mathe- matical conclusion, that therefore he is happy. So farewell, my friend Unwin ! the first man for whom I conceived a friendship after my removal from St. Alban's, and for whom I cannot but still continue to feel a friendship, though I shall see thee with these eyes no more. W. C. , LIFE OF C0^\TER: 133 LETTER LXIII. To Lady HESKETH. Weston, Dec. 9, 1^86. I am perfectly sure that you are mistaken, though I do not wonder at it, considering the singular nature of the event, in the judgment that you form of poor Unwin's death, as it affects the interests of his intended pupil. W'hen a tutor was wanted for him, you sought out the wisest and best man for the office within the circle of your connections. It pleased God to take him home to himself. Men eminently wise and good are very apt to die, because they are fit to do so. You found in Unwin a man worthy to succeed him, and He, in whose liands are the is- sues of life and death, seeing, no doubt, that Unwin was ripe for a removal into a better state, removed him also. The matter, viewed in this light, seems not so wonderful as to refuse all ex- planation, except such as, in a melancholy moment, you haAC given to it. And I am so convinced that the little boy's destiny had no influence at all in hastening the death of his tutors elect, that were it not impossible, on more accounts than one, that I should be able to serve him in that capacity, I would, without the least fear of dying a moment the sooner, offer myself to that of- fice; I would even do it, were I conscious of the same fitness for another and better state that I believe them to have been both endowed with. In that case, I, perhaps, might die too, but if I should, it would not be on account of that connection. Neither, my dear, had your intei-ference in the business anything to do with the catastrophe. Your whole conduct in it must have been acceptable in the sight of God, as it was directed by principles of the purest benevolence. I have not touched Homer to-day. Yesterday was one of my terrible seasons, and when I arose this morning I found that I had not sufficiently recovered myself to engage in such an occupation. Having letters to write, I the more willingly gave myself a dis- pensation. Good nijjht. \\\ C. LETTER LXrV\ To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. Weston, Dec. 9, 1786, My drar Frif.nd, We had just begun to enjoy the plcasant- Bv^ss of our ncv,- situation, to find, at least, as much comfort in it 134 LIFE OF COW PER. as the season of the year would permit, when affliction found us out in our retreat, and the news reached us of the death of Mr, Unwin. He had taken a western tour with Mr. Henry Thornton, and in his return, at Winchester, was seized with a putrid fever, which sent him to his gra\'e. He is gone to it, however, though young, as fit for it as age itself could have made him. Regretted, indeed, and always to be regretted by those who knew him, for he had every thing that makes a man valuable both in his princi- ples and in his manners, but leaving still this consolation to his surviving friends, that he was desirable in this world chiefly be- cause he was so well prepared for a better. I find myself here situated exactly to my mind. Weston is one of the prettiest villages in England, and the walks about it at all seasons of the year delightfiil. I know that you will rejoice with me in the change that we have made, and for which I am altoge- ther indebted to Lady Hesketh. It is a change as great as, to compare metropolitan things with rural, from St. Giles to Gros- venor-Square. Our house is in all respects commodious, and in some degree elegant; and I cannot give you a better idea of that which we ha^-e left, tlian by telling you the present candidates for it are a publican and a shoemaker. W. C. LETTER LXV. To Lady HESKETH. Weston, Dec. 21^ 1786. Your welcome letter, my beloved cousin, ^hich ought by the date to have arrixed on Sunday, being by some lintoward accident delayed, came not till yesterday. It came, however, and has relieved me from a thousand distressing appre- hensions on your account. The dew of your intelligence has refreshed my poetical laurels. A little praise now and then is very good for your hard-working poet, whio is apt to grow languid, and perhaps careless, without it. Praise, I find, affects us as money does. The more a man gets of it, with the more \igilance he watches over and preserves it. Snch, at least, is its effect on me, and you may assure yourself tliat 1 will never lose a mite of it for want of care. I have already invited the good Padre in general terms, and he shall positively dine here next week, whether he will or not. I do not at all susjject that his kindness to Protestants has any thing in- sidious in it, any more than I suspect that he transcribes Homer for ftK) with a view for my conversion. He would find tliat a tough piece LIFE OF COWPER. 13J of business, I can tell him; for when I had no religion at all, I had yet a terrible dread of the Pope. How much more now I I should have sent you a longer letter, but was obliged to devote my last evening to the melancholy employment of composing a Latin inscription for the tomb-stone of poor William, two copies of which I wrote out and encUosed, one to Henry Thornton and one to Mr. Newton. Homer stands by me biting his thumbs, and swears that if I do not leave off d'.rectly he will choak me with bristly Greek that shall stick in my throat for ever. W. C. LETTER LXVL To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 8, 178/. I have had a little nervous fever lately, my dear, that has somewhat abridged my sleep; and though I find myself better to-day than I have been since it seized me, yet I feel my head lightish, and not in the best order for writing : you will find me, therefore, perhaps, not only less alert in my man- ner than I usually am when my spirits are good, but rather shorter. I will, hov/ever, proceed to scribble till I find that it fatigues me, and then will do as I know you would bid me do were you here, shut up my desk, and take a walk. The good General tells rne, that in the eight first books which I have sent him, he still finds alterations and amendments neces- sary, of which I myself am equally persuaded ; and he asks my leave to lay them before an intimate friend of his, of Avhom he gives a character that bespeaks him highly deserving such a trust. To this I have no objection, desiring only to make the translation as perfect as I can make it : if God grant me life and health, I would spare no labour to secure that point. The General's letter is extremely kind, and, both for matter and manner, like all the I'cst of his dealings with his cousin the poet. I had a letter, also, yesterday, from Mr. Smith, member for Nottingham. Though we never saw each other, he writes to me in the most friendly terms, and interests himself much in my Homer, and in the success of my subscription. Speaking on this latter subject, he says, tliat my poems are read by hundreds who know nothing of my proposals, and makes no douljt that they Avould subscribe if they did. I have myself always thought them imperfectly, or rather insufficiently announced. I could pity the poor woman who has been weak enough to claim my 5ong, Such pilferin^s are sure to be detected. I wrote iih LIFE OF COWPER. it I know not h6w long, but I suppose four years ago. The rose in question was a rose given to Lady Austen by Mrs. Unwin, and the incident that suggested tlie subject occurred in the room in which you slept at the vicarage, which Lady Austen made her dining-room. Some time since, Mr. Bull going to London, I gave him a copy of it, which he undertoolc to convey to Nichols, the printer of the Gentleman's Magazine. He showed it to a Mrs. G , who begged to copy it, and promised to send it to the printer's by her servant. Three or four months afterwards, and when I had concluded it was lost, I saw it in the Gentleman's Magazine, with my signature, W. C. Poor simpleton! she will find now, perhaps, that the Rose had a thorn, and that she has pricked her fingers with it. Adieu ! my beloved cousm. w. c. LETTER LXVn. To Lady HESKETH. T/ie Lodffey Jan. 8, 1787. I have been so much indisposed with the lever that I told you had seized me, my nights during the whole week may be said to have been almost sleepless. The consequence has been, that except the translation of about thirty lines at the conclusion of the 13th book, I have been forced to abandon Homer entirely. This was a sensible mortification to me, as you may suppose, and felt the more, because my spirits, of course, fail- ing wiiii m.y strength, I seemed to have peculiar need of my old amusement; it seemed hard, therefore, to be forced to resign it just when I wanted it most. But Homer's battles cannot be fought by a man who does not sleep well, and who has not some little de- gree of animation in the day-time. Last night, however, quite contrary to my expectations, the fever left me entirely, and I slept quietly, soundly, and long. If it please God that it return not, I shall soon find myself in a condition to pi-oceed. I walk constantly, that is to say, Mrs. Unwin and I together ; for at these times I keep her continually employed, and never suffer her to be absent from me many minutes. She gives me all her time and all her attention, and forgets that there is another object in the world. Mrs. Carter thinks on the subject of dreams as every body else does, that is to say, according to her own experience. She has had no extraordinary ones, and therefore accounts them only the ordi- nary operations of the fancy. Mine are of a textui'e that Avill not suffer me to ascribe them to so inadequate a cause, or to any cause biit the operation of an exterior agency, I have a mind, my LIFE OF COWPER. 137 dear, (and to you I will venture to boast of it) as free from super- stition as any man living ; neither do I give heed to dreams in ge- neral as predictive, though particular dreams I believe to be so. Some very sensible persons, and I suppose Mrs. Carter among them, will acknowledge that in old times God spoke by dreams, but affirm, with much boldness, that he has since ceased to do so. If you ask them why, they answer, because he has now i-evealed his will in the scripture, and there is no longer any need that he should instruct or admonish us by dreams. I grant that, witli re- spect to doctrines and precepts, he has left us in want of nothing ; but has he thereby precluded himself in any of the operations of his providence? Surely jiot. It is perfectly a different consideration; and the same need that there ever was of his interference hi this way, there is still and ever must be wliile man continues blind and fallible, and a creature beset with dangers which he can neither foresee nor obviate. His operations, howevei-, of this kind, are, I allow, very rare; and as to the generality of dreams, they are made of such stuff, and are in themselves so insignificant, tliat though I believe them all to be the manufacture of others, not our own, I account it not a farthing matter who manufactures them. So much for di*eams. My fever is not yet gone, but sometimes seems to leave me. It is altogether of the nervous kind, and attended, now and then, with much dejection. A young gentleman called here yesterday, who came six miles out of his way to see me. He was on a journey to London from Glasgow, having just left the University there. He came, I sup- pose, partly to satisfy his own curiosity, but chiefly, as it seemed, to bring me the thanks of some of the Scotch Professors for my two volumes. His name is Rose, an Englishman. Your spirits being good, you will derive more pleasure from this incident than I can At present, therefore I send it. Adieu. W. C. LETTER LXVin. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. Weston, July 24///, 17B7^ Dear Sir,' This is the first time I have written these six months, and nothing but the constraint of obligation could induce me to write now. I cannot be so wanting to myself as not to en- deavour at least to thank you both for the visits with which you hfi\ e favoured rae, and the poems that you sent me. In my pre- VOL, r. T I3d LIFE OF COWFER. sent state of mind I taste nothing ; nevertheless I read, partly from habit, and partly because it is the only thing that I am capable of. I have therefore read Burns's Poems, and have read them twice: and though they be written in a langTiage that is new to me, and many of them on subjects much inferior to tlie author's ability, I think them, on the whole, a very extraordinary production. He is, I believe, the only poet these kingdoms have produced in the lower rank of life since Shakspeare, I should rather say since Prior, who need not be indebted for any part of his praise to a charitable consideration of his origin, and the disadvantages under which he has laboured. It will be pity if he should not hereafter divest himself of barbarism, and content himself with writing pure Eng- lish, in which he appeal's perfectly qualified to excel. He who can command admiration, dishonours himself if he aims no higher than to raise a laugh. I am, dear Sir, with my best wishes for your prosperity, and with Mrs. Un win's respects, your obliged and affectionate humble servant, W. C» LETTER LXIX. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. IVeston, Aug, 27, 1787» Dear Sir, I have not yet taken up the pen again,. except to write to you. The little taste that I have had of your company, and your kindness in finding me out, make me wish that we were neai-er neighbours, and that tliere were not so great a disparity in om* years ; that is to say, not that you were older, but that I were younger. Could we have met in early life, I flatter myself that we might have been more intimate than now we are likely to be. But you shall not find me slow to cultivate such a measure of your regard as your friends of yom- own age can spare me. When your route sliull lie through this country, I shall hope that the same kindness which has prompted you twice to call on me, will prompt you again ; and I shall be happy if, on a future occasion, I may be able to give you a more cheerful reception than can be expected from an invalid. My health and spirits are con- siderably improved, and I once more associate with my neighbours* My head, however, has been the worst part of me, and still con- tinues so ; — is subject to giddiness and pain, maladies very mifa- vourable to poetical employment : but a preparation of the bark, which I take regularly, has so far been of service to me in those respects, as to encourage in me a hope that, by pei-severance in LIFE OF COWPER. 139 the use of it, I may possibly find myself qualified to resume the translation of Homer. When I cannot walk I read, and read perhaps more than is good for me. But I cannot be idle. The only mercy that 1 show myself in this respect is, that I read nothing that requires much closeness of application. I lately finished the perusal of a book, ■which in former years I have more than once attacked, but never till now conquered ; some other book always interfered before I could finish it. The work I mean is Barclay's Argenis, and if ever you allow youi'self to read for mere amusement, I can recommend it to you (provided you have not already perused it) as the most amusing romance that ever was written. It is the only one, in- deed, of an old date, that I ever had the patience to go through with. It is in.ei'esting in a high degree; richer in incident than can be imagined, full of surprises, which the reader never fore- stalls, and yet free from all entanglement and confusion. The stile too appears to me to be such as would not dishonour Tacitus himself. Poor Burns loses much of his deserved praise in this country, through our ignorance of his language. I despair of meeting with any Englishman who will take the pains that I have taken to un- dei'stand him. His candle is bright, but shut up in a dark lantern. I lent him to a very sensible neighbour of mine, but his uncouth dialect spoiled all, and before he had half read him through, he •was quite ramfeezled. w. c. LETTER LXX. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Aug. 30, 17B7. Mt dkarest Cousin, Though it costs me something to write, it would cost me more to be silent. JVly intercourse with my neighbours being renewed, I can no longer seem to forget how many I'casons there are why you especially should not be neglected; no neighbour, indeed, but the kindest of my friends, and ere long, I hope, an inmate. My health and spirits seem to be mending daily ; to what end I know not, neither will conjecture, but endea\'our, as far as I can, to be content that they do so. I use exercise, and take the air in the park and wilderness. I read much, but as yet write not. Our friends at the Hall make themselves more and more amiable in our account, by treating us rather as old friends tlian as friends newly 140 LIFE OF COWPER. acquired. There are few days in which we do not meet, and I am now almost as mach at home in their house as in our own. Mr. Throckmorton/ having long since put me in possession of all his ground, has now given me possession of his library — an acquisition of great value to me, who never have been able to live without books since I first knew my letters, and who have no books of my own. By his means I have been so well supplied, that I have not yet even looked at the Lounger, for which, however, I do not forget that I am obliged to you. His turn comes next, and I shall probably begin him to-morrow. Mr. George Throckmorton is at the Hall. I thought I had known these brothers long enough to have found out all their talents and accomplishments ; but I was mistaken. The day be- fore yesterday, after having walked with us, they carried us up to the library, (a more accurate writer would have said conducted us) and then they showed me the contents of an immense port-folio, the work of their own hands. It was furnished with drawings of the architectural kind, executed in a most masterly manner, and among others contained outside and inside views of the Pantheon, I mean the Roman one. They were all, I believe, made at Rome. Some men may be estimated at a first interview, but the Throck- mortons must be seen often and known long before one can under- stand all their value. They often inquire after you, and ask me whether you visit Weston this autumn. I answer yes, and I charge you, my dearest cousin, to authenticate my information. Write to me, and tell us when we may expect to see you. We are disappointed that we had no letter from you this morning. You will find me coated and buttoned according to your recommendation. I write but little, because writing is become new to me; but I shall come on by degrees. Mrs. Unwin begs to be affectionately remembered to you. She is in tolerable health, which is the chief comfort here that I have to boast of. Yours, my dearest cousin, as ever, W. C, LETTER LXXI. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Sejit. 4, 1787. My eearest Coz. Come when thou canst come, secure of being always welcome. AH that is here is thine, together with the hearts of those who dwell here. I am only sorry that your journey hither is necessarily postponed beyond the time when I did LIFE OF COWPER. 14t Irope to h&ve iseen you — sorry too, tliat my uncle's inffrmilies are the occasion of it. But years ivill have their course and their ef- fect: they are happiest, so far as this life is concerned, who, like him, escape those effects the longest, and who do not grow old before their time. Trouble and anguish do that for some, which only longevity does for others. A few months since I was older than your father is noAv ; and though I have lately recovered, as FalstafF says, some smatch of my youth^ I have but little confidence, in truth none, in so flattering a change, but expect, nohen I least . exfiect it, to wither again. The past is a pledge for the future. . Mr. G. is here, Mrs. Throckmorton's uncle. He is lately ar- rived from Italy, where he has resided several years, and is so much the gentleman that it is impossible to be more so. Sensible, polite, obliging ; slender in his figure, and in manner most engag- ing— e^'^ry way worthy to be related to the Throckmortons. 1 have read Savary's Travels into Egypt, Memoires du Baron de Tott, Fenn's Original Letters, the Letters of Frederick of Bohe- mia, and am now reading Memoires d' Henri de Lorraine, Due de Guise. I have also read Barclay's Argenis, a Latin romance, and the best romance that was ever written. All these, together with Madan's Letters to Priestley, and several pamphlets, within these two months. So I am a great reader. W. C. LETTER LXXn. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Sept. 15, 178^. My dearf.st Cousin, On Monday last I was invited to meet your friend Miss J at the Hall, and there we found her. Her good nature, her humorous manner, and her good sense are charming, insomuch that even I, who was never much addicted to speech-making, and who at present find myself particularly indis- posed to it, could not help saying at parting, ' I am glad that I have seen you, and sorry that I have seen so little of you.' We were sometimes many in company — on Thursday we were fifteen ; but ■we had not altogether so much vivacity and cleverness as Miss J , whose talent at mirth-making has this rare property to re- commend it, that nobody suffers by it. I am making a gravel walk for winter use, under a warm hedge in the r.rchard. It shall be furnished with a low scat for your ac- commodation, and if you do bat like it, I shall be satisfied. In -wet weather, or rather after wet weatlier, -when the street Is dirty, 142 LIFE OF COWPER. it will suit you well, for lying on an easy declivity, through its whole length, it must of course be immediately dry. You are very nmch wished for by our friends at the Hall— how much by me I will not tell you till the second week in October. W. C. LETTER LXXm. To Lady HESKETH. My dear Coz. The Lodge, SefiU 29, 178?'. I thank you for your political intelligence; retired as we are, and seemingly excluded from the world, we are hot indifferent to what passes in it; on the contrary, the arrival of a newspaper, at the present juncture, never fails to furnish us with a theme for discussion, short, indeed, but satisfactory, for we seldom differ in opinion. I have received such an impression of the Turks, from the Memoirs of Baron de Tott, which I read lately, that I can hardly help presaging the conquest of that empire by the Russians. The disciples of Mahomet are such babies in modern tactics, and so enervated by the use of their favourite drug, so fatally secure in their predestinarian dream, and so prone to a spirit of mutiny against their leaders, that nothing less can be expected. In fact, they had not been their own masters at this day, had but the Rus- sians known the weakness of their enemies half so well as they un- doubtedly know it now. Add to this, that there is a popular pro- phecy current in both countries, that Turkey is one day to fall under the Russian sceptre: a prophecy which, from whatever au- thority it be derived, as it will naturally encourage the Rus.'^ians and dispirit the Turks in exact proportion to the degree of credit it has obtained on both sides, has a direct tendency to effect its own accomplishment. In the mean time, if I wish them con- quered, it is only because I think it will be a blessing to them to be governed by any other hand than their own 5 for under Hea- ven has there never been a throne so execrably tyrannical as theirs. Tlie heads of the innocent that have been cut off to gratify the humour or caprice of their tyrants, could they be all collected, and discharged against the walls of their city, would not leave one stone on another. Oh, that you were here this beautiful day ! It is too fine by half to be spent in London. I have a perpetual din in my head, and though I am not deaf, hear nothing aright, neither my own voice, nor that of others. I am under a tub, from which tub ac- cept my best love. Yours,, W.C. LIFE OF COWPER. 143 LETTER LXXIV. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. Dear Sir, Weston, Oct. 19, 1787. A summons from Johnson, which I re- ceived yesterday, calls my attention once more to the business of translation. Before I begin I am willing to catch, though but a short opportunity, to acknowledge your last favour. The neces- sity of applying myself with all diligence to a long work that has been but too long interrupted, will make my opportunities of writ- ing rare in future. Air and exercise are necessary to all men, but particularly so to the man whose mind labours ; and to him who has been, all his life, accustomed to much of both, they are necessary in the ex- treme. My time, since we parted, has been devoted entirely to the recovery of health and strength for this service, and I am Avil- ling to hope with good effect. Ten months have passed since I discontinued my poetical efforts : I do not expect to find the same readiness as before, till exercise of the neglected faculty, such as it is, shall have restored it to me. You find yourself, I hope, by this time, as comfortably situated in your new abode, as in a new abode one can be. I enter per- fectly into all your feelings on occasion of the change. A sensible mind cannot do violence even to a local attachment, without much pain. When my father died I was young, too young to have re- flected much. He was Rector of Berkhamstead, and there I was born. It had never occurred to me that a parson has no fee-simple in the glebe and house he occupies. There was neither tree, nor gate, nor stile, in all that country, to which I did not feel a rela- tion, and the house itself I preferred to a palace. I was sent for from London to attend him in his last illness, and he died just be^ fore I arrived. Then, and not till then* I felt, for the first time, that I and my native place were disunited for ever. I sighed a long adieu to fields and woods, from which I once thought I should never be parted, and was at no time so sensible of their beauties as just when I left them all behind me, to return no more. W. C. LETTER LXXV. To Lady HESKETH. T/ie Lodge, Mv. 10, 1787. The parliament, my dearest cousin, pro- rogued continually, is a meteor dancing before my eyes, promis- ing me my wish only to disappoint me, and none but the king and 144 LIFE OF COWPER. his ministers can tell when you and I shall come together. I hope, however, that the period, though so often postponed, is not far distant, and that once more I shall behold you, and experience your power to make winter gay and sprightly. I have a kitten, my dear, the drollest of all creatures that ever •wore a cat's skin. Her gambols are not to be described, and woidd be incredible, if they could. In point of size she is likely to be a kitten always, being extremely small of her age ; but time, I sup- pose, that spoils every thing, will make her also a cat. You will see her, I hope, before that melancholy period shall arrive, for no ■wisdom that she may gain by experience and reflection hereafter, will compensate the loss of her present hilarity. She is dressed in a tortoise-shell suit, and I know that you will delight in her. Mrs. Throckmorton carries us to-morrow in her chaise to Chi- Cheley. The event, however, must be supposed to depend on ele- ments, at least on the state of the atmosphere, which is turbulent beyond measure. Yesterday it thundered ; last night it lightned, and at three this morning I saw the sky as red as a city in flames could have made it. I have a leech in a bottle that foretells all these prodigies and convulsions of nature. No, not as you will na- turally conjecture, by articulate utterance of oracular notices, but by a variety of gesticulations, which here I have not room to give an account of. Suffice it to say, that no change of weather sur- prises him, and that, in point of the earliest and most accurate in- telligence, he is worth all the barometers in the world — >none of them all, indeed, can make the least pretence to foretell thunder — a qpecies of capacity of which he has given the most unequivocal evidence. I gave but sixpence for him, which is a groat more than the market price, though he is in fact, or rather would be, if leeches were not found in every ditch, an invaluable acquisition. vv. c. THE RETIRED CAT.* r 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. * ^'o/« by the Editor. — As the kitten mentioned in this letter wai probably, in her advanced life, the heroine of a little sportive moral poem, it may be introduced perhaps not improperly hsre. "Jtv-" LIFE OF COWPER. 145 I know not where she caught the trick- Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mould fihilosofihique^ Or else she learn'd it of her master. Sometimes ascending debonair, An apple-ti-ee or lofty pear, Lodg'd with convenience in the fork, She watch'd the gard'ner at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty wat'ring pet, There wanting nothing, save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan, Apparell'd in cxactest sort. And ready to be borne to court. But love of change it seems has place Not only in our wiser I'ace ; 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. Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton, with her hair ; And sought it in the likeliest mode ' f* Within her master's snug abode. '!* A draw'r, it ehanc'd, at bottom lin'd With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the lady's use ; A draw'r impending o'er the rest, Half open in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there. Puss, with delight beyond expression, Survey'd the scene, and took possession. Recumbent at her ease ere long. And lull'd by her own hum-drum song, She left the cares of life behind. And slept as she would sleep her last ; I. u 146 LIFE OF COWPER. When in came, housewifely inclin'd, The chamber-maid, and shut it fast, By no malignity impell'd, But all unconscious whom it held. Awaken'd by the shock (cried puss) " Was ever cat attended thus I " 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 clos'd. " How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how swcetj *' Oh what a delicate retreat t *' I 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 roU'd tardily away, (With her, indeed, 'twas never day), The sprightly morn her course renew'd, The evening grey again ensued, And puss came into mind no more Than if entomb'd the day before. With hunger pinch'd, and pinch 'd for room, She now presag'd approaching doom, Nor 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. Yet by his ear directed, guess'd. Something imprison'd in the chest. And doubtful what, with prudent care, Resolv'd it should continue there. At length a voice, which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew. LIFE OF COWPER. '^^ Saluting his poetic ears, Consol'd him, and dispell 'd his fears; 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. Nor in her own fond apprehension, A theme for all the world's attention. But modest, sober, cur'd of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for her place of rest Any thing rather than a chest. Then stept the poet into bed With this reflection in his head. MORAL. Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence I The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight. That all around, in all that's done, Must move an act for him alone, Will learn, in school of tribulation, The folly of his expectation. LETTER LXXVI. To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. Mv. 16, ir87. I thank you for the solicitude that you express on the subject of my present studies. The work is un- doubtedly long and laborious, but it has an end, and proceeding leisurely, with a due attention to the use of air and exercise, it is posBible that I may live to finish it. Assure yourself of one thing, that though to a bystander it may seem an occupation surpassing the powers of a constitution never very athletic, and, at present, not a little the worse for wear, I can invent for myself no employ- ment that does not exhaust my spirits more. I will not pretend to 148 LIFE OF COWPER. account for this ; I will only say, that it is not the lan^age of pre< dilection for a favourite amusement, but that the fact is really so. I have even found that those plaything avocations which one may execute almost without any attention, fatigue me, and Avear me away, while such as engage me much, and attach me closely, are ratlier serviceable to me than otherwise, W. C, LETTER LXXVn. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge^ Ko-v. 2/, 1787. It is the part of wisdom, my dearest cousin, to sit down contented under the demands of necessity, be- cause 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 j'ourself with a journey to Weston. Yourself, I say, both because I know it will give you pleasure to see Causidice mi* once more, especially in' the comfortable abode whei'e you have placed him, and because, after so long an imprisonment in London, you, who love the coun- try 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 un- approachable bv you, either on foot or in ycur carriage. Had you twenty toes (whereas I suppose you have but ten) you could not reach them ; and coach-wheels have never been seen 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 be seen there every day. We have other walks, both upon hill tops and in vallies beneath, some of which, by the help of your carriage, and many of them without its help, would be always at your com- mand. On Monday morning last, Sam brought me word that there was a man in the kitchen who desired to speak with 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 parisli of All-Saints in Northampton ; brother of Mr. C. the upholsterer. It is customary for the person in my office to annex to a bill of * The appellation whick Sir Thomas Heskcth used to give him in jest, when he was of the Temple. LIFE OF COWPER. 1^ mortalitv which he publishes at Christmas, a copy of verses. You would do me a great favour, Sir, if you would furnish me with one." To this I replied, " Mr. C. 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 particular, C , the statuaiy, who, cveiy bodv knows, is a first-rate maker of verses. He surely is the man of all the world for your purpose." " Alas! Sir, I have heretofore borrowed help from him, but he is a gentleman of 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 im- plied in this speech, and was almost ready to answer, Perhaps, my good friend, the\' may find me unintelligible too for the same reason. But on asking him whether he had walked over to \^"cstnn on pur- pose 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 suppl)- him. The waggon has accordingly gone this day to Northampton, loaded, in part, with my effusions in the mor- tuary stile. A fig for poets who write epitaphs upon individuals J I have written one that serves two hundred persons. A few days since I received a second very obliging letter from Mr. M . He tells me that liis own papers, which are by far, he is sorry to say it, the most numerous, arc marked V. I. Z. Ac- cordingly, ray dear, I am happy to find that I am engaged in a correspondence with Mr. Viz, a gentleman forAvhom I have always entertained the profoundest veneration. But the serious fact is, that the papers distinguislied by those signatures have ever j)Ieased me most, and struck me as the work of a sensible man, Vi'ho knows the world well, and has more of Addison's delicate humour than any body. A poor man begged food at the Hall lately. The cook gaAc him some Vermicelli soup. He ladled it about some 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 mag- gots in it." Once more, my dear, a thousand thanks for your box full of good things, useful things, and beautiful things. Ever yours, W. C. LETTER LXXVIII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodi^c, Dec. 4, 1787. I am glad, my dearest coz. that my last letter proved so diverting. You may assure yourself of the literal 150 LIFE OF COWPER. truth of the whole narration, and that however droll, it -was not in the least indebted to any embellishments of mine. You say well, my dear, that in Mr. Throckmorton we have a peerless neighbour ; we have so. In point of information upon all important subjects, in respect, too, of expression and address, and, in short, every thing that enters into the idea of a gentleman, I have not found his equal (not often) any where. Were I asked, who in my judgment approaches the nearest to him, in al> his amiable qualities and qualifications, I should certainly answer, his brother George, who, if he be not his exact counterpart, endued with precisely the same measure of the same accomplishments, is nevertheless deficient in none of them, and is of a character singu- larly agreeable, in respect of a certain manly, I had almost said heroic frankness, with which his air strikes one almost immedi- ately. So far as his opportunities have gone, he has ever been as friendly and obliging to us as we could wish him ; and were he Lord of the Hall to-morrow, would, I dare say, conduct himself toward us in such a manner as to leave us as little sensible as pos- sible of the removal of its present owners. But all this I say, my dear, merely for the sake of stating the matter as it is; not in or- der to obviate, or to prove the inexpedience of any fiiture plans of yours, concerning the place of our residence. Providence and time shape every thing ; I should rather say Providence alone, for time has often no hand in the wonderful changes that we experi- ence ; they take place in a monicnt. It is not, therefore, worth Avhile, perhaps, to consider much what we will, or will not do in years to come, concerning which all that I can say with certainty at present is, that those years will be to me the most welcome, in which I can see the most of you. VV. C. LETTER LXXIX. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Dec. 10, 1787. I thank you for the snip of cloth, com- monly called a pattern. At present I have two coats, and but one back. If at any time hereafter I should find myself possessed of fewer coats, or more backs, it will be of use to me. Even as you suspect, my dear, so it proved. The ball was pre- pared for, the ball was held, and the ball passed, and we had nothing to do with it. Mrs. Throckmorton knowing our trim, did not give us the pain of an invitation, for a pain it would have been. And why ? as Sternhold says : because, as Hopkins answers, we must have refused it. But it fell out singularly enough, tliat this LIFE OF COWPER. 151 ball was held of all days in the year, on my birth-day— and so I told them — but not till it was all o\'er. Though I have thought proper never to take any notice of the arrival of my MSS. together with the other good thitigs in the box, yet certain it is that I received them. I have furbished up the tenth book till it is as bright as silver, and am now occupied in bestowing the same labour upon the eleventh. The twelfth and thirteenth are in tlie hands of , and the fourteenth and fifteenth are ready to succeed them. This notable job is the delight of my heart, and how sorry shall I be when it is ended ! The smith and the carpenter, my dear, are both in the room hanging a bell. If I therefore make a thousand blunders, let the said intru'lers answer for them all. I thank you, my dear, for your history of the G s. What changes in that famih 1 And how many thousand families have, in the same time, experienced changes as violent as theirs 1 The course of a rapid river isthe justestof all emblems to express the variable- ness of our scene below. Shakspeare says, none ever bathed himself twice in the same stream ; and it is equally true, tliat the world upon which we close our eyes at night, is never the same with that on which we open them in the morning. I do not always say, ' Give my love to my uncle,' because he knows that I always love him. I do not always present Mrs. Un- win's love to you, partly for the same reason, (deuce take the smith and the carpenter) and partly because I sometimes forget it. But to present my own I forget never, for I always have to finish my letter, which I know not how to do, my dearest coz. without teUing you that I am ever yours. W. C. LETTER LXXX. I'o SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. Weston, Dec. 13, 1787. LT^nless my memory deceives me, I fore- warned you that I should prove a very xmpunctual correspondent. The work that lies before me engages, unavoidably, my whole at- tention. The length of it, the spirit of it, and the exactness that is requisite to its due performance, are so many most interesting subjects of consideration to me, who find that my best attempts are only introductory to others, and that what to-day I suppose finished, to-morrow I must Ijcgin again. Thus it fares with a translator of Homer. To exhibit the majesty of such a poet in a modern lan- guage is a task that no man can estimate the difficulty of till he at- 152 LIFE OF COWPER. tempts it. To paraphrase him loosely, to hang him with trapping^t that do not belong to him — all this is comparati\'ely easy. But to represent him with only his own ornaments, and still to preserve his dignity, is a labour that, if I hope in any measure to achieve it, I am sensible can only be achieved by the most assiduous and most unremitting attention. Our studies, hov/ever different in them- selves, in respect of the means by which they are to be success- fLilly carried on, bear some resemblance to each other. A perse- verance that nothing can discourage, a minuteness of observation that suffers nothing to escape, and a determination not to be se- duced from the straight line that lies before u;;, by a;ny images with which fancy may present us, are essentials that should be common to us both. There are, perhaps, few arduous undertakings that are not, in fact, more arduous than we at first supposed them. As we proceed, difficulties increase upon us, but our hopes gather strength also ; and we conquer difficulties which, could we have foreseen them, we should never have had the boldness to encounter. May this be your experience, as I doubt not that it will. You pos- sess, by nature, all that is necessary to success in the profession that you have chosen. What remains is in your own power. They say of poets that they must be born such : so must mathe- maticians, so must great generals, and so must lawj-ers, and so, indeed, must men of all denominations, or it is not possible that they should excel. But with whatever faculties we are born, and to whatever studies our genius may direct us, studies they must still be. I am persuaded that Milton did not write his Paradise Lost, nor Homer his Iliad, nor Newton his Principia, without im- mense labour. Nature gave them a bias to their respective pur- suits, and that strong propensity, I suppose, is what we mean by genius. The rest they gave themselves. " Macte esto," there- fore, have no fears for the issue ! I have had a second kind letter from your friend Mr. , which I ha\'e just answered. I must not, I find, hope to see him here, at least I must not much expect it. He has a family that does not permit him to fly Southward. I have also a notion that •we three could spend a few days comfortably together, especially in a country like this, abounding in scenes with which I am sure you would both be delighted. Having lived till lately at some dis- tance from the spot that I now inhabit, and having never been mas- ter of any sort of vehicle whatever, it is but just now that I begin myself to be acquainted with the beauties of our situation. To you I may hope one time or other to show them, and shall be happy to do it when an opportunity offers. Yours, most affectionately, W. C» LIFE OF COWPER. 153 LETTER LXXXL To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 1, 1^88. Now for another story alnvost incredible ! A story, that would be quite such, if it was not certain that you give me credit for any thing. I have read the poem for the sake of which you sent the paper, and was much entertained by it. You think it, perhaps, as very well you may, the only piece ot that kind that was ever produced. It is indeed original, for I dare say Mr. Merry never saw mine ; but certainly it \i not unique. For most true it is, my dear, that ten jears shice, having a letter to write to a friend of mine, to whom I could write any thing, I filled a whole sheet with a composition, both in measure and in manner, pre- cisely similar. I have in vain searched for it. It is cither burnH or lost. Could I have found it, you would have had double post- age to pay. For that one man in Italy, and another in England, who never saw each other, should stumble on a species of verse, in which no other man ever wrote, (and I believe that to be the case) and upon a stile and manner too, of which I suppose that neither of them had ever seen an example, appears to me so extra- ordinary a fact, that I must have sent you mine, whatever it had cost you, and am really vexed that I cannot authenticate the story by producing a voucher. The measure I recollect to ha\e been perfectly the same ; and as to the manner, I am equally sure of that, and from this circumstance, that Mrs. L^^nwin and I never laughed more at an}- production of mine, perhaps not even at John Gilpin. But for all this, my de?.r, you must, as I said, give me credit ; for tlic thing itself is gone to that limbo of vanity, where alone, says Milton, things lost on earth are to be met with. Said limbo is, as you know, in the moon, whither I could not at present convey my- self Avithout a good deal of difficulty and inconvenience. This morning, being the morning of New Year's Day, I sent to the Hall a copy of verses, addressed to Mr. Throckmorton, en- titled, The Wish, or the Poet's New Year's Gift. \Wq. dine there to-morrow, when, I suppose, I shall hear news of them. Their kindness is so great, and they seize with such eagerness every op- portunity of doing all they think will please us, that I held myself almost in duty bound to treat them with this stroke of my pro- fession. The small-pox has done, I believe, all that it has to do at Wes- ton. Old fol'^s, and even women with child, ha\e been inocu- lated. W^e talk of our freedom, and some of us are free enough, kut not the poor. Dependent as they arc upo]i parisli bounty, they VOL. I. V 154 LIFE OF COWPER. are sometimes obliged to submit to impositions which, perhaps, iit France itself, could hardly be parallelled. Can man or woman be said to be free, Avho is commanded to take a distemper, sometimes at least mortal, and in circumstances most likely to make it so ? No circumstance whatever was permitted to exempt the inhabit- ants of Weston. The old as well as the young, and the pregnant as well as they who had only themselves within them, have beea inoculated. Were I asked who is the most arbitrary sovereign en earth, I should answer, neither the King of France, nor the Grand Signior, but an overseer of the poor in England. I am, as heretofore, occupied with Homer : my present occupa- tion is the revisal of all I have done, viz. of the first fifteen books. I stand amazed at my own increasing dexterity in the business, be- ing verily persuaded that, as far as I have gone, I have improved the work to double its former value. That )-ou may begin the new year, and end it in all health and hpppiness, and many more when the present shall have been long an old one, is the ardent wish of Mrs. Unwin, and of yours, my dearest Coz. most cordially, W. C. LETTER LXXXn. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan, 19, 1788. WHien I have prose enough to fill my paper- which is always the case when I write to you, I cannot find in my heart to give a third part of it to verse. Yet this I must do, or I must make my pacquets more costly than worshipful, by doubling the postage upon you, which I should hold to be unrea- sonable. See, then, the true reason why I did not send you that same scribblement till you desired it. The thought which natu- rally presents itself to me on all such occasions is thi? — Is not your cousin coming? Why are you impatient? Will it not be time enough to show her your fine things when she arrives ? Fine things, indeed, I have few. He who has Homer to tran- scribe may well be contented to do little else. As when an ass, being harnessed with ropes to a sand-cai-t, drags with hanging ears his heavy burthen, neither filling the long echoing streets with his. harmonious bray, nor throv/ing up his heels behind, frolicksome and airy, as asses less engaged are wont to do ; so I, satisfied to find myself intlispensibly obliged to render into the best possible English metre, eight and forty Greek books, of which the two finest poems in the world consist, account it quite sufficient if I may at last achieve that labour, and seldom allow myself thos* LIFE OF COWPER. ISS 'pretty little vagaries in vvhicli I should otherwise delight, and of ^hich, if I should live long enough, 1 intend hereafter to enjoy my fill. This is the reason, my dear cousin, if I may be permitted to call you so in the same breath with which I have uttered this truly heroic comparison — this is the reason why I produce, at present, but few occasional poems ; and the preceding reason is that which may account satisfactorily enough for my withholding tlie very few that I do produce. A thought sometimes strikes me before I rise : if it runs readily into verse, and I can finish it before breakfast, it is well ; otherwise it dies, and is forgotten ; for all the subsequent hours are devoted to Homer. The day before yesterday I saw, for the first time, Bunbury's new print, the Propagation of a Lie. Mr. Throckmorton sent it for the amusement of our party. Bunbury sells humour by the yard, and is, I suppose, the first vender of it who ever did so. He cannot, therefore, be said to have humour without measure, (par- don a pun, my dear, from a man who has not made one before these forty years) though he may certainly be said to be immea- surably droll. The original thought is good, and the exemplification of it in those very expressive figures, admirable. A poem on the same subject, displaying all that is displayed in those attitudes and in those features (for faces they can hardly be called) would be most excellent. The affinity of the two arts, viz. verse and painting, has been often observed: possibly the happiest illustration of it would be found, if some poet would ally himself to some draftsman, as Bunbury, and undertake to write every thing he should draw. Then let a musician be admitted of the party. He should compose said poem, adapting notes to it exactly accommodated to the theme : so should the sister arts i)e proved to be indeed sisters, and the world would die of laughing. W. C. LETTER LXXXIIL To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. :iO, 1788. My dearest Cousin, It is a fortnight since I heard from you, that is to say, a week longer than you have accustomed me to wait for a letter. I do not forget that you have recommended it to me, on occasions somewhat similar, to banish all anxiety, and to as- cribe your silence only to the interruptions of company. Good ad- 1S6 LIFE OF COWPER; Vice, my dear, but not easily taken by a man circumstJitiCed as 1 am. I have learned in the school of adversity, a school from which I have no expectation that I shall ever be dismissed, to ap- prehend the worst, and have ever found it ihe only course in which I can indu'ge myself without the least danger of incurring a disappointment. This kind of experience, ccntinued through many years, has given me such an habitual bias to the g'oomy side of every thing, that I never have a moment's ease en any subject to which I am not indifferent. How, then, can I be easy when I am left aflo.it upon a sea of endless conjectures, of which you furnish the occasion ? Write, J beseech you, and do not forget that I am now a battered actor upon this turbuent s-tage : that what iittle vigour of mind I ever had, of the self-supporting kind I mean, has long since been broken ; and that though I can bear nothing well, yet any thing better than a state of ignorance concerning ycur ■ft^elfare. I have spent hours in the night leaning upon my elbow, and wondering what your silence means. I intreat you once more to put an end to these speculations, which cost me more animal spirits than I can spare : jf you cannot, without great trouble to yourself, (which, in ycur situation, may very possibly be ihe case,) contrive opportunities of writing so frequent. y as usual, only say it, and I am content. I will wait, if you desire it, as long for every letter ; but then let them arrive at the period once fixed, exactly at the time, for my patience will not hold out an hour beyond it. W. C, J.ETTER LXXXIV. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Feb. 1, 1788. Pardon me, my dearest cousin, the jnournfid ditty that I sent you last. There are times when I see every tiling through a medium that distresses me to an insupport- able degree, and that letter v/as written in one of them. A fog that had for three days obliterated all the beauties of Weston, and a north-east wind, might possibly contribute not a little to the me- lancholy that indited it. But my mind is now easy ; your letter has made it so ; and I feel myself as blithe as a bird in comparison. I love you, my cousin, and cannot suspect, either with or without cause, the least evil in which you may be concerned, without be- ing greatly troubled. ' Oh trouble ! the portion of ail mortals, but mine in particular. Would I had never known tiiee, or could bid thee farewell for ever ; for I meet tliee at every turn, my pillows 9re stuffed with thee, my very roses snie'l of thee, and even my LIFE OF COWPER. 157 *:cmsin, who would cure me of all trniblc if sl>e could, is some- times innocently the cause of trouble to me. I now see the unreasonableness of my late trouble, and would, if I could trust myself so far, promise never Mgain to trouble either myself or you in the same manner, unless warranted by some m^re substantial ground of apprehension. What I said concerning Homer, my dear, was spoken, or rather written, merely under the influence of a certain jocu'arity that I felt at that moment. I am, in reality, so far from thinking my- self an ass, and my translation a sand-ort, thifc I rather seem, in my own account of the matter, one of those flaming steeds har- nessed to the chariot of Apollo, of which we read in the works of the ancients. I have lately, I know not ho-.v, acquired a certain superiority to myself in this business, and in this last revisal have elevated the expression to a degree far surpassing its former boast. A few evenings since I had an opportunity to try how far I might venture to expect such success of my labours as can alone repay them, by reading the first book of my Iliad to a friend of ours. He dined with you once at OIney. His name is Greatheed, a man of letters and of taste. He dined with us, and the evening proving dark and dirty, we persuaded him to take a bed. I entertained him as I tell you. He heard me with great atten- tion, and with evident symptoms of the highest satisfaction, which, •when I had finished the exhibition, he put out of all doubt by cx- pressi'^ns, which I cannot repeat. Only this he said to Mrs. Un- win, while I was in another room, that he had never entered into the spirit of Homer before, nor had any thing like a due concep- tion of his manner. This I have said, knowing that it will please you, and will now say no more. Adieu ! my dear, will you never speak of coming to Weston fncre? W. C. LETTER LXXXV. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. T/ie Lodge, Feb. 14, \7&S. M'y DEAR Sir, Though it be long since I received your last, I have not yet forgotten the impression it made upcn me, nor how sensibly I felt myself obliged by your unreserved and friendly communications. I will not apologize for my silence in the in- terim, because, apprized as you are of my present occupation, the excuse that I might allege will present itself to ycu of ccurtc, and to dilate upon it woukl therefore be waste of papci*. 158 • LIFE OF COWPER. You are in possession of the best security imaginable for the due improvement of your time, Avhich is a just sense of its value. Had I been, when at your age, as much affected by that important consideration as I am at present, I should not have devoted, as I did, all the earliest part of my life to amusement only. I am now in the predicament into which the thoughtlessness of youth betrays nine-tenths of mankind, who never discover that the health and good spirits which generally accompany it, are, in re- ality, blessings only according to the use we make of them, till advanced years begin to threaten them with the loss of both. How much wiser would thousands have been, than now they ever will be, had a puny constitution, or some occasional infirmity, con- strained them to devote those hours to study and reflection, which, for want of some such check, they have given entirely to dissipa- tion! I, therefore, accovmt you happy, who, young as you are, need not to be informed that ycu cannot always be so, and who already know, that the materials uprn which age can alone build its comfort, should be brought together at an earlier period. You have, indeed, losing a father, lost a friend, but you have not lost his instructions. His example was not buried with him, but hap- pily for you, (happily, because you are desiroiis to avail yourself of it) still lives in your remembrance, and is cherished in your best affections. Your last letter was dated from the house of a gentleman who was, I believe, my school-fellow ; for the Mr. C ■ who lived at Watford while I had any connection with Hartfordshire, must have been tlie father of the present, and, according to his age and the state of his health when I saw him last, must have been long dead. I never was acquainted with the family further than by report, which always spoke honourably of them, though in all my journies to and from my father's 1 must have passed the door. The cir- cumstance, however, reminds me of the beautiful reflection of Glaucus in the sixth Iliad ; beautiful as well for the affecting nature of the observation, as for the justness of the comparison and the incomparable simplicity of the expression. I feel that I shall not be satisfied without transcribing it, and yet, perhaps, my Greek may be difficult to decypher. T n'\i^ov(yci ^vei, iot,po; d iirtyiyvircn u^yi', Qi ayj^fuiv 7'SV£*!, » //£v ^vn, ri 0^ a.voXr,yn. Excuse this piece of pedantry in a man Avhose Homer is always bcfcTe him. ^Vhat would I give that he were living new, and LIFE OF COWPER. 159 ■<^'itllin my reach ! I, of all men living, have the best excuse for indulging such a wish, unreasonable as it may seem; for I have no doubt that the fire of his eye, and the smile of his iips, would put me now and then in possession of his full meaning more efFectually than any commentator. I return you many thanks for the elegies which you sent me, both which I think deserving of much com- mendation. I should requite you but ill by sending you my mor- tuary verses, neither at present can I prevail on myself to do it, having no frank, and being conscious that they are not worth carriage without one. I have one copy left, and that copy I will keep for you. W. C. LETTER LXXXVL To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Feb. 16, 1788. I have now three letters of yours, my dearest cousin, before me, all written in the space of a week, and must be, indeed, insensible of kindness, did I not feel yours on this occasion. I cannot describe to you, neither could you compre- hend it if I should, the manner in which my mind is sometimes impressed with melancholy on particular subjects. Your late si- lence was such a subject. I heard, saw, and felt a thousand ter- rible things, which had no real existence, and was haunted by them night and day, till they at last extorted from me the doleful epistle which I have since wished had been burned before I sent it. But the cloud has passed, and, as far as you are concerned, my heart is once more at rest. Before you gave me the hint, I had once or twice, as I lay on my bed, watching the break of day, ruminated on the subject which, in your last but one, you recommend to me. Slavery, or a release from slavery, such as the poor Negroes have endui-ed, or perhaps both these topics together, appeared to me a theme so important at the present juncture, and at the same time so susceptil)le of poetical management, that I more than once perceived myself ready to strirt in that career, could I have al- lowed myself to desert Homer for so long a time as it would have cost mc to do them justice. While I was pondering these things, the public prints informed mc that Miss More was on the point of publication, having actually finished what I had not yet begun. Tlic sight of her advertisement convinced me that my best course would be that to which I felt myself most inclined, to persevere, ISO LIFE OF COWPER. V'itliout turning aside to attend to any other call, however alluring^ in the business that I haA'c in hand. It occnri'cd to me, likewise, that I have already borne my tes- timony in favour of my bl ck brethren, and that I was one of the earliest, if not the first of those who have, in the present day, expressed their detestr.tion of the diabolical traffic in question. On all these accounts I judged it best to be silent, and especially because I cannot dcubt that some effectual measures will now be taken to alleviate the miseries of their condition, the who'.e nation being in possession of the case, and it being impossible also to allege an argument in behalf of man-merchandize tli.it can de- ser\"e a hearing. I shall be glad to see Hannah More's poem : she is a favourite writer with me, and has more ner\'e and energy, both in her thoughts and language, than half the he-rhymers in the kmgdom. The Thoughts on the Manners of the Gi-eat will like- wise be most acceptable, I want to learn as much of the woi-ld asi I can, but to acquire that learning at a distance ; and a book with, such a title promises fair to serve the purpose effectually. I recommend it to you, my dear, by all means to embrace the fair occasion, and to put yourself in the way of being squeezed and incommoded a few hours, for the sake of hearing and seeing what you will never have opportunity to see and hear hereafter, the trial of a man who has been greater, and more feared, than the Great Mogul himself. ^Vhatever we are at home, we have certainly been tyrants in the East ; and if these men have, as they are charged, rioted in the miseries of the innocent, and dealt death to the guiltless with an unsparing hand, may they receive a re- tribution that shall in future make all governors and judges of ours, in those distant regions, tremble. While I speak thus. I equally ■vVish them acquitted. Tliey were both my school -fellows, and fop Hastings I had a particular value. Farewell, vv, c, LETTER LXXXVir. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge^ Feb. 22, irsg. I do net wonder that your cars and feelings vf ere hurt by Mr. Burke's severe invective. But you are to know, mv dear, cr probably you know it ah'eady, that the pi'osecution of public delinquents has always, and in all countries, been thus con., ducted. The stile of a criminal charge of this kind has been aii affair settled among orators from the days of Tully to the present, and like ail other practices that have obtained for ages, this, i» LIFE OF CO^\TER. 161 particular, seems to have been founded originally in reason, and in the necessity of the case. He who accuses another to the state, must not ap])ear himself unmoved by the vie for your coming than merely the pleasure it will afford to us, that reason alone would be sufficient ; but after so many toils, and with so many more in prospect, it seems essential to your well-being that you should allow youiself a respite, which, perhaps, you can take as comfortably, I am sure as quietly, here as any where. The ladies beg to be remembered to you with all possible esteem, and regard: they are just come down to breakfast, and being at this moment extremely talkative, oblige rne to put an end to my letter. Adieu. W. C. LETTER CVIIT. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. The Lodge, Jan. 19,. 1759,. My dear Sir, I have taken, since you went away, many of the walks which we have taken together, and none of them, I believe, without thoughts of you. I have, though not a good memory in general, yet a good local memory ; and can recollect, by the help of a tree, or a stiie, what you said on that particular spot. For this reason I purpose, when the summer is come, to walk with a book in my pocket : what I read at my fire-side I forget, but what I read under a. hedge, or at the side of a pond, tfiat pond and that hedge will always bring to my remembrance: and this is a sort of memoria technica which I would recommeiici to you, if I did not know tliat you have no occasion for it. I am reading Sir John Hawkins, and still hold the same opi- nion of his book as when you were here. There are in it un- doubtedly some aukwardnesses of phrase, and, which is worse, here and there some unequivocal indications of a vanity not easily pardonable in a man of his years ; but, on the whole, I find it amus- ing, and to me at least, to whom every thing that has passed in the literary world witliin these five-and-twenty years is new, suf- ficiently replete with information. Mr. Throckmorton told me, about three days since, that it was lately recommended to him, by a sensible man, as a book that would give him great insight into the history of modern literature and modern men of letters; a. commendation which I really think it merits. Fifty years hence, pejL'liaps, the world -wJU feel itself obliged to him. \V. c. 184 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER CIX. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. My DEAR Sir, The Lodge, Jan. 24, 1789, We have heard from my cousin in Nor- folk-street; she reached home safely, and in good time. An ob- servation suggests itself, which, though I have but little time for observation-making, I must allow myself time to mention. Acci- dents, as we call them, generally occur when there seems least reason to expect them : if a friend of ours travels far in indifferent roads, and at an unfavourable season, we are i-easonably alarmed for the safety of one in whom we take so much interest ; yet how seldom do we hear a tragical account of such a journey ! It is, on the contrary, at home, in our yard or garden, perhaps in our par- lour, that disaster finds us ; in any place, in short, where we seem pei'fectly out of the reach of danger. The lesson inculcated by such a procedure on the part of Providence towards us, seems to be that of perpetual dependence. Having preached this sermon, I must hasten to a close : you know that I am not idle, nor can I afford to be so: I would gladly spend more time with you, but by some means or other this day has hitherto proved a day of hindrance and confusion. w. c. LETTER ex. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. The Lodge, Maij 20, 1789. My dear Sir, Finding myself, between twelve and one, at the end of the seventeenth book of the Odyssey, I give the in- terval between the present moment and the time of walking to you. If I write letters before I sit down to Homer, I feel my spirits too flat for poetry, and too flat for letter-writing if I address my- self to Homer first; but the last I choose as the least evil, be- cause my friends will pardon my dulness, but the public will not. I had been some days uneasy on your account when yours ar- rived. We should haAC rejoiced to have seen you, would your engagements have permitted : but in the autumn, I hope, if not be- fore, we shall have the pleasure to receive you. At what time we may expect LadyHesketh atpi'esent I know not; but imagine that at any time after the month of June you will be sure to find her with us, vv'hich I mention, knowing that to meet you will add a relish to all the pleasures she can find ^t Weston. LIFE OF COWPER. 185 When I vvi'ote' those lines on the Queen's visit, I thought I had performed well; but it belongs to me, as I have told jou before, to dislike whatever I write when it has been written a month. The performance was, therefore, sinking in my esteem, when your ap- probation of it arriving in good time, buoyed it up again. It will now keep possession of the place it holds in my good opinion, be- caifte it has been favoured with yours ; and a copy will certainly be at vour service whenever you choose to have one. Nothing is more certain than that when I wrote the line, God made the countrj', and man made the town, 1 had not the least recollection of that very similar one Avhich yoU quote from Hawkins Brown. It convinces me that critics (and none more than VVarton, in his Notes on Milton's minor Poems) have often charged authors with borrowing what they drew from their own fund. Brown was an entertaining companion when he had drank his bottle, but not before ; this proved a snare to him, and he would sometimes drink too much ; but I know not that he was chargeable with any other irregularities. He had those among his intimates, who would not have been such, had he been otherwise viciously inclined ; the Duncombs, in particular, father and son, who were of unblemished morals. W, C» ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON, The JVight of the 17th March^ 1789. When long sequester'd from his throne, George took his seat again. By right of woith, not blood alone. Entitled here to reign ! Then Loyalty, with all her lamps New trimm'd, a gallant show ! Chasing the darkness, and the damps, Set London in a glow. 'T was hard to tell, of streets, or squares, Which form'd the chief display, These most resembling clustefd stars, Those the long milky way. VOL. r. B b IBS LIFE OF COWPER. Bright shone the roofs-, the domeSj the spires^ And rockets flew, self-driven. To hang their ntomentaiy fires Amid the vault of heaven. So, fire with water to compare. The ocean serves on high, Up-spouted by a whale in air, T' express unwieldy jojr. Had all the pageants of the world In one pi"oce3sion join'd, And all the banners, been unfurl'd That heralds e'er design'd ; For no such sight had England's Queen Forsaken her retreat, Where Geoi-ge recover'd made a scene Sweet alwaysj doubly sweet. Yet glad she came that night to prove A witness undescried, How much the object of her love Was lov'd by all beside. Darkness the skies had mantled o'er. In aid of her design — Darkness, O Queen I ne'er cali'd before To veil a deed of thine ! On borrow 'd wheels a.way she flies, Resolv'd ta be unknown, And gratify no curious eyes That night, except her own. Arriv'd, a night like noon she sees. And hears the million hum ; As all by instinct, like the bees, Had known their so v 'reign come. Pleas'd she beheld aloft pourtray'd On many a splendid wall, EmWems of health, and heav'nly aid. And George the theme of all. LIFE OF COWPER. 187 t^^nlike the jcnigmatic line, So difficult to spell ! Wliicli shook Belshazzar, at his wine. The night his city fell. Soon watery grew her eyes, and dim, But with a joyfiil tear ! i^one else, except in pray'r for him, George ever drew fi'om her. Xt was a scene in ev'ry part Like that in fable feign 'd, And seem'd by some magician's art Created, and sustain'd= teut other magic there she kne'v*' Had been exerted, none, To raise such wonders in her vieWj Save love of George alone I That cordial thought her spii-it cheer 'd, And through the cumb'rous throng, ^ot else unworthy to be fear'd, Con\^y'd her cahn along. So, ancient poets say, sei-ene The sea-maid rides the waves, And fearless of the billowy scene, Her peaceful bosom la^^es. \Vith more than astronomic eyes She vieW'd the sparkling show; One Georgian Star adorns the skies—* She myriads found below. Yet let the glories of a night Like that, once Seen, suffice ! ■Heav'n grant us no such future sight, ^Bch precious woe the price! 183 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER CXI. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. My dear Friend, The Lodge^ June 5, 1789, I am going to give you a deal of trouble, but London folks must be content to be troubled by country folks ; for in London only can our strange necessities be supplied. You must buy for me, if you please, a cuckow-clock ; and now I will tell you where they are sold, which, Londoner as you are, it is possible you may not know. They are sold, I am informed, at more houses than one in that narrow part of Holborn which leads into Broad St. Giles'. It seems they are well-going clocks, and cheap, which are the two best recommendations of any clock. They are made in Germany, and such numbers of them are annu- ally imported, that they are become even a considerable article of commerce. I return you many thanks for Boswell's Tour. I read it to Mrs. Unwin after supper, and we find it amusing. There is much trash in it, as there must always be in every narrative that relates in- discriminately all that passed. But now and then the Doctor speaks like an oracle, and that makes amends for all. Sir John was a coxcomb, and Boswell is not less a coxcomb, though of an- other kind. I fancy Johnson made coxcombs of all his friends, and they, in return, made him a coxcomb ; for, with reverence be it spoken, such he certainly was, and, flattered as he was, he was sure to be so. Thanks for your invitation to London, but unless London can come to me, I fear we shall never meet. I was sure that you ■vvould love my friend when you should once be well acquainte<^ tv-ith him ; and equally sure that he would take kindly to you. Now for Homer. W« C* LETTER CXII. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. Amico MEG, The Lodge, Jmie 20, 1789. I am truly sorry that it must be so long before we can have an opportunity to meet. My cousin, in her last letter but one, inspired me with other expectations, expressing a purpose, if the matter could be so contrived, of bringing you with her. I was willing to believe that you had consulted together on the subject, and found it feasible. A month was formerly a trifle in my account, but at my present age I give it all its im- portance, and gi'udge that so many months should yet pass in LIFE OF COVVPER. 189 ^v]lich I liave not even a glimpse of those I love ; and of wliom, the course of natiu'e considered, I must crc long take leave fur ever. But I shall live till August. Many thanks for the cuckow, which arrived perfectly safe, and goes well, to the amusement and amazement of all who hear it. Hannah lies awake to hear it ; and I am not sure that we have not others in the house that admire his music as much as she. Having read both Hawkins and Boswell, I now think myself almost as much a master of Johnson's character as if I had known him personally ; and cannot but regret, that our bards of other times found no such biographers as these. They have both been ridiculed, and the wits have had their laugh ; but such an history of Milton or Shakspeare as they have given of Johnson — Oh, ^ow desirable ! VV. C. LETTER CXin. To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. July 18, 1789. Many thanks, my dear Madam, for your extract from George's letter ! I retain but little Italian ; yet that little was so forcibly mustered, by the consciousness that I was myself the subject, that I presently became master of it. I have always said that George is a poet, and I am never in his company but I discover proofs of it ; and the delicate address by which he has managed his complimentaiy mention of me, convinces me of it still more than ever. Here are a thousand poets of us who have impudence enough to write for the public ; but amongst the modest men, who are by diffidence restrained from such ancnterprize,are those who would eclipse us all. I wish that George would make the experiment: I would bind on his laurels with my own hand. Your gardener has gone after his wife ; but having neglected to take his lyre, alias fiddle, with him, has not yet brought home his Eurydice. Your clock in the hall has stopped ; and, strange to tell, it stopped at sight of the watch-maker! For he only looked at it, and it has been motionless ever since. Mr. Gregson is gone, and the Hall is a desolation. Pray dont think any place j)lcasant that you may find in your rambles, that we maA' see you the sooner. Your aviary is all in good health. I pass it every day, and often .inquire at the lattice ; the inhabitants of it send their duty, and wish for your return. I took notice of the inscription on your seal, and had v/e an artist here capable of funiisliing me widi an- other, you should read on mine, " Encore une lettre." Adieu. VV. C\ 190 IME OF COWPER. LETTER CXn^ To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. The Lodge, July 23, 178^. You do well, my dear Sir, to improve yast opportunity-: to speak in the rural phrase, this is your sow-» ing time, and the shea%'«s you look for can never be yours unless you make that lise of it. The colour of our whole life is gene- rally such a? the three or four first years, in vdiich we ai-e our own masters, make it. Then it is tliat we may be said to shape t»ur own destiny, and to treasui'e up for ourselves a series of futur6 Successes or disappointments. Had I employed my time as wisely as you, in a situation very similar to yours, I had never been a }>oet perhaps, but I might by this time have acquired a character bf more importance in society, and a situation in which my fi-iends would have been better pleased to see me. But three years mis- Spent in an attorney's office, were almost of course followed by iseveral more equally mis-spent in the temple ; and the conse- quence has been, as the Italian epitaph says, " Sto qui." The only use 1 can make of myself now, at least the best, is to serve in terrorevi to others, when occasion may happen to offer, that they may escape (so far as my admonitions can have any weight ■with them) my folly and my fate. When you feel yourself tempted to relax a little of the strictness of your present discipline, and to indulge in amusement incompatible with your future interests, think on your friend at Weston. Having said this, i shall next, with my whole heart, invite you hither, and assui-e you that I look forw ard to approaching August with great pleasure ; because it promises me your company. After fe. little time (which We shall wish longer) spent with us, you will feturn invigorated to your studies, and pursue them with the more advantage* In the mean time yoU haxe lost little, in point of sea- Son, by being confined to London. Incessant rains, and meadows under water, have given to the summer the air of winter, and the country has been deprived of half its beauties. It is time to tell you that we are all well, and often make you our subject. This is the third meeting that my cousin and we have had in this country; and a gi-eat instance of good fortune I account it, in such a world as this, to have expected such a pleasui'e thrice without being once disappointed. Add to this wonder as soon as you can, by making yourself of the party* Wi c» ' > LIFE OF COWPER. 151 LETTER CXV. To Sx\MUEL ROSE, Esquire. WcstQUy August 8, IT89, My dear Friend, Come when you -will, or when you can, you cannot come at a wrong time ; but we shall expect you on the day mentioned. If you have any book iliat you think will make pleasant even- ing reading, bring it with you. I now read Mrs. Piozzi's Travels to the ladies after supper, and shall probably have finished them before we shall have the pleasure of seeing you. It is the fasliion, I understand, to condemn them. But we, who make books our- selves, are more merciful to book-makers. I would that eveiy fastidious judge of authors were himself obliged to write: there goes more to the composition of a volume than many critics ima- gine. I have often wondered that the same poet who wrote th« Dunciad should have written these lines— ■ The mercy I to others show, " niat mercy show to me." Alas ! for Pope, if the mercy lie showed to otliers was the mea- sure of the mercy he rec ived ! He was the less pardonable too, because experienced in all the difficulties of composition. I scratch this between dinner and tea ; a time when I cannot write much without disordeiing my noddle, and bringing a flusU into my face. You will excuse me, therefore, if, through respect for tlie two important considerations of health aiid beauty, I con« elude myself Ever yours, W. C. LETTER CXVL To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. JVesion, Se/it. 24, 1789. My dear Friend, You left us exactly at the wrong time. Had you staid till now, you would have had the pleasure of hear- ing even my cousin say, " I am cold;" and the still greater plea- sure of being warm yourself; for I have had a fire in the study ever since you went. It is tl»c fault of our summei"s tliat they are hardly ever warm or cold enough. Were they warmer we should not want a fire, and were they colder we should have onci, 192 LIFE OF COWPER. I have twice seen and conversed with Mr. J . He is ivitty, intelligent, and agreeable beyond the common measure of men who are so. But it is the constant effect of a spirit of party to make those hateful to each other who are truly amiable in themselves. Beau sends his love ; he was melancholy the whole day after your departure. W. C. LETTER CXVn. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. Weston, Se/it. 11, 1788. My dear Friend, The hamper is come, and come safe ; and the contents I can affirm, on my own knowledge, are excel- lent. It chanced that another hamper and a box came by the same conveyance, all which I unpacked and expounded in the hall ; my cousin sitting mean time on the stairs, spectatress of the busi- ness. We diverted ourselves with imagining the manner in which. Homer would have described the scene. Detailed in his circum- stantial way, it would have furnished materials for a paragraph of cx)nsiderable length in an Odyssey. The straw-stuff 'd hamper Avith his ruthless steel He open'd, cutting sheer th' inserted cords Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth came The rustling package first, bright straw of wheat, Or oats, or barley ; next a bottle green Throat-full, clear spirits the contents, distill'd Drop after drop odorous, by the art Of the fair mother of his friend — the Rose. And so on. I should rejoice to be the hero of such a tale in the hands of Homer. You will remember, I trust, that when the state of your health or spirits calls for rural walks and fresh air, you have always a re- treat at Weston. We are all Avell, all love you, down to the very dog ; and shall be glad to hear that you have exchanged languor for alacrity, and the debility that you mention, for indefatigable vigour. Mr. Throckmorton has made me a handsome present : Villois- son's edition of the Iliad, elegantly bound by Edwards. If I live long enougli, by the contributions of my friends, I shall once more be possessed of a library. W. C. LIFE OF COWPER. 193 LETTER CXVin. To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. Dec. 18, 1789. My DEAR Friend, The present appears to me a wonderful period in the history of mankind. That nations so long conientedly slaves should, on a sudden, become enamoured of libei-ty, and un- derstand, as suddenly, their own natural right to it, feeling them- selves, at the same time, uispired with resolution to assert it, seems difficult to account for from natural causes. VMth respect to the final issue of all this, I can only say, that if, having discovered the value of liberty, they should next discover the value of peace, and, lastly, the value of the word of God, they will be happier than they ever were since the rebellion of the first pair, and as happy as it is possible they should be in the present life. Most sincerely yours, W. C. LETTER CXIX. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. The Lodge ^ Jan. 3, 1790. Mv DEAR Sir, I have been long silent, but you have had the charity, I hope and believe, not to ascribe my silence to a ■wrong cause. The truth is, I have been too busy to write to any body, having be6n obliged to give my early mornings to the revi- sal and correction of a little volume of Hymns for Children, writ- ten by, I know not whom. This task I finished but yesterday, and while it was in hand, Avrote only to my cousin, and to her rarely. From her, however, I knew that you would hear of my well-be- ing, which made me less anxious about my debts to you than I could have been otherwise. I am almost the only person at Weston, known to you, who have enjoyed tolerable health this winter. In your next letter give us some account of your own state of health, for I have had my anxi- eties about you. The winter has been mild ; but our winters are, in general, such, that when a friend leaves us in the beginning of that season, I always feel in my lieart a perha/is^ importing that we have possibly met for the last time, and that the robins may whistle on the grave of one of us before the return of summer. I am still thrumming Homer's lyre ; that is to say, I am still cm- ployed in my last revisal ; and to give you some idea of the in- tenseness of my toils, I will inform you that it cost me all the VOL. I. C C 394 LIFE OF COWPER. morning yesterday, and all the evening, to translate a single simile to my mind. The transitions from one member of the subject to another, though easy and natural in the Greek, turn out often so intolerably aukward in an English version, that almost endless la- bour, and no little address, are requisite to give them grace and elegance. I forget if I told you that your German Clavis has been of considerable use to me. I am indebted to it for a right under- standing of the manner in which Achilles prepared pork, mutton, and goat's flesh for the entertainment of his friends, in the night when they came deputed by Agamemnon to negociate a reconcili- ation : a passage of which nobody in tlie world is perfectly mas- ter, myself only and Schaufelbergerus excepted, nor ever was, ex- cept when Greek was a live language. I do not know whether my cousin has told you or not, how I brag in my letters to her concerning my translation ; perhaps hei" modesty feels more for me than mine for myself, and she would bJush to let even you know the degree of my self-conceit on that subject. I will tell you, however, expressing myself as decently as vanity will permit, that it has undergone such a change for the better in this revisal, that I have much warmer hopes of success Shan formerly. W. C* LETTER CXX. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge.) Jan. 23, 1790., My dear Coz. I had a letter yesterday from the wild boy Johnson, for whom I have conceived a great affection. It was just such a letten as I like, of the true helter-skelter kind ; and though he writes a remarkable good hand, scribbled with such ra- pidity, that it was barely legible. He gave me a droll account of the adventures of Lord Howard's note, and of his own in pursuit of it. The poem he brought me came as from Lord Howard, with liis Lordship's request that I would revise it. It is in the form of a pastoral, and is entitled, " Tale of the Lute, oi*, the Beauties of Audley End." I i-ead it attentively; was muck pleased with part of it, and part of it I equally disliked. I told him so, and in such terms as one naturally uses when there seems to be no occasion to qualify, or to alleviate censure. I observed him afterwards somewhat more thoughtful and silent, but occasionally as pleasant as usual ; and in Kihvick-wood, where we walked the next day, the truth came out, that he was himself the autlior, and that Lord Howard, not approving it altogether, and sexerul friends of his LIFE OF COWPER. 195 b'Wn age, to -whom he had sliown it, differing from his Lordship in opinion, and being highly pleased with it, he liad come at last to a resolution to abide by my judgment; a measure to which Lord Howard by all means advised him. He accordingly brought it, and will bring it again in the summer, when we shall lay our heads together, and try to mend it. I have lately had a letter also from Mrs. King, to whom, indeed, I had written to inquire whether she were living or dead ; she tells me, the critics expect from my Homer every thing in some parts, and that, in others, I shall fall short. These are the Cambridge ' critics ; and she has her intelligence from the botanical professor, Martyn. Tliat gentleman, in reply, answers them, that I shall fall short in nothing, but shall disappoint them all. It shall be mj endeavour to do so, and I am not without hope of succeeding. W. C. LETTER CXXI. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. T/ie Lodge, Feb. 2, 1790. Mt dear Friend, Should Heyne's Homer appear before mine, which I hope is not probable, and should he adopt in it the opinion of Bentley, that the whole last Odyssey is spurious, I will dare to contradict both him and the Doctor. I am only in part of Bentley's mind (if indeed his mind were such) in this matter, and, giant as he was in learning, and eagle-eyed in criticism, am per- suaded, convinced, and sure, (can I be more positive?) that, ex- cept from the moment when the Ithacans begin to meditate an attack on the cottage of Laertes, and thence to the end, that book is the work of Homer. From the moment aforesaid I yield the point, or rather have never, since I had any skill in Homer, felt myself at all inclined to dispute it. But I believe perfectly, at the same time, that, Homer liimself alone excepted, the Greek poet never existed wlio could have written the speeches made by the shade of Agamemnon ; in which tliere is more insight into the hu- man heart discovered than I ever saw in any other work, unless in Shakspcare's. I am equally disposed to fight for the wliole pas- sage that describes Laertes, and the interview l)etwcen iiim and Ulysses. Let Bentley grant these to Homer, and I will shake liands witli him as to all tlie rest. The battle witli which the book concludes is, I think, a paltry battle, and there is a Imddle I'n tlic management of it, altogether imwortliy of my favourite, and th7 To Mrs. THROCKMORTON, On her beautiful Transcrifit of Horace's Ode, Ad librtfm sunm. Maria, could Horace have guess'd What honours awaited his Ode, To his own httle volume address'd, The honour which you have bestow'd ; Who have trac'd it in characters here, So elegant, even, and neat ; He had laugh 'd at the critical sneer Which he seems to have trembled to meet. And sneer, if you please, he had said, Hereafter a nymph shall arise. Who shall give me, when you are all dead, The glory your malice denies ; Shall dignity give to my lay, Although but a mere bagatelle ; And even a poet shall say, Nothing ever was written so well* LETTER CXXIII. To Lady HESKETH. Feb. 26, 1790. You have set my heart at ease, my cousin, so far as you were yourself the object of its anxieties. What other troubles it feels can be cured by God alone. But you are never silent a week longer than usual, without giving an opportunity to my imagination (ever fruitful in flowers of a sable hue) to teaze me with them day and night. London is, indeed, a pestilent place, as you call it, and I would, with all my heart, that thou hadst lebs to do with it: were you under the same roof with me, I should know you to be safe, and should never distress you with melan- choly letters. I feel myself well enough inclined to the measure you propose, and will show to your new acquaintance, with all my heart, a sample of my translation. But it shall not be, if you please, taken from the Odyssey. It is a poem of a gentler character than the Iliad, and as I propose to carry her by a cou/i de main, I shall em])loy Achilles, Agamemnon, and the two armies of Greece and Troy, ia my service. I will accordingly send you, in the box that I re- 'm LIFE OF COWPER* ceived from you last night, the two first Iwoks of the Iliad, for that lady's perusal : to those I have given a third revisal ; for them, therefore, I will be answerable, and am not afraid to stake the credit of my work upon them with her, or with any living wight, especially one who understands the original. I do not mean that even they are finished ; for I shall examine and cross-examine them yet again, and so you may tfell her ; but I know that they will not disgrace me ; whereas it is so long since I have looked at the Odj^ssey, that I know nothing at all aljout it. They shall set sail from Olney on Monda.y morning in the Diligence, and will reach you, I hope, in the evening. As soon as she is done with them, I shall be glad to ha^-e them again ; for the time draws near when I shall want to give them the last touch. I am delighted with Mrs. Bodliam's kindness in giving me the only picture of my own mother that is to be found, I suppose, in all the world. I had rather possess it than the richest jewel in the British crown, for I loved her with an affection that her death, fifty- two years since, has not in the least abated. I remember her too, young as I was, when she died, well enough to know that it is a very exact resemblance of her, and, as such, it is to me invaluable. Every body loved her, and, with an amiable character so impres- sed on all her features, every body was sure to do so. I have a very affectionate, and a very clever letter from John- son, who promises me the transcript of the books entrusted to him in a few days. I have a grea.t love for that young man ; he has some drops of the same stream in his veins that once animated the original of that dear picture. V\'. C. LETTER CXXIV. To Mrs. BODHAM. JFeston, Feb. 27, 1790^ My DEAREST Rose, Whom I thought withered, and fallen from the stalk, but whom I find still alive : nothing could give me greater pleasure than to know it, and to learn it from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were a cliild, and love you not a jot the less for having ceased to be so. Every creature that bears any affinity to my own mother is dear to me, and you, the daughter of her brother, are bvit one remove distant from her: I love you, therefore, and love you much, both for her sake and for your own. The world could not have furnished you with a present so acceptable to me as the pictur/e which you have so kindly sent me, T received it the niglit before last, and viewed it with a trepidation, LIFE OF COWTER. 199 ftf nerves and spirits somewluit 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 had 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 beyond expression. There is in me, I believe, more of die 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 thouglit, 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 a competent judge, can trace both her and my late uncle, your father. Somewhat of his irritability, and a little, I would hope, both of his and of her — , I know not what to call it, Avithout 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. Paid'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 Fiephew, to my knowledge, and that, breaking through ail the re- straints which his natural bashfulness imposed on him, he deter- mined to fiad me out. He is amiable to a degree that I have sel- dom seen, iuid I often long with impatience to see him again. My dearest cousin, what shall I say in answer to your affec- tionate invitation ? I must say this, I cannot come now, nor soon, and I wish, with all my heart, I could. But I will tell you what may be done, perhaps, and it will answer to us just as well: you and Mr. Bodham can come to Weston, can you not ? The sum- mer is at hand ; there are roads and wheels to brmg you, and you are neither of you translating Homer. I am crazed that I cannot ask you altogether, 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, Ball;;, or Johnson, or by whatever name distinguished. Mrs. Hewitt has particular claims upon me; she was my pluy-fellow at Berkham- Ktead, and has a share in my v/armest afi'ections. 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. 3u;sui-c youi'self, my dearer: dOO LIFE OF COWPER. 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 ha» seen you, she will love you for your own, I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham for his kindness to my Ho- mer, and with my love to you all, and with Mrs. Unwin's kind respects, am, my dear, deas Rose, ever yours, W. C. P. S. I mourn the death of your poor brother Castres, whom I should have seen had he lived, and should have seen with the greatest pleasure. He was an amiable boy, and I was very fond of him. Still another P. S, — I find, on consulting Mrs, Unwin, that I have under-rated 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 be happy to have it all so occupied. Your nephew tells me that his sister, in the qualities of the mind, resembles you ; that is enough to make her dear to me, and I beg you will assure her that she is so. Let it not be long before I hear from you. LETTER CXXV, To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire, Weston, Feb, 28, 1790. My dear Cousin John, I have much wished to hear from you, and though you are welcome to write to Mrs. Unwin as often as you please, I wish myself to be numbered among your corres- pondents. I shaU find time to answer you, doubt it not I Be as busy as we may, we can always find time to do what is agreeable to us. By the way, had you a letter from Mrs. Unwin ? I am witness that she addressed one to you before you went into Norfolk ; but your mathematico-poetical head forgot to acknowledge the receipt of it. I was never more pleased in my life than to learn, and to learn from herself, that my dearest Rose* is still alive. Had she not engaged me to love her by the sweetness of her character when a child, she would have done it effectually now, by making me the most acceptable present in the world — my own dear mother's pic- ture. I am, perhaps, the only person living who remembers her, but I remember her well, and can attest, on my own knowledge, tlie truth of the resemblance. Amiable and elegant as the coun- * Mrs, Ann Bodham. LIFE OF COWPER. 301 tenance is, such exactly was her own : she was one of die tenclerest parents, and so just a copy oi her is, therefore, to me invaluable. 1 wrote yesrerday to my Rose, to tell her all this, and to thank her fur her kindness in sending it ; neither do I forget your kind- ness who intimated to her that I should be happy to possess it. She invites me into Norfolk ; but, alas ! she might as well invite the house in which I dwell ; for, all other considerations and im- pediments apart, how is it possible that a translator of Homer should lumber to such a distance? But though I cannot comply with her kind invitation, I have made myself the best amends in my pov/er, by inviting her, and all the family of Dcnnes, to Wes- ton. Perhaps we could not accommodate them all at once, but in succession we could; and can at any time find room for five^" three of them being females, and one a married one. You are ^ mathematician ; tell me, then, how five persons can be lodged in three beds, two males and three fem.ales ; and I shall have good hope that j-ou will proceed a senior optime. It would make me happy to see our house so furnished. As to yourself, whom I know to be a subscalarian^ or a man that sleeps under the stairs, I should have no objection at all, neither could you possibly have any yourself, to the garret, as a place in which you might be die*, posed of with great felicity of accommodation. I thank you much for your services in the transcribing way, and ■would by no means have you despair of an opportunity to ser^ cr me in the same way yet again. Write to me soon, and tell me when I shall see you. I have not said the half that I have to say ; but breakfast is at hand, which always terminates my epistles. What have you done with your poem? The trimming that it procured you here has not, I hope, pu; you out of conceit with it entirely ; you are more than equal to the alteration that it needs* Only remember, that in writing, perspicuity is always more thaa half the battle. The want of it is the ruin of more than half the poetry that is published. A meaning that does not stare you in the face is as bad as no meaning, because nobody will take the pains to poke for it. So now adieu for the present. Beware of killing yourself with problems, for if you do you will never live to be another Sir Isaac. Mrs. Unwin's affectionate remembrances attend you ; Lady Hesketh is much dis])r)sed to love you; perhaps most who know you have some little tendency the same wav. w. c. Bd 202 LIFE OF COVVPER. LETTER CXXVL To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, March 8, 1790* My dearest Cousin, I thank thee much, and oft, for nego-- dating so well this poetical concern with Mrs. , and for send- ing me her opinion in her own hand. I should be unreasonable indeed, not to be highly gratified by it ; and I like it the better for being modestly expressed. It is, as you know, and it shall be some months longer, my daily business to polish and improve what is done, that, when the whole shall appear, she may find her expectations answered. I am glad also that thou didst send her the sixteenth Odyssey, though, as I said before, I know not at all, at present, whereof it is made ; but I am sure that thou wouldst not have sent it, hadst thou not conceived a good opinion of it thy- self, and thought that it would do me credit. It was very kind in thee to sacrifice to this Minerva on my account. For my sentiments on the subject of the test act, I cannot do better than refer thee to my poem, entitled and called " Expostu- lation." I have there expressed myself not much in its favour, considering it in a religious view ; and in a political one I like it not a jot the better. I am neither tory nor high churchman, but an old whig, as my father was before me, and an enemy, conse-- quently, to all tyrannical impositions. Mrs. Unwin bids me return thee many thanks for thy inquiries so kindly made concerning her health. She is a little better than of late, but has been ill continually ever since last November, Every th'ng that could try patience and submission she has had, and her submission and patience have answered in the trialj though mine, on her account, have often failed sadly. I have a letter from Johnson, who tells me that he has sent his transcript to you, begging, at the same time, more copy. Let him have it by all means ; he is an industrious youth, and I love him dearly. I told him that you are disposed to love him a little. A new poem is born on the receipt of my mother's picture. Thou Shalt have it. W. C. LETTER CXXVII. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. The Lodge, March 11, 1790. I was glad to hear from you, for a line from you gives me always much pleasure, but was not much glad- LIFE OF COWPER. 205 flened by the contents of your letter. The state of your healtli, which I have learned more accurately, perhaps, from my cousin, except in this last instance, than from yourself, has rather alarmed me ; and even she has collected her information upon that subject more from your looks than from your own acknowled^men.ts. To complain much, and often, of our indispositions, does not always insure the pity of the hearer, perhaps sometimes forfeits it ; but to dissemble them altogether, or, at least, to suppress the worst, is attended, ultimately, with an inconvenience greater still; the se- cret will out at last, and our friends, unprepared to receive it, arc doubly distressed about us. In saying this I squint a little at Mrs. Unwin, who will read it: it is with her, as with you, the only subject on which she practises any dissimulation at all : tlic con- sequence is, that when she is much indisposed I never believe myself in possession of the whole truth, live in constant expecta- tion of hearing something worse, and, at the long run, am seldom disappointed. It seems, therefore, as on all other occasions, so even in this, the better course, on the whole, to appear what we are, not to lay the fears of our friends asleep by cheerful looks ■which do not properly belong to us, or by letters written as if we were well, when, in fact, we are very much otherwise. On con- dition, however, that you act differently toward me for the future, I will pardon the past, and she may gather, from my clemency shown to you, some hopes, on the same conditions, of similar cle* mency to herself. W« C, LETTER CXXVIII. To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. The Lodge^ March 21, 1790. My dearest Madam, I shn.ll only observe, on the subject of your absence, tliat you have stretched it since you went, and have made it a week longer. Weston is sadly wn^^f/ without you; and here are two of us who will be heartily glad to see you again. I believe you are happier at home than any where, which is a com- fortable belief to your neighbours, because it affords assurance that, since you are neither likely to ramble for pleasiu'c, nor to meet with any avocations of business, while W'cston shall conti- nue to be your liome, it will not often want you. The two first books of my Iliad have been subniiitcd to the in- spection and scrutiny of a great critic of your sc::, at the instance of my cousin, as you may suppose. The lady is mistress of more tpngues than a few, (it is to be hoped she is single) and particu- 204 I.IFE OF COWPER. larly she Is mistress of the Greek. She returned them with ex* pressions that, if any thing could make a poet prcuoer tlian all poets naturally are, would have made me so. I tell you this be- cause I know that you all interest yourselves in the success of the said Iliad. My periwig is arrived, and is the very perfection of all peri- wigs, having only one ff.ult, which is, that my head will cniy go into the first half of it, the other half, or the upper part of it, continuing still unoccupied. My artist in this way at Olney has, however, undertaken to make the whole of it tenantable ; and then I shall be twenty years younger than you have ever seen me. I heard of your birth-day very early in the morning : the news came from the steeple. W. C, LETTER CXXTX. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, March 22, 1790. I rejoice, my dearest ccusin, that mvMFS. have roamed the earth so successfully, and have met with no dis- aster. The single book excepted that went to the bottcm of the Thames, and rose again, they have been fortunate without excep- tion. I am not superstitious, but have, nevertheless, as good a right to believe that adventure an omen, and a favourable one, as Swift had to interpret as he did the less of a fine fish, which he had no sooner laid en the bank than it fiounced into the water again. This, he tells us himself, he always considered as a type cf his future disappointments; and why may I not as well cons-ider the marvellous recovery of my lost book from the bottcm of the Thames as typical of its future prosperity? To say the truth, I have no fears now about the success of my translation, though in time past I have had many. I knew there was a stjle somewhere, could I but find it, in which Homer ought to be rendered, and which alone would suit him. Long time I blundered about it, ere I could attain to any decided judgment on the matter. At first I was betrayed, by a desire of accommodating my language to the simplicity of his, into much of the quaintness that belonged to our writers of tlie fifteenth century. In the course of many re- visals I have delivered myself from this evil, I believe, entirely ; but I have done it slowly, and as a man separates himself from his mistress when he is going to marry. I had so strong a predilection in favour of this style at first, that I was crazed to find that others •were not so much enamoured with it as myself. At every passage LIFE OF COWTER. 20> of that sort which I obliterated I groaned Ijittevly, and said to my- self, I am spoiling my work to please those who have no taste for the simple graces of antiquity. But in measure, as I adopted a more modern phraseology, I became a convert to their opinion ; and in the last rcvisal, which I am now making, am not bcnsii)ie of having spared a single expression of the obsolete kind. I see my woi'k so much improved by this alteration, that I am filled with •wonder at my own backwardness to assent to the necessity of it ; and the more, when I consider that Milton, with whose manner I account myself intimately acquainted, is never quaint, never twangs through the nose, but is every where grand and elegant, without resorting to musty antiquity for his beauties. On the con- trary, he took a long stride forward, left the language of his own day far Ijehind him, and anticipated the expressions of a century yet to come. I have now, as I said, no longer any doubt of the event, but I "will give thee a shilling if thou wilt tell me what I shall say in niy preface. It is an affair of much delicacy, and I have as many opi- nions about it as there are whims in a weather-cock. Send my MSS. and thine when thou wilt. In a day or two I shall enter on the last Iliad. When I have finished it I shall give the Odyssey one more reading, and shall, therefore, shortly have occasion for the copy in thy possession ; but you see that there is no need to hurry. I leave the little space for Mrs. Unwin's use, who means, I bcr lieve, to occupy it, and am evermore thine most truly. \^'. C. Postscript in the hand of Mrs. Unwin. You cannot imagine how much your ladyship would oblige your \mworthv servant, if you would be so good to let me know in what point I differ from you. All that at present I can say is, tliat I will readily sacrifice my own opinion, unless I can give you a substan- tial reason for adhering to it. LETTER CXXX. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. JVeston, March 2.1, 1790. Vonr MSS. arrived safe in New Nirfolk Street, and lam much obliged to you for your labours. Wore you now at Weston I could furnish you with em])loymcnt for some weeks, and shall perhaps be equally able to do it in summer, fori have lost my best amanuensis in this place, Mr. George Throck- morton, who is gone to Bath. 206 LIFE OF COWTER. You are a man to be envied, who have never read the Odyssey, which is one of the most amusing story-books in the world. There is also much of the finest poetry in the world to be found in it, notwithstanding all that Longinus has insinuated to the contrary. His comparison of the Hiad and Odyssey to the meridian, and to the declining sun, is pretty, but, I am persuaded, not just. The prettiness of it seduced him; he was otherwise too judicious a reader of Homer to have made it. I can find in the latter no symp- toms of impaired ability ; none of the effects of age : on the con- trary, it seems to me a certainty, that Homer, had he written the Odyssey in his youth, could not have written it better ; and if the Iliad in his old age, that he would have written it just as well. A critic would tell me, that mstead of nvritten I should have said com- posed. Very likely — but I am not writing to one of that snarling generation. My boy, I long to see thee again. It has happened some way or other, that Mrs. Unwin and I have conceived a great affection for thee. That I should, is the less to be wondered at, because thou art a shred of my own mother ; neither is the wonder great, that she should fall into the same predicament ; for she loves every thing that I love. You will observe, that your own personal right to be beloved makes no part of the consideration. There is no- thing that I touch with so much tenderness as the vanity of a ycung man ; because I know how extremely susceptible he is of impres- sions that might hurt him in that particular part of his composition. If you should ever prove a coxcomb, from which character you stand just now at a greater distance than any young man I know, it shall never be said that I have made you one; no, you will gain nothing by me but the honour of being much valued by a poor poet, who can do you no good while he lives, and has nothing to leave you when he dies. If you can be contented to be dear to me on these conditions, so you shall ; but other terms, more advantageous than these, or more inviting, none have I to propose. Farewell. Puzzle not yourself about a subject when you write to either of us ; every thing is subject enough from those we love, W. C. LETTER CXXXL To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. Weston, April 17, 1790. Your letter, that now lies before me, is almost three \veeks old, and therefore of full age to receive an answer, which it shall Imve without delaj', if the interval betwecp LIFE OF COWPER. 207 the present moment and that of breakfast shcuM prove sufficient for the purpose. Yours to Mrs. Unwin was received yesterday, for which she will thank, you in due time. I have also seen, and have now in my desk, your letter to Lady Hesketh ; she sent it thinking that it would divert me ; in which she was not mistaken. I shall tell her when I write to her next, that you long to receive a line from her. Give yourse'f no trouble on the subject of the politic device you saw good to recur to, when you presented me with your manuscript ; it was an innocent deception, at least it could harm nobody save yourself; an effect which it did not fail to produce : and since the punishment followed it so closely, by me at least it may very well be forgiven. You ask, how I can tell that you are not addicted to practices of the deceptive kind ? And certainly, H the little time that I have had to study you were alone to be con- sidered the question would not be unreasonable; but, in general, a man who reaches my years, finds that " Long experience does attain " To something like prophetic strain." I am very much of Lavater's opinion, and persuaded that faces are as legible as books; only with these circumstances to recom- mend them to our perusal, that they are read in much less time, and are much less likely to deceive us. Yours gave me a favour- able impression of you the moment I beheld it; and though I shall not tell you in particular what I saw in it, for reasons mentioned in my last, I will add, that I have observed in you nothing since that has not confirmed the opinion I then formed in your favour. lu fact, I cannot recollect that my skill in physiognomy has ever de- ceived me, and I should add more on this subject had I room. When you have shut up your mathematical books, you must give yourself to the study of Greek; not merely that you may be able to i-ead Homer, and the other Greek Classics, with ease, but the Greek Testament and the Greek Fathei"s also. Thus quahfied, and by the aid of your fiddle into the bargain, together with some portion of the grace of God (without which nothing can be done) to enable you to look well to your flock, when you shall get one, you will be well set up for a parson. In which character, if I live to see you in it, I shall expect and hope that you will make a, very difTerept figure from most of your fratei-nity. Ever yours, W, C. 30i LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER CXXXII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Aj[iriL 19, 1790* My dearest Coz. I thank thee for my cousin Johnson's let- ter, ivhich diverted me. I had one from him lately, in which he expressed an ardent desire of a line from you, and the delight he would feel on receiving it. I knov/ not whether you will have the charity to satir^fy his longings, but mention the matter, thinking it possible that you may. A letter from a lady to a youth immersed in mathematics must be singularly pleasant. I am finishing Homer backward, having begun at the last book, and designing to persevere in that crab-like fashion till I ar- rive at the first. Tliis may remind you, perhaps, of a certain poet's prisoner in the bastiie (thank Heaven ! in the bastile now no more) counting the nails in the door, for variety's sake, in all directions. I find so little to do in the last re\ isal, that I shall soon reach the Odyssey, and soon want those books of it which are in thy possession ; but the two first of the Iliad, which are also in thy possession, much sooner: thou mayest, therefore, send them by the first fair opportunity. I am in high spirits on this subject, and think that I have at last licked the clumsy cub into a shape that will secure to it the favourable notice of the public. Let not — — retard me, and I shall hope to get it out next winter. I am glad that thou hast sent the General those verses on my mother's picture. They will amuse him ; only I hope that he will not miss my mother-in-law, and think that she ought to have made a third. On such an occasion it was not possible to mention her with any propriety. I rejoice at the General's recovery; may it prove a perfect one. W. C» LETTER CXXXm. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jijiril 30, 1790. To my eld friend, Dr. Madan, thou Gcuklst not have spoken better than thou didst. Tell him, I be- seech ycu, that I have not forgotten him ; tell him also, that to my heart and home he will be alw^ays welcome; nor he only, but all that are his. His judgment of my translation gave me the highest satisfaction, because I know him to be a rare old Gre- cian. The General's approlatien of my picture verses gave rae also LIFE OF COWPER. 50f much pleasure. I wrote them not without tears ; therefore I pre- sume it may Ije that they are felt by others. Should he offer me my father's picture, I shall gladly accept it. A melancholy plea- sure is better than none, nay, verily, better than most. He had a sad task imposed on him ; but no man could acquit himself of such a one with more discretion or witli more tenderness. The death of the unfortunate young man reminded me of those lines in Lycidas ; " It was that fatal and perfidious bark, " Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, " That sunk so low that sacred head of thine!" How beautiful! W. C. LETTER CXXXIV. To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. The Lodge^ May 10, ir90. My dear Mrs. Frog,* you have by this time, 1 presume, heard from the Doctor; whom I desired to pre- sent to you our best affections, and to tell you that we are well. He sent an urchin (I do not mean a hedge -hog, commonly called an urchin in old times, but a boy, commonly so called at present), expecting that he would find you at Buckland's, whither he sup- posed you gone on Thursday. He sent him charged with divers articles, and among others with letters, or at least with a letter j which I mention, that, if the boy should be lost, together with his dispatches, past all possibility of recovery, you may yet know that the Doctor stands acquitted of not writing. That he is utterly lost (that is to say, the boy — for, the Doctor being the last ante- cedent, as the grammarians say, you might otherwise suppose that he was intended) is the more probable, because he was never four miles from his home before, having only travelled at the side of a plough-team ; ;uid when the Doctor gave him his direction to Buck- land's, he asked, very naturally, if that place was in England. So, what has become of him. Heaven knows. I do not know that any adventures have presented themselves since your departure worth mentioning, except that the rabbit that infested your wilderness has been shot for devouring your carna- tions; and that I myself have been in some danger of being de- iioured, in like manner, by a great dog, viz. Pearson's. But I * The sponive title jeueially bestowed by Cowper on Iiis amiable fiieuils the Tl-.rockinor- tOili. VOL. I, EC 219 LIFE OF COWPER. wrote him a letter on Friday, (I mean a letter to Pearson, not to his dog, which I mention to prevent mistakes — for the said last antecedent might occasion them in this place also) informing him, that unless he tied up his great mastiff in the day-time, I would send him a worse thing, commonly called and known by the name of an attorne)-. When I go forth to ramble in the fields, I do not sally, like Don Quixote, with a purpose of encountering monsters, if any such can be found ; but am a peaceable, poor gentleman, and a poet, Avho means nobody any harm, the fox-hunters and the two universities of this land excepted. I cannot learn from any creature whether the turnpike bill is alive or dead : so ignorant am I, and by such ignoramuses sur- rounded. But if I know little else, this at least I know, that I love you and Mr. Frog; that I long for your return, and that I am, with Mi's. Unwin's best affections, ever yours, W. C» LETTER CXXXV. To Lady HESKETH. My dearest Coz. The Lodge, May 28, 1790. I thank tliee for the offer of thy best ser- vices on this occasion, but Heaven giuird my brows from the wreath you mention, whatever wreath beside may hereafter adorn them ! It would be a leaden extinguisher, clapped, on all the fire of my ge- nius, and I should never more produce a line worth reading. To speak seriously, it would make me miserable ; and therefore I am sure that thou, of all my friends, wouldst least wish me to wear it. Adieu, ever thine — in Homer — hurry. W. C« LETTER CXXXVL To Lady HESKETH. June 3, 1790; You will wonder when I tell you, that I, even I, am considered by people, who live at a great distance, as having interest and influence sufficient to procure a place at court for those who may happen to want one. I have, accordingly, beea applied to within these few days, by a Welchman, with a wife and many children, to get him made Poet-laureat as fast as possible. If thou wouldst wish to make the world merry twice a yeaE,:4hou canst not do better than procure the office for him. I will pro- mise thee, that he shall afford thee a hearty laugh \n return every e\ery birth-day, and every new-year. He is an honest nran. Adieu. W. C» LIFE OF COWPER. ^1 LETTER CXXXVII. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. Weston, June 7, 1790. My deap. John, You know my engagements, and are, con- sequently, able to account for my silence: I will not, therefore, waste time and paper in mentioning them, but will only say, that, added to tliose with which you are acquainted, I have had other hinderances, such as business, and a disorder of my spirits, to which I have been all my hfe subject. At present I am, thank God, perfectly well, both in mind and body. Of you I am always mindful, whether I write or not, and very desirous to see you. You will remember, I hope, that you are under engagements to us, and as soon as your Norfolk friends can spare you, will fulfil them. Give us all the time you can, and all that they can spare to us. You never pleased me more than when you told me you had abandoned your mathematical pursuits. It grieved me to think that you were wasting your time merely to gain a little Cambridge fame not worth your having. I cannot be contented that your re- nown should thrive no where but on the banks of the Cam. Con- ceive a nobler ambition, and never let your honour be circum- scribed by the paltry dimensions of an university. It is well that you have alread\-, as you observe, acquired sufficient information in that science to enalile you to pass creditably such examinations as, I suppose, you must hereafter undergo. Keep what you have gotten, and be content. More is needless. You could not api)ly to a worse than I am to ad\'ise you con- cerning your studies. I was never a regular student myself; but lost the most valuable years of my life in an attorney's office, and in the Temple. I will not, therefore, give myself airs, and affect to know what I know not. The affair is of great importance to you, and you should be directed in it by a wiser than I. To speak, however, in very general terms on the subject, it seems to me that your chief concern is with history, natural philosophy, logic, and divinity. As to metaphysics, I know little about them, Init the very little that I do know has not taught me to admire them. Life is too short to affi^rd time even for serious trifles: pursue what you know to be attainable, make truth your object, and \ our studies will make you a wise man. Let your divinity, if I may advise, be the divinity of the glorious reformation : I mean in contradistinction to Arminianism, and all the isms that were ever broached in this world of error and ignorance. The divinity of the reformation is called Calvinism, but injuri- Ifel LIFE OF COWPER. ously; it has been that of the church of Christ in all ages ; it i$ the divinity of St. Paul, and of St. Paul's master, who met him in his way to Damascus. I have written in great haste, that I might finish, if possible, be- fore breakfast. Adieu ; let us see you soon ; the sooner the better. Give my love to the silent lady,_ the Rose, and all my friends iaroimdyou. " W. C. LETTER CXXXVm. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. The Lodge^ June 8, 1790- My dear Friend, Among the many who love and esteem you, there is none who rejoices more in your felicity than myself: far from blaming, I commend ycu much for connecting yourself, j'oung as you are, with a well-chosen companion for life. Enter- ing on the state with uncontaminated morals, you have the best possible prospect of happiness, and will be secure against a thou- sand and ten thousand temptations to which, at an early period of life, in such a Babylon as you must necessarily inhabit, you would otherwise have been exposed. I see it too in the light you do, as likely to be advantageous to you in your profession. Men of busi- ness have a better opinion of a candidate for employment who is married, because he has given bond to the world, as you observe, and to himself, for diligence, industry, and attention. It is alto- gether, therefore, a subject of much congratulation, and mine (to which I add Mrs. Unwin's) is very sincere. Samson, at his marriage, proposed a riddle to the Philistines. I am no Samson, neither ai*e you a Philistine, yet expound to me the following, if 3'ou can : What are they wMch statid at a distance from each other.) and meet nvithout ever moving? Should you be so fortunate as to guess it, jou may propose it to the company when j^ou celebrate your nuptials, and if you can win thirty changes of raiment by it, as Samson did by his, let me tell you they will be no contemptible acquisition to a young beginner. You will not, I hope, forget your way to Weston in consequence flf your marriage, where you and yours will be always welcome. W. C, LIFE OF CO^^TER. ^^ LETTER CXXXIX. To Mrs. BODHAM. Weston, June 29, 3790. My df.arest Cousin, It is true tliat I did sometimes complain to Mrs. Unwin of your long silence, but it is likewise true that I made many excuses for you in my own mind, and did not feel my- self at all inclined to be angry, nor even much to wonder. Thei-e is an aukwardness and a difficulty in writing to those whom dis- tance and length of time have made in a manner new to us, that naturally give us a check when we would otherwise be glad to ad- dress them. But a time, I hope, is near at hand, when you and I shall be eflFectually delivered from all such constraints, and cor- respond as fluently as if our intercourse had suffered much less interruption. You must not suppose, my dear, that though I may be said to Kave lived many years with a pen in my hand, I am myself al- together at my ease on this tremendous occasion. Imagine, rather, and you will come nearer to the truth, that, when I placed this sheet before me, I asked myself more than once, " How shall I fill it?" One subject, indeed, presents itself, the pleasant prospect that opens upon me of our coming once m.ore together ; but that once exhausted, with what shall I proceed ? Thus I questioned myself; but finding neither end nor profit of such questions, I bravely resolved to dismiss them all at once, and to engage in the great enterprize of a letter to my quondam Rose at a venture. — There is great truth in a rant of Nat. Lee's, or of Dryden's, I know not which, who makes an enamoured youth say to his mis- tress, *' And nonsense shall be eloquence in love." For certain it is, that they who truly love one another arc not \cry nice examiners of each other's style or matter ; if an epistle comes, it is always welcome, though it be, perhaps, neither so wise nor so witty as one might have wished to make it. And now, my cousin, let me tell thee how much I feel myself obliged to Mr. Bodharp for the readiness he expresses to accept my invitation. Assure him that, stranger as he is to me at present, and natural as the dread of strangers has ever been to me, I shall yet receive him witli open arms, liecansc he is your husband, and loves you dearly. Tiiat consideration alone will endear him to me, and I dare say that I shall not find it his only recommend itiou to 2U LIFE OF COWPER; my best affections. May the health of his relation (his mother I Suppose) be soon restored, and long continued, and may nothing melancholy, of what kind soever, interfere to prevent our joyful meeting. Between the present moment and September, our house is clear for your reception, and you have nothing to do but to give us a day or two's notice of your coming. In September we expect Lady Hesketh, and I only regret that our house is not large enough to hold all together, for were it possible that you could meet, you would love each other. Mrs. Unwin bids me offer you her best love. She is never well, but always patient, and always cheerful, and feels beforehand, that she shall be loth to part with you. My love to all the dear Donnes of every name. Write soon, na matter about what. V^". C. LETTER CXL. To Lady HESKETH. July 7, ir9Q» Listead of beginning Avitli the saffi'on- vested morning to which Homer invites me, on a morning that hasi no saffron vest to boast, I shall begin with you. It is irksome to us both to wait so long as we must for you, but we are willing to hope that, by a longer stay, you will make us amends for all this tedious procrastination. Mrs. Unwin has made known her whole case to Mr. GregsoU) Avhose opinion of it has been very consolatoiy to me. He says, in- tleed, it is a case perfectly out of the reach of all physical aid, but at the same time not at all dangerous. Constant pain is a sad grievance, whatever part is affected, and she is hardly ever free from an aching head, as well as an uneasy side ; but patience is an anodyne of God's own preparation, and of that he gives her largely. The French, who, like all lively folks, are extreme in every thing, are such in tlieir zeal for freedom, and if it were possible to make so noble a cause ridiculous, their manner of promoting it could not fail to do so. Princes and peers reduced to plain gentle- manship, and gentles reduced to , a le^-el with their own lacqueys, are excesses of which they will repent hereafter. Difference of rank and subordination are, I I)clieve, of God's appointment, and, consequeutly, essential to the well-being of society: but what we mean by fanaticism in religion is exactly that which animates their politics, and unless time should sober them, they will, after all, be an unhappy people. Pei'haps it deserves not much to be wondered at, that, at tlieir first escape from tyrannic shackles, they should LIFE OF COWPER. 21S act extravagantly, and treat their kings as they have sometimes treated tlieir idols. To these, however, they are reconciled in due time again, but their respect for monarchy is at an end. Thejr want nothing now but a little English sobi'iety, and that they want extremely. I heartily wish them some wit in their anger, for it were great pity that so many millions should be miserable for wani of it. W. C. LETTER CXLL To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. Weston, July 8, \790, My dear Johnny, You do well to perfect yourself on the violin. Only beware that an amusement so very bewitching as music, especially when we produce it ourselves, do not steal Ironi you all those hours that should be given to study, I can be well content that it should serve you as a refreshment after severer ex- ercises, but not that it should engross you wholly. Your own good sense will most probably dictate to you this pi-ecaution, and I might have spared you tlie trouble of it, but I have a degree of zeal for your proficiency in more important pursuits, that would not suffer me to suppress it. Having delivered my conscience by giving you this sage admo- nition, I will convince you that I am a censor not over and above severe, by acknowledging, in the next place, that I have known very good performers on the violin, very learned also ; and my cousin, Dr. Spencer Madan, is an instance. I am delighted that you have engaged your sister to visit us ; for I say to myself, if John be amiable, what must Catharine be ? For we males, be we angelic as we may, are always surpassed by the ladies. But know this, that I shall not be in love with either of you, if you stay with us only a few days, for you talk of a week or so. — ^Correct this erratum, I beseech you, and convince us by a much longer continuance here that it was one. W. C. Mrs. Unwin has never been well since you saw her. You are not passionately fond of letter-writing, I perceive, who have drop- ped a lady; but you will be a loser by the bargain ; for one letter of hers, in point of real utility and sterling value, is worth twenty of mine, and you will never have anotlier from her till you ha\ c ■earned it. 2l4i LifE OF COWPEtt* LETTER CXLII. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. Weston, July 31, 1790, You have by this time, I presume, an- swered Lady Hesketh's letter : if not, answer it without delay ; iind this injunction I give you, judging that it may not be entirely unnecessary ; for though I have seen you but once, and only for two or three days, I have found out that you are a scatter-brain. I made the discovery, perhaps, the sooner, because in this you very much resemble myself, who, in the course of my life, have, through mere carelessness and inattention, lost many advantages. An insuperable shyness has also deprived me of many. And here again there is a resemblance between us. You will do well to guard against both, for of both, I believe, you have a consider- able share as well as myself. We long to see you again, and are only concerned at the short ^tay you propose to make with us. If time should seem to you as short at Weston as it seems to us, yovir visit here will be gone " as a dream when one awaketh, or as a watch in the night." It is a life of dreams, but the pleasantest one naturally wishes longest, I shall find employment for you, having made already some part of the fair copy of the Odyssey a foul one. I am revising it for the last time, and spare nothing that I can mend. The Iliad is finished. If you have Donne's Poems, bring them with you, for I have not seen them many years, and should like to look them over. You may treat us, too, if you please, with a little of your music, for I seldom hear any, and delight much in it. You need not fear a rival, for we have but two fiddles in the neighbourhood, one £V gardener's, the other a taylor's — terrible performers both ! W. C. LETTER CXLIIL To Mrs. BODHAM. Weston, Sept. 9, 1790. My dear Cousin, I am truly sorry to be forced, after all, to resii^i the hope of seeing you and Mr. Bodham at Weston this year; the next may possibly be more propitious, and I heartily wish it mav. Poor Catharine's unseasonable indisposition has also (ssostus a disappointment wliich we much x^egret ; an4 were it aot LIFE OF COWPER. 217 that Johnny has made shift to i-each us, we should think ourselves completely unfortunate. But him we have, and him we will hold as long as we can, so expect not very soon to see him in Norfolk. He is so harmless, cheerful, gentle, and good-tempered, and I am so entirely at my ease with him, that I cannot surrender him without a needs must, even to those who have a superior claim upon him. He left us yesterday morning, and whither do you think he has gone, and on what errand ? Gone, as sure as you are ali\ e, to London, and to convey my Homer to the bookseller's. But he will return the day after to-morrow, and I mean to part with him no more till necessity shall force us asunder. Suspect me not, my cousin, of being such a monster as to have imposed this task myself on your kind nephew, or even to have thought of doing it. It happened that, one day, as we chatted by the fire-side, I expressed a wish that I could hear of some trusty body going to London, to whose care I might consign my voluminous labours, the work of five years : for I purpose never to visit that city again myself, and should have been uneasy to have left a charge of so much importance to me, altogether to the care of a stage-coach- man. Johnny had no sooner heard my wish, than offering himself to the service, he fulfilled it; and his offer was made in such terms, and accompanied with a countenance and manner expressive of so much alacrity, that, unreasonable as I thought it at first to give him so much trouble, I soon found that I should mortify him by a refusal. He is gone, therefore, with a box full of poetry, of which I think nobody will plunder him. He has only to say what it is, and there is no commodity, I think, a frce-booter would covet less. W. C. LETTER CXLIV. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. T/ie Lodge, Se/U. 13, 1790. Your letter was paiticularly welcome to me, not only l^ccause it came after a long silence, but because it brought me good news — news of your marriage, and, consequently, I trust, of your happiness. May that happiness be durable as jour lives, and may you be the fellces ter et canjilius of whom Horace sings so sweetly ! This is my sincere wish, and, though expressed iu prose, shall serve as your epithalamium. You com- fort me when you say that your marriage will not deprive us of the sight of you hereafter. If you do not wish that I should re- gret your union, you must make that assurance good as often as you have opportunity. VOL. I. F f 218 LIFE OF COWPER. After perpetual versification during five years, I find myself at last a vacant man, and reduced to read for my amusement. My Homer is gone to the press, and you will imagine that I feel a void in consequence. The proofs, however, will be coming soon, and I shall avail myself, with all my force, of this last opportunity to make my work as perfect as I wish it. I shall not, therefore, be long time destitute of employment, but sliall have sufficient to keep me occupied all the winter, and part of the ensuing spr'ng, for Johnson purposes to publish either in March, April, or May. My very preface is finished. It did not cost me much trouble,, being neither long nor learned. I have spoken my mind as freely as decency would permit on the subject of Pope's version, allowing, him, at the same time, all the merit to which I think him en- titled. I have given my reasons for translating in blank verse, and hold some discourse on the mechanism of it, chiefly with a view to obviate the prejudices of some people against it. I expa- tiate a little on the manner in which I think Homer ought to be rendered, and in which I have endeavoured to render him myself, and anticipated two or three cavils to which I foresee that I shall be liable from the ignorant or uncandid, in order, if possible, to prevent them. These are the chief heads of my preface, and. the whole consists of about twelve pages. It is possible, when I come to treat with Johnson about the copy, I may want some person to negociate for me, and knowing no one so intelligent as yourself in books, or so well qualified to estimate their just value, I shall beg leave to resort to and rely on you as my negociator. But I will not trouble you unless I should see oc- casion. My cousin was the bearer of my MSS. to London. He went on purpose, and returns to-morrow. Mrs. Unwin's afi^ec- tionate felicitations, added to my omi, conclude me, dear friend, sincerely yours, ^V. C. The trees of a colonade will solve my riddle. LETTER CXLV. To Mrs. BODIL\M. WestoJi, JVov, 21, ir90. My dear Coz. Our kindness to your nephew is no more than he must entitle himself to wherever he goes. His amiable disposition and manners will never fail to secure him a warnx place in the affections of all who know him. The advice I gave respecting his poem on Audley End was dictated by my love of him, and a sincere desire of his success. It is one thing to. ■write what may please our friends, wlio, because they are such^ LIFE OF COWPER. 219 sire apl to be a little biassed in our favour ; and another to write Tf'hat may please every body : because they who have no connec- tion, or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they can. My advice, however salutary and necessary, as it seemed to me, was such as I dare not have given to a poet of less diffidence than he. Poets are to a proverb irritable, and he is the >.!ily one I ever knew who seems to have no spark of that fire about him. He has left us about a fortnight, and sorry we Avere to lose him ; but had he been my son he must have gone, and I could not have regi-etted him more. If his sister be still with you, pre- sent my love to her, and tell her how much I wish to see them at Weston together. Mrs. Hewitt probably remembers more of my childliood than I can recollect cither of hers or my own ; but this I recollect, that the days of that period were happy days, compared with most I have seen since. There are few, perliaps, in the world, who have not cause to look l^ack with regret on the days of infancy ; yet, to say the truth, I suspect some deception in this: for infancy itself has its cares, and though we cannot now conceive how trifles could affect us much, it is certain that they did. Trifles they appear jiow, but such they were not then, W. C. LETTER CXLVL To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. My Birth-Day. Friday i .A'bf. 26, 17'90. My dearest Johnny, I am happy that you have escaped from the claws of Euclid into the bosom of Justinian. It is useful, I suppose, to every man to be well grounded in the principles of jurisprudence, and I take it to l>e a branch of science that bids much fairer to enlarge the mind, and give an accuracy of i-ea- soning, than all the mathematics in the world. Mind your studies, and you will soon be wiser than I can hope to be. Wc had a visit on Monday from one of the first Avomen in the ■world — in point of character I mean, and accomplishments — the Dowager Lady Spencer! I may receive, perhaps, some honours hereafter, should my translation speed accoi'ding to my wishes, and the pains I have taken with it ; but shall never receive any that I shall esteem so highly. She is, indeed, worthy to whon) I should dedicate, aiid may but my Odyssey prove as worthy of her, I shall have nothing to fear from the critics. Yours, my dear Johnny, witli much affection, \^'. C. 22» LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER CXLVIL To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. My dear Friend, Weston^ M)V. 30, irSO. I will confess that I thought your letter* somewhat tardy, though, at the same time, I made every excuse for you, except, as it seems, the right. That^ indeed, was out of the reach of all possible conjecture. I could not guess that your si- lence was occasioned by your being occupied with either thieves or thief-takers. Since, however, the cause was such, I i*ejoicc that your labours were not in vain, and that the free-booters who had plundered your friend are safe in limbo. I admire, too, as much as I rejoice in your success, the indefatigable spirit that prompted you to pursue, with such unremitting perseverance, an object not to be reached but at the expense of infinite trouble, and that must have led you into an acquaintance with scenes and cha- racters the most horrible to a mind like yours. I see in this con- duct the zeal and firmness of your friendship, to whomsoever pro- fessed ; and though I wanted not a proof of it myself, contemplate so unequivocal an indication of what you really are, and of what I always believed you to be, with much pleasure. May you rise from the condition of an humble prosecutor, or witness, to the bench of judgment. When your letter arrived, it found me with the worst and most obstinate cold that I ever caught. This was one reason why it had not a speedier answer. Another is, that, except Tuesday morning, there is none in the week in which I am not engaged in the last revisal of my translation ; the revisal, I mean, of my proof-sheets. To this business I give myself with an assiduity and iittcntion truly admir?J)Ie; and set an example which, if other poets could be apprized of, they would do well to follow. Mis.- carriages in authorship, I am persuaded, are as often to be as- cribed to want of pains-taking as to want of ability. Lady Hesketh, Mrs. Unwin and myself often mention you, and always in terms that, though you would blush to hear them, you need not be ashamed of: at the same time wishing m.uch that you could change our trio into a quartetto. W, C. LETTER CXLMIL To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. Weston^ Bee. IS, 1/90. I perceive myself so flattered by the in- stances of illustrious success mentioned in your letter, that I feel all the amiable mGdeKt_v, for which I was once so famous, sensibly giving -svay to a spirit of vain-glc/ry. LIFE OF COWPER. 221 The Kinn-'s College sul^scription makes mc proiuT. The effect t^iat my verses have had on your two young friends, the mathe- maticians, makes me proud, and I am, if possible, prouder siill of the contents of the letter that you enclosed. You complained of being stupid, and sent mc one of the cle- verest letters. I have not complained of being stupid, and have sent vou one of the dullest. But it is no matter; I never aim at any thing above tlie pitch of every day's scribble, when I write to those I love. Homer proceeds, my boy — We shall get through it in time, and I hope ijy the time appointed. We are now in the tenth Iliad. I expect the ladies every minute to breakfast. You have their best love. Mine attends the whole army of Donnes at Mattishall Green assembled. How happy should I find myself were I but one of the party ! My capering days are over, but do you caper for me, that you may give them some idea of the happiness 1 should feel verc I in the midst of them. W. C. LETTER CXLIX. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. Weston, Jan. 21, 1791. I know that you have already been ca- techized by Lady Hesketh on the subject of your return hither before the winter shall be over, and shall therefore only say, that if you can come, we shall be happy to receive j'ou. Remember also, that nothing can excuse the non-performance of a promise but absolute necessity. In the mean time, my faith in your veracity is such, that I am persuaded you will suffer nothing less than ne- cessity to prevent it. Were you not extremely pleasant to us, and just the sort of youth that suits us, we should neither of us have said half so much, or perhaps a word on the subject. Yours, my dear Johnny, are vagaries that I hhall never see prac- tised by any other, and whether you slap your ancle, or reel as if you were fuddled, or dance in the path before me, all is charrxter- istic of yourself, and therefore to me delightful. I have hinted to you, indeed, sometimes, that you should be cautious of indulging antic halnts and singularities of all sorts, and yf ung men in general have need enough of such admonition ; but yours are a sort of fairy habits, such as might belong to Puck or Rol)in Cioodfellow ; and, therefore, good as the ad\ ice is, I should be half sorry should you take it. This allowance, at least, I give you. Continue to take your Avalks, if walks they may be called, exactly in their pre; cut fa- shion, till ycu have taken ordcri:. Then, indeed, for as nuich as 222 LIFE OF COWPER. a skipping, curvetting, bounding divine might be a spectacle not altogether seemly, I shall consent to your adoption of a more grave demeanour. W. C. LETTER CL. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. My dear Friend, The Lodge, Feb. S, 1791, My letters to you are all either peti- tionary, or in the style of ackowledgments and thanks, and such nearly in an alternate order. In my last I loaded you with com- jnissions, for the due discharge of which I am now to say, and say truly, how much I feel myself obliged to you. Neither can I stop there, but must thank you likewise for new honours from Scotland, "which have left me nothing to Avish for from that countiy, for my list is now, I believe, graced with the subscription of all its learned bodies. I regret only that some of them arrived too late to dc> honour to my present publication of names ; but there are those among them, and from Scotland too, that may give an useful hint, perhaps, to our own universities. Your very handsome present of Pope's Homer has arrived safe, notwithstanding an accident that befell him by the way. The hall-servant brought the parcel from Olney, resting it on the pommel of the saddle, and his horse fell vith him : Pope was, in consequence, rolled in the dirt, but being Avell coated got no damage. If augurs and soothsayers were not out of fashion, I should have consulted one or two of that order, in Jiope of learning from them that this fall was ominous. I have found a place for him in the parlour, where he makes a splendid appearance, and where he shall not long want a neighbour; one who, if less popular than himself, shall at least look as big as he. How has it happened, that since Pope did certainly dedicate both Iliad and Odyssey, no dedication is found in this first edition of them? ' W. C. lettp:r cli. To Lady HESKETH. Feb. 13, ir91. I can now send you a full and true ac- count of this business : having learned that your inn at Woburn T»'as the George, we sent Samuel thither yesterday. Mr. Martin, master of the George, told him *************,■!■ W. C. + Note hy the Editor. — This letter comniiied the history of a servant's cruelty to a post- horse, which a reader of humanity couKl not wish to sec in print. But the postscript de- scribes so pleasantly the s'gnal influence of a poet's repiit^ition on the spirit of a liberal inn- keeper, that it surely ought not to be suppressed. LIFE OF COWPER. 225 P. S. I cannot help adding a circumstance that will divert you. Martin having learned from Sam whose servant he was, told i\im that he had never seen Mr. Cowper, but he had heard him fre- quently spoken of by the companies that had called at his house ; and therefore, when Sam would have paid for his breakfast, would take nothing from him. Who says that fame is only empty breath ? On the contrary, it is good ale and cold beef into the bargain LETTER CLIL To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. Feb. 27, 179I, Now, my dearest Johnny, I must tell thee, in few words, how much I love and am obliged to thee for thy af- fectionate services. My Cambridge honours are all to be ascribed to you, and to you only. Yet you are but a little man, and a little man into the bar- gain, who have kicked the mathematics, their idol, out of your study. So important are the endings which Providence frequently connects with small beginnings. Had you been here, I could have furnished you with much employment, for I have so dealt with your fair MSS. in the course of mj' polishing and improving, that I have almost blotted out the whole: such, however, as it is, I must now send it to the printer, and he must be content with it, for there is not time to make a frcyh copy. We are now printing the second book of the Odyssey. Should the Oxonians bestow none of their notice on me on this occasion, it will happen singularly enough, that as Pope received all his university honours, in the sixbscription way, from Oxford, and none at all from Cambridge, so I shall have received all mine from Cambridge, and none from Oxford. This is the more likely to be the case, because I understand, that on whatsoever occasion either of those learned bodies thinks fit to move, the other alwa}"s makes it a point to sit still — thus proving its superiority. I shall send up your letter to Lady Hesketh in a day or two, knowing that the intelligence contained in it will afford her the greatest pleasure. Know, likewise, for your own gratification, that all the Scotch universities have subscribed, none excepted. We are all as well as usual; that is to sa}-, as well as reasonable folks expect to be on the crazy side of this frail existence. I rejoice that we shall so soon have you ag.iia at cur fire -side. W. C. 224 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER CLIIL To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. Weston, March 6, 1?91, After all this plougliing and sowing on the plains of Troy, once fruitful, such at ieabt to my translating predecessor, some harvest, I hope, will arise for me also. My long work has received its last, last touches; and I am now giving my preface its final adjustment. We are in the fourth Odyssey in the course of our printing, and I expect that I and the swallows shall appear together : they have slept all the winter, but I, on the contrary, have been extremely busy ; yet if I can " Viriun uoli- tare ficr ora" as swiftly as they through the air, I shall account myself well requited. W. C. LETTER CLIV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. March 10, 179U Give my aifectionate remembrances to your sisters, and tell them I am impatient to entertain them with my old story new dressed. I have two French prints hanging in my study, both on Iliad subjects; and I have an English one in the parlour, on a subject from the same poem. In one of the former, Agamemnon addresses Achilles exactly in the attitude of a dancing-master turning Miss in a minuet: in the latter, the figures are plain, and the altitudes plain also. This is, in some considerable measure, I believe, the difference between my translation and Pope's ; and will serve as an exemplification of what I am going to lay before you, and the public. ^^'« C. LETTER CLV. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. My dearest Johnny, Weston, March 19, 1791. You ask if it may not be improper to solicit Lady Hesketh's subscription to the poems of the Norwich maiden? To which I reply, it will be by no means improper: on the contrary, I am persuaded that she will give her name with a veiy good will, for she is much an admirer of poesy that is worthy to be admired ; and such I think, judging by the specimen, the ])ocsy of this maiden, Elizabeth Bentley, of Norwich, is likely to prove. Not that I am myself inclined to expect, in general, great mat- ters in the poetical way from persons whose ill fortune it has been to want the common advantages of education j neither do I account LIFE OF COWPER, 225 it, in general, a kindness to such to encourage them in the indul- gence of a propensity more likely to do tlieni harm, in the end, than to advance their interest. Many such phenomena have arisen within my remembrance, at which all the worid has wondered for a season, and has then forgot them. The fact is, that though strong natural genius is always accom- panied with strong natural tendency to its object, yet it often hap- peis that the tendency is found where the genius is wanting. In the present instance, however, (the poems of a certain Mrs. Lea- por excepted, who published some forty years ago) I discern, I tiiink, more marks of a true poetical talent than I rememi^er to have observed in the verses of any other male or female so dis- advantageously circumstanced. I wi^h her, tlierefcre, good speed, and subscribe to lier a\ ith all my heart. You will rejoice when I tell you that I have some hopes, after" all, of a harvest fi'om Oxford also : Mr. Throckmorton has writ- ten to a person of considerable influence there, which he has de- sired him to exert in my favour, and his request, I should imagine, will hardly prove a vain one. Adieu. W, C. LETTER CLVI. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. My dear Friend, IVesto?!, March 24, 1791, You apologize for your silence in a manner which affords me so much pleasure that I cannot but be satisfied. Let business be the cause, and I am contented. That is a cause to which I would even be accessary myself, and would increase yours by any means, except by a law-suit of my own, at the ex- pense of all your opportunities of writing oftener than thrice in a twelvemonth. Your application to Dr. Dunbar reminds me of two lines to be found some where in Dr. Young — " And now a poet's gratitude you see, " Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for tlircc." In this particidar, therefore, I perceive that a poet and a poet's friend bear a striking resemblance to each other. The Doctor will bless himself that the number of Scotch universities is not larger, assured that, if they equalled those in England in num'oer of ccUeges, you would give him no rest till he had engaged them all. It is true, as Lady Hesketh told you, that I shall not fear, in the matter of subscriptions, a comparison even Avith Pope himself. Considering, I mean, that we live in days of terrible taxation, and when verse, not being a necessary of life, is accounted dear, be it VOL. I. G g 226 LIFE OF COWPER. what It maj-, even at the lowest price. I am no very good arith- metician, yet I calculated the other day in my morning walk, that my two volumes, at the price of three guineas, will cost the pur- chaser less than the seventh part of a farthing per line. Yet there are lines among them that have cost me the labour of hours, and none that have not cost me some labour. W. C. LETTER CLVn. To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. My dear Mrs. Frog, a word or two be- fore breakfast, which is all that I shall have time to send you. You have not, I hope, forgot to tell Mr. Frog how much I am obliged to him for his kind, though unsuccessflil attempt in my fa- vour at Oxford. It seems not a little extraordinary, that persons so nobly patronized themselves, on the score of literature, should resolve to give no encouragement to it in return. Should I find a fair opportunity to thank them hereafter, I will not neglect it. Could Homer come himself, distress'd and pool-, And tune his hai-p at Rhedicina's door, Tlie rich old vixen would exclaim, I fear, " Begone I no trampler gets a farthing here^" I have read your husband's pamphlet through and through. You may think, perhaps, and so may he, that a question so remote from all concern of mine could not interest me ; but if you think so, you are both mistaken. He can write nothing that will not in- terest me ; in the first place for the writer's sake, and in the next place, because he v/rites better and reasons better tlian any body ; with more candour, and with more sufficiency ; and, consequently, with more satisfaction to all his readers, save only his opponents* Tliey, I think, by this time, wish that they had let him alone. Tom is delighted past measure with his wooden nag, and gallops at a rate that would kill any horse that had a life to lose. W. C. LETTER CLVIIL To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. My DEAR JoHNNi', lVesto?7, JfirilS^ 1791, A thousand thanks for your splendid as- semblage of Cambridge luminaries. If you are not contented with your collection, it can only be because you are unreasonable ; for I, who may be supposed more covetous on this occasion than anybody, am highly satisfied, and even delighted with it. If, in- LIFE OF CO\WER. 22t deed, you should find it practicable to add still to tlie number, I liavc not the least objection ; but tliis charge I give you. Stay not an hour beyond the time you have mentioned, even though you should be al)!e to add a thousand names by doing so ; for I cannot afford to purchase them at that cost. I long to see }ou, and so do we both, and will not suffer you to postpone your visit for any such consideration. No, my dear boy, in the affair of subscriptions we are already illustrious enough ; shall be so at least when you shall have enlisted a college or two moi'e, which, per- haps, you may be able to do in the course of the ensuing week. I feel myself much obliged to your university, and much disposed to admire the liberality of spirit they have shown on this occasion. Certainly I had not deserved much favour of their hands, all things considered; but the cause of literature seems to have some weight ■with them, and to have superseded the resentment they might be supposed to entertain on the score of certain censures that you wot of. It is not so at Oxford. W. C. LETTER CLIX. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. A/iril 29, 1791. I forget if I told you that Mr. Throck- morton had applied, through the medium of , to the university of Oxford. He did so, but without success. Their answer was, *' that they subscribe to nothing." Pope's subscriptions did not amount, I think, to six hundred ; and mine will not fall very far short of five. Noble doings, at a time of day wlien Homer has no news to tell us, and when all other comforts of life having risen in price, poetry has of course fallen, I call it a " comfort of life:" it is so to others, but to myself it is become even a necessary. These holiday times are very unfavouralile to the printer's pro- gress. He and all his demons are making themselves mei'ry, and me sad, for I mourn at every hinderance. W. C. LETTER CLX. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. M Y D F. A R E s T J 0 H N N Y, Westou, May 23, 179U Did I not know that you are never more in your element than when you are exerting yourself in my cause, I shoidd congratulate you on the hope there seems to be that your labour will soon have an end. 22S LIFE OF COWPER. "¥"ou will wonder, perhaps, my Johnny, that Mrs. Unwin, by luy desire, enjoined you to secrecy concerning the translation of the Frogs and Mice. Wonderful it may well seem to you, that I should wish to hide, for a short time, from a few, what I am just going to publish to all. But I had more reasons than one for this myste- rious management ; that is to say, I had two. In the first place, I wished to surprise my readers agreeably ; and, secondly, I wished to allow none of my friends an opportunity to object to the mea- sure, who might think it, perhaps, a measure more bountiful than prudent. But I have had my sufficient reward, though not a pecuniary one. It is a poem of much humour, and accordingly I found the translation of it very amusing. It struck me too, that I must either make it part of the present publication, or never pub- lish it at all ; it would have been so terribly out of its place in any other volume. I long for the time that shall bring you once more to \\^eston, and all your et cet era's with you. Oh! what a month of May has this been 1 Let never poet, English poet at least, give himself to the praises of May again, W. Cj THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. Two Nymphs, both nearly of an age, Of numerous charms possess'd, A Avarm dispute once chanc'd to wage, Wliose temper was the best. The worth of each had been complete, Had both alike been mild ; But one, although her smile was sweet, Frown'd oft'ner than she smil'd. And in her humour, when she frown'd, Would raise her voice and roar, And shake with fury, to the ground, The garland that she wore. The other was of gentler cast. From all such frenzy clear; Her frowns were seldom knov/n to last, And never prov'd severe. To poets of renown in song. The Nymphs referr'd the cause, Who, strange to tell, all judg"d it wrong, And gave misplac'd applause. LIFE OF COWPER. 229 They gentle call'd, and kind, and soft, * The flippant and the scold; And though she chang'd her mood so oft, That failing left untold. No judges, sure, were e'er so mad, Or so resolv'd to err ; In short, the charms her sister had They lavish'd all on her. Then thus the God, wliom fondl}' they Their great inspirer call, Was heard, one genial summer's day, To reprimand them all. " Since thus ye have combin'd," he said, " My fav'rite Nymph to slight, " Adorning May, that peevish maid, " With June's undoubted right ; " The Minx shall, for your folly's sake, " Still prove herself a shi-ew^ ; '* Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, " And pinch your noses blue," LETTER CLXI. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. My dear Friend, The Lodge, June 15, 1791. If it will afford you any comfort that you have a share in my affections, of that comfort you may avail your- self at all times. You have acquired it by means which, unless I Uiould become worthless myself, to an uncommon degree, will al- •ways secure you from the loss of it. You are learning what all learn, though few at so early an age, that man is an ungrateful animal; and that benefits too often, instead of securing a due re- turn, operate rather as provocations to ill-treatment. This I take to be the summum malum of the human heart. Towards God we are all guilty of it, more or less ; but between man and man, we may thank God for it, there are some exceptions. He leaves this jK'Ccant jjrinciple to operate, in some degree against himself, in all, for our humiliation I suppose; and because the pernici^ms ef- fects of it cannot, in reality, injure him ; he cannot suffer by them ; but he knows, that unless he should restrain its influence on the ckalings of mankind with each other, the bonds of society would be dissolved, and all charitable intercourse at an end amonjst us. 230 LIFE OF COWPER. It was said of Archbishop Cranmer, " Do him an ill turn, and you make him your friend for ever:" of others it may be said, " Do them a good one, and they will be for ever your enemies." It is the grace of God only that makes the difference. The absence of Homer (for we have now shaken hands and parted) is well supplied by three relations of mine from Norfolk — . my cousin Johnson, an aunt of his, and his sister. I love them all dearly, and am well contented to resign to them the place in my at- tentions so lately occupied by the chiefs of Greece and Troy. His aunt and I have spent many a merry day together, when we were some forty years younger; and we make shift to be merry together still. His sister is a sweet young woman, graceful, good-natured, and gentle, just what I had imagined her to be before I had seen her. Farewell! VV. C. The occurrences related in the series of letters that I have just imparted to my reader, have now brought me to the close of the second period in my work. As I contemplated the life of my friend, it seemed to display itself in three obvious divisions; the first end- ing with the remarkp.blc xra when he burst forth on the world, as a poet, in his fiftieth year ; on which occasion we may apply to him the lively compliment of Waller to Denham, and say, with superior truth, " He burst out like the Irish rebellion, three score thousand strong, when nobody was aware, or in the least suspected it." The second division may conclude with the publication of his Homer; comprizing the incidents often splendid and fruitful years, that may be regarded as the meridian of his poetical careei-. The subsequent pei-iod extends to that awful event which terminates every laljour of the poet and the man. We have seen, in many of the preceding letters, with what ar- dour of application and liveliness of hope he devoted himself to his favourite project of enriching the literature of his country Avith an English Homer, that inight be justly esteemed as a faithful, yet free translation ; a genuine and graceful representative of the justly idolized original. After five years of intense and affectionate labour, in which no- thing could withhold him from his interesting work, except that oppressive and cruel malady which suspended his powers of ap- plication for several months, he puljlished his complete version in two quarto volumes, on the first of July, 1791 ; having inscribed the Iliad to his young noble kinsman, Eai'l Co\vper, and the Odyssey to the Dowager Countess Spencer, a lady for whose virtues he had long entertained a most cordial and affectionate veneration. LIFE OF COWPER. 231 The accomplished translator had exerted no common powers of genius and of industry to satisfy both himself and the world; yet, in his first edition of this long-laboured work, he afforded complete satisfaction to neither, and I believe for this reason : Homer is so exquisitely beautiful in his own language, and he has been so long an idol in every literary mind, that any copy of him, which the best of modern poets can execute, must probably resemble, in its effect, the portrait of a graceful woman, painted by an excellent artist for her lover: the lover, indeed, will acknowledge great merit in the work, and think himself much indebted to the skill of such an artist ; but he will never acknowledge, as in truth he never can feel, that the best of resemblances exhibits all the grace that he discerns in the beloved original. So fares it Avith the admirers of Homer ; his very translators themselves feel so perfectly the power of this predominant aflFec- tion, that they gradually grow discontented with their own labour, however approved in the moment of its supposed completion. This was so remarkably the case with Cowper, that, in process of time, we shall see him employed upon v.'hat may almost be called his second translation ; so great were the alterations he made in a deliberate revisal of his work for a second edition. And in the preface which he prepared for that edition, he has spoken of his own labour with the most frank and ingenuous veracity. Yet of the first edition it may, I think, be fairly said, that it accomplished more than any of his poetical predecessors had achieved before him. It made the nearest approach to that sweet majestic simpli- city which forms one of the most attractive features in the great prince and father of poets. Cowper, in reading Pope's Homer to Lady Austen and Mrs. Unwin, had frequently expressed a wish, and an expectation of seeing the simplicity of the ancient Bard more faithfully preserved in a new English version. Lady Austen, with a kind severit}", reproved him for expecting from others what he, of all men living, was best qualified to accomplish himself; and her solicitations on the sul:)ject excited him to the arduous undertaking; though it seems not to have been actually begun till after her departure from Oh.ey. If he was not at first completely successful in this long and mighty work, the continual and voluntaiy application with which he pursued it, was to himself a blessing of the utmost importance. In those admirable admonitions to men of a poetical tempera- ment, with which Di-. Currie has closed his instructive and pleas- ing " Life of Burns," that accomplished physician has justly pointed to a regular and constant occupation, as the true remedy ^ 232 LIFE OF COWPER. for an inordinate sensibility, which may prove so perilous aH enemy to the peace and happine ;s of a poet. His remark appears to be particularly verified in the striking, and, I may say, medicinal influence, which a daily attachment of his thoughts to Himer pro- duced, for a long time, on the tender spirits of my friend ; an in- fluence sufficiently proved by his frequent declarations, that he should be sorry to find himself at the end of his labour. The work was certainly beneficial to his health ; it contributed a little to his fortune ; and ultimately, I am persuaded, it will redound to his fame in a much higher degree than it has hitherto done. Time will probably prove, that if it is not a perfect representation of Homer, it is at least such a copy of the matchless original, as no modern writer can surpass in the two essential articles of fidelity and freedom. I must not omit to observe one more advantage vfhich Cowper derived from this extensive labour, for it is an advantage which reflects great honour on his sensibility as a man : I mean a constant flow of affectionate pleasure that he felt in the many kind offices which he received, from several friends, in the course of this la- borious occupation. I cannot more clearly illustrate his feelings on this subject, than bv introducing a passage from one of his letters to his most assi-* duous and affectionate amanuensis, his young kinsman of Norfolk. It breathes all the tender moral spirit of Co-\vper, and shall, there-, fore, close the second division of my work. Weston, June 1, 1791. My dearest Johnny, Now you may rest — now I can give you joy of the period of which I gave you hope in my last ; the period of all your labours in my service. But this I can foretel you also, that if you persevere in serving your friends at this rate, your life is likely to be a life of labour : Yet persevere; your rest will be the sweeter hereafter. In the mean time I wish you, if at any time you should find occasion for him, just such a friend as you have proved to me. W. C» END OF THE SECOND PART, AND OF THE FIRST VOLUME, THE LIFE POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS WILLIAM COJVPER, Esq. V THE LIFE AND POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. WITH AN INTRODUCTORY LETTER TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EARL COWPER. ^ BY WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. " Obversatur ociilis ille vir, quo neminem xtas nostra gravlorem, sanc- " tiorem, subtiliorem denique tulit : quern ego quum ex admiratione diii- " gere coepissem, quod evenire contra solet, magis admiratus sum, post- " quam penitus inspexi. Inspexi enim penitus : nihil a me ille secretum, " nonjoculare, non serium, non triste, non Izetum." Plinii Epist. Lib. iv. Ep. \7. VOL. IL NEW -YORK: PRINTED AND SOLD BY T. AND J. SWORDS, No. 160 Pearl-Street. 1803. CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. J- HE Life, Part the Third — Cowper is solicited to engage in a splendid Edition of Milton — acquiesces in the Proposal — Origin of his Intimacy with his present Biographer — his Friendship for the late Professor of Poetry, the Rev. James Hurdis, 1 to 4. Letter 1 To tlie Rev. Mr. Hurdis March 6, 1791 4 2 To the same June 13, 1791 5 3 To the same Aug. 9, 1791 6 4 To John Johnson, Esq. Aug. 9, 1791 8 5 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Sept. 14, 1791 ib. 6 To John Johnson, Esq. Oct. 31, 1791 9 7 To Joseph Hill, Esq. Nov. 14, 1791 10 8 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis Dec. 10, 1791 ib. 9 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Dec. 21, 1791 11 10 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis Feb. 21, 1792 12 11 To the same March 2, 1792 13 12 To John Johnson, E.sq. March 11, 1792 ib. Verses to the Nigh 13 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis 14 To Lady Hesketh 15 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 16 To the same 17 To William Hay ley, Esq. 18 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis 19 To Lady Throcl;morton Sonnet to William Wiiberforce, Esq. page 21. 20 To Lady Hesketh May 5, 1792 21 To John Johnson, Esq. May 20, 1792 The Author's Visit to Weston, 24. Sonnet to Mrs. Unv/in, by Cowper, 24, Her severe Illness and gradual Recovery, 25, 26. Letter 22 To Lady Hesketh May 24, 1792 26 23 To the same May 26, 1792 27 Verses to the late Dr. Austen, of Cecil-street, page 23. March 6, 1791 June 13, 1791 Aug. 9, 1791 Aug. 9, 1791 Sept. 14, 1791 Oct. 31, 1791 Nov. 14, 1791 Dec. 10, 1791 Dec. 21, 1791 Feb. 21, 1792 March 2, 1792 March 11, 1792 le, page 14 March 23, 1792 March 25, 1792 March 30, 1792 April 5, 1792 April 6, 1792 April 8, 1792 April 16, 1752 Letter 24 To Mrs. Bodham June 4, 1792 25 To William Hayley, Esq. June ^1 1792 26 To the same June 5, 1792 27 To the same June 7, 1792 es To the same June 10, 1792 28 29 ib. 30 31 vl CONTENTS. Verses to Dr. Darwin, Author of the Botanic Garden, pa^e 32. Letter 29 To William Haylev, Esq. June 19, 1792 Page 33 30 To the same, enclosing Catha- rina, 2d Part, a Poem June 27, 1792 ib. 31 To the same July 4, 1792 35 32 To the same July 15, 1792 36 33 To the same July 23, 1792 37 34 To the same July 29, 1792 3» Cowjier's Visit to Eartham, page 3 ;9. Letter 35 To the Rev. Mr. Greatheed Aug. 6, 1792 40 36 To Mrs. Courteney Aug. 12, 1792 41 27 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Aug. 14, 1792 42 38 To the same Aug. 18, 1792 4S 39 To Mrs. Courteney Aug. 25, 1792 ib. 40 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis Aug. 26, 1792 44 41 To Lady Hesketh Aug. 26, 1792 45 42 To the same Sept. 9, 1792 47 Cowper's Departure from Earthan^ 1, page 48. Letter 43 To William Hayley, Esq. Sept. 18, 1792 48 44 To the same Sept. 21, 1792 49 45 To the same Oct. 2, 1792 50 46 To the same' Oct. 13, 1792 51 47 To John Johnson, Esq. Oct. 19, 1792 52 48 To the same Oct. 22, 1792 ib. 49 To William Hayley, Esq. en - closing a Sonnet to Romney Oct. 28, 1792 5:i 50 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Nov. 9, 1792 54 51 To John Johnson, Esq. Nov. 20, 1792 55 52 To William Hayley, Esq. Nov. 22, 1792 56 5i To Joseph Hill, Esq. Dec. 16, 1792 ib. 54 To William Hayley, Esq. Dec. 26, 1792 58 55 To the same Jan. 20, 1793 ib. 56 To the same Jan. 29, 1793 59 57 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Feb. 5, 1793 60 58 To Lady Hesketh Feb. 10, 1793 ib. 59 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Feb. 17, 1793 61 60 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis Feb. 23, 1793 62 61 To William Hayley, Esq. Feb. 24, 1793 m 62 To Mr. Thomas Hayley March 14, 1793 64 63 To William Hayley, Esq. March 19, 1793 66 64 To Samuel Rose, Esq. March 27, 1793 67 65 To John Johnson, Esq. April 11, 1793 68 66 To William Hayley, Esq. April 23, 1793 ib. 67 To Samuel Rose, Esq. May 5, 1793 69 68 To Lady Hesketh May 7, 1793 70 69 To William Hayley, Esq. May 21, 1793 71 T€ To Lady Hesketh June 1, 1793 72 CONTENTS. vii Letter I'l To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis June 6, 1793 Page 73 72 To William Hayley, Esq. June 20, 1793 ib. 73 To the same July 7, 1793 75 74 To the Rev. Mr. Greatheed July 23, 1793 76 75 To "W^illiam Hayley. Esq. July 24, 1793 77 76 To Lady Hesketh Aug. 11, 1793 78 77 To William Hayley, Esq. Aug. 15, 1793 79 78 To Mrs. Courteney, Aug. 20, 1793 80 79 To Samuel Rose, Esq. Aug. 22, 1793 81 80 To AVilliam Hayley, Esq. Aug. 27, 1793 ib. 81 To Lady Hesketh Aug. 29, 1793 83 82 To the Rev. Mr. Johnson Sept. 6, 1793 ib. 83 To William Hayley, Esq. Sept. 8, 1793 85 84 To Mrs. Courteney Sept. 16, 1793 ib. 85 To the Rev. Mr. Johnson Sept. 29, 1793 86 86 To William Hayley, Esq. Oct. 5, 1793 87 87 To the same Oct. 18, 1793 88 The Author's second Visit to Weston — other Guests of Cowper, his Kinsman Mr. Johnson, and Mr. Rose; the latter commissioned by Lord Spencer to invite Cowper and all his Guests to Althorpe — the State of Mrs. Unwin's Health induces him to decline the Invitation, page 89. Letter 88 To Mrs. Courteney 89 To Jeseph Hill, Esq. 90 To the Rev. Mr. Hurdis 91 To Samuel Rose, Esq. 92 To the same 93 To William Hayley, Esq. ^Origin of Cowper's projected Poem on the four Ages of Man — his Billet to the Rev. Mr. Buchanan, page 95, 96. Commencement of the Poem, 97. The Health of Cowper declines — the Incident that gave rise to the two last of his cheerful Letters, 98 to 100. Letter 94 To William Hayley, Esq. Dec. 17, 1793 lOO' 95 To the same Jan. 5, 1794 101 The Author induced to visit Weston, in the severe Illness of Cowper, by a friendly E.xhortation from Mr. Greatheed, page 103. The Sufierings of the Invalid — the ineffectual Sympathy of his Friends — the Grant of a Pension from his Majesty to Cowper, 105 to 107. After remaining at Weston, under the tender Care of Lady Hesketh, till July, 1795, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin remove from Weston to Norfolk, under tlis Conduct of his Kinsman, Mr. Johnson — Stanzas to Mary, the last Poem composed by Cowper at Weston, 108, 109. Cowper resides at North- Tuddenham — removes to Mundsley, a Village on the Norfolk Coast — removes to Dereham, and thence to Dunham-Lodge, 111 to 113. Induced to revise liis Homer, 1795 — in September visits Mundsley again — in Oc- tober returns to Dereham, and settles there for the Winter, 114. Gra- dual Decline and Death of Mrs. Unwin, 114. Cowper's Solicitude on tltt last Morning oi" ha J-iic— Jwr Fungral iu Dcxvliivm, ajtd Tablet to- Nov. 4, 1793 89 Nov. 5, 1793 91 Nov. 24, 1793 92 Nov. 29, 1793 93 Dec. 8, 1793 94 Dec. 8, 1793 95 yiii CONTENTS. her Memory, 115. The obstinate Malady of Cowper — fruitless Endea- vours to cheer his dejected Spirit — infinite Merit of Mr. Johnson, in his Care to mitigate the Calamity of his revered Relation — Cowper receives a Visit from the Dowager Lady Spencer, 115 to 118. Mr. Johnson reads to him his printed and his Manuscript Poems — Cowper writes to Lady Hesketh, and receives a Visit from Sir John Throckmorton, 119. Finishes the Revisal of his Homer, March, 1799 — resumes and quits his Poem on the four Ages — composes a Latin Poem — his last original English Poem, the Cast-away, 119, 120. Removes to a larger House in Dereham — translates various Latin and Greek Verses, and some Fables of Gay into Latin Verse — sends an improved Version of a Passage in his Homer to his Friend of Eartham, 122. His Health becomes more impaired — receives a Visit from Mr. Rose in March- declines, and dies on Friday, the 25th of April — buried, on the od of May, in the Church of Dereham, 123, 124. His Character, and Re- marks on his Poetry, 124 to 163. Postscript, 163. APPENDIX. No. 1 Original Poems Poth to yourself and Mrs. Greatheed. I have much to see and enjoy before I can be perfectly apprized of all the dehghts of Eartham, and will therefore jiow subscribe myself yours, m}^ dear Sir, with great sin-. «erit>', W. C. LETTER XXXVI. To Mrs. COURTENEY. Eartham, Jurist 12, 1792. My dearest Catharina, Though I have travelled far, nothing did I see in my travels that surprised me half so agreeably as your kind letter; for high as my opinion is of your good-nature, I had no hopes of hearing from you till I shc^uld ha\e written first — a plea- sure which I intended to allow m>self the first opportunity. VOL. II. G 49 LIFE OF COWPER. After three days confinement in a coach, and suffering as we Avent all that could be suffered from excessive heat and dust, we found ourselves late in the evening at the door of our friend Hayley* In every other respect the journey was extremely pleasant. At the Mitre, in Barnet, where we lodged the first evening, we found our friend Mr. Rose, who had v/alked thither from his house in Chancery Lane to meet us; and at Kingston, where we dined the second day, I found my old and much valued friend, General Cowper, whont I had not seen in thirty years, and but for this journey should never have seen again. Mrs. Unwin, on whose account I had a thousand fears l)efore we set out, suffered as little from fatigue as myself, and begins, I hope, already to feel some beneficial effects from the air of Eartham, and the exercise that she takes in one of the most delightful pleasure-grounds in the world. Tlaey occupy three sides of a hill, lofty enough to command a view of the sea, which skirts the horizon to a length of many miles, with the Isle of Wight at the end of it. The inland scene is equally beautiful, consisting of a large and deep valley well cultivated, and inclosed by magnificent hills, all crowned with wood. I had, for my part, no conception that a poet could be the owner of such a paradise j and his house is as elegant as his scenes are charming. But think not, my dear Catharina, that amidst all these beauties I shall lose the remembrance of the peacefid, but less splendid, Weston. Your precincts will be as dear to me as ever, when I return ; though when that day will arrive I know not, our host being determined, as I plainly see, to keep us as long as possible. Give my best love to your husband. Thank him most kindly for his attention to the old Bard of Greece, and pardon me that I do not send you now an epitaph for Fop. I am not sufficiently recol- lected to compose even a bagatelle at present; but in due time you shall receive it, Hayley, who will some time or other, I hope, see you at Weston, is already prepared to love you both, and being passionately fond of music, longs much to hear you. W. C. LETTER XXX\1I. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. Eartham, August 14, 1792.. Romney is here. It would add much to- my happiness if you were of the party. I have prepared Hayley to think highly, that is, justly of you, and the time I hops will come- when you will supersede all need of my recommendatirau LIFE OF COWPER. 45 Mrs. Unwin gathers strength. I have indeed great hopes, from tlie air and exercise which this fine season affords her oppoi'tu- 3iity to use, that ere we return she will be herself again. W. C. LETTER XXXVin. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. Eai'thcan, August 18, 179'2, Wishes in this world are generally vain, and in the next we shall make none. Every day I wish you were of our party, knowing how happy you would be in a place where we have nothing to do but enjoy beautiful scenery, and convei'se agreeably. Mrs. Unwin 's health continues to improve; and even I, who was well when I came, find myself still better. Adieu, w. c. LETTER XXXIX. To Mrs. COURTENEY. Eartham, August 25, 1792. Without waiting for an answer to my last, I send Tuy dear Catharina the epitaph she desired, composed, as well as I could compose it, in a place where every object, being still new to mc, distracts my attention, and makes me as aukward. at verse as if I had never dealt in it. Here it is. EPITAPH ON FOP: A Dog belovging to Lady Throckmorton. \ Though once a puppy, and tliough Fop by name. Here moulders cue, wliose bones some honour claim j No sycophant, although of spaniel race ! And though no hound, a martyr to the chace J Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice ! Y^our haunts no longer echo to his voice. This record of his fate exulting view : He died, worn out witli vain pursuit of yon. « Yes!" the indignant shade of Fop replies, *^ And, worn with vain pursuit, Man also dies," U LIFE OF COWPER. I am here, as I told you in my last, delightfully situated, and in the enjoyment of all that the most friendly hospitality can im- part ; yet do I neither forget Weston, nor my friends at Weston : on the contrary, I have, at length, though much and kindly pressed to make a longer stay, determined on the day of our departure. On the seventeenth day of September we shall leave Eartham. Four days Avill be necessary to bring us home again ; for I am un- der a promise to General Cowper to dine with him on the way, which cannot be done comfortably, either to him or to ourselves^ unless we sleep that night at Kingston. The air of this place has been, I believe, beneficial to us both: I indeed v/as in tolerable health before I set out, but have acquired, since I came, both a better appetite, and a knack of sleeping almost as much in a single night as formerly in two. Whether double quantities of that article will be favourable to me as a poet, time must show. About myself, however, I care little, being made of materials so tough as not to threaten me evenlTOw, at the end of SO many lusiru?ns, with any thing like a speedy dissolution. My chief concern has been about Mrs. Unwin, and my chief com- fort at this moment is, that she likewise has received, I hope, con- siderable benefit by the journey. Tell my dear George that I begin to long to behold him again, and did it not savour of ingratitude to the friend under whose roof I am so happy at present, should be impatient to find myself once moi-e under yours. Adieu, my dear Catharina. I have nothing to add in the way of news, except that Romney has drawn me in crayons, by the suffrage of all here, extremely like. W. C. LETTER XL. To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. Eartham^ August 26, 1792. Mr DEAR Sir, Your kind but very affecting letter found me not at Weston, to which place it was directed, but in a bov/er of my friend Hayley's garden, at Eartham, where I was sitting with Mrs. Unwin. Wtt both knew, the moment we saw it, from whom it came, and observing a red seal, both comforted ourselves that all was well at Burwash ; but we soon felt that we were called not to rejoice, but to mourn with you : we do indeed sincei-ely mourn Avith you ; and if it will afford you any consolation to know it, you may be assured that every eye here has testified what our LIFE OF COWPER. 4H lieavts have suffered for you. Your loss is great, and your dis- position, I perceive, such as exposes you to feel the whole veight of it. I will not add to your sorrow, by a vain attem])t to assuage it: your own good sense, and the piety of your principles, will, of course, suggest to you the most powerful motives of acquiescence m the will of God. You will be sure to recollect that the stroke, severe as it is, is not the stroke of an enemy, but of a father ; and will find, I trust, hereafter, that, like a father, he has done you good by it. Thousands have been able to say, and myself as loud as any of them, it has been good for me that I ^vas afflicted ; but time is necessary to work us to this persuasion, and in due time it shall be yours. Mr. Hayley, who tenderly sympathises "with you, has enjoined me to send you as pressing an invitation as I can frame, to join me at this place. I have every motive to wish your consent ; both your benefit and my own, which, I believe, ■would be abundantly answered by your coming, ought to make me eloquent in such a cause. Here you will find silence and retire- ment in perfection, when you would seek them, and here such company as, I have no doubt, would suit you ; all cheerful, but not noisy ; and all alike disposed to love you. You and I seem to have here a fair opportunity of meeting. It were a pity we should be in the same county and not come together. I am here till the seventeenth of September, an interval that will afford you time to make the necessary arrangements, and to gratify me at last with an interview, which I have long desired. Let me hear from you soon, that I may have double pleasure, the pleasure of expecting, as well as that of seeing you. Mrs. Unwin, I thank God, though still a sufferer by her last ill- ness, is much better, and has received considerable benefit by the air of Eartham. She adds to mine her affectionate compliments, and joins me and Hayley in this invitation- Mr. Romney is here, and a young man a cousin of mine. I tell 5-ou who we are, that you may not be afraid of us. Adieu — May tlie Comforter of all the afflicted who seek him be yours. God bless you. W. C. LETTER XLI. To Lady HESKETH. Eartham, Auguftt 26, 1792. 1 know not how it is, my dearest coz. but in a new scene,, and surrounded by strange objects, I find my powers of thinking dissipated to a degree that makes it difficult to 49 LIFE OF COWPER. me even to write a letter, and even a letter to you ; but such a letter as I can, I will, and have the fairest chance to succeed this morning ; Hayley, and Romney, and Hayley's son, and Beau, be- ing all gone together to the sea for bathing. The sea, you must know, is nine miles off; so that unless stupidity prevent, I shall have opportunity to write not only to you, but to poor Hurdis also, who is broken-hearted for the loss of his favourite sister, lately dead ; and whose letter, giving an account of it, which I received yesterday, drevf tears from the eyes of all our part)^. My only comfort respecting even yourself is, that you write in good spirits, and assure me that you are in a state of recovery ; otherwise I should mourn not only for Hurdis, but for myself, lest a certain event should reduce me, and in a short time too, to a situation as distressing as his ; for though nature designed you only for my cou- sin, you have had a sister's place in my affections ever since I knew you. The reason is, I suppose, that having no sister, the daughter of my own mother, I thought it proper to have one, the daughter of yours. Certain it is that I can by no means afford to lose you, and that unless you will be upon honour with me, to give me al- ways a true account of yourself, at least when wc are not togetlier, I shall always be unhappy, because always suspicious that you de- ceive me. Now for ourselves. I am, without the least dissimulation, in good health ; my spirits are about as good as you have ever seen them ; and if increase of appetite, and a double portion of sleep, be ad- vantageous, such are the advantages that I have received from this migration. As to that gloominess of mind which I have had these twenty years, it cleaves to rae even here, and could I be trans- lated to paradise, unless I left my body behind me, would cleave to me even there also. It is my companion for life, and nothing will ever divorce us. So much for myself. Mrs. Unwin is evi- dently the better for her jaunt, though by no means as she was be- fore this last attack ; still wanting help when she would rise from her seat, and a support in walking : but she is able to use more exercise than she could at home, and moves with rather a less tot- tering step. God knows what he designs for me, but when I see those who are dearer to me than myself distempered and en- feebled, and myself as strong as in the days of my youth, I tremble for the solitude in which a few years may place me. I wish her and you to die before me, indeed, but not till I am more likely to follow immediately. Enougli of this. Romney has drawn me in crayons, and in the opinion of all hei-e, with his best hand, and with the most exact resemblance possible. LIFE OF COWPER. '*5' The seventeenth of September is the day on wliich 1 intend to leave Eartham. We shall then have been six weeks resident here ; a holiday time long enough for a man Avho lias much to do. And now farewell. W. C. P. S. Hayley, whose love for me seems to be truly that of a brother, has given me his picture, drawn by Romney about fifteen years ago ; an admirable likeness. LETTER XLII. To Lady HESKETH. Eartham, ScfU. 9, 1792. My dearest Coz. I determine, if possible, to send you one more letter, or, at least, something like one, before we leave Eartham. But I am, in truth, so unaccountably local in the use of my pen, that, like the man in the fable, who could leap well no where but at Rhodes, I seem incapable of writing at all, except at Weston. This is, as I have already told you, a delightful place ; more beautiful sceneiy I have never beheld, nor expect to behold ; but the charms of it, uncommon as they are, have not in the least aUenated my affections from Weston. The genius of that place suits me better ; it has an air of snug concealment, in which a dis- position like mine feels itself peculiarly gratified : whereas, here I see from every window woods like forests, and hills like moun- tains, a wildness, in short, that rather increases my natural melan- choly, and which, were it not for the agi-eeables I find within, would soon convince me that mere change of place can avail me Kttle. Accordingly, I have not looked out for a liouse in Sussex, nor shall. The intended day of our departure continues to be the seven- teenth. I hope to re -conduct Mrs. Unwin to the Lodge Avith her health considerably mended ; but it is in the article of speech chief- ly, and in her powers of walking, that she is sensible of much im- provement. Her sight and her haad still fail her, so that she can neither read nor work: mortifying circumstances both, to hei', who js never willingly idle. On the eighteenth I propose to dine with the General, and to rest that night at Kingston. But the pleasure I shall have in the interview will hardly be greater than the pain I shall feel at the end of it, for we shall part probably to meet no more. Johnny, I know, has told you that Mr. Hurdis is here. Dis- tressed by the loss of liis sister, he lias renounced the place where 48 LIFE OF COWPER. she died for ever, and is about to enter on a new course of life at Oxford. You would admire him much. He is gentle in his man- ners, and delicate in his person, resembling our poor friend Unwin, both in face and figure, more than any one I have ever seen. But he has not, at least he has not at present, his vivacity. I have corresponded since I came here with Mrs. Courteney, and had yesterday a very kind letter from her. Adieu, my dear ; may God bless you. Write to me as soon as you can after the twentiedi; I shall then be at Weston, and indulg- ing myself in the hope that I shall ere long see you there also. W. C. The reader will perceive from the last letter, that Cowpe?, amused as he was v/ith the scenery of Sussex, began to feel the powerful attraction of home. Indeed, the infirm state of Mrs. Un- win, and the declining season of the year, rendered it highly desir- able for the tender travellers to be restored to their own fire-side by the time they proposed. Their departure from Eartham was a scene of a.ffectionatc anxiety; and a perfect contrast to the gaiety of their arrival. The kindness of Cowper relieved my solicitude concerning their jour- hey, by the following letter from Kingston. I insert it as a pleasing memorial of that peculiar tenderness of heart, which conspired with his most admirable talents to render him the most interest- ing of men. From an ardent, and, I hope, a laudable desire to display this endearing characteristic of my friend, I shall add a collection of extracts from his letters to me, rather more copious tlian I at first intended. LETTER XLIII. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. The Sun, at Kingston, Sept. 18, 1792. Mr DEAR Brother, With no sinister accident to retard or terrify us, we find ourselves, at a quarter before one, arrived safe at Kingston. I left you with a heavy heai't, and witli a heavy heart took leave of our dear Tom, at the bottom of the Clialk-hill. Eat soon after this last separation, my troubles gushed from my eyes, and then I was better. We must now prepare for our visit to the General. I add no more, therefore, than our dearest remembrances and prayers that God may bless you and yours, and reward you an hundred-fold LIFE OF COWPER. 49 for all your kindness. Tell Tom I shall always hold him dear for liis aifcctionate attentions to Mrs. Unwin. From her heart the memory of him can never be erased. Johnny loves yoii all, and has his share in all these acknowledgments. Adieu. \V. C. LETTER XLIV. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. Wcaton, Se/U. 21, 1792. Mv DKAR HaYLEY, Chaos himself, even the chaos of Milton, is not surrounded with more confusion, nor has a mind more completely in a hubbub than I experience at the present moment. At our first arrival, after a long absence, we find a hundred orders to servants necessary, a thousand things to be restored to their proper places, and an endless variety of minutise to be adjusted; which, though individually of little importance, are most momen- tous in the aggregate. In these circumstances I find mytelf so indisposed to writing, that, save to yourself, I would on no account attempt it ; but to you I will give such a recital as I can, of all that has passed since I sent you that short note from Kingston ; knowing that if it be a perplexed x-ecital, you will consider the cause, and pardon it. I will !)egin with a remark, in which I am inclined to think you will agree with me, that there is sometimes more true heroism passing in a corner, and on occasions that make no. noise in the world, than has often been exercised by those whom that world esteems her greatest heroes, and on occasions the most il- lustrious ; I hope so at least, for all the heroism I have to boast, and all the opportunities I liave of displaying any, are of a private nature. After v. riting the note I immediately began to prepare for my appointed visit to Ham ; but the struggles that I had with my own spirit, labouring as I did under the most dreadful dejec- tion, are never to be told. I would have given the world to have been excused. I v/ent, hov.-cver, and carried my point against myself with a heart riven asunder. I have reasons for all this anxiety, which I cannot relate now. The visit, however, passed off well, and we returned in the dark to Kingston. I, with a lighter heart than I had known since my departure from Eartham, and iNlary too, for she had suffered hardly less than myself, and cliiefly on my account. That night we rested well in our inn, and at twenty niiimtes after eight next morning set off for London; exactly at ten we reached Mr. Rose's door: we drank a dish of chocolate with him, and proceeded, Mr. Rose riding witli us as VOL. ir. ■ H 50 LIFE OF COWPER. far as St. Alban's. From this time we met witli no impediment* In the dark, and in a storm, at eight at night we fomid ourselves at our own back door. Mrs. Unwin was very near slipping out of the chair in which she was taken from the chaise, but at last was landed safe. VVe ail have had a good night, and are all well this morning. God bless you my dearest brother. W. C. LETTER XLV. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. Wesl07i, Oct. 2, 1792* My DEAR Hayley, A bad night, succeeded by an east windy and a sky all in sables, have such an effect on my spirits, that, if I did not consult my own comfort more than yours, I should not write to-day, for I shall not entertain you much. Yet your letter, though containing no very pleasant tidings, has afforded me some relief. It tells me, indeed, that you have been dispirited yourself, and tliat poor little Tom, the faithful squire of my Mary, has been seriously indisposed. All this grieves me; but then there is a warmth of heart and a kindness in it that do me good. I will en- deavour not to repay you in notes of sorrow and despondence, though all my sprightly chords seem broken. In truth, one day excepted, I have not seen the day when I have been cheerful since I left you. My spirits, I think, are almost constantly lower than they were: the approach of winter is, pei'haps, the cause, and if it is, I have nothing better to expect for a long time to come. Yesterday was a day of assignation with myself, the day of ■which I said some days before it came, when that day comes I will begin my dissertations. Accordingly, when it came I prepared to do so; filled a letter-case v/ith fresh paper, furnished myself with a pretty good pen, and replenished my ink-bottle ; but partly from one cause, and partly from another, chiefly, howe\ er, from dis- tress and dejection, after writing and obliterating about six lines, in the composition of which I spent near and hour, I was obliged to relinquish the attempt. An attempt so unsuccessful could have no other effect than to dishearten me, and it has had that effect to such a degree, that I know not when I shall find courage to make another. At present I shall certainly abstain, since, at present, I cannot well afford to expose myself to the danger of a fresh mor- tification. w. c. LIFE OF COWPER. 51 LETTER XLVI. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquhc. TVesto?i, Oct, 13, 1792. I began a letter to you yesterday, my dearest brother, ami proceeded through two sides of the sheet ; but so much of my nervous fever found its way into it, that, looking it over this morning, I determined not to send it. I have risen, though not in good spirits, yet in better than I ge- nerally do of late, and therefore will not address you in the melan- choly tone that belongs to my worst feelings. I began to be restless about your portrait, and to say, how long shall I have to wait for it? I wished it here for many reasons: the sight of it will be a comfort to me, for I not only love, but am proud of you, as of a conquest made in my old age. Johnny goes to town on Monday, on jnirpose to call on Romney, to whom he shall give all proper information concerning its conveyance hither. The name of a man whom I esteem as I do Romney, ought not to be unmusical in my ears, but his name will be so till I shall have paid him a debt justly due to him, by doing such poetical honours to it as I intend. Heaven knows when that intention will be exe- cuted, for the muse is still as obdurate and as coy as ever. Your kind postscript is just arrived, and gives me great plea- sure. Wlien I cannot see you myself, it seems some comfoi't, how- ever, that you have been seen by another known to me, and who will tell me, in a few days, that he has seen you. Your wishes to disperse my melancholy would, I am sui-e, prevail, did that event depend on the warmth and sincerity with which you frame them ; but it has baffled both wishes and prayers, and those the most fer- vent that could be made, so many years, that the case seems hopeless. But no more of this at present. Your verses to Austin are as sweet as the honey that they ac- company ; kind, friendly, witty, and elegant : when shall I be able to do the like ! Perhaps when my Mary, like your little Tom, shall cease to be an invalid, I may recover a power, at Ic'.ist, to do something. I sincere!}' rejoice in the dear little man's restora- tion. My Maiy continues, I hope, to mend a little. W. C. $2 LIFE OF COWPER, LETTER XLVn. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. Weston, Oct. 19, 1792. My DEAREST Johnny, You are too useful when you are here not to be missed on a hundred occasions daily, and too much domes- ticated with us not to be regretted always. I hope, therefore, that your month or six weeks will not be like many that I have known, capable of being drawn cut into any length whatever, and productive of nothing but disappointment. I have done nothing since you went, except that I have com- posed the better half of a sonnet to Romney ; yet even this ought to bear an earlier date, for I began to be haunted with a desire to do it long before we came out of Sussex, and have daily attempted it ever since. It would be well for the reading part of the world, if the writ- ing part were, many of them, as dull as I am. Yet even this small produce, which my sterile intellect has hai-dly yielded at last, may serve to convince j'ou that in point of spirits I am not worse. In fact, I am a little better. The powders and the laudanum together have, for the pi'esent at least, abated the fever that con- sumes them ; and in measure as the fever abates, I acquire a less discouraging view of things, and with it a little power to exert myself. In the evenings I read Baker's Chronicle to Mrs. Unwin, hav- ing no other history, and hope in time to be as well versed in it, as his admirer Sir Roger de Coverly. W. C. LETTER XL VIII. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. Weston, Oct. 22, 1792. My dearest Johnny, Here am I with I knov,^ now not how many letters to answer, and no time to do it in. I exhort you, therefore, to set a proper value on this, as proving your priority in my attentions, though, in other respects, likely to be of little value. You do well to sit for your picture, and give very sufficient rea- sons for doing it. You will also, I doubt not, take care that when future generations shall look at it, some spectator or other shall say, this is the picture of a good man, and a usefixl one. LIFE OF COWPER. 53 And now God bless you, my dear Johnny. I proceed pretty much at the old rate; rising cheerless and distressed in the morn- ;ng, and brightening a little as the day goes on. Adieu. vv. c. LETTER XLIX. To WILLIAM HxWLEY, Esquire. IFeston, October 28, i792. Nothing done, my dearest brother, nor likely to be done at present ; yet I purpose, in a day or two, to make another attempt, to which, however, I shall address myself with fear and trembling, like a man Avho, having sprained his wrist, di'eads to use it. I have not, indeed, like such a man, in- jured myself by any extraordinary exertion, but seem as much enfeebled as if I had. The consciousness that there is so much to do, and nothing done, is a burthen that I am not able to bear. Milton, especiahy, is my grievance, and I might almost as well be haunted by his ghost, as goaded with such continual reproaches for neglecting him : I will therefore begin ; I will do my best ; and if, after all, that best prove good for nothing, I will even send the notes, worthless as they are, that I have made already; a mea- sure very disagreeable to myself, and to which nothing but neces- sity shall compel me. I shall rejoice to see those new samples of your biography which you give me to expect. Allons ! courage ! — Here comes something, however ; produced after a gestation as long as that of a pregnant woman. It is the debt long unpaid; the compliment due to Romney; and if it has your approbation, I will send it, or you may send it for nie. I must pi-emise, however, that I intended nothing less than a sonnet when I began. I know not why, but I said to m.yself, it shall not be a sonnet: accordingly I attempted it in one sort of measure, tlicn in a second, then in a third, till I had made the trial in half ii dozen different kinds of shorter verse, and behold it is a sonnet at last. The fates would have it so. To GEORGE ROMNEY, Esquire. Romney ! expert infallible to trace, On chart or canvass, not the form alone, And 'semblance, but, however faintly shown, The nund'.s impression too on every face: ^ LIFE OF COWPER. With strokes that time ought never to erase, Thou hast so pencil'd mine, that though I ovm The subject worthless, I have never known The artist shining witli superior grace. But this I m ark, tliat symptoms none of woe In thy incomparable work appear : Well, I am satisfied it should be so. Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear ; For in my looks, what sorrow could'st thou see, While I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee ? LETTER L. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. My dear Friend, Westoii^ JVov. 9, 1792, I wish that I were as industrious, and as much occupied as you, though in a different way ; but it is not so with me. Mrs.Unwin's great debility (who is not yet able to move without assistance) is of itself a hinderance such as would effec- tually disable me. Till she can work and read, and fill up her time as usual, (all which is at present entirely out of her po%ver) I may now and then find time to write a letter, but I shall write no- thing more. I cannot sit with my pen in my hand, and my books before me, while she is, in effect, in solitude, silent and looking at tlie fire. To this hinderance that other has been added, of which yoti are already aware, a want of spirits, such I have never known, when I was not absolutely laid by, since I commenced an author. How long I shall be continued in these uncomfortable circumstances is known only to Him, who, as he will, disposes of us all. I may yet be able, perhaps, to prepare the first book of the Paradise Lost for the press before it will be wanted ; and Jolmson himself seems to think there will be no haste for the second. But poetry is my favourite employment, and all my poetical operations are, in the mean time, suspended ; for while a work to which I ha^•c bound myself remains unaccomplished, I can do nothing else. Johnson's phm of prefixing my pliiz to the new edition of my poems is by no means a pleasant one to me ; and so I told him in a letter I sent him from Earchan\, in which I assured him that my objections to it would not be easily surmounted. But if you judge that it may really have an effect in advancing the sale, I would not be so squeamish as to suffer the spirit of prudery to prevail in Rre to his disad\antage. Somebody told an author, I forget whom, LIFE OF COWPER. 55 that there was more vanity in refusing his picture than in grant- ing it, on which he instantly complied. I do not perfectly feel all the force of the argument, but it shall content me that he did. I do most sincerely rejoice in the success of your publication, and have no doubt th.at my prophecy concerning your success in greater matters will be fulfilled. We are naturally pleased when our friends approve what we approve ourselves ; how nmch then must I be pleased when you speak so kindly of Johnny ! I know him to be all that you think him, and love him entirely. Adieu. . We expect you at Christmas, and shall therefore re- joice when Christmas comes. Let nothing interfere. Ever yours, W. C- LETTER LT. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esquire. Mv DEAREST JoHNNY, Weston, MlV. 20, 1792. I give you many thanks for your rhymes, and for your verses without rhyme; for your poetical dialogue between wood and stone ; between Homer's head and the head of Samuel ; kindly intended, I know well, for my amusement, and that amused me much. The successor of the clei'k defunct, for whom I used to write mortuary verses, ari'ived here this morning, with a recommen- datory letter from Joe Rye, and an humble petition of his own, intreating me to assist him as I had assisted his predecessor. I have undertaken the service, although with no little reluctance, being involved in many arrears on other subjects, and having very little dependance at present on my ability to write at all. I proceed ex- actly as when you were here — a letter now and tlien before break- fast, and the rest of my time all holiday ; if holiday it may be called, that is spent chiefly in moping and musing, and '■'•forecast- ing the faahion of uncertain evils." The fever on my spirits has harrasscd me much, and I have never had so good a night nor so quiet a rising, since you went, as on this very morning — a relief that I accoimt pai'ticidarly season- able and propitious ; because 1 had, in my intentions, devoted this morning to you, and could not have fulfilled those intentions had I l>cen as spiritless as I generally am. I am glad that Johnson is in no haste for Milton, for I seem my- self not like!) to address myself presently to th.at concern, with any pi'ospect of success ; yet something now and then, like a secret v.hibpct, encourages aiul as'.ures me that it will jet be done. W. C. 56 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER LIL To WILLL4M HAYLEY, Esquire. Weston, A^ov. 22, 1792. How shall I thank you enough for the in- terest j-ou take in my future Miltonic labours, and the assistance you promise me in the performance of them? I will some time or othei-, if I live, and live a poet, acknowledge you? friendship in some of my best verse ; the mobt suitable return one poet can make to another : in the mean time I love you, and am sensible of all your kindness. You wish me warm in my work, and I ar- dently wish the same ; but when I shall be so, God only knows. My melancholy, which seemed a little alleviated for a few days, has gathered about me again, with as black a cloud as ever; the consequence is absolute incapacity to begin. I was for some years Dirge -writer to the town of Northampton, being employed by the clerk of the principal parish there to fur- nish him with an annual copy of verses proper to be printed at the foot of his bill of mortality. But the clerk died, and hearing nothing for two years from his successor, I well hoped tliat I was cut of my office. Ths other morning, however, Sam announced the new clerk : he came to solicit the same service as I had ren- dered to his predecessor, and I reluctantly complied; doubtful, indeed, whether I was capable. I have, however, achieved that labour, and I have done nothing more. — I am just sent for up to Mary, dear Mar) ! Adieu. She is as well as when I left you — I •would I could say better. Remember us both affectionately to your sweet iDoy, and trust me for being most truly yours, w. c. LETTER Lin. To JOSEPH HILL, Esquire. Weston, Dec. 16, 1792. Mv DEAR Friend, We differ so little that it is pity we should not agree. The possibility of restoring our diseased Govern- ment is, I think, the only point on which we are not of one mind. If you are right, and it cannot be touched in the medical way without danger of absolute ruin to the Constitution, keep the Doc- tors at a distance, say I — and let us live as long as we can. But perhaps physicians might be found of skill sufficient for the pur- pose, were they but as willing as able. Who are they? Not those honest blunderers the mcb, but our governors themselves. LIFE OF COWPER. 5? As it is in the power of any individual to be honest if he will, any body of men are, as it seems to me, equally possessed of the same option. For I can never persuade myself to think the world so constituted by the Author of it, and human society, which is his ordinance, so shabby a business, that the buying and selling of votes and consciences should be essential to its existence. As to multi- plied representation, I know not that I foresee any great advantage likely to arise from that. Provided there be but a reasonable num- ber of reasonable heads laid together for the good of the nation, the end may as well be answered by five hundred as it would be by a thousand, and perhaps better. But then they should be honest as well as wise ; and in order that they may be so, they should put it out of their own power to be otherwise. This they might certainly do if they would, and would they do it, I am not con- vinced that any great mischief would ensue. You say, " somebody- must have influence;" but I see no necessity for it. Let integrity of intention and a due share of ability be supposed, and the influ- ence will be in its right place ; it will all center in the zeal and good of the nation. Tliat will influence their debates and decisions, and nothing else ought to do it. You will say, perhaps, that wise men, and honest men, as they arc supposed, are yet liable to be split into almost as many differences of opinion as there are individuals; but I rather think not. It is observed of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough, that each always approved and seconded the plans and views of the other ; and the reason given for it is, that they were men of equal ability. The same cause that could make two unanimous would make twenty so, and would at least secure a majority among as many liuridreds. As to the reformation of the church, I want none, unless by a better provision for the inferior clergy ; and if that could l^e brought about by emaciating, a little some of our too corpulent dignitaries, I should be well contented. The dissenters, I think, catholics and others, have all a right to the privileges of all other Englishmen, because to deprive them is persecution, and persecution on any account, but especially on a religious one, is an abomination. But, after all, Valeat Rcsfuibiica; I love my country, I love my king, and I wish peace and prosperity to Old England. Adieu, w. c. .^8 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER LIV. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. / Weston^ Dec. 26, 1792, That I may not be silent till ray silence alarms you, I snatch a moment to tell you that, although toujours tri-'ite, I am not worse than usual ; but my opportunities of writing are pmicifiecl, us perhaps Dr. Johnson would have dared to say, and the few that I have are shortened by company. ■ Give my love to dear Tom, and thank him for his very appo- site extract, which I should be happy, indeed, to turn to any ac- count. How often do I v/ish, in the course of every day, that I could be employed once more in poetry ; and how often, of course, that this Miltonic trap had never caught me ! The year ninety- two shall stand chronicled in my remembrance as the most me- lancholy that I have ever known, except the v/eeks that I spent at Eavtham ; and such it has been principally, because being engaged to Milton, I felt myself no longer free for any other engagement. That ill-fated work, impracticable in itself, has made every thing else impracticable. * * * * I am very Pindaric, and obliged to be so by the hun-y of the hour. My friends are come down to break- fast. Adieu, VV. C. LETTER LV. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. JVeston, Jan. 20, 1793. My dearest Brother, Now I know that you are safe, I treat you, as you see, with a philosophical indifference, not acknow- ledging your kind and immediate answer to anxious inquiries, till it suits my own convenience. I have learned, however, from my late solicitude, that not only you, but yours, interest me to a de- gree that, should any thing happen to either of you, would be very inconsistent with my peace. Sometimes I thought that you were extremely ill, and once or twice that you were dead. As often some tragedy reached my ear concerning little Tom. " Oh -varKZ ment.es hominum J" How liable are we to a thousand impositions, and how indebted to honest old Time, who never fails to undeceive us ! WHiatever you had in pi-ospect, you acted kindl}' !)y me not to make me partaker of your expectations ; for I have a spirit, if not so sanguine as j'ours, yet that would have waited for your coming with anxious impatience, and have been dismally mortified by th# LIFE OF COWPER. 59 disappointment. Had you come, and come -vvithout notice too, you would not have surprised us more than (as the matter Avas managed) we wei'e surprised at the arrival of y^ur picture. It leaclRd us in the evcninir, after the shutters were closed, at a time when a chaise mip;ht actually have brought you without giving us the least previous intimation. Then it was that Sainuel, witli his cheerful countenance, appeared at the study door, and with a voice as cheerful as his looks, exclaimed, " Mr. Hayley is come, Madam!" We both started, and in the same moment cried, " Mr. Hayley come ! And where is he ?" The next m.omcnt cor- rected cur mii^take, and finding Mary's voice grow suddenly tre- mulous, I turned, and saw her weeping. I do nothing, notwithstanding all your exhortations: my idleness is proof against them all, or, to speak more truly, my difficulties are so. Something indeed I do. I play at push-pin with Homer every morning before breakfast, fingering and polishing, as Paris did his armour. I have lately had a letter from Dublin on that ^sulycct, which has pleased me. W. C. LETTER LVL To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. Weston, Jan. 29, 1T93, Mv DEAREST HaYLEY, I truly sympathize with you under your Aveight of sorrow for the loss of our good Samaritan. But be not broken-hearted, my friend! Remember, the loss of those we love is the condition on which we live ourselves ; and that he who chooses his friends wisely frorn among the excellent of the earth, has a sure ground to hope, concerning them, when they die, that a merciful God has made them far happier than they could be here ; and that we shall join them soon again. This is solid com- fort, could we but avail ourselves of it ; but I confess the difficulty of doing so. Sorrow is like the deaf adder, " that hears not the voice of the charmer, charm he ever so wisely;" and I feel so much myself for the death of Austin, that my own chief consolation is, that I had never seen him. Live yourself, I beseech you, for I have seen so much of you, that I can by no means spare you ; and I will live as long as it shall please God to permit me : I know you set some value on me, therefore let that promise comfort you ; and give us not reason to say, like David's servants, — " \A'e know that it would have pleased thee more if all we had died, than this one, for whom thou art inconsolable." You have still Romney, and (^arwarcline, nnd Guy, and mc, my poor Mary, and I know not ^0 LIFE OF COWPER. how many beside ; as many, I suppose, as ever had an opportunity of spending a day with you. He who has the most friends must necessarily lose the most, and he whose friends are numerous as yours, may the better spare a part of them. It is a changing, transient scene : yet a little while, and this poor dream of life will be over with all of us. The living, andthey who live unhappy — i they are indeed subjects of son-ow. Adieu, my beloved friend. Ever yours. W. C. LETTER LVn. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. Weston^ Feb. 5, 1793, In this last revisal of my work (the Ho-vidistanding your opinion, the Rose is himself a whig, and I am LIFE OF COWPER. 61 a whig, and you, my dear, are a tory, and all thetoricsnow-a-days call all the whigs republicans. How the deuce you came to be a tory is best known to yourself: you have to answer for this novety to the sliades of your ancestors, who were alwajs vv'higs ever since we had any. Adieu. \V. C. LETTER LIX. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. Feb. 17, 1793. I have read the critique of my work in the Analytical Review, and am happy to have fallen into the hands of a critic, rigorous enough indeed, but a scholar, and a mm of sense, and who does not deliberately intend me mischief. I am better pleased, indeed, that he censures some things, than I should have been with unmixt commendation ; for his centure (to use the new diplomatic term) will accredit his prai.es. In his particular remarks he is for the most part right, and I shall be the better for them ; but in liis general ones I think he asserts too largely, and more than he could prove. With respect to inversions in parti- cular, I know that they do not abound. Once they did, and I had Milton's example for it, not disapproved by Addison. But on 's remonstrance against them, I expunged the most, and in my new edition shall have fewer still. I know that they give dignity, and am sorry to part with them ; but, to parody an old pro\erb, lie who lives in the year ninety -three, must do as in the year ninety-three is done by others. The same remark I have to make on his censin-e of inharmonious lines. I know theni to be much fewer than he asserts, and not more in number than I ac- counted indispensibly necessary to a due variation of cadence. I have, however, now, in conformity with modem taste (over-much tlelicate in my mind) given to the far greater number of them a ilow as smooth as oil. A few I retain, and will, in compliment to my own judgment. He thinks me too faithful to compound cpidiets in the introductory lines, and I know his reason. He fears lest the English reader should blame Homer, whom he idolizes, though hardly more than I, for such constant repetition. But them I sliall not alter. They are necessary to a just representation of the original. In the affair of Outis, I shall throw him flat on his back, by an tnianswerable argument, which I shall give in a note, and with which I am furnislied i)y Mrs. Unwin. So much for hypei'criticism, which has run away with all my paper. This critic, by the way, is; .— .; I know himbv infallible indications. W. C. 62 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER LX. To the Reverend Mr. HURDIS. Weston, Feb. 23, ir93» My eyes, Avhich have long been much inflamed, will hardly serve me for Homer, and oblige me to make all my letters short. You have obliged me much, by sending me so speedily the remainder of your notes. I h.ive begun with them again, and find them, as before, very much to the purpose. More to the pur[3ose they could not have been, had you been poetry professor alread)^. I rejoice sincerely iil the prospect you have of that office, which, wliatever may be your own thoughts of the matter, J am sure ycu will fill with great sufficiency. Would that my interest and power to serve you were greater ! One string to my bow I have, and one only, which shall not be idle for want of my exertions. I thank you, likewise, for your very entertaining notices and remarks in the natural way. The hurry in which I write ■would not suffer me to send you many in return, had I many to send, but only two or three present themselves. Frogs will feed on worms. I saw a frog gathering into his gul- let an earth-worm as long as himself: it cost him time and labour, but at last he succeeded. Mrs. Unwin and I, crossing a brook, saw from the foot-bridge somewhat at the bottom of the water, which had the appearance of a flower. Observing attentively, we found that it consisted of a circular assemblage of minnows; their heads all met in a center, and their tails diverging at equal distances, and being elevated above their heads, ga\ e them the appearance of a flower half blov/n. One was longer than the rest, and as often as a straggler came in sight, he quitted his place to pursue him, and having driven him away, he returned to it again, no other minnow offer- ing to take it in his absence. This we saw him do several times. The object that had attached them ail was a dead minnow, which they seemed to be devouring. After a very rainy da)^, I saw on one of the flower borders what seemed a Jong hair, but it had a waving twining motion. Considering more nearly, I found it alive, and endued with spon- taneity, but could not discover at the ends of it either head or tail, or any distinction of parts. I carried it into the house, when the air of a warm room dried and killed it presently, W. C. LIFE OF COWPER. 63 LETTER LXL To WILLL\M HAYLEY, Esquire. Weston, Feb. 24, 1793. Your letter, so full of kindness, and so exactly in unison with my own feelings for you, should have had, es it deserved to have, an eai'lier answer, had I not been perpe- tually tormented witli infiamed eyes, which are a sad hinderance to me in every thing. But, to make amends, if I do net send you an early answer, I send you at least a speedy one, being obliged to write as fast as my pen can trot, that 1 may shorten the time of poring upon paper as much as possible. Homer, too, has been another hinderance, for always when I can see, which is only dur- ing about tv/o hours in a morning, and not at all by candle light, I devote myself to him, being Lu haste to send him a second time to tlie press, that nothing may stand in tlie way of Milton. By the way, where are my dear Tom's remarks, which I long to have, and must have soon, or they will come too late ? Oh you rogue, what would you give to have such a dre-Am about IVIilton, as I had about a week since? I dream.ed that, beiig in a house 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 ha^ A countenance which filled me with those feelings that an aifec- tionate 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 of joy to find him still alive : my tliird, another transport to find myself in his company ; and my fourth, a resolution to accost him : I did «o, and he received me with a complacence, in which I saw equal sweetness and dignity. I spoke of his Paradise Lost, as every man must who is wordiy to speak of it at all, and told him a long story of the manner in wliich it affected me, when I first discovered it, being at that time a school-boy. He answered me by a smile, and a gentle inclination of his head. He then grasped my hand af- fectionately, and with a smile that charmed me, said, " well, you for your part will do well also." At last, recollecting his great age, (for I understood him to be two hundred years old) I feared that I might fatigue him by much talking. I took my leave, and he took his Avith an air of the most perfect good breeding. His person, his fe;:ture'hen he ascribed his blindness to the muse? for that he speaks of himself, under tlie name of Demodocus, in the eighth book, I be- lieve, is l)y all admitted. How could the old bard study himself blind, when books were either few, or none at all ? And did he write his poems ? If neither were the cause, as seems reasonable to imagine, how could he incur his blindness by such means as could lie justly imputalile to the muse ? Would mere thinking blind him ? I want to know : " Call up some spirit from the vasty deep !" I said to my Sam* — " Sam, build me a shed in the garden, wiik * A very affectionate worthy domestic who attCTAled his mastsr into Sussex. rs LIFE OF COWl^ER. any thing that you can find, and make it rude and rough like ons of those at Eartham." " Yes, Sir," says Sam, and straightway lay- ing his own noddle and the carpenter's noddle together, has built me a thing fit for Stow gardens. Is not this vexatious ? I threaten, to inscribe it tlius : Beware of building! I intended Rough logs and thatch, and thus it ended. But my Mary says I shall break Sam's heart, and the cai-pen- fer's too, and will not consent to it. Poc-r Mary sleeps but ill. How have you lived who cannot bear a sun-beam ? Adieu, my dearest Hayley. W. C. LETTER LXXVL To Lady HESKETH. 1Fest07i, ^iigicst 11, 1793. My dearest Coz. I am glad that my poor and hasty at- tempts to express some little ci^ ility to Miss Fau'haw, and the amiable Count, have your and her approbation. The lines addressed to her were not what I would have made them, hut lack of time, a lack which always presses me, would not suffer me to improve them. Many thanks for her letter, which, were my me- rits less the subject of it, I should, without scrap e, say is an excel- lent one. She writes with ihe force and accuracy of a person skilled in more languages than are spoken in the present day, as I doubt not that she is. I perfectly approve the theme she recom- mends to me, but am at present so totally absv-rbed in Homer, that all I do beside is ill done, being hurried over ; and I would not ex- ecute ill a subject of her recommending. I shall watch the v/alnut- trees with more attention than they who eat them, which I do in some hope, though yon do not expressly say so, that when their threshing-time arrives we shall see you here. I am now going to paper my new stud}-, and in a short time it will be fit to inhabit. Lady Spencer has sent me a present from Rome, by the hands of Sir John Throckmorton — engravings of Odyssey subjects, after figures by Flaxman, a statuary at present resident there, of high repute, and much a friend of Hayley 's. Thou livest; my dear, I acknowledge, in a very fine country, but they have spoiled it by building London in it. Adieu. W. C. LIFE OF COWPER. ?9 EEl TER LXXVII. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquiro. Weston, August 15, ir93. Instead of a pound or two, spending a mint Must serve me at least, I believe, with a hint, That building and building a man may be driven At last out of doors, and have no house to live in. Besides, my dearest brother, tliey have not only built for me »5vhat I did not want, but have ruined a notable tetrastic by doing so. I had v/ritten one which I designed for a hermitage, and it will by no means suit the fine and pompous affair which they have made instead of one. So that, as a poet, I am every way afflicted ; made poorer than I need have been, and robbed of my verses. What case can be more deplorable ? Y'ou must not suppose roe ignor^mt of what Flaxman has done, oi* that I have not seen it, or that I am not actually hi possession of it, at least of the engravings which you mention. In fact, I have had them moi-e than a fortnight. Lady Dowager Spencer, to whom I inscribed my Odyssey, and who was at Rome when Sir Joha Throckmorton was there, charged him with them as a present to me, and arriving here lately he executed his commission. Romney, i doubt not, is right in his judgment of them : he. is an artist him- self, and cannot easily be mistaken ; and I take his opinion as au oracle, the rather, because it coincides exactly with my own. The Jfigm-es are higliiy classical, antique, and elegant ; especially that of Penelope, who, whether she wakes or sleeps, must necessarily charm all beholders. Your scheme of embellishing mj' Odyssey with these plates is a kind one, and the fruit of ) our benevolence to me ; but John- son, I fear, will hardly stake so much money as the cost would amount to, on a work, the fate of which is at present uncertain. Kor could we adorn the Odyssey in this splendid manner, unless we had similar ornaments to bestow on the Iliad. Such, I pre- sume, ai'c not ready, ajid much time must elapse, even if Flax- man should accede to the plan, beibre he could possibly prepare them. Happy, indeed, should I be to see a work of mine so nobly accompanied, but should that good fortune ever attend me, it can- not take place till the third or fourth edition shall afford the oc- casion. This I regix't, and I regret too, that you Avill have seea iliem before I can have aji opportunity to show tliem to yo\i. Here is six-pence for you if you will abstain from the sight of them wliilii you arc in Lomlon. 80 LIFE OF COV^TER. The sculptor ? — nameless, though once dear to fame ; But this man bears an evei'lasting name.* So I pui'pose it shall stand ; and on the pedestal, when you come, in that form you will find it. The added line from the Odyssey is charming, but the assumption of sonship to Homer seems too dar- ing. Suppose it stood thus ; — I am not sure that this would be clear of the same objection, and it departs from the text still more. With my poor Mary's best love, and our united wishes to see you hei'e, I remain, my dearest brother, ever yours, W. C. LETTER LXXVIII. To Mrs. COURTENEY. Weston, August 20, 1793. My dearest Catharina is too reasonable, I knov\f, to expect news from me, who live on the outside of the world, and know nothing that passes within it. The best news is, that though you are gone, you are not gone for ever, as once I supposed you were, and said that Ave should probably meet no more. Some news, however, we have ; but then I conclude that you have already received it from the Doctor, and that thought almost deprives me of all courage to relate it. On the evening of the feast, Bob Archer's house affording, I suppose, the best room for the purpose, all the lads and lasses who felt themselves disposed to dance, assembled there. Long time they danced, at least long time they did something a little like it, when at last the company having retired, the fiddler asked Bob for a lodging. Bob replied that his beds were all full of his own family, but if he chose it he would show him a hay-cock, where he might sleep as sound as in any bed whatever. So forth they went together, and Avhen they reached the place, the fiddler knocked down Bob and demanded his money. But happily for Bob, tliough he might be knocked down, and actually was so, yet he could not possibly be robbed, having nothing. The fiddler, therefore, having amused himself with kicking and beating him as he lay, as long as he saw good, left him, and has never been heard of since, nor inquired after indeed, being no doubt tlie last man in the world whom Bob wishes to see again., * A uanslaiion of Cowper's Greek verses on liis bust of Homer. LIFE OF COWPER. 81 By a letter from Hayley to-day, I learn that Flaxman, to whom we are indebted for those Odyssey figures which Lady Frog brought over, has almost finished a set for the Iliad also. I should be glad to embellish my Homer with them, but neither my book-, seller nor I shall probably choose to risque so expensive an orna- ment on a work, whose reception with the public is at present doubtful. Adieu, my dearest Catharina. Give my best love to your hus- band. Come home as soon as you can, and accept our united very best wishes. W. C. LETTER LXXIX. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esquire. The LodgCy August 22, 1793. My dear Friend, I rejoice that you have had so pleasant an excursion, and have beheld so many beautiful scenes. Except the delightful upway, I have seen them all. I have lived much at Southampton, have slept and caught a sore-throat at Lyndhurst, and have swam in the bay of Weymouth. It will give us great pleasure to see you here, should your business give you an oppor- tunity to finish your excursions of this season with one to Weston. As for my going on, it is much as usual. I rise at six; an in- dustrious and wholesome practice from which I have never swerved since March. I breakfast generally about eleven — have given all the intermediate time to my old delightful bard. Vil- loisson no longer keeps me company. I therefore now jog along with Clarke and Barnes at my elljow, and from the excellent an- notations of the former select such as I think likely to be useful, or that recommend themselves by the amusement they may afford ; of which sorts there are not a few. Barnes also affords me some of both kinds, but not so many, his notes being chiefly paraphrastical or grammatical. My only fear is lest, between them both, I should make m\" work too voluminous. W. C» LETTER LXXX. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. Weston, August 27, 1793, I thank you, my dear brother, for con- sulting the (iibbonian oracle on the question concernin'g Homer's muse, and his blindness. I proposed it likewise to my little neigh- bour Buchanan, who gave me precisely the same answert I felt VOL. II. M 82 LIFE OF COWPER. an insatiable thirst to learn something new concerning him, ami, despairing of information from others, Avas willing to hope that I had stnmbled on matter unnoticed by the commentators, and might, perhaps, acquire a little intelligence from himself. But the great and the little oracle together have extinguished that hope, and I despair now of making any curious discoveries about him. Since Flaxman (wliich I did not know till your letter told me so) has been at work for the Iliad, as well as the Odyssey, it seems a great pity that the engravings should not be bound up with some Homer or other ; and, as I said before, I should have been too proud to have bound them up in mine. But there is an objection, at least such it seems to me, that threatens to disqualify them for such a use; namely, the shape and size of them, which are such that no Ijook of the usual form could possibly receive them, save in a folded state, which, I apprehend, would be to murder them. • The monument of Lord ivlansfield, for which you say he is en- gaged, will, I dare say, prove a noble effort of genius. Statuaries, as I have heard an eminent one say, do not much trouble them- selves about a likeness : else I would give much to be able to com- municate to Flaxman the perfect idea that I have of the subject, such as he Avas forty years ago. He was at that time wonderfully handsome, and would expound the most mysterious intricacies of the law, or recapitulate both matter and evidence of a cause, as long as from hence to Earthani, with an intelligent smile on his features, that bespoke plainly the perfect ease Avith which he did it. The most abstruse studies, I believe, never cost him any la- bour. You say nothing lately of your intended journey our way : yet the year is Avaning, and the shorter days give you a hint to lose no time unnecessarily. — Lately Ave had the Avhole family at the Hall, and noAv Ave have nobody. The Thi'cckmortons are gone into Berkshire, and the Courteneys into Yorkshire. They are so plea- sant a famii)', that I heartily Avish you to see them ; and at the same time Avish to see you before they return, Avhich Avill not be sooner than October. How shall I reconcile these Avishes, seem- ingly opposite? Why, by wishing that you may come soon and stay long. I know no other way of doing it. My poor Mary is much as usual. — I have set up Homer's head, and inscribed the pedestal ; my OAvn Greek at the top, Avith your translation under it, and It makes altogether a very smart and learned appearance. W. C. LIFE OF COWTER. S3 LETTER LXXXI. To Lady HESKETH. August 59, 1T93. Your question, at what time your coming to us v/ill be most agreeable, is a knotty one, and such as, had I the wisdom of Solomon, I should be puzzled to answer. I will, therefore, leave it still a question, and refer the time of your jour- ney Weston-ward entirely to your own election ; adding this oue limitation, however, that I do not wish to see you exactly at pre- sent, on account of the unfinished state of my study, the wainscot ■of which still smells of paint, and which is not yet papered. But to return : as I have insinuated, thy pleasant company is the thing which I always wish, and as much at one time as at another. I believe, if I examine myself minutely, since I despair of ever hav- ing it in the height of summer, which, for your sake, I should desire most, the depth of the winter is the season which would be most eligible to me. For then it is that, in general, I have most need of a cordial, and particularly in the month of January. I am soriy, however, tiiat I ha\'e departed so far from my first piu'pose, and am answering a question which I declared myself unaljle to an- swer. Choase thy own time, secure of this, that whatever time that be, it will always to us he a welcome one. I thank jou for your pleasant extract of Miss Fanshaw's letter. Her pen drops eloquence as sweet As any muse's tongue can speak ; Nor need a scribe, like her, regret Her want of Latin orof Greek. And now, my dear, adieu ! I have done more than I expected, and begin to feel myself exhausted with so much scribbling at the fihd of four hours close application to study. W. C. LETTER LXXXIL • To the Reverend Mr. JOHNSOX. Weston, Scjit. 6, 1793. My dearest Johxny, To do a kind thing, and in a kind man- ner, is a doul)le kindness, and no man is more addicted to both than you, or more skilful in contriving them. Your plan to smv piil^ie nie agreea!)ly succeeded to admirati(in. It was only tlic day 84t LIFE OF COWPER. before jesterday that, while we walked after dinner in the orch- ard, Mrs. Unwin !)etween Sam and me, hearing the Hall-clock, I observed a great difference between that and ours, and began im- mediately to lament, as I had often done, that there was not a sun- dial in all Weston to ascertain tlie true time for us. My complaint was long, and lasted till, havmg turned into the grass walk, we reached the new building at the end of it, where we sat awhile and reposed ourselves. In a few minutes we returned by the v/ay we came, when what think you was my astonishment to see what I had not seen before, though I had passed close by it, a smart gun-dial mounted on a smart stone pedestal ! I assure you it seemed the effect of conjuration. I stopped short, and exclaimed, " Why, here i^ a sun-dial, and upon our own ground! How is this? Tell me, Sam, how came it here? Do you know any thing about it ? " At first I reaily th; ught (that is to say, as soon as I could think at all) that this fac-totum of mine, Sam Roberts, having often heard me deplcre the want of one, had given orders for the supply of that want himself, witliout mj" knowledge, and was half pleased and half offended. But he soon exculpated himself by imputing the fact to 3'^ou. It was brought up to Weston, it seems, a'.out noon : but Andrews stopped the cart at the blacksmith's, whence he sent to inqinre if I was gone to my walk. As it happened, I walked not till tVi?o o'clock. So there it stood waiting tih I should go forth, and was introduced before my return. Fortunately, too, I went out at the church end of the village, and consequently saw nothing of it. How I could possibljr pass it without seeing it, when it stood in the walk, I know not ; but it is certain that I did : and where I shall fix it now I know as little. It cannot stand between the two gates, the place nf your choice, as I understand from Samuel, be- cause the hay-cart must pass that way in the season. But we are now bus} in winding the walk all round the orchard, and in so doing sh?;ll 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. I have this moment finished the twelfth book of the Odyssey, and I read the Iliad to Mrs, Unwin every evening. The effect of this reading is, that I still spy blemishses, some- thing, at least, that I can mend; so that, after all, the transcript of alterations whicli you and George have made will not be a per- fect one. It would be foolish to forego an opportunity of improve- ment for such a reason; neither will I. It is ten o'clock, and I must breakfast. Adieu, therefore, my dear Johnny ! Rensembcp your appointment to yce us in October. Ever vours, V,". C\ LIFE OF COV.TER. «f LETTER LXXXIII. - To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. ScJU. 8, 1793. JSfon sum quod shnulo^ my dearest brother i I seem cheerful upon paper sometimes, when I am absolutely the most dejected of all creatures. Desii-ous, howexer, to gain something myself by my own letters, unprofitable as they may and must be to my friends, I keep melancholy out of them as much as I can, tliat I may, if possible, by assuming a less gloomy air, deceive myself, and by feigning with a continuance, improve the fiction into I'ealit)'. So you have seen Flaxman's figm-es, which I intended you should not have seen till I had spread them befoi-e you I How did you dare to look at them ? You should ha\'e covered your eyes with both hands. I am charmed with Flaxman's Penelope, and though you don't deserve that I should, will send you a few lines, such as they arc, with which she inspired me the other day while I was taking my noon-day walk. The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse, VMiom all this elegance might weD seduce ; Nor can our censure on tlie husband fall. Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all. I know not that you will meet any body here when we see you in October, unless, perhaps, my Johnny should happen to be ■with us. If Tom is charmed with the thoughts of coming to Weston, we are equally so witli the tlioughts of seeing him here. At his years I should hardly hope to make his visit agreeable to him, did not I know that he is of a temper and disposition that jmist make him happy every where. Give (iur love to him. If Romncy can come with you, we have both room to recei\ e him, and hearts to make him most welcome. \\\ C. LETTER LXXXIV. To Mrs. COURTENEY. Sr/it. \&, 1793. A tliousand lh;in]cs, my dearest Catha- vina, for your pleasant letter; one of the ])'casantcst that I have received since your departure. You arc very good to apologize foi* your delay, but I jiad not flattered invicJf with the hopes of a fiS LIFE OF COWFER. speedier answer. Knowing full well your talents for entertaining your friends who are present, I was sure you would with difficulty find half an hour that you eould devote to an absent One. I am glad that you think of your return. Poor Weston is a de- solation without you. In the mean time I amuse myself as well as I can, thi'umming old Homer's lyre, and turning the premises upside down. Upside down indeed, for so it is literally that I have been dealing with the orchard almost ever since you went, dig- ging and delving it around to make a new walk, which now begins to assume the shape of one, and to look as if, some time or other, it may serve in that capacity. Taking my usual exercise there the other day with Mrs. Unwin, a wide disagreement between your clock and ours occasioned me to complain much, as I have often done, of the want of a dial. Guess my surprise when, at the close of mv complaint, I saw one ; saw one close at my side, a smart one, glittering in the sun, and mounted on a pedestal of stone. I was astonished. " This," I exclaimed, " is absolute con- juration."— It was a most mysterious affair, but the mystery wa^ at last explained. TJiis scribble, I presume, will find you just arrived atBucklands. I would with all my heirt, that, since dials can be thus suddenly conjured from one place to another, I could be so toQ, and could start up before your eyes in the middle of some walk or lawn, where you and Lady Frog are wandering. Vvliile Pitcairne whistles for his family-estate in Fifcshire, he will do well if he will sound a few notes for me. I am originally of the same shire, and a family of my name is still there, to whom, perhaps, he may whistle on my behalf, not altogether in vain. So shall his fife excel all my poetical eflforts, which have not yet, and I dare say never will, effectually charm one acre of ground into my possession. Remember me to Sir John, Lady Frog, and your husband ; tell therp I love them all. She told me once she was jealous ; now, in- deed, she seems to have some reason, since to her I ha\e not Avrit^ ten, and have written twice to you. But bid her be of good cou- rage ; in due time I will give her proof of my constancy. W. C. LETTER LXXXV. To the Reverend Mr. JOHNSON. My dearest Johnny, Sejit. 29, 1793, You have done v/ell to leave off visiting «.nd being visited. Visits are insatiable devourers of time, and LIFE OF COWPER. 87 fit onlv for those who, if they did not that, wruld do notliing. The ■worst consequence of such departures from ccmmon practice is to be termed a singular sort of a fellow, or an odd-fish; a sort of reproach that a man might be wise enough to contemn, who had not half your understanding. I look forward with pleasure to October the eleventh, the day Avhich I expect will be albo notandus lajiillo., on account of your arrival here. Here you will meet Mr. Rose, who comes on the eighth, and brings with him Mr. Lawrence the painter — you may guess for what purpose. Lawrence returns when he has made his copy of me, but Mr. Rose will remain perhaps as long as you will. Hayley, on the contrary, will come, I suppose, just in time not to see you. Him we expect on the twentieth. I trust however that thou wilt so order thy pastoral matters, as to make thy stay here as long as possible. Lady Hesketh, in her last letter, inquires very kindly after you ; asked me for your address, and purposes soon to write to you. W'e hope to see her in November : so that after a summer without company, we are likely to have an autumn and winter sociable enough. LETTER LXXXVL To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. October 5, 1793, My good intentions towards you, my dearest brother, arc continually frustrated; and, which is most pro- voking, not by such engagements and avocations as have a right to my attention, such as those to my Mary, and to the old bard of Greece, but mere impertinences, such as calls of civility from persons not very interesting to me, and letters from a distance still less interesting, because the writers of them are strangers. A man sent me a long copy of verses, which I could do no less than acknowledge. They were silly enough, and cost rac eighteen- pence, which was seventeen pence halfpenny farthing more than they were worth. Another sent me, at the same time, a plan, re- questing my opinion of it, and that I would lend him my name as editor ; a request with which I shall not comply ; but I am obliged to tell him so, and one letter is all that I have time to dispatch in a day, sometimes half a one, and sometimes I am not able to write at all. Thus it is that my time perishes, and I can neither give sn much of it as I would to you, nor to any other valuable purpose. On Tuesday we expect company — Mr, Rose and Lawrence the 88 LIFE OF COWPER. painter. Yet once more is my patience to be exercised, and once more I am made to wish that my face had been moveable, to put on and take off at pleasure, so as to be portable in a band-box, and sent to the artist. These, however, will be gone, as I believe I told you, before you arrive, at which time I know not that any body will be here, except my Johnny, whose presence will not at ail interfere with our readings. You will not, I believe, find me a very slashing critic. I hardly, indeed, expect to find any thing in, your life of Miltcn that I shall sentence to amputation. How should it be too long? A well written work, sensible and spirited, such as yours was when I saw it, is never so. But, however, we shall see. I promise to spare nothing that I thiiik may be lopped^ off with advantage. I began this letter yesterday, but could not finish it till now. I have risen this morning like an infernal frog out of Acheron, co- vered with the ouze and mud of melancholy. For this reason I am not sorry to find myself at the bottom of my paper, for had I more room, perhaps I might fill it all with croaking, and make a heart-ache at Eartham, which I wish to be always cheerful. Adieu. My poor sympathising Mary is of course sad, but alwaya mindful of you. W. C. LETTER LXXXVIL To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. Oct. 13, 1793. My DEAREST Brother, I have not, at present, much that is neces- sary to say here, because I shall have the happiness of seeing you so soon : my time, according to custom, is a mere scrap ; for which reason such must be my letter also. You will find here more than I have hitherto given you reason to expect, but none who will not be happy to see you. These, how- ever, stay with us but a short time, and will leave us in full posses- sivon of Weston on Wednesday next, I loolc forward with joy to your coming, heartily wishing you a, pleasant journey, in which my poor Mary joins me. Give our best love to Tom ; without whom, after having been taught to look for him, we should feel our pleasure in the interview much dimi- nished. Ljcti expectamus et puerumque tuum. W. C, LIFE OF COWPER. £9 My second visit to Weston (a scene that I cannot mention without feeling it endeared to me by the pleasures and by the pains of joyous and of mournful remembrance) took place very soon after the date of the last letter. I found Cowper apparently well, and enlivened by the society of his young kinsman from Norfolk, and another of his favourite friends, Mr. Rose. The latter came recently from the seat of Lord Spencer, in Northamp- tonshire, and commissioned by that accomplished nobleman to invite Cowper and his guests to Althot-pe, where my friend Gibbon was to make a visit of considerable continuance. All the guests of Cowper now recommended it to him, very strongly, to venture on this little excursion to a house whose mas- ter he most cordially respected, and whose library alone might be I'egarded as a magnet of very powerful attraction to every elegant scholar. I wished to see Cowper and Gibbon personally acquainted, be- cause I perfectly knew the real benevolence of both ; for widely as they might differ on one impoi'tant article, they were both able and vv^orthy to appreciate and enjoy the extraordinary mental powers, and the rare colloquial excellence of each other. But the constitutional shpiess of the poet conspired with the present in- firm state of Mrs. Unwinto prevent their meeting. He sent Mr. Rose and me to make his apology for declining so honourable an invitation. After a visit to Althorpe, where we had nothing to re- gret but the absence of Cowper, I returned to devote myself to him, when his younger guests were departed. Our social employ- ment, at tliis season, he has very cheerfully described in the follow- ing letter to Mrs. Courteney. LETTER LXXXVIIT. To lAIrs. COURTENEY. Wcstoii, jYuv. 4, 1793. I seldom rejoice in a day of soaking rain like this ; but in this, my dearest Catharina, I do rejoice sin- cei-ely, because it aft()rds 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 have easily found. I am a most busy man, busy to a degree that sometimes half distracts me ; but if com- plete distraction be occasioned by having the thoughts too much and too long attached to a single point, I am in no danger of it, ^\ilh such a perpetual whirl arc mine whisked about from one sub- ject to another. When two poets meet there are fine doings, I can assure )ou. My Homer finds work for Hayley, and his Liie of vol.. II. N so LIFE OF COWPER. Milton work for me, so that we are neither of us one moment idle. Poor Mrs. Unwin, in the mean time, sits quiet in her corner, occa- sionally 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 you have not two to deal with : ladies who have may be bidden, indeed, to hold their peace, but vei-y little peace have they. How should they, in fact, have any, continually enjoined as they are to be silent ? The same fcA'er that has been so epidemic there, has been se- verely felt here likewise : some have died, and a multitude have been in danger. Two under our own roof have been infected witli it, and I am not sure that I have perfectly escaped myself, but I am now well again. I have persuaded Hayley to stay a week longer, and again my hopes revive that he may yet have an opportunity 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 some- times, because we are both too busy to attend to her, she holds a dialogue with herself. Quere — Is not this a bull? and ought I not, instead of dialogue, to have said soliloquy ? Adieu. With our vmited love to all your party, and with ardent wishes soon to see you all at Weston, I remain, my dearest Catha- rina, ever yours, W. C. Cowper entreated me, with great kindness, to remain the whole winter at Weston, and engage with him in a regular and complete revisal of his Homer. I wanted not inclination for an office so agreeable ; but it struck me that I might render much more essen- tial service to the poet, as I returned through London, by quicken- ing in the minds of his more powerful friends a seasonable atten- tion to his interest and welfare. My feai's for him, in every point of view, were alarmed by his present very singular condition. He possessed completely, at this period, all the admirable faculties of his mind, and all the native tenderness of his heart ; but there was something indescribable in his appearance, which led me to appre- hend that without some signal event in his favour to re-animate his spirits, they would gradually sink into hopeless dejection. The LIFE OF COWPER. 91 ctate of his aged, infirm companion afforded additional ground for increasing solicitude. Her cheerful and beneficent spirit could liardly resist her own accumulated maladies so far as to preserve ability suflficient to watch over the tender health of him whom she had watched and guarded so long. Imbecility of body and mind must gradually render this tender ancl heroic woman unfit for the charge which she had so laudably sustained. The signs of such imbecility were beginning to be prinfully visible : nor can natui'e present a spectacle more tinly pitia-ble than imbecility in such a shape, eagerly grasping for dominion which it knows not either how to retain or how to relinquish. I left Weston in November, painfully anxious for the alarming state of my two friends, and I was so unfortunate as to add to their ■complicated troubles some degree of inquietude for my health. A slight attack of an epidemical fever had rather hastened than re- tarded my departure; but my indisposition proved more serious than I had supposed it to be ; and instead of being able to execute some literary commissions forCov/per in London, with the alacrity which affection sxiggests, I was obliged to inform him that I was confined by illness. He wrote to me immediately, with the tender- ness peculiar to himself, and my reviving health soon enabled mc to enliven his apprehensive mind, not only with an account of my recovery, but with intelligence relating to his own literary engage- ments that had a tendency to relieve his spirits from a considerabled by public munifi- LIFE OF COWPER. 9& tence. Mei\ of all pjirties agreed that a pension might be granted to an author of his acknowledged merit with graceful propriety, and we might apply to him, on this topic, the very expressive words wliicli the poet Claudian addresses, on a different occasion, to his favourite hero : Suffragia Viilgi Jam tibi detulerant, quidquid mox dtbuit aula. It was devoutly to be wished, that the declining spirits of Cow- per should be speedily animated and sustained by assistance of this nature, because the growing influence of melancholy not only filled him with distressing ideas of his own fortune, but threatened to rob him of the power to make any kind of exertion in his own be- half. His situation and his merits were perfectly understood, hu- manely felt, and honourably acknowledged by persons who, while they declared that he ought to receive an immediate public sup- port, seemed to possess both tlic inclination and the pov/er to en- sure it. But such is the difficulty of doing real good, experienced even by the great and the powerfid, or so apt are statesmen to for- get the pressing exigence of meritorious individuals, in the distrac- tions of official perplexity, that month after month elapsed, in which the intimate friends of Cowper confidently, yet vainly ex- pected to sec him happily rescued from some of the darkest evils impending over him, by an honourable provision for life. Imagination can hardly devise any human condition more truly affecting than the state of the poet at this period. His generous and faitliful guardian, Mrs. Unwin, who had preserved him thi-ough seasons of the severest calamity, was now, with her facul- ties and fortune impaired, sinking fast into second childhood. The distress of heart that he felt in beholding the cruel change in a companion so justly dear to him, conspiring with his constitutional melancholy, was gradually undermining the exquisite faculties of his mind. But deprcst as he was by these complicated afflictions, Providence v^^as far from deserting this excellent man. His female relation, whose regard he had cultivated as his favourite corres- pondent, now devoted herself very nobly to the superintendence of a house, whose two interesting inhabitants were rendered, by age and trouble, almost incapal>le of attending to the ordinary offices of life. Those only wlio have lived with the superannuated and the me- lancholy, can properly appreciate the value of such magnanimous fricndsliip, or perfectly apprehend what personal sufferings it must iN-st the mortal who exerts it, if that mortal has received from 100 LIFE OF COWPER. nature a frame of compassionate sensibility. The lady to whom I allude has felt but two severely, in her own health, the heavy tax that mortality is forced to pay for a resolute perseverance in such painful duty. ' The two last of Cowper's letters to me, that breathe a spirit of mental activity and cheerful friendship, were written in the close of the year 1793 and in the beginning of the next. They arose from an incident that it may be proper to relate before I insert the letters. On my return from Weston I had given an account of the poet to his old friend Lord Thurlow. That learned and powerful cri- tic, in speaking of Cowper's Homer, happened to declare himself not satisfied with his version of Hector's admirable prayer in ca- ressing his child. We both ventured on new translations of the prayer, which I sent immediately to Cowper, and the following letters will prove with what just and manly freedom of spirit he was at this time able to criticise the composition of his friends and his own. LETTER XCIV. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. Becetnber 17, 1793. Oh Jove ! and all ye gods 1 grant this my son To prove, like me, pre-eminent in Ti'oy ! In valour such, and firmness of command ! Be he extoll'd, when he returns from fight, As far his Sire's superior ! may he slay His enemy, bring home his gory spoils, And may his mother's heart o'ei'flow with joy I I rose this morning at six o'clock, on pur- pose to translate this prayer again, and to write to my dear brother. Here you have it, such as it is, not perfectly according to my own liking, but as well as I could make it, and I think better than cither your's or Lord Thurlow's. You, with your six lines, have made yourself stiff and ungraceful, and he, with his seven, has pro- duced as good prose as heart can wish, but no poetry at all. A scrupulous attention to the latter has spoiled you both ; you have neither the spirit nor the manner of Homer. A portion of both may be found, I believe, in my version, but not so much as I could wish : it is better, however, than the printed one. His Lordship's two first lines I cannot very well understand: he seems to me to give a sense to the original that does not belong to it. Hector, I LIFE OF COWPER. 101 apprehend, does not say, " Grant that he may prove himself my son, and be eminent," 8cc. but, " Grant that this ni)- son may prove eminent;" which is a matei'ial difference. In the latter sense I find the simplicity of an ancient ; in the former, that is to say, iti the notion of a man's proving himself his father's son by similar merit, the finesse and dexterity of a mwlern. His Lordship, too, makes the man who gives the young hero his commendation the person who returns from battle; whereas Homer makes the young hero himself that person, at least if Clarke is a just interpreter, which I suppose is hardly to be disputed. If my old friend would look into my preface, he would find a principle laid down there, which, perhaps, it would not be easy to invalidate, and which, properly attended to, would equally secure a translation from stiffness and from wildness. The principle I mean is this : " Close, but not so close as to be servile ; free, but not so free as to be licentious." A superstitious fidelity loses the spirit, and a loose deviation the sense of the translated author — a happy moderation, in either case, is the only possible way of pre- serving both. Thus have I disciplined you both, and now, if you please, j'ou may both discipline me. I shall not enter my version in my book till it has undergone your strictures at least, and should you write to the noble critic again, you are welcome to submit it to his. We are three aukward fellows indeed, if we cannot amongst us make a tolerable good translation of six lines of Homer. Adieu. VV. C. LETTER XCV. To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. JVcston, January 5, 1794. My DEAR Hayley, I have waited, but waited in vain, for a propitious moment when I might give my old friend's objections the consideration they deserve. I shall, at last, be forced to send a vague answer, unworthy to be sent to a person accustomed, like him, to close reasoning and abstruse discussion, for I rise after ill rest, and with a frame of mind perfectly unsuited to the occasion. I sit, too, at the window, for light sake, where I am so cold that my pen slips out of my fingers. First I Avill give }^ou a translation, de novo, of this untranslatable prayer. It is shaped, as nearly as I could contrive, to his Lordshi]i's idc;is, but I have little hoi)c that it will Katisfv him. 102 LIFE OF COWPER. Grant Jove, and all 3^6 gods, that this, my son, Be, as myself have been, illustrious here I A valiant man I and let him reign in Troy ! May aU who witness his return from fight Hereafter, say — He far excels his sire ; And let him bring back gory trophies, stript From foes slain by him, to his mother's joy. Imlac, in Rasselas, says, I forget to whom, " You have convinced Xne that it is impossible to be a poet." In like manner I might say to his Lordship, you have convinced me that it is impossible to be a translator. To be a translator, on his terms at least, is, I am sure, impossible. On his terms I would defy Homer himself, were he alive, to translate the Paradise Lost into Greek. Yet Milton had Homer much in his eye, when he composed that poem: whereas Homer never thought of me or my translation. There are minutis in every language, which, transfused into anothei', will spoil the version. Such extreme fidelity is, in fact, unfaithful. Such close' resemblance takes away all likeness. The original is elegant, easy, natural ; the copy is clumsy, constrained, unnatural. To what is this owing? To the adoption of terms not congenial to your purpose ; and of a context, such as no man writing an original work would make use of. Homer is every thing that a poet should be. A translation of Homer so made, will be every thing that a translation of Homer should not be ; because it will be written in no language under heaven. It will be English, and it will be Greek, and therefore it will be neither. He is the man, whoever he be, (I do not pretend to be that man myself) he is the man best qualified as a translator of Homer, who has drenched, and steeped, and soaked himself in the effusions of his genius, till he has im- bibed their colour to the bone, and who, when he is thus dyed through and through, distinguishing between what is essentially Greek, and what may be habited in English, rejects the former, and is faithful to the latter, as far as the purposes of fine poetry will permit, and no farther. This, I think, may be easily proved. Homer is every where remarkable either for ease, dignity, o? energy of expression ; for gi'andeur of conception, and a majestic fioAv of numbers. If we copy him so closely as to make every one of these excellent properties of his absolutely unattainable, which ■will certainly be tlie effect of too close a cop;,", instead of translat- ing we murder liim. Therefore, after all that his Lordship has said, I still hold freedom to be an indispensi!)lc. Freedom, I mean, with respect to the expression ; freedom so limited, as never to leave behind the matter; but at the same time indulged with a LIFE OF COVVPER. 103 sufficient scope to secure the spirit, and as much as possible of the manner. I say as ir^uch as possible, because an English manner must chfFer from a Greek one, in order to be graceful ; and for this there is no remedy. Can an ungraceful, aukward translation of Homer be a good one ? No : but a graceful, easy, natural, faith- ful version of him — will not that be a good one? Yes: allow me but this, and I insist upon it that such a one may be produced on my principles, and can be produced on no other. I have not had time to criticise his Lordship's other version. You know how little time I have for any thing, and can tell him so. Adieu, my dear brother. I have now tired both you and my- self; and, with the love of the whole trio, i-emain j'ours ever, \\\ C. Reading his Lordship's sentiments over again, I am inclined to think, that in all I have said I have only given him back the same in other terms. He disallows both the absolute Jree, and the ab- solute close : so do I ; and, if I understand myself, have said so in niy preface. He wishes or recommends a medium, though he will not call it so: so do I ; only we express it differently. What is it, then, that we dispute about ? My head is not good enough to-day to discover. Tliese letters were followed by such a silence on the part of my invaluable correspondent, as filled me with the severest apprehen- sions : because I well knew that, while he retained any glimmer- ings of Uiental health, his affectionate spirit was eager to imbur- thCii itself to a friend, of whose sympathy, in all his sufferings, he was perfectly assured, Tlie accounts of him with which I was fa- voured by his amiable i-elation (who, shocked as she Avas by the helpless state and deplorable infirmities of Mrs. Unwin, now resided with these piteous invalids,) increased my anxiety for my dejected and silent friend. Little as the probability appeai'ed that my presence could render him any essential service, I was induced to visit Weston once more, by the following fi-iendly exhortation, in a letter from Cow- pcr's compassionate neighbour, Mr. Greatheed — the clergyman whom Cowper himself had taught me to esteem on our first ac- quahitance. 104 LIFE OF COWPER. From the Reverend Mr. GREATHEED, To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esquire. ' JVewJiort-Pagnel, April 8, 1?'94, Dear Sir, Lady Hesketh's correspondence acquainted you with the melancholy relapse of our dear friend at Weston ; but I am uncertain whether you know that, in tlie last fortnight, he has refused food of every kind, except now and then a very small piece of toasted bread, dipped generally in water, sometimes mixed with a little -w'ine. This, her Ladyship informs me, was the case till last Saturday, since when he has eat a little at each family meal. He persists in refusing such medicines as are indispensible to his state of body. In such circumstances, his long continuance in life cannot be expected. How devoutly to be wished is the alle- viation of his danger and distress ! You, dear Sir, who know so well the worth of our beloved and admired friend, sympathize with his affliction, and deprecate his loss, doubtless, in no ordinary degree. You have already most eiFectually expressed and proved the •warmth of your friendship. I cannot think that any thing but your society would have been sufficient, during the infirmity under whicli his mind has long been oppressed, to have supported him against the shock of Mrs. Unwin's paralytic attack. I am certain that no- thing else could have prevailed upon him to undertake the jour- ney to Eartham. You have succeeded where his other friends knew they could not, and where they apprehended no one could. How natural, therefore, nay, how reasonable is it for them to look to you, as most likely to be instrumental, under the blessing of God, for relief in the present distressing and alarming crisis? It is, indeed, scarcely attemptable to ask any person to take such a journey, and involve himself in so melancholy a scene, with au uncertaintj"- of the desired success — increased as the apparent diffi- culty is by dear Mr. Cowper's aversion to ail company, and by poor Mrs. TJnwin's mental and bodily infirmities. On these accounts Lady Hesketh dares not ask it of you, rejoiced as she would be at your arrival. Am not I, dear Sir, a very presump- tuous person, who, in the face of all opposition, dare do this ? I am emboldened by those two powerful supporters, conscience and experience. Was I at Eartham, I would certainly under- take the lal)our I presume to recommend, for the bare possibility qf restoring Mr. Cowper to himself, to his friends, to the publiqj and to God. I.IFE OF COWPER. 105 The benevolent wishes of this sincere and fervent advocate fot *jenius and virtue, sinking under calamity, were far from being accomplished by my arrjval at Weston. My unhappy friend was too much overwhelmed by his oppressive malady, to show even the least glimmering of satisfaction at the appearance of a guest whom he used to receive with the most lively expressions of aiFectionate delight. It is the nature of this tremendous melancholy not only to enshroud and stifle the finest faculties of the mind, but it suspends, and apparently annihilates for a time, the strongest and best- rooted affections of the heart. I had frequent and painful occa- sion to observe, in this affecting visit to my suffering friend, that he seemed to shrink, at times, from every human creature, except from the gentle voice of my soil. This exception I attributed partly to the peculiar charm which is generally found in the manners of tender ingenuous children, and partly to that uncommon sweetness of character which had inspired Cowper with a degree of parental partiality towards this highly promising youth. 1 had hoped, indeed, that his influence, at this season, might be superior to my own, over the dejected spirit of my friend '; but though it was So to a considerable degree, our united efforts to cheer and amuse him were utterly frustrated by his calamitous depression. I may yet hope that my distressing visit to this very dear sufferer was productive of some little good. My presence afforded an opportunity to his excellent relation, Lady Hesketh, who acted at this time as his immediate guardian, to quit her charge for a few days, that she might have a personal conference con- cerning him with the eminent Dr. Willis. A friendly letter from Lord Thurlow to that celebrated physician had requested his attention to the highly interesting sufferer. Dr. Willis prescribed for Cowper, and saw him at Weston ; but not with that success and felicity which made his medical skill, on another most awful, occasion, the source of national delight and exultation. Indeed, the extraordinary state of Cowper appeared to abound with circumstances very unfavourable to his mental relief. The daily sight of a being reduced to such deplorable imbecility as now overwhelmed Mrs. Unwui was, in itself, sufficient to i)lunge a, t-ender spirit in extreme melancholy; yet to separate two friends so long accuston\ed to minister, with the purest and most vigilant benevolence, to the infirmities of each other, was a measure so pregnant with complicated distraction, that it could not be advised or attempted. It remained only to palliate the sufferings of each, yoL, IX. I' lop LIFE OF COWPER. in their present most pitiable condition, and to trust in the mercjr of that God who had supported them together through periods of very dark affliction, though not so doubly deplorable as the present. I had formerly I'egarded Weston as a scene that exhibited hu- man nature in a most delightful point of view : I had applauded there no common triumphs of genius and of friendship. The con- trast that I now contemplated has often led me to repeat (with such feelings as those only who have surveyed a contrast so de- plorable can perfectly conceive) the following pathetic exclama- tion in the Sampson Agonistes of Milton : " God of our Fathers, what is man ! ******* " Since such as Thou hast solemnly elected, *' With gifts and graces eminently adorned ; ******* " Yet towards these thus dignified. Thou oft, " Amidst their height of noon, " Changest thy count'nance, and thy hand, with no regard " Of highest favours past " From Thee on tliem, or them to Thee of service. ******** " So deal not with this once thy glorious champion ! " Wliat do I beg ? How hast thou dealt already ! " Behold him in this state calamitous, and turn <' His labours, for thou canst, to peaceful end I" In the spirit of this prayer every being sympathized who had enjoyed a personal acquaintance with Cowper in his happier days, or felt the beneficent influence of his unclouded mind. But, for- reasons inscrutable to human apprehension, it was the will of Heaven that this admirable and meritorious invalid should pass through a length of sufferings, on which I am very far from being disposed to detain the attention of my reader : " Animus meminisse horret, luctuque refugit." I shall therefore only say, that although it has been my lot to be acquainted with affliction in a variety of shapes, I hardly ever felt tlie anguish of sympathy with an afflicted friend in a severer de- gree than during the few weeks that I passed with Cowper at this season of his sufferings. The pain that I endured from this sym- pathy waS;, I believe, very visible in my features, and it obtained LIFE OF COl^T'ER. 107 for me, fi-om his excellent, accomplished neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Courteney, the most delicate and endearing attention ; kind- ness so peculiarly consoling, that I can never cease to i-emember, and to speak of it with gratitude, while the faculty of memory re- mains to me. Indeed, as my own health had been much shattered by a series of troubles, it would probal^ly have sunk utterly under the pres- sure of this distressing scene, had not some comforts of a very soothing nature been providentially blended with the calamities of my friend. It was on the twenty -third of April, 1794, in one of those me- lancholy mornings when his compassionate relation. Lady Hes- keth, and myself, were watching together over this dejected suf- ferer, that a letter from Lord Spencer arrived at Weston, to an- nounce the intended grant of such a pension from his Majesty to Cowper, as would ensure an honourable comyictence for the resi- due of his life. This intelligence produced in the friends of the poet very lively emotions of delight, yet blended with pain almost as powerful ; for it was painful, in no trifling degree, to reflect, that these desirable smiles of good fortune could not impart even a faint glimmering of joy to the dejected invalid. His friends, however, had the animating hope, that a day would arrive when they might see him recei\'e, with a cheerful and joyful gratitude, this royal rccompence for merit universally acknowledged. They knew that, when he recovered his suspended faculties, he mtist be particulai'ly pleased to find himself chiefly indebted for his good fortune to the active benevolence of that nobleman who, though not personally acquainted with Cowper, stood, of all his noble friends, the highest in his esteem. Indeed, it is a justice due to the great to declare, that many of them concurred in promoting, on this occasion, the interest of the poet ; and they spoke of him with a ti'uth, and liberality of praise, that did honour both to him and to themselves. It is not often that Majesty has opportunities of granting a reward for literary merit, where the individual who receives it has so clear and unques- tionable a title, both to royal munificence and to popular affection. But the heart and spirit of Cowper were eminently loyal and pa- triotic. He has spoken occasionally of his sovereign in verse, with personal regard, but without a shadow of ser\ility : and his poetry abounds with eloquent and just descriptions of that double duty which an Englishman owes to the crown and to the people. Perhaps no poet has more clearly and forcibly delineated the respective duties that belong both to subjects and to sovereigns: T allude to an admirable passage on this topic in the fifth book of 108^ LIFE OF COWPER,' the Task. It is thne to feturn to the sufferer at Weston. ' He wa». unhappily disabled from feeling the favour he received, but an an-. ' iiuityof three hundred a year was graciously secured to him, and. rendered payable to his friend Mr. Rose, as the trustee of Co\vper. After devoting a few weeks to Weston, I was under a painful necessity of forcing myself away from my unhappy friend, who, though he appeared to take no pleasure in my society, expressed estreme reluctance to let me depart. I hardly ever endured an hour more dreadfully distressing than the hour in which I left him. Yet the anguish of it would have been greatly increased, had I been conscious that he was destined to years of this dark de- pression, and that I should see him no more. I still hoped, from the native vigour of his frame, that, as he had formerly struggled tlirough longer fits of this oppressive malady, his darkened mind would yet emerge from this calamitous eclipse, and shine forth again with new lustre. These hopes were considerably increased at a subsequent period ; but, alas I they were delusive : for, al- though he recovered sufficient command of his faculties to write a few occasional poems, and to retouch his Homer, yet the prospect* of his perfect recovery was never realized. I had beheld the poet of unrivalled genius, the sympathetic friend, and the delightful com- panion, for the last time ; and I must now relate the gloomy resi- due of his life, not from my own personal observation, but from the faithful account of his young kinsman of Norfolk, who devoted himself to the care of this beloved sufferer, and persevered to the last in that delicate and awfiil charge. From this time, when I left my unhappy friend at \^"eston, in the spring of the year 1794, he remained there, under the tender vigilance of his affectionate relation. Lady Hesketh, till the latter end of July, 1795 ; a long season of the darkest depression, in which the best medical advice, and the influence of time, appeared equally unable to lighten that afflictive burthen which pressed in- cessantly on his spirits. At this period it became absolutely necessary to make a great and painful exertion, for the mental relief of the various sufferers at Weston. Mrs. Unwin was sinking very fast into second child- hood ; the health of Lady Hesketh was much impaired ; and tlie dejection of Co\vper was so severe, that a change of scene was considered as essential to the prcsei'vation of his life. Under circumstances so deplorable, his kinsman at Norfolk most tenderly and generously undertook to conduct the two vene-r rable invalids from Buckinghamshire into Norfolk, and so to re- gulate their future lives, that every possible expedient might be tried for the recovery of his revered relation. LIFE OF COWPER. IW It is harclly possible for friendship to undertake a charge more delicate and arduous, or to sustain all the pains tliat must neces- sarily attend it, Avith a more constant exertion of gentle fortitude and affectionate fidelity. The local attachment of Cowper to his favourite village of Weston was strong in no common degree, and rendered his mi- gration from it, though an event of medical necessity, yet a scene of peculiar sufferings! Those who knew his passionate attachment to that pleasant village, how deeply he lamented his absence from it, and how little he gained by a change of situation, tliough con- sidered as important to the revival of his health, can hard'y help regretting that he did not close his days in that favourite scene, and find, at last, according to the wish that he tenderly expresses in the conclusion of the Task, " A safe retreat " Beneath the turf that he had often trod." But painful and unprofitable as it proved in a medical point of view, his removal from Weston was very properly considered, by his relations, as an act of imperious duty. He quitted it with af- fectionate reluctance ; and perhaps I cannot more forcibly express both the reg'ird of Cowper, and my own regard for tliat endearing scene, than by introducing, at this time, when we are taking leave of V\'eston for ever, a little poem, that I believe to be tlie last original work which he produced in that beloved abode. The poem describes not his residence, but the increasing infirmities of that aged companion who had so long contributed to his do- iTiestic comfort. I question if any language on earth can exhibit a specimen of verse more exquisitely tender. To MARY. The twentieth year is well-nigh past. Since first our sky was overcast — Ah, would that this might be the last. My Mary ! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow — 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, Mv Marv ! 110 LIFE OF COWPER* Thy needles, once a shining store, Foi' my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disus'd, and shine no more, My Mary ! For though thou gladly would'st fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will,' My Mary ! But well thou playd'st the housewife's part ; And all thy threads, with magic art, Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary ! Thy indistinct expi*essions seem Like language utter'd in a dream ; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme. My Mary ! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright. Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light. My Mary ! For cculd I view nor them nor thee. What sight worth seeing could I see ? The sun would rise in vain for me. My Mary ! Partakers of thy sad decline. Thy hands their little force resign ; Yet, gently press'd, press gently mine, My Mary! ■♦ Such feebleness of limbs thou 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 wint'ry age to feel no chill, Vv'ith me, is to be lovely still. My Mary ! LIFE OF COWPER. lU But ah ! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary ! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Tliy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary » On Tuesday the twenty-eighth of July, 1795, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin removed, under the care and guidance of Mr. Jolinson, from Weston to North-Tuddenham, in Norfolk, by a journey of three days, passing through Cambridge without stopping there. In the evening of the first day they rested at the village of Eaton, near St. Neot's. Cowper walked, with his young kinsman, in the church-yard, by moon-light, and spoke of the poet Thomson with more composure of mind than he liad discovered for many months. This conversation was almost his last glimm,ering of cheer- fulness. At North-Tuddenham the travellers were accommodated with a commodious, untenanted parsonage-house, by the kindness of the Reverend Leonard Shelford. Here they resided till the nineteenth of August. It was the considerate intention of Mr. Johnson not to remove the two invalids immediately to his own house in the town of East-Dereham, lest die situation, in a market-place, should be distressing to the tender spirit-s of Cowper. In their new tempoi-ary residence they were received by Miss Johnson and Miss Perowne : and here I am irresistibly led to re- mark the kindness of Providence towards Cowper, in his darkest seasons of calamity, by suppljing him with attendants peculiarly suited to the exigences of mental dejection. Miss Perowne is one of those excellent beings whom nature seems to have formed expressly for the purpose of alleviating the sufferings of the afflicted : tenderly vigilant in providing Ibr the wants of sickneps, and resolutely firm in administering such relief as the most intelligent compassion can supply. Cowper speedily observed and felt the invaluable virtues of his new attendant; and, during the last years of liis life, he honoured her so far as to prefer her personal assistance to that of every individual around hi'm. Severe as his depressive malady appeared at this period, he was still able to bear considerable exercise ; and before he left Tudden- ham, he walked, with Mr. Johnson, to the neighboui'ing village of 112 LIFE OF COWPER. Mattishall, on a visit to his cousin, Mrs. Bodham. On survey- ing his own portrait by Abbot, in the house of that lady, he clasped his hands in a paroxysm of pain, and uttered a vehement wish, that his present sensations miglit be such as they were when that picture was painted. In August, 1795, Mr. Johnson conducted his two invalids to Mundsley, a village on the Norfolk coast, in the hope that a situation by the sea-side might prove salutary and amusing to Cowper. They continued to reside there till October, but without any apparent benefit to the health of the interesting sufferer. He had long relinquished epistolary intercourse with his most in- timate friends, bat his tender solicitude to hear some tidings of liis favourite Weston induced him, in September, to write a letter to Mr. Buchanan. It shows the severity of his depression, but shows, also, that faint gleams of pleasure could occasionally break through the settled darkness of melancholy. He begins with a poetical quotatiori : ' To interpose a little ease, ' Let my frail thoughts dally with false surmise!' " I will forget, for a moment, that to whomsoever I may ad- dress myself, a letter from me can no otherwise be welcome than as a curiosity. To you, Sir, I address this, urged to it by ex- treme penury of employment, and the desire I feel to learn something of Avhat is doing, and has been done, at Weston (my beloved Westcn 1) since I left it. " The coldness of these blasts, even in the hottest days, has been such, that, added to the irritation of the salt-spray with which they are always charged, they have occasioned me an in- flammation in the eye-lids, which thi'eatened, a few days since, fo confine me entirely; but, by absenting myself as much as possi- ble from the beach, and guarding my face with an umbrella, that inconvenience is, in some degree, abated. My chamber commands a very near view of the ocean, and the ships at high water ap- proach the coast so closely, that a man, furnished with better eyes than mine, might, I doubt not, discern the sailoi-s from the window. No situation, at least when the weather is clear and bright, can be pleasanter ; which you will easily credit, when I add, that It imparts something a little resembling pleasure even to me. Gratif'' me v.'iih nevvs of Weston ! If Mr. Gregson find your neighbours, the Ccurtencys, are there, mention me to them in such terras as you sec good. Tell me if my poor birds are living ! I never see the herbs I used to give them without LIFE OF COWPER. 113 A recollection of them, and sometimes am ready to gather them, ibrgetting that I am not at home. — Pardon this intrusion 1 " Mrs. UnAvin continues much as usual. « Mtmdsley, Scjit, 5, 1795." The compassionate and accomplished clergyman to whom this letter is addressed, endeavoured, with great tenderness and in- genuity, to allure his dejected friend to prolong a correspondence that seemed to promise some little alleviation to his melancholy : but that cruel distemper baffled all the various expedients that could be devised to counteract its overwhelming influence. Much hope was entertained from air and exercise, with a fre- quent change of scene. — In September Mr. Johnson conducted his kinsman (to the promotion of whose recovery he devoted all the faculties of his affectionate spirit) to take a survey of Dunham- Lodge, a seat that happened to be vacant: it is seated on a high grovuid, in a park, about four miles from Swaffham. Cowper spoke of it as a house rather too spacious for him, yet such as he was not unwilling to inhal^it ; a remark that induced Mr. John- son, at a subsequent period, to become the tenant of this mansion, as a scene more eligible for Cowper than the town of Dereham. This town they also surveyed in their excursion ; and, after pas- sing a night there, returned to Mundsley, which they quitted for the season on the seventh of October. They removed immediately to Dereham ; but left it in the course of the month for Dunham-Lodge, which now became their settled residence. The spirits of Cowper were not sufficiently revived to allow him to resume either his pen or his books ; but the kindness of his young kinsman continued to furnish him with inexhaustible amuse- ment, by reading to him, almost incessantly, a series of novels, which, although tlie\' did not lead him to converse on what he heard, yet failed not to rivet his attention, and so to prevent his afflicted mind from preying on itself. In April, 1796, the good, infirm old lady, whose infirmities con- tinued to engage the tender attention of Cowper, even in his darkest periods of depression, received a visit from her daughter and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Powley. On their departure, Mr. Jf)hnson assumed the office wjiich Mrs. Powley had tenderly per- formed for her venerable parent, and regularly read a chapter in the Bible ev^ery morning to Mrs. Unwin before she rose. It was the invariable custom of Cowper to visit his poor old friend the VOL. II. Q_ 114 LIFE OF COWPER. moment he had finished his breakfast, and to remain in her apart- ment while the chapter was read. In June the pressure of his melancholy appeared to be in some little degree alleviated, for on Mr. Johnson's receiving the edition of Pope's Homer, published by Mr. Wakefield, Cowper eagerly seized the book, and began to read the notes to himself with visi'oie interest. They awakened his attention to his own version of Ho- mer. In August he deliberately engaged in a revisal of the whole, and for some time produced almost sixty new lines a day. This mental occupation animated all his intimate friends with a most lively hope of his speedy and perfect recovery. But autumi> repressed the hope that summer had excited. In September the family removed from Dunham-Lodge to try again the influence of the sea-side, in their favourite village af Mundsley. Cowper walked frequently by the sea ; but no apparent benefit arose, no mild relief from the incessant pressure of his melan- choly. He had relinquished his Homer again, and could not yet be induced to resume it. Towards the end of October, this interesting family of disabled invalids, and their affectionate attendants, retired from the coast to the house of Mr. Johnson, in Dereham ; a house now chosen for their winter residence, as Dunham-Lodge appeared to them too dreary. The long and exemplary life of Mrs. Unwin was drawing to- wards a close : — Tlie powers of nature were gradually exhausted, and on the se\'enteenth of December she ended a troubled ex- istence, distinguished by a sublime spirit of piety and friendship, that shone through long periods of calamity, and continued to glim- mer through the distressful twilight of her declining faculties. Her death was uncommonly tranquil. Cowper saw her about half an hour before the moment of expiration, which passed, without a struggle or a groan, as the clock was striking one in the after- noon. Oji the morning of that day he said to the servant, who opened the window of his chamber, " Sally, is there life above stairs ?" A sti'iking proof of his bestowing incessant attention on the suffer- ings of his aged friend, although he had long appeared almost to- tally absorbed in his own. In the dusk of the evening he attended Mr. Johnson to survey the corpse ; and after looking at it a few moments, he started sud- denly away, with a vehement but unfinished sentence of passionate: sorrow. He spoke of her no more. LIFE OF COWPER. 315 She was buried by torch-'ight, on the twenty-third of Decem- ber, in the north aisle of Derch;im chu-ch ; and two of her friends, impressed witli a just and deep sense of her extraordinary merit, have raised a mai'ble tablet to her memory, wkli the following in. scription: IN MEMORY OF MARY, (Widow of the Reverend Morley Unwin, and Mother of the Reverend William Ca wthorn Unwin,) Born at Ely, 1724 — buried in this Church, 1796. Trusting in God, with all her heart and mind, This woman prov'd magnanimously kind; Endur'd affliction's desolating hail. And watch'd a poet through misfortime's vale. Her spotless dust, ar,ge1ic guards, defend! It is the dust of Unwin, Cowper's friend \ That single title in itself is fame. For all who read his verse revere her name. The infinitely tender and deep sense of gratitude that Cowper, in his seasons of health, invariably manifested towards this zealous and faithful guardian of his troubled existence; the agonies he suffered on our finding her under the oppression of a paralytic disease, dm-ing my first visit to Weston; and all his expi-essions to me concerning the comfort and support that his spirits had derived from her friendship, — all made me peculiarly anxious to know how he sustained the event of her death. It may be re- garded as an instance of providential mercy to this afflicted poet, whose sensibility of heart was so wonderfully acute, that his aged friend, whose li*e he had so long considered as essential to his own, was taken from him at a time when the pressure of his malady, a perpetual low fever, both of body and mind, had, in a great degree, diminished the native energy of his faculties and affections. Severe as the sufferings of melanchoiy were to his disordered frame, I am strongly inclined to believe that the anguish of heart "which he would otherwise have endured, must have been infinitely more icvere. From this anguish he was so far preserved by the marvellous state of his own disturl^ed health, that, instead of mourning the loss of a person in wliose life he had seemed to live, all perceptioi) of that loss was mercifully taken from him; and lift- LIFE OF COWPER. from the moment when he hurried away from the inanimate object of his filial attachment, he appeared to have no memory of her having existed, for he never asked a question concerning her fune- ral, nor ever mentioned her name. Towards the summer of 1797, his bodily health appeared to im-r prove, but not to such a degree as to restore any comfortable acti- vity to his mind. In June he wrote to me a brief ;ettei', but such as too forcibly expressed the cruelty of his distemper. The process of digestion never passed regularly in his frame during the years that he resided in Norfolk. Medicine appeared to have little or no influence on his complaint, and his aversion at the sight of it was extreme. From Asses' milk, of which he began a course on the twenty- first of June in this year, he gained a considerable acquisition of bodily strength, and was enabled to bear an airing in an open car- riage before breakfast, with Mr. Johnson. A depression of spirits, which suspended the studies of a writer so eminently endeared to the public, was considered, by men of piety and learning, as a national misfortune ; and several indivi- duals of this description, though personally unknown to Cowper, ■wrote to him in the benevolent hope, that expressions of friendly praise, from persons who could be influenced only by the most laudable motives in bestowing it, might reanimate the dejected spirit of a poet, not sufficiently conscious of the public service that his writings had rendered to his countiy, and of that universa,! esteem which they had so deservedly secured to their author, I cannot think m^^self authorized to mention the names of all who did honour to Cowper and to themselves on this occasion, but I trust the Bishop of LandafF will forgive me, if my sentiments of personal regard towards him induce me to take an affectionate liberty with his name, and to gratify myself by recording, in these pages, a very pleasing example of his liberal attention to the in- terests of humanity. He endeavoured evangelically to cheer and invigorate the mind of Cowper ; but the depi-ession of that disordered mind was the effect of bodily disorder so obstinate, that it received not the slightest relief from what, in a season of coi-poreal health, would have afforded the most animated gratification to this interesting inA^alid. The pressure of his malady had now made him utterly deaf t© the most honourable praise. He had long discontinued the revisal of his Homer ; but, b}"^ the entreaty of his young kinsman, he was persuaded to resume it in September, 1797, and he pei-severed in it, oppressed as he was LIFE OF COWPER. 11? by indisposition, till Maixh, 1799. On Friday evening, the eighth of that month, he completed his revisal of the Odyssey, and the next morning wrote part of a new pi-eface. To watch over the disordered health of afflicted genius, and to lead a powerful but oppressed spirit, by gentle encouragement, to exert itself in salutary occupation, is an office that requires a very rare union of tenderness, intelligence and fortitude. To con- template and minister to a great mind, in a state that borders on mental desolation, is like surveying, in the midst of a desert, the tottering ruins of palaces and temples, where the faculties of the • spectator are almost absorbed in wonder and regret, and whei-e every step is taken with awful apprehension. It seemed as if Providence had expressly formed the young kinsman of Cowper to prove exactly such a guardian to his de- clining years as the peculiar exigences of his situation required. I never saw the human being that cnuld, I think, have sustained the delicate and arduous office (in which the inexhaustible virtues of Mr. Johnson persevered to the last) through a period so long, "with an equal portion of unvaried tenderness and unshaken fide- lity. A man who wanted sensibility would have renounced the duty ; and a man endowed with a particle too much of that valu- able, though perilous quality, must have felt his own health ut- terly undermined by an excess of sympathy with the sufferings per- petually in his sight. Mr. Johnson has completely discharged per- }iaj»s the most trying of human duties; and, I trust, he will forgive iTie for this public declaration, that, in his mode of discharging it, lie has merited the most cordial esteem from all who love the memory of Cowper. Even a stranger may consider it as a strik- ing proof of his tender dexterity in soothing and guiding the af- flicted poet, that he was able to engage him steadily to pursue and finish the revisal and correction of his Homer, during a long pe- riod of bodily and mental sufferings, when his troubled mind re- coiled from all intercourse with his most intimate friends, and la- boured under a morbid abliorrence of all cheerful exertion. But in deploring the calamity of my friend, and describing the merit of his affectionate attendant, I must not forget that it is still incumbent on me, as a faithful biographer, to notice a few circum- stances in the dark and distressful years that Cowper had yet to ling-er on earth. In the summer of 1798, Mr. Johnson was induced to vary his plan of remaining, for some months, in the marine village of Muiulsley, and thought it more eligible fvir the invalid to make frequent visits from Dereham to tlie coast, passing a week ^t a time by the sea-side. Cowper, in his Poem on Retirement, seems to inform us what hs LIFE OF COWPER. his own sentiments were, in a season of health, concerning the regimen most proper for the disease of melancholy. " Virtuous and faithful Heberden, whose skill " Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil, " Gives melancholy up to nature's care, *' And sends the patient inco purer air." Tlie frequent change of place, and the magnificence of marine scenery, produced, at times, a little relief to his depressive sensa- tions. On the seventh of June, 1798, he surveyed the Light-house at Happisburgh, and expressed some pleasure on beholding, through a telescope, several ships at a distance. Yet, in his usual walk with Mr. Johnson, by the sea-side, he exemplified but too forcibly his own affecting description of melancholy silence. " That silent tongue *• Cnuld give advice, could censure, or commend, " Or charm the sorrov\'s of a drooping friend ; *' Rencunc'd alike its office, and its sport, " Its brisker and its graver strains fall short : " Both fai' beneath a fever's secret sway, " And, like a summer brook, are past away." But this description is applicable only in the moi*e oppressive pre- ceding years, for of the summer 1798, Mr. Johnson says, " We had no longer air and exercise alone, but exercise and Homer hand in hand." On the twenty-fourtli of July Cowper had the honour of a visit from a lady for whom he had long entertained affectionate respect, the Dowager Lady Spencer ; and it was rather remarkable, that, on the very morning she called upon him, he happened to have be- gun his revisal of the Odyssey, which he had originally inscribed to her. Such an incident, in an happier season, would have pro- duced a very enlivening effect on his spirits ; but, in his present state, it had not even the power to lead him into any free conversa- tion with his amiable visitor. The only amusement that he appeared to admit without reluct- ance, was the reading of Mr. Johnson, who, indefatigable in the supply of such amusement, had exhausted an immense collection of novels; and, at this period, began reading to the poet his own works. To these he listened also in silence, and heard all his pcems recited in order, till the reader arrived at the history of John Gilpin, which he begged not to hear. Mr. Johnson proceeded LIFE OF COWPER. 113 to his manuscript poems. To these he willingly listened, but made not a single remark on any. In October, 1798, the pressure of his melancholy seemed to be n)itigated in some little degree, for he exerted himself so far as to write, without solicitation, to Lady Hesketh ; and I insert passages of this letter, because, gloomy as it is, it describes, in a most interesting manner, the sudden attack of his maladv, and tends to confirm an opinion that his mental disor- der arose from a scorbutic habit, which, when his perspiration was obstructed, occasioned an unsearchable obstruction in the finer ports of his frame. Such a cause would produce, I apprehend, an effect exactly like what my suffering friend desci-ibes in this af- fectuig letter. Dear Cousin, You describe delightful scenes, but you describe them to one who, if he even saw them, could receive no deight from them ; who has a faint recollection, and so faint as to be like pn almost forgotten dream, that once he was susceptible of plcppurc from such causes. The country that you have had in prospect has been always famed for its beauties ; but the wretch who can derive no gratification from a view of nature, even under the disadvantage of her most ordinary dress, will have no eyes to admire her in any. In one day, in one minute, I should rather have said, she became an universal blank to me, and though from a different cause, yet with an effect as difficult to remove as blindness itself. Miwdsley, October 13, 179S, On his return from Muudsley to Dereham, in an evening to- wards the end of October, Co;vper, with Miss Perowne and Mr. Johnson, was overturned in a post-chaise. He discovered no ter- ror on the occasion, and escaped without injury from the accident. In December he received a visit from his highly esteemed friend Sir John Throckmorton ; but his malady was, at that time, so op- pressive that it rendered him almost insensible to the kind solici- tude of friendship. He still continued to exercise the powers of his astonishing mind. Upon his finishing the rcvisal of his Homer, in March, 1799, Mr. Johnson endeavoured, in the gentlest manner, to lead him into new literary occupation. For this purpose, on the eleventh of March, he had before him the paper, containing the comu:iencenient of his poem on The 120 LIFE OF COWPER. four Ages, Cowper altered a few lines; he also added a few ; but soon observed to his kind attendant, " that it was too great a work for him to attempt in his present situation." At supper, Mr. Johnson suggested to him several literary pro- jects, that he might execue more easily. He replied, " that he had just thought of six Latin verses, and if he could compose any- thing, it must be in pursuing that composition." The next morning he wrote the six verses he had mentioned, and added a few more, entitling the poem, " Mantes glaciates,^' It proved a versification of a circumstance recorded in a news- paper, which had been read to him a few Aveeks before, without his appearing to notice it. Tins poem he translated into English verse, on the nineteenth of March, to oblige Miss Perowne. Both the original and the translation shall appear in the Appendix. On the twentieth of March he wrote the stanzas, entitled, The Cast-aivay^ founded on an anecdote in Anson's voyage, which his memory suggested to him, although he had not looked into the book for many years. As this poem is the last original production from thei pen of Cow- per, I shall introduce it here, persuaded that it will be read with an interest proportioned to the extraordinary pathos of the subject, and the still more extraordinary powers of the poet, whose lyre could sound so forcibly, unsilenced by the gloom of the darkest dis- temper, that was conducting him, by slow gradations, to the sha- dow of death. THE CAST-AWAY. Obscurest night involv'd the sky ; Th' Atalantic 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. 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. LIFE OF COWPER. 121 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 Ufe. 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 out-cast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind. Some succour yet they could afford ; And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord Delay'd not to bestow. Hut he, they knew, nor ship, nor shore, Whate'er they gave, should visit more. Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Their haste himself condenm. Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them ; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh. He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld : And so long he, with unspent pov/'r. His destiny repell'd : And ever as the minutes flew. Entreated help, or cry'd — " Adieu 1'* 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. VOL. II. I3g LIFE OF COWPEK. 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 immortalise the dead. I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate. To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date. But misery still delights to trace Its 'semblance in another's case. No voice divine the storm allay'd, No light propitious shone ; When, snatch'd from all effectual aid, We perish'd, each alone ; But I beneath a rougher sea, And wlrelm'd in deeper gulphs than he. In August he translated this poem into Latin verse. In October he went, with Miss Perowne and Mr. Johnson, to survey a larger house in Dereham, which he preferred to their present residence, and in which the family were settled in the following December. Though his corporeal strength was now evidently declining, the tender persuasion of Mr. Johnson induced him to amuse his mind with frequent composition. Between August and December he wrote all the translations, from various Latin and Greek epigrams, which the reader will find in the appendix. In his new residence he amused himself with translating a few fables of Gay into Latin verse. The fable which he used to recite as a child, " The hare and many friends," became one of his latest amusements. The perfect ease and spirit with which his translations from Gay are written, induce me to print not only those which he left entire, but even the two verses (for they are excellent) with which he was beginning to translate another, when increasing maladies obliged him to relinquish for ever this elegant occupation. These Latin fables were all written in January, 1800. Towards the end of that month I had requested him to new-model a passage in his Homer, relathig to some figures of Dssdalus: on the thirty- LIFE OF COWPER. 123 first of January I received from him his improved version of the lines in question, written in a firm and delicate hand. The sight of such writing frcm my long silent friend inrpired Tne with a lively but too sanguine hope, that I might sec him once more restored. Alas ! at this period a complication of new maladies began to tlu'eaten his inestimable life ; and the neat transcript of his improved verses on the curious monument of ancient sculpture, so gracefully described by Homer, verses which I surveyed as a delightful omen of future letters from a correspondent so inexpressibly dear to me, proved the last effort of his pen. On the very day that this endearing mark of his kindness reach- ed nie, a dropsical appearance in his legs induced Mr. Johnson to have recourse to fresh medical assistance. The beloved invalid ■was, with great difficulty, persuaded to take the remedies pre- scribed, and to try the exercise of a post-chaise, an exercise which he could not bear beyond the twenty-second of February. In March, when his decline became more and more striking, he was visited by Mr. Rose. He hardly expressed any pleasure on the arrival of a friend whom he had so long and so tenderly re- garded ; yet he showed evident signs of regi'et en his departure, the sixth of April. The long calamitous illness and impending death of a darling child precluded me from sharing with Mr. Rose the painful gra-r tification of seeing, once more, the man whose genius and virtues we had once contemplated together, with mutual veneration and delight ; whose approaching dissolution we felt, not only as an irre- parable loss to ourselves, but as a national misfortune. On the nineteenth of April, the close of a life so wonderfully chequered, and so universally interesting, appeared to be very near. On Sunday, the twentieth, he seemed a little revived. On Monday iie appeared dying, but recovered so much as to eat a slight dinner. Tuesday and Wednesday he grew apparently weaker every hour. On Thursday he sat up, as usual, in the evening. Friday, the twenty-fifth, at five in the morning, a deadly change appeared in his features. He spoke no more. His last words were uttered in the night : — In rejecting a cordial, he said to Miss Pcrowne, who had presented it to him, " What can it signify ?" Yet, even at this time, he did not seem impressed with any idea of dying, although he conceived tliat nothing would fcjitri'oute to hh health. IS* LIFE OF COWPER. The deplorable inquietude and darkness of his latter years werq mercifully terminated by a most gentle and tranquil dissolution. He passed through the awful moments of death so mildly, that al- though five persons were present, and observing him, in his cham- ber^ not one of them perceived him to expire : but he had ceased to breathe about five minutes before five in the afternoon. On Saturday, the third of May, he was buried in a part of Dere- ham church, called St. Edmund's Chapel, and the funeral was attended by several of his relations. He died intestate : his affectionate relation, Lady Hesketh, has fulfilled the office of his administratrix, and given orders for a mo- nument to his memory where his ashes repose. In the metropo- lis, I trust, the public affection for an author so eminently deserv- ing, will enable me to make his manuscripts relating to Milton, which are now before me, the means of erecting a cenotaph in his honour, suitable to the dignity of his poetical character, and to the liberality of the nation, that may be justly proud of expressing a parental sense of his merit. I have regarded my own intimacy with him as a blessing to my- self, and the remembrance of it is now endeared to me by the hope that it may enable me to delineate the man and the poet with such fidelity and truth, as may render his remote, and even his future admirers, minutely acquainted with an exemplary being, most "Worthy to be intimately known and universally beloved. The person and mind of Cowper seem to have been formed with equal kindness by nature ; and it may be questioned if she ever bestowed on any man, with a fonder prodigality, all the requisites to conciliate affection and to inspire respect. From his figure, as it first appeared to me, in his sixty-second year, I should imagine that he must have been very comely in his youth ; and little had time injured his countenance, since his fea- tures expressed, at that period of life, all the powers of his mind and all the sensibility of his heart. He was of a middle stature, rather strong than delicate in the form of his liiubs ; the colour of his hair was a light brown, that of his eyes a bluish gi*ey, and his complexion ruddy. In his dress he was neat, but not finical ; in Ids diet temperate, and not dainty. He had an air of pensive reserve in his deportment, and his ex- treme shyness sometimes produced in his manners an indescribable mixture of aukwardness and dignity : but no being could be more truly graceful, when he was in perfect health, and perfectly pleased LIFE OF COWPER. 121 with his society. Towai'ds women, in particular, his behaviour and conversation were delicate and fascinating in the highest degree. Nature had given him a warm constitution ; and had he been prosperous in early love, it is probable that he might have enjoyed a moi'e uniform and happy tenor of health. But a disappointment of the heart, arising from the cruelty of fortune, threw a cloud on his juvenile spirit. Tliwarted in love, the native fire of his tempe- rament turned impetuously into the kindred channel of devotion. The smothered flames of desire uniting with the vapours of consti- tutional melancholy and the fervency of religious zeal, produced altogether that irregularity of corporeal sensation, and of mental health, which gave such extraordinary vicissitudes of splendour and of darkness to his mortal career, and made Cowper, at times, an idol of the purest admiration, and, at times, an object of the sincerest pity. As a sufferer, indeed, no man could be more entitled to compas- sion, for no man was ever more truly compassionate to the suffer- ings of others. It was that rare portion of benevolent sensibility in his nature, which endeared him to persons of all ranks, who had opportunities of obser\ ing him in private life. The great prince of Conde used to say, " No man is a hero to his familiar domestic :" but Cowper was really more. He was beloved and revered with a sort of idolatry in his family; not from any romantic ideas of his magical powers as a poet, but from that evangelical gentleness of manners and purity of conduct which illumined the shade of his sequestered life. I may be suspected of speaking with the fond partiality, the un- perceived exaggerations of friendship ; but the fear of such cen- sure shall not deter me from bearing my most deliberate testimony to the excellence of him whose memory I revere, and saying, that, as a man, he made, of all men whom I have ever had oppor- tunities to observe so minutely, the nearest approaches to moral perfection. Indeed, a much more experienced judge of mankind, and Cowper's associate in early life, Lord Thurlow, has expressed the same idea of his character; for being once i^equested to de- scribe him, he replied with that solemn energy of dignified elocu- tion, by which he is accustomed to give a very forcible effect to a few simple woixls — " Cowper is truly a good man." His daily habits of study and exercise, his whole domestic life, is so minutely and agrceal)ly delineated in the series of liis letters, that it is unnecessary for his biographer to expatiate upon tliem. I have little occasion, indeed, to dwell on this topic; but let ine apply to my young readers a few expressive words of Louis Racine, iu IM LIFE OF COWPER. I addressing to his o^vn son the Life and Letters of his Illustrious father. " Qiiand vous /' aurez connu dans sa famille^ vous /e*«- gouterez viieux^ lorsque vous viendrez a le connoitre sur le Par- Jiasse: vous scaur ez, fiourquoi ses vers sont toujours fileins de Sentimens."—~-l might add, in alluding to a few of his most ten- der and pathetic letters : " C'est une siinplicite de moeurs si ad- mirable dans wi homme tout sentiment^ et tout coeur, qui est cause, (ju'en copiant pour vous ses lettres, je verse a tous momens des iarmes, parcequil me communique la tendresse, doiit il etoit rempli,'' Cowper greatly resembled his eminent and exem- plary brothers of Parnassus, Racine and Metastasio, in the sim- plicity and tenderness of his domestic character. His voice conspired with his features to announce to all who saw and heard him, the extreme sensibility of his heart : and in read-; ing aloud he furnished the chief delight of those social, enchant- ing winter evenings, which he has described so happily in the fourth book of the Task. He had been taught, by his parents, at home, to recite English verse, in the early years of his childhood; and acquired considerable applause, as a chdd, in the recital of Gay's popular fable, "The hare and many friends : " a circum- stance that, probably, had great influence in raising his passion for poetry, and in giving him a peculiar fondness for the wild perse- cuted animal that he converted into a very grateful domestic com- panion. Secluded from the world, as Cowper had long been, he yet re- tained, in advanced life, uncommon talents for conversation ; and his conversation was distinguished by mild and benevolent plea- santry, by delicate humour peculiar to himself, or by a higher tone of serious good sense, and those united charms of a cultivated mind, which he has himself very happily described, in drawing the colloquial character of a venerable divine. Grave, without dullness ; learned, without pride ; Exact, yet not precise ; though meek, keen-eyed ; Who, when occasion justified its use. Had wit, as bright as ready, to produce ; Could fetch from records of an earlier age, Or from philosophy's enlightened page, His rich materials, and regale your ear With strains it was a privilege to hear : Yet, above all, his luxury supreme. And his chief glory, was the gospel theme: Ambitious not to shine, or to excel, But to treat justly what he lov'd so well. LIFE OF COWPER. ISf Men who withdraw themselves from the ordinaiy forms of society, "whether delicacy of health, or a passion for study, or both united, occasion their retirement from the world, are generally obliged to pav a heavy tax for the privacy they enjoy, in having their habits of life and their temper very darkly misrepresented by the igno- rant malice of offended pride. The sweetness and purity of Cow- per's real character did not perfectly preserve him from such mis- representation. Many persons have been misled so far as to sup- pose him a severe and sour sectary, though gentleness and good nature were among his pre-eminent qualities, and though he was deliberately attached to the established religion of his country. The reader may recollect a letter to his young kinsman, who was then on the point of taking orders, in which Cowper sufficientlr proves his attachment to the church of England ; and he speaks so decidedly on the subject, that certainly none of the sectaries have a right to reckon him in their number. He was, however, as his poetry has most elegantly testified, a most ardent friend to liberty, both civil and religious ; and his love of freedom induced him to animadvert, with lively indignantion, on every officious and oppres- sive exercise of episcopal authority. Few ministers of the gospel have searched the scripture more diligently than Cowper, and, ia his days of health, with a happier effect ; for a spirit of evangeli- cal kindness and purity pervaded the whole tenor of his language, and all the conduct of his life. His infinite good nature, as a literary man, is strikingly dis- played in the indulgent condescension with which he gratified two successive clei-ks of Northampton, in writing for them their annual copies of mortuary verses. He thought, like the amiable Plutarch, that the most ordinary office may be dignified by a benev^olent spirit. In describing himself to his amiable friend, Mr. Park, the en- graver, he spoke too slightingly of his own learning ; for he was, in truth, a scholar, as any man may fairly be called who is master of four languages besides his own. Cowper read Greek and La- tin, French and Italian ; but the extraordinary incidents of ]ms life pi-ecludcd him from indulging himself in a multiplicity of books, and his reading was conformable to the rule of Pliny, " Aon 77iultay 6ed mulfu?n," He had devoted some time to the pencil, and he mentions his reason for quitting it in the following passage of a letter to the same correspondent. JVeslori, 1792. It was only one year that I ga\e to draw- ing, for I found it an employment hurtful to my eyes, which have tt^ LIFE OF COWPER. always been weak and subject to inflammation. I finished my at- tempts in this way with three small landscapes, which I presented to a lady. These may, perhaps, e>dst, but I have now no correspond- ence with the fair proprietor. Except these, there is nothing re-, maining to show that I ever aspired to such an accomplishment. The native warmth of Cowper's affections led him to tal^e a particular pleasure in recording the merit with which he was per- sonally acquainted : a remarkable instance of this amiable disposi- tion appears in his condescending to translate the Latin epitaph en his school-master, Dr. Lloyd. This ephaph, with Cowper's version, and his remark upon it, my reader may find in the Ap- pendix : another epitaph on his uncle, Mr. Ashley Cowper, I shall insert here, as it displays, in a most pleasing point of view, both tlie affectionate ardour and the modesty of its author. LINES Co7n/iosedfor a MemoHal of Ashley Cowper^ Esq. immediatehj after his death, by his JVepheiv Willi a My of Weston, Farewell ! endued with all that could engage All hearts to love thee, both in youth and age ! In prime of life, for sprightliness enroU'd Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old ; In life's last stage (Oh blessing rarely found J) Pleasant as jouth, with all its blossoms crown'd ; Through every period of this changeful state Unchang'd thyself — wise, good, affectionate \ Marble may flattei-, and lest this should seem O'ercharg'd with praises on so dear a theme, Although thy ^vorth be more than half supprest, Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest. The person whom these verses commemorate was himself an elegant poet, and father of the lady to whom so many of Cowper's letters are addressed in the preceding collection. The reader can hardly fail to recollect the very pathetic manner in which the poet spoke to the daughter of this gentleman on the death of a pai-ent so justly beloved. In describing the social and friendly faculties of Cowper, it LIFE OF COWPER. l2» V.'ould be unjust not to bc-.tow particular notice on a talent that he pot^sessed in peifection, and one that friendsliip ought especially to honour, as she is indebted to it for a considerable portion of her most valuable delights : I mean the talent of writing letters. Meimoth, the elegant translator of Piiny's letters, has observed, in an interesting note to the thirteenth letter of the second book, how highly the art of epistolary writing was esteemed by the Ro- mans, limcnting, at the same time, that our country has not dis- tinguished itself in this branch of literature. My late occomplished friend. Dr. Warton, has also remarked, in his life of Pope, that " in the various sorts of compnsitim in which the English have excelled, we have, perhaps, the least claim to ex- cehence in the article of letters of oiir celebrated countrymen." Those of Pope are generally thought deficient in that air of per- fect ease, that unstudied flow of affection, which gives the highest charm to e]}istolary writing: but those unaifected graces which the delicate critic wished in vain to find in the letters of Pope, may be found, abundant and complete, in the various correspondence of Cowper. He was, indeed, a being of such genuine simplicity and tenderness, so absolute a stranger to artifice and disguise ; his affec- tions were so ardent and so pure, that in writing to those lie loved he could not fail to show what really passed in his own bosonri, And his letters are most faithfiil representatives of his heart. He cruld never subscribe to that dangerous and sophistical dogma of Dr. Jnhnson, in his splenetic disquisition on the letters of Pope, that " friendship has no tendency to secure veracity." It certainly has such a tendency, and in proportion to the sense and the goodness of the writer; for a sensible, and a good man must rather wish to aff-rd his bosom friend the most accurate knowledge of his real character, than to obtain a precarious in- crease of regard by any sort of illusion. The great charm of confidential epistolary intercourse to such a man arises from the persuasion, that veracity is not dangerous in speaking of his own defects, when he is speaking to a true and a considerate friend. The letters not intended for the eye of the public have generally obtained the greatest share of popular applause ; and for this rea- son, because such letters display no profusion of studied ornaments, l3ut abound in the simple and powerful attractions of nature and truth. Letters, indeed, will ever please, when they are frank, confiden- tial conversations on pajjer between persons of well-principled and highly cultivated minds, of graceful manners, and of tender af- fections. The language of such letters must, of coui'se, have that mixture VOL. II. s ^30 LIFE OF COWPER. of ease and elegance peculiarly suited to such composition, and most happily exemplified in the letters of Cicero and of Cowper. — These two great masters of a perfect epistolary style have both mentioned their own excellent and simple rule for attaining it — to use only the language of familiar conversation. Cowper's opinion of two English writers, much admired for tlie style of their letters, is expressed in the following extract from one of his own to Mr. Hill. " I have been reading Gray's Works, and think him sublime. * * * * J once thought Swift's letters the best that could be written, but I like Gray's better. His humour, or his wit, or what- ever it is to.be called, is never ill-natured or offensive, and yet, I think, equally poignant with the Dean's." Tlie letters of Gray are admirable, but they appear to me not equal to those of Cowper, either in the graces of simplicity, of in warmth of affection. The very sweet stanzas that Cowper has written on friendship, would be alone sufficient to prove that his heart and spirit were most tenderly alive to all the dehcacy and delight of that inestima- ble connection. He was indeed such a friend himself, as the voice of wisdom describes, in calling a true friend " the medicine of life:" and though misfortune precluded him, in his early days, from the enjoyment of connubial love, and of professional prospe- rity, he may be esteemed as singularly happy in tliis very import- ant consolatory privilege of human existence ; particularly in his friendships with that finer part of the creation, whose sensibility makes them most able to relish, or to call forth the powers of dif- fident genius, and to alleviate the pressure of mental affliction. It may be questioned if any poet on the records of Parnassus ever enjoyed a confidential intimacy, as Cowper did, with a variety of iaccomplished women, maintaining, at the same time, consummate innocence of conduct. Pre-eminent as he was, in warmth and vigour of fancy and af- fection, the quickness and strength of his understanding were pro- portioned to the more perilous endowments of his mind. Though he had received from nature lively appetites and passions, his rea- son held them in the most steady and laudable subjection. The only internal enemy of his peace and happiness, that his in- tellect could not subdue, was one tremendous idea, mysteriously impressed on his fervent imagination, in a scene of bodily disorder, and at such periods recurring upon his mind vvith an overwhelm- ing influence, which not all the admiraljle powers of his own inno- cent upright spirit, nor all the united aids of art and nature, were able to counteract. LIFE OF COWPER. 131 Thoiic;h he was sometimes subject to imaginary fears, he main- tained, in his season of health, a most magnanimous reliance on the kindness of heaven. This sublime sentiment is forcibly and beau- tifully expressed in the following passage, extracted from his cor- respondence with Mr. Hill. " I suppose you are sometimes ti'oubled on my account, but you need not. I have no doubt it will be seen, when my days are closed, that I served a master who would not suffer me to want any thing that was good for me. He said to Jacob, ' I will surely do thee good;' and this he said not for his sake only, but for ours also, if we trust in him. This thought relieves me from the greatest part of the distress I should else suffer in my present circumstances, and enables me to sit down peacefully upon the wreck of my fortune." He also possessed and exerted that becoming fortitude which teaches a man to support, under various trials, the sober i-espect that he owes to himself. Praise, however exalted, did not intox- icate him, and detraction was unable to poison his pure sense of his own merit : so that he thus escaped an infirmity into which some great and good poets have fallen, an infirmity that was remarkable in Racine, and which I had once occasion to observe and lament in a very eminent departed author of our own country, who com- plained to me that time had so far depressed his spirits as to take from him all sense of pleasure in public praise, and yet left him acute feelings of pain from public detraction. Cowpcr possessed, in his original motives for appearing in the character of a poet, the best possible preservative against this double infelicity of mind. His predominant desire was to I'ender his poetry an instrument of good to mankind : his love of fame was a secondary passion, and, like all his passions, in perfect subjection to the great princi- ples of religious duty which he made the rule of his life. It is evident, from the tenor of his correspondence, that he had a lively and a proper relish for praise, when justly and affection- ately bestowed. The quickness and the nicety of hi« feelings, on this delicate point, he has displayed in the following letter to a lady, whose various talents he very higlily esteemed, on receiving her poem, " The Emigrants " addressed to him in a dedication most worthy of such a patj-on. 3SS^ LIFE OF COWPEft. To Mrs. CHARLOTTE SMITH. Weston, July 25, 1/93. My dear Madam, Many reasons concurred to make me impatient for the arrival of your most acceptable present, and among them was the fear lest you should, perhaps, suspect me of tardiness in acknowledging so great a favour; a fear that, as often as it prevailed, distressed me exceedingly. At length I have re- ceived it, and my little bookseller assures me that he sent it the very dav he got it. By some mistake, however, the waggon brought it instead of the coach, which occasioned a delay that I Could ill afford. It came this morning, about an hour ago : consequently I h^ve not had time to peruse the poem, though, you may be sui'e, I have found enough for the perusal of the dedication. I have, in fact, given it three readings, and in each have found increasing pleasure. I ?m a whimsical creature. When I write for the public, I ■write, of course, with a desire to please, in other words, to acquire fame, and I labour accordingly ; but when I find that I have suc- ceeded, feel myself alarmed, and ready to shrink from the acqui- sition. This I have felt more than once ; and when I saw my name at the head of your dedication, I felt it again: but the consummate delicacy of your praise soon convinced me that I might spare my blushes, and that the demand was less upon my modesty than my gratitude. Of that be assured, dear Madam, and of the truest esteem and respect of your most obliged and affectionate humble servant, Wm. cov\ter. P. 5". I should have been much grieved to have let slip this opportunity of thanking ycu for your charming sennets, and my two most agreeable old friends, Monimia and Orlando. Cowper felt the full value of applause when conferred by a libe- ral and a powerful mind ; and I had a singularly pleasing opportu- nity of observing the just sensibility of his nature on this point, by carrying to him, in one of mv visits to \A'eston, a recent newspa- per, including the speech of Mr. Fox, in which that accomplished orator had given new lustre to a splendid passage in the Task, by reciting it in parliament. The passage alluded to contains .the LIFE OF COWPER. 133 sublime verses on the destruction of the bastile ; verses that were origiinilly composed in the form of a prophecy. The eloquence of tilt poet and orator united could hardly furnish a perfect descrip- tion of the double delight which this unexpected honour afforded to the author, and to the good old enthusiastic admirer and che- visher of his talents, Mrs. Unwin. Her feelings were infinitely the most vivid on this agreeable occasion ; for the poet, though he trulv enjoved such honourable applause, was ever on his guard agi'inst the perils of praise, and had continually impressed on his own devout spirit, his primary motives of poetical ambition. The mention of these motives, which conduce, as well as his extraor- dmary powers, to distinguish CoAvper in the highest rank of illus- trious poets, will naturally lead me to consider him in that point of view, and to examine the difficulties he has surmounted, and the great aims he has accomplished, in his poetical capacity. Accident, idleness, want, spleen, love, and the passion for fame, have all, in their turns, had such occasional influence over the hu- man fiiculties, as to induce men of considerable mental powers to devote themselves to the composition of verse : but the poetical character of Cowper appears to have had a much nobler origin. To estimate that character according to its real dignity, we should consider him as a pcet formed by the munificence of nature and the decrees of heaven. He seems to have received his rare poeti- cal powers as a gift from providence, to compensate the pressure of much personal calamity, and to enable him to become, though h-ecluded by irregular health from the worldly business, and from the ordinary pastimes of men, a singular benefactor to mankind. If Ave attend to the rise and progress of his works, we shall per- ceive that such was the predominant aim of this truly philanthropic poet, and tiiat, in despight of his manifold impediments and trou- bles, heaven graciously enabled him to accomplish the noblest pur- pose that the sublimest faculties can devise for their own most ar- duous exercise, and most delightful reward. He had cultivated his native talent for poeti-v in early life, although the extreme mo- desty of his nature had restrained him from a public display of his poetical powers. Through many years of mental disquietude and affliction, that powerful talent, which was destined to burst forth with such unrivalled lustre, seems to have i-emained in absolute in- activity; but in different seasons of a very long abstinence from poetical exertion, his mind had been engs^ed in such studies (when iicalth allowed him to study) as form, perhaps, the best possible preparation for great poetical achievements : I mean a fervent application to that book which furnishes the most ample and be- neficial aliment to the heart and to the fanc}', tlie book to wliich 154 LIFE OP COWPER. Milton and Young were indebted for their poetical sublimitVy Cowper, in reading the Bible, admired and studied the eloquence of the prophets. He was particularly charmed with the energy ©f their language in describing the wrath of the Almighty. By his zealous attention to the scripture, he incessantly trea- sured in his own capacious mind those inexhaustible stores of sen- timent and expression which enabled him gradually to ascend the purest heights of poetical renown, which rendered him, at last, what he ardently wished to prove — the poet of Christianity— the monitor of the world. It was after a very long and severe fit of mental depression, that, by the friendly request of his faithful associate in affliction, he sought, in poetical composition of considerable extent, a salu- tary exercise for a mind formed for the most active and beneficent exertion, though occasionally subject to an utter suspension of its admirable powers. I have already mentioned the circumstance, communicated to me by Mrs. Unwin, concerning the first exten- sive poem, in point of time, that appears in the first volume of Cowper. " The Progress of Error" seems the least attractive among the several admonitory poems of the collection, and we judge from it, that even the genius of Cowper required the frequent habit of writ- ing verse to display itself to advantage. Yet even this poem, in which he is said to have made the first serious trial of his long suspended talent, has passages of exquisite beauty. Take, for ex- ample, his portrait of Innocence and Folly, painted with the delicate simplicity and tenderness of Corregio. Both baby-featur'd, and of infant size, View'd from a distance, and with heedless eyes. Folly and Innocence are so alike. The difF'rence, though essential, fails to strike : Yet Folly ever has a vacant stare, A simp'ring coimtenance, a trifling air : But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect. Delights us by engaging our respect. This poem also discovers, in some degree, that wonderful com- bination of very different powers, which the subsequent works of Cowper display in delightful profusion. The affectionate and accomplished biographer of Burns has fal- len (only, I apprehend, from a casual slip of memory) into a sort of silent injustice towards Cowper, when in speaking of the few poets •^ who have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, and in sub- LIFE OF COWTER. 135 limity," he affirms that " this praise, in mtxlern times, is only due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to Voltaire." Recollection, I am confident, will rapidly convince such a con- summate judge of poetical merit, that the works of Cowper con- tain many examples of that triple ey.cellence, which is assuredly most rare, and which the masterly birgrapher very justly attri- butes to the marvellous peasant whose life and genius he has so feelingly and so honourably described. But to return to the poem of which I was speaking : it proves that Cowper could occasionally blend the moral humour of Hogarth, with the tenderness and sub- limity that belong to artists of a superior rank. The portraits of the English travellers and the foreign Abbe, that are sketched ia this poem, are all touched with the spirit of Hogarth. The Progi'ess of Error contains also some of those happy verses of serious morality, in which Cowper excelled ; verses diat, ex- pressing a simple truth with perfect grace and precision, rapidly fix themselves, and with a lasting proverbial influence, on the me- mory. I will cite only two detached couplets in proof of my as- sertion. None sends his arrow to the mark in view. Whose hand is feeble, or his aim untrue. Call'd to the temple of impure delight; He that abstains, and he alone docs right. As soon as Cowper found that the composition of moral verse was medicinal to his own mind, he seems to have formed the noble resolution of making his works'an universal medicine for the va- rious mental infirmities of the world. His own ideas on this sub- ject are perfectly expressed in the following passage from his first letter to his friend Mr. Bull, who began his correspondence with the poet by a letter of praise, on the publication of his first vo- lume. ^^ March 24, 17-82. » * * * * * * " Your letter gave me great pleasure, both as a testimony of your approbation and of your regard. I wrote in hopes of pleasing you, and such as you, and though I must confess that, at the same time, I cast a side-lojig glance at the good-liking of the woi-ld at large, I believe I can say it was more for the sake of their ad- vantage and instruction than their praise. They ai-e children ; if we give them physic, we must sweeten the rim of the cup with ho- ney. If m)- book is so far honoured as to be made the vehicle of true knowledge to any that are ignorant, I shall rejoice, and do adready rejoice, that it has procured me a proof of 3 our esteem." 136 LIFE OF COWPER. It was probably this idea of tinging the rim of the cup with ho- ney (an expression used by Lucretius and by Tasso) which in- duced Cov.'j)er to place in the front of his volume the poem en- titled Table Talk. The title has in itself an inviting appearance, and the lively desultory spirit of the composition sufficiendy vindi-* cates the propriety of the title. It is a rapid and animated des-^ cant on a variety of interesting topics. The brief tale from that humoix)us and high-spirited Spaniard, Quevedo, is admirably told, and I have frequently heard it recited as a most striking example of Gowper's talent for such narration, by a very dear departed friend of the nK)st delicate discernment. The poet, in this outset of his moral enterprise, bestows a grace- ful compliment on his soA'ereign— " His life a lesson to the land he sways." And he judged it right to annex to this high compliment such a profession of his own independent spirit as every ingenuous mind must delight to observe from the pen of a poet, when his life and bis writings reflect a reciprocal lustre on each other. A bribe ! The worth of his three kingdoms I defy To lure me to tlie baseness of a iie ; And of all lies (be that one poet's boast ! ) The lie that flatters I abhor the most. This professed abhorrence of adulation was uttered in the real spirit of simplicity and truth. No poet was ever more perfectly free fi'om that base propensity, which is sometimes erroneously imputed to the poetical tribe, who, from their peculiar warmth of sensation, are often thought to flatter, when they speak only their genuine feelings. Perhaps Cowper sometimes indulged himself in a very different Weakness, if I may call the little excesses of a generous independ- ent pride by so harsh an appellation. It is incumbent on me to explain the petty foible of my friend to ■which I allude. Having composed, from the impulse of his heai-t, his little poem on the elevation of his intimate companion in former days. Lord Thurlow, to the dignity of Chancellor, he condemned it to lie in long concealment, from an apprehension that, although he knew the praise to be just, it might be supposed to flow from a sor- did and .selfish solicitude to derive some advantage from the recent grarndeur of a man v*Iiom he had once cordially loved, but whom LIFE OF COWPER. 13? their different destinies had made for many years ahtiost a personal stranger to the poet, though never an ahen to his heart. But to resume the few remarks I wish to make on the Poem of Table Talk. It contains what Cowper could readily command, a great variety of style. Much of the poem has the manner of Churchill, and pai'ticularly the lines that exhibit a strong charac- ter of that popular and powerful satirist ; a poet whose h;ghest excellence Cowper possessed, v/ith many more refined attractions, ■which the energetic, but coarse spirit of that modern Juvenal could not attain. Towards the close of Table-Talk, the poet introduces, very happily, what he had proposed to himself as the main scope of his own poetical labours — the service that a poet may render to the great interest of religion. This he describes in a strain of sub- limity, and contrasts it very ably Avith inferior objects of poetical ambition. From this poem of infinite diversity it would be easy to select specimens of almost every excellence that can be found in a work of this nature. Truth, however, obliges me to observe, that this admirable prelude to the collected poetry of Cowper has a weak and ungraceful conclusion. The four poems, entitled. Truth, Expostulation, Hope, and Cha- rity, are four Christian exhortations to piety, which may be thought tedious and dull by readers who have no relish for devo- tional eloquence, or who, however blest with a serious sense of re- ligion, have too hastily admitted the very strange and groundless dogma of Dr. Johnson, that " contemplative piety cannot be poe- tical;" a position resembling that of the ancient sophist, who de- nied the existence of motion, and whose indignant hearer answered him by walking immediately in his sight. With such simple and forcible refutation, the genius of Cowper replies to the paradoxical pedantry of a critic, whose high intellectual powers, when he ex- erts and exhausts them to command and illuminate the expansive sphere of poetry, delight and disgust his readers alternately, by a frequent mixture of gigantic force and dwarfish imbecility. His weak, though solemn sophistry on this subject is completely re- futed by the poems of Cowper, because contemplative piety, which, according to the critic's assertion, cannot be poetical, is, in truth, one of the most powerful charms by which this devout poet accom- plishes his poetical enchantment. But to return to the four sacred poems that lead me to this re- mark. That on Tinidi exhibits the author's singular talent of blending the humorous and the sublime. In his portrait of the sanctified pride, he is at once the cop}ist and the compeer of Ho- garth : in his i)icturc of cheerful piety, and true Christian free- VOL. II. T 138 LIFE OF COWPER. dom, he soars to a species of excellence that the pencil of Ho- garth could not conimand. ■ Expostulation flows in a more even tenor of sublime admonition : it was founded on a sermon preached by the author's zealous and eloquent friend, Mr. Newton, and contains the following admirable description of what the clergy ought to be. The priestly brotherhood, devout, sincere, From mean self-interest and ambition clear, Their hope in heaven, servility their scorn, Prompt to persuade, expostulate, and warn ; Their wisdom pure, and given them from above j Their usefulness insur'd by zeal and love ; As meek as the man Moses, and withal As bold as, in Agrippa's presence, Paul ; Shoidd fly the world's contaminating touch, Holy and unpolluted ; are thine such ? I will not transcribe the closing couplet, because it appears ta me one of the few passages in the poet where the warm current of his zeal hurried him into a hasty expression of asperity, not in uni- son with the native and habitual candour of his contemplative mind. The Poem on Hope, although the poet means only to describe " That hope which can alone exclude despair," has a gay diversity of colouring, and the dialogue introduced is ■written with exquisite pleasantry. The great and constant aim of the author is expressed in his motto, *' Doceas iter, et sacra ostia pandas." In the commencement of his Poem on Charity, the author ren- ders a just and eloquent tribute to the humanity of Captain Cook ; and in the progress of it bursts into an animated and graceful eu- logy on Howard, the visitor of prisons. The sentiments that Cow- per endeavours to impress on the heart of his reader, in this series of devotional poems, are drawn from the great fountain of intel- lectual purity, the gospel ; and to the poet, in his character of a Chi-istian Monitor, we may justly and gratefully apply the follow- ing verses from this poem on Charity. When one that holds communion with the skies Has fili'd his urn where these pure watex-s rise, LIFE O^ COWPER. 139 And once more mingles with iis meaner' things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings ; Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. In the extensive and admirably varied Poem on Conversation, the poet shines as a teacher of manners as well as of morality and religion. It is remarkable that, in this work, he is particularly severe on what he considered as his own peculiar defect, that excess of dif- fidence, that insurmountable shyness, which is so apt to freeze the current of English conversation. Our sensibilities are so acute, The fear of being silent makes us mute. True modesty is a discerning grace, And only blushes in the proper place ; But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, Where 'tis a shame to be asham'd t' appear ; \ Humility the parent of the first. The last by vanity produced, and nurs'd. The circle form'd, we sit, in silent state, Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate. Yes Ma'am, and no Ma'am, utter'd softly, show, Every five minutes, how the minutes go. This poem abounds with much admirable description, both serious ji.nd comic. The portrait of the splenetic man is, perhaps, the most highly finished example of comic power ; and the scene of the two disciples on their way to Emmaus, is a perfect model of solemn and graceful simplicity. I cannot cease to speak of this very at- tractive poem without observing, that the author has inserted in it two passages intended to obviate such objections as he conceived most likely to be urged against the tendency of his writings. He was aware that the light and vain might suppose him a gloomy fanatic, and as a preservative against such injurious misconcep- tion, he composed the following just and animated lines. What is fanatic frenzy ? scoi-n'd so much ! And dreaded more than a contagious touch. I grant it dangerous, and approve your fear ; That fire is catching if you draw too near ; Jiut sage observers oft mistake the flame, And give true piety that odious name. m LIFE OF COWPER. He then draws an excellent picture of veal fanaticism, and such a picture as could not have been painted by one of her votaries. Again, to vindicate the cheerful tendency of the lessons he wished to inculcate, he exclaims, — — Let no man charge me, that I mean To clothe in sables every social scene, And give good company a face severe. As if they met around a father's bier ! 1 will add a few verses from the close of the poem, because they appear a just description of his own eloquence, both in poetry and conversation, when he conversed with those he loved — He is speak- ing of a character improved by a proper sense of religion. Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a sacred cure For all that was absurd, prophane, impure : Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech Pursues the course that truth and nature teach ; Where'er it winds, the salutary stream, Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme ; While all the happy man possess'd before, The gift of nature, or the classic store, Is made subservient to the grand design For which Heaven form'd the faculty divine. The Poem on Retirement may be a delightful and useful lesson to those who wish to enjoy and improve a condition of life which is generally coveted by all in some period of their existence. The different votaries of retirement ai'e veiy happily described ; and the portrait of Melancholy, in particular, has all that minute and forcible excellence, derived from the faithful delineation of nature ; for the poet described himself when under the overwhelm- ing pressm-e of that grievous malady. The caution to the lover is expressed with all the delicacy and force of the most friendly ad- monition ; and the fair sex are too much obliged to the tenderness of the poet to resent his bold assertion, that they are not entitled to absolute adoration. This poem contains several of those exquisite proverbial coup- lets that I have noticed on a former occasion. Verses like the following are fit to be treasured in the heart of every man. An idler is a watch that wants both hands ; A^ Hspless if it goes, as when it stands. LIFE OF COVVPER. 141 Absence of occupation is not rest ; A mind quite vacant is a mind distrest. Religion does not censure, or exliidc Unnumber'd pleasures, harmlessly pursued. The very sweet close of this poem I will not dwell upon at pre- sent, because I mean to notice it in collecting, as I advance, the most remarkable passages of the poet, in which he has spoken of himself. I must not, however, bid adieu to liis first volume for the present, without observing that, of the smaller poems at the end of it, three are eminently happy, both in sentiment and expression; the verses assigned to Alexander Selkirk, the Winter Nosega}', and Mutual Forbearance. It may, perhaps, console some future diffident poet, on his first appearance in public, if his merits happen to be depreciated by the presumptuous sentence of periodical criticism ; it may console him to be informed, that when the first volume of Cowper was ori- ginally published, one of the critical journals of his day repre- sented him as a good devout gentleman, without a particle of true poetical genius. To tliis very curious decision we may apply with a, pleasant sti-oke of poetical justice, the following couplet from the Book so sagaciously described. The moles and bats, in full assembly, find. On special search, the keen-eyed eagle blind. But to those who were inclined to deny his title to the rank and dignity of a poet, Cowper made the best of all possible replies, by publishing a poem which rapidly and jusly became a prime fa- vourite with every poetical reader. In his Task^ he not only surpassed all his former compositions, but executed an extensive work, of such original and di\ ersified excellence, that, as it arose without the aid of any model, so it will probably remain for ever unequalled by a succession of imi- tators. Undo nil majus generatur ipso, Nee viget quicquam simile aut secundum. The Task may be called a bird's-eye view of human life. It is a minute and extensive survey of every thing most interesting to the reason, to the fancy, and to the affections of man. It exhibits ^js pleasures and his pains, his pastimes and his business, his folly 142 LIFE OF COWPER. and his wisdom, his dangers and his duties, all with such exqui^ site facility and force of expression, with such grace and dignity of sentiment, that rational beings, who wish to render themselves more amiable and more liappy, can hardly be more advantageously employed than in frequent perusal of the Task. " O how fay re fruits may you to mortal men *' From Wisdom's garden give! How many may " By you the wiser and the better prove !" To apply three verses, of singular simplicity, from Nicliolas Gri- moald, (one of the earliest v/riters of English blank verse) to the poet wlio has added such a large increase of variegated lustre to that species of composition. The Task, beginning with all the peaceful attractions of sportive gaiety, rises to the most solemn and awful grandeur, to the highest strain of religious solemnity. Its fi-equent variation of tone is mas- terly in the greatest degree, and the main spell of that inexhausti- ble enchantment which hurries the reader through a flowery maze of many thousand verses, without allowing him to feel a moment of languor or fatigue. Perhaps no author, ancient or modem, ever possessed, so completely as Cowper, the nice art of passing, by the most delicate transition, from subjects to subjects that might otherwise seem but little or not at all allied to each other, the rare talent " Happily to steer " From grave to gay, from lively to severe." The Task may be compared to one of the grand fabrics of mu- sical contrivance, where a single work contains a vast variety of power for producing such harmony and delight as might be ex- pected to arise only from a large collection of instruments. The auditor is charmed by the vicissitudes of partial excellence, and astonished by the magnificent compass of a single production. But the supreme attraction of the Task arises from that conviction, which all who delight in it cannot fail to feel, that the poet, however pre-eminent in intellectual powers, must have been equally pre- eminent in tender benevolence of heart. His reader loves him as a sympathetic friend, and blesses him as an invaluable instructor. Tiie truth of this remark may be illustrated l^y the following verses, which I insert with pleasure, although I know not their author, as an elegant proof of that affection in a stranger, which tlie poetry of Cowper has such a peculiar tendency to inspire, LIFE OF COWPER. l^S On seeing a Sketch of Co wp eh by LAWREi^CE. Sweet bard, whose mind, thus pictur'd in thy face, O'er every feature spreads a nobler grace; Wiiose keen, but soften'd eve appears to dart A look of pity through the human heart; To search the secrets of man's inward frame; To weep with sorrow o'er his guilt and shame. Sweet bard, with whom, in sympathy of choice, I've oftimes left the world, at nature's voice, T 1 join the song that all her creatures raise, To carol forth their great Creator's praise: Or, wrapt in visions of immortal day, Have gaz'd on Truth in Zion's heavenly way. Sweet bard, may this thine image, all I know, Or ever may, of Cowper's form below. Teach one who views it, with a Christian's love, To seek, and find thee i-n the realms above. Persons who estimate poetical talents more from the arbitrary dictates of established criticism than from their own feelings, may be disposed to exclude Cowper from the highest rank of poets, be- cause he has written no original work of the epic form : — He has constructed no fable ; he has described no great action, accomplished by a variety of characters, derived either from history or inven- tion. But if the great epic poets of all nations were assemlsled to g[ive their suffrages concerning the rank to be assigned to Cow'per as a poet, I am persuaded tliey would address him to this effect : " Vv'e are proud to receive you as a brother, because, if the form of your composition is different from ours, you are certainly equal to the Tiolilcst of onr fraternity in the scope and effect of your verse. You are so truly a poet by the munificence of natui-e, that she seems to have given you an exclusive faculty, (resembling the fabulous faculty of Midas relating to gold, though given to you for beneficial pur- poses alone) the faculty of turning whatever you touch to a fit subject for poetry : you ai"c tlui jjoet of familiar life : but you paint it with such felicity of design and execution, that, as long as vei-se is valued upon earth as a vehicle of instruction and delight, you must and ought to be revered and beloved as pre-eminently in- structive and delightful : by having accomplished, with equal feli- city, the two great and arduous objects of your art, you have de- served to be the most popular of poets." 144 LIFE OF COWPER. Such, I apprehend, would be the praise which all the perfect Judges of his poetry, could they be selected from every age, past, pi'esent, and ioture, would unanimously bestow on the genius of Cowper. Yet the Task, though, taken altogether, it is, perhaps, the m.ost attractive poem that was ever produced, and such as re- quired the rarest assemblage of truly poetical powers for its pro- duction, bears, like every work from a human hand, that certain mark of a mortal agent — defect. Even the partiality of friendship must allow that the Task has its blemishes, and the greatest of them is tliat tone of asperity in reproof, which I am persuaded its gentle and benevolent author caught unconsciously from his fre- quent perusal of the prophets. The severe invective against the commemoration of Handel is the most striking instance of the as- perity to Avhich I allude, and it awakened the displeasure of a po- etical lady, whose displeasure CoAvper, of all men, would have been most truly sorry to have excited, had he been as well acquainted with the charms of her conversation as he was with her literary talents. » Cowper's eminent contemporary, the favourite poet of Scotland, seems to have felt, with fraternal sensibility, both the beauties and the blemishes of this most celebrated work. *' Is not the Task a glorious poem ?" says Burns, in one of his letters to his accomplished and generous friend, Mrs. Dunlop : *' the religion of the Task, bating a few scraps of Calvinistic divi- nity, is the religion of God and nature, the religion that exalts, tliat ennobles man." Though Cowper occasionally caught a cei'tain air of Calvinistic austerity, he had not a particle of Calvin's intolerance in his heart. He could never have occasioned the cruel death of a Servetus. Indulgence and good nature were the poet's predominant quaUties, and their influence was such, that, although his extraordinary ta- lents for satire threw pei-petual temptation in his way, he declined the temptation: he chose to be not a satirist, but a monitor. « Fitce sa?ictitas suvnna^ comitas par ; insectatur -vitia non homi- nes." He wisely observed that the most dignified satirists are little better than mere beadles of Parnassus. He considered satire rather as the bane than the glory both of Dryden and of Pope. In truth, though many an upright man has, in a lit of honest moral indis^iation, begun to write satire, in a persuasion that such works would benefit the world and do honour to himself, yet even satirists of this higher order have generally found that they did little more than gratify the common malignity of the world, and suffer angry and blind prejudice and passions to insinuate themselves imper- ceptibly into their nobler purposes, disfiguring their works and LIFE OF COWPER. 145 disquieting their lives. Such, perhaps, was the natural train of reftection that sugsjested to Boileau the admiraljle verse in which he feelingly and candidly condemns the path that he had himself pursued — " C'est un mauvais metier que celui de medire." Cowper felt the truth of this maxim so forcibly, that in his Poem on Chiirity he has turned the sharpest w^eapons of satire against the satirists themselves. Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd The milk of their good purpose all to curd ; Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse, The wild assassins start into the street, Prepar'd to poignard Avhomsoe'er they meet. These lines are alone sufficient to prove that Co-wper could occasionally assume the utmost severity of invective ; yet nature formed him to delight in exhortation more than in reproof; and hence he justly describes himself, in his true monitory character, in the verses that very sweetly terminate his instructive Poem cm Retirement. Content, if, thus sequester'd, I may raisfe A monitor's, though not a poet's praise ; And while I teach an art too little known, To close life wisely, m^y not waste my own. WTien a poet has so nobly entitled himself to the esteem and af- fection of his readers, the most fastidious of tliem can hardly be inclined to censure him as an egotist, if he takes more than one occasion to draw his own portrait. Few passages in Horace ai-e read with more pleasure than the verses in which he gives a cir- cumstantial account of himself. This reflection induces me to add a few lines from the Task, in which the poet has delineated liis own situation exactly in that point of view which must be most pleasmg to those who most feel an interest in his lot. The more we have sympathised in his afflictions, the more we may rejoice in recoUectnig that he had seasons of felicity, which he, in some measure, makes our own by the delightful fidelity of his description. VOL. u. V i4S LIFE OF COWPER. " Had I the choice of sublunary good, What could I wish that I possess not here? Health, leisure, means t' improve it, friendslxip, peaccj No loose or wanton, though a wand'ring muse, And constant occupation without care^ Thus bless'd, I draw a picture of that bliss; Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated minds, And profligate abusers of a world Created fair so much in vain for them. Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe, Allur'd by my report , — ^but sure, no less. That, self-condemn'd, they nmst neglect the prize, And what they will not taste must yet approve. What we admire we praise, and when we praise, Advance it into notice, that its worth Acknowledg'd, others may admire it too : I therefore recommend, though at the risk Of popular disgust, yet boldly still. The cause of Piety, and sacred Truth, And Virtue, and those scenes which God ordain'd Should best secure them, and promote them most; Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive Forsaken, or through folly not enjoy'd." Indeed, the great and rare art of enjoying life, in its purest and sublimest delights, is what this beneficent poet appears most anx- ious to communicate, and impress on the heart and soul of his reader. Witness that most exquisite passage of the Task, where he teaches the pensive student, who contemplates the face of earth, to survey the works of his Maker with a tender transport of filial exultation. " He looks abroad into the varied field Of Nature, and though poor, perhaps, compar'd With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scen'ry all his own. His are the mountains, and the vallies his, And the resplendent rivers : His to enjoy, \\"ith a propriety that none can feel. But who, with filial confidence inspir'd, C.'in lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling saj' — My Father made them all I Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of ijit'rest his, LIFE OF CO\\T»ER. U7 Wliose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love That plann'd and bui't, and still upholds a world So cloath'd with beauty for rebellious man ? Yes — ye may fill your gamers, ye that reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good In senseless riot ; but ye will not find In feast, or in the chace, in song, or dance, A liberty like his, who, unimpeach'd Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong. Appropriates nature as his Father's work, And has a richer use of yours than you." I believe the happiest hours of Cowper's life were those in wliicb he was engaged on this noble poem ; and as his happiness was, in a great measure, the fruit of his occupation, it is the more to be regretted that some incident, propitious to poetry, did not engage his active spirit a second time hi the construction of a great origi- nal work. There was a time, indeed, when his zealous and much regarded friend and neighbour, Mr. Greatheed, most kindly exhorted him to such an enterprise : an anecdote that I seize this opportunity of i-ecording in the words of that gentleman. " Homer being completely translated and committed to the press, I endeavoured to urge upon Mr. Cowper's attention the idea of a British epic, and would have recommended to him the reign of Alfred, the brightest ornament of the English throne, as one of the most eventful periods of our history. He discovered reluct- ance to the undertaking, and, to the best of my recollection, prin- cipally oI)jected to the difficulties attending the introduction of a suitable machinery under the Christian dispensation. He pointed out the absurdities of Tasso, and the deficiency of Glover in this respect, and thought that Milton had occupied the only epic ground fit for a Christian poet." Cowper would probably ha^-e thought otherwise on such a sug- gestion, had it been pressed upon his fancy in a more propitious season of his life, before his spirit was harassed by many troubles Avhich attended him during the latter years that he bestowed upon Homer, and al)ove all, by the enfeebled health of Mrs. Unwin, to which he gratefully devoted such incessant attention as must have inevitably impeded any great mental enterprise, even if his fervid imagination had been happily struck with any less obvious and more promising subject for epic song. Had he engaged in such an 148 LIFE OF COWPER. enterprise at a favourable season of his life, I am persuaded he would have enriched the literature of his country with a composi- tion more valuable than his version of Homer, allowing to that version as high a value as translation can boast. He possessed all the requisites for the happiest accomplishment of the most arduous original work — fancy, judgment, and taste ; all of the highest order, and in union so admirable that they height- ened the powers of each other. He was singularly exempt from the two great sources of literary, and, indeed, of moral imperfec- tions— negligence and aflFectation. From the first he was secured by a modest sense of his own abilities, united to a spirit of appli- cation, like the alacrity of Csesar — " Nil actum reputans, si quid supei^sset agendum." From affectation of every kind he was perpetually preserved by a majestic simplicity of mind, never seduced by false splendour, and most feelingly alive to all the graces of truth. But with the rarest combination of different faculties for the successful execu-» tion of any great poetical work, his tender and modest genius, sublime as it was, wanted the animating voice of friendship to raise it into confident exertion. The Task would not have been written without the inspiring voice of Lady Austen. The solemn and sage spirit of Numa required the inspiration of his Egeria* — — Sic sacra Numje ritusque colendos Mitis Aricino dictabat nympha sub antro. The great pleasure that Cowper felt in the conversation of ac- complished women, inspired him with that delicate vivacity with which he was accustomed to express his gratitude for a variety of little occasional presents that he received from his female friends. Dr. Johnson has said surlily and unjustly of Milton, that '• he never learnt the art of doing little things with grace." But in truth, poets who possess such exquisite feelings, and such powers of lan- guage, as belonged to Milton and to Cowper, can hardly fail to give elegance and grace to their poetical trifles, whenever affection leads them to trifle in verse. Cowper, whose sensations of grati- tude were singularly strong, was remarkably happy in those sprightly poetical compliments which he often addi-essed to ladies, in return for some highly Avelcome, though trivial gift, endeared to his affectionate spirit by his regard for the giver. To illustrate this very amiable part of his character, I shall here insert a few of these animated and graceful trifles. LIFE OF COWPER. 141 To my Cousin ANNE BODHAM, On receiving' from her a J\i''et-ivork Purse 7nade by herself. May 4, 1793. My gentle Anne, whom heretofore, Wlien I was young, and thou no moi'e Than plaything for a nurse, I danced and fondled on my knee, A kitten both in size and glee ! I thank thee for my Purse ; Gold pays the worth of all things here; But not of love; — that gem's too dear For richest rogues to win it ; I, therefore, as a proof of love, Esteem thy present far above The best things kept within it. To Mrs. KESfG, On her kind Present to the Author — a Patch-work Counterpane of her own 7naking. The bard, if e'er he feel at all, Must sure be quicken 'd by a call Both on his heart and head, To pay, with tuneful thanks, the cave And kindness of a lady fair, Who deigns to deck his bed. A bed like this, in ancient time. On Ida's barren top sublime, (As Homer's epic shows) Composed of sweetest vernal flow'rs, Without the aid of sun or show'rs, For Jove and Juno rose. Less beautiful, however gay, Is that, which in the scorching day Receives the weary swain ; Who, laying his long scythe aside, Sleeps on some bank, with daisies pied, 'Till rous'd to toil again. %S^ LIFE OF COWPER. What labours of the loom I see I Looms numberless have groan'd for me : Should ev'ry maiden come To scramble for the patch that bears The impress of the robe she wears, The bell would toll for some. And O ! what havoc would ensue ! This bright display of ev'iy hue All in a moment fled 1 As if a storm should strip the bowers Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers, Each pocketing a shred. Thanks, then, to ev'ry gentle fair Who will not come to pick me bare As bird of borrow 'd feather ; And thanks to one, above them all. The gentle fair of Pirtenhall, Who put THE WHOLE TOGETHER. GRATITUDE. Addressed to Lady HeskeTU, This cap, that so stately appears, With ribbon-bound tassel on high, Which seems, by the crest that it rears, Ambitious of brushing the sky : This cap to my cousin I owe, She gave it, and gave me beside, Wreath 'd into an elegant bow, The ribbon with which it is tied. Th^s wheel-footed studying chair, Contriv'd both for toil and repose, Wide-elbow'd, and wadded with hair, In which I both scribble and doze, Bright-studded to dazzle the eye3. And rival in lustre of that. In which, or astronomy lies, Fair Cassiopeia sat. LIFE OF COWTER. 151 These carpets, so soft to the foot, Caledonia's traffic and pride, Oh spare them, ye knights of the boot I E?^cap'd from a cross-country ride ! This table and mirror within, Secure fi-om collision and dust, At which I oft shave cheek and chin, And periwig nicely adjust. This moveable structure of shelves, For its beauty admired and its use, And charged with octavos and twelves, The gayest I had to produce. Where, flaming in scarlet and gold, My poems enchanted I view. And hope, in due time, to behold My Iliad and Odyssey too. This china, that decks the alcove. Which here people call a beaufette. But what the gods call it above Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet: These curtains, that keep the room warm, Or cool, as the season demands ; Those stoves, that, for pattern and form, Seem tlie labour of Mulciber's hands. All these are not half that I owe To one from our earliest youth, To me ever ready to show Benignity, friendship, and truth : For Time, the destroyer, declared, And foe of our perishing kind, If even her face he has spared. Much less could he alter her mind. Thus compass'd about with the goods And chattels of leisure and ease, I indulge my poetical moods In many such fancies as these : And fancies I fear they will seem, Poets' goods are not often so fine ; The poets will swear that I dream, VA'hcu I siing of tlie splendour of luiae. 152 LIFE OF COWPER. Though Cowper could occasionally trifle in rhyme, for the sake of amusing his friends, with an affectionate and endearing gaiety, he appears most truly himself when he exerts his poetical talents for the higher purpose of consoling the afflicted. Witness the fol- lowing epistle, composed at the request of Lady Austen, to con- sole a particular friend of hers. Twenty-five letters, written by Mrs. Billacoys, the lady to whom the poem is addressed, were in- serted in an early volume of the Theological Miscellany, in which tlie poem also appeared. Mr. Bull has annexed it to Cowper's translations from the spiritual songs of Madame Guion, but I wil- lingly embrace the opportunity of re-printing it in this volume, fi'om a copy coi-rected by the author, in the pleasing persuasion that it must prove to all religious readers, acquainted >vith afflic- tion, a lenient charm of very powerful effect. EPISTLE TO A LADY IN FRANCE. A Person of great Piety ^ and much afflicted. Madam ! a stranger's purpose in these lays Is to congratulate, and not to praise ; To give the creature the Creator's due, Were guilt in me, and an offence to you. From man to man, and e'en to woman paid. Praise is the medium of a knavish trade, A coin by craft for folly's use design 'd, Spurious, and only current with the blind. The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land whei-e sorrow is unknown ; No trav'ller ever reach'd that blest abode. Who found not thorns and briars on his road* The world may dance along the flowery plain. Cheer 'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, Where nature has her yielding mosses spread, V,''ith unshod feet, and yet unharm'd, they tread, Admonish 'd, scorn the caution, and the friend. Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. But He who knev/ what human hearts would prove, How slow to learn the dictates of his love ; That hard by nature, and of stubborn will, A life of ease would make them harder still ; LIFE OF COWPER. loi In pity to a chosen fcAV, design'd T' escape the common ruin of their kind, ■ Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, And said — Go spend them in the vale of tears ! Oil balmy gales of soul-reviving air ! Oh salutary streams that murmur there ! These flowing from the fount of grace above, Those breath'd from lips of everlasting love ! The flinty soil, indeed, their feet annoys. Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys. An envious woi-ld will interpose its frown, To mar delights superior to its own. And many a pang, experienc'd still within. Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin ! But ills of every shape, of every name, Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim ; And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast, Is given in earnest of eternal rest. All ! be not sad, although thy lot be cast Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste ; No shepherds' tents within thy view appear, But the chief Shepherd even there is near : Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain. Thy tears all issue from a source divine. And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine. So once, in Gideon's fleece, the dews were found, And di'ought on all the drooping flocks around.* It may be obsei'ved, to the honour of the poet, that his extreme shyness and dislike of addressing an absolute stranger did not preclude him from a free and happy use of his mental powei-s, when he had a prospect of comforting the distressed. His diffi- dence was often wonderfully great, but his humanity was greater. Diffident as Cowper was by nature, though a poet, he wanted not the becoming resolution to defend his poetical opinions, when lie felt them to be just ; particularly on the structure of English verse, which he had examined with the eye of a master. As a proof of his resolution, I transcribe, with pleasure, a passage from one of his earUest letters to his booksellei", Mr. Johnson. VOL. II. X 154 LIFE OF COWPER. It happened that some accidental reviser of the manuscript had taken the liberty to alter a line in a poem of Cowper's. This, liberty drew from the offended poet the following very just and animated remonstrance, which I am anxious to preserve, because it elucidates, with great felicity of expression, his deUberate ideas on English versification. " I did not write tlie line, that has been tampered with, hastily, or without due attention to the construction of it ; and what ap- peared to me its only merit is, in its present state, entirely annihi- lated. " I know that the ears of modern verse-writers are delicate to an excess, and their readers are troubled with the same squeam- ishness as themselves : so diat if a line do not run as smooth as quicksilver, they are offended. A critic of the present day serves a poem as a cook serves a dead turkey, when she fastens the legs of it to a post, and draws out all the sinews. For this we may thank Pope : but unless we could imitate him in the closeness and compactness of his expression, as well as in the smoothness of his numbers, we had better drop the imitation, which serves no other purpose than to emasculate and weaken all we write. Give me a manly rough line, with a deal of meaning in it, rather than a whole poem full of musical periods, that have nothing but their oily smoothness to recommend them. " I have said thus much, as I hinted in the beginning, because I have just finished a much longer poem than the last, which our common friend will receive by the same messenger that has charge of this letter. In that poem there are many lines which an ear so nice as the gentleman's who made the above men- tioned alteration would undoubtedly condemn, and j^et (if I may be permitted to say it) they cannot be made smoother witliout be- ing the worse for it. There is a roughness on a plumb which no- body that understands fruit would rub off, though the plumb would be much more polished Avithout it. But lest I tire you, I will only add, that I wish you to guard me for the future front all such meddling ; assuring you that I always write as smoothly as I can, but that I never did, never will, sacrifice the spirit or sense of a passage to the sound of it." In showing widi what proper spirit the pcet could occasionally vindicate his own verse, let me observe, that although he fre- quently speaks in his letters with humorous Jisperity concerning critics, no man could be more willing to receive, with becoming modesty and gratitude, the friendly assistance of just and tempe- LIFE OF COWPER. 155 rate criticism. Some proofs of this humilitj^, so laudable, if not uncommon in poets of great powers, I sliall seize this opportunity of producing, in a few extracts from a series of the author's letters to his bookJieller. Weston, Feb, 11, 1790. Dear Sir, I am very sensibly obliged by the remarks of Mr. Fuseli, and beg that you will tell him so ; they afford me opportunities of improvement which I shall not neglect. When he shall see -the press-copy, he will be convinced of this, and will be convinced likewise, that, smart as he sometimes is, he spares me often when I have no mercy on myself. He will see, in short, al- most a new translation. * * * j assure you faith- fiilly, that whatever my faults may be, to be easily or hastily satis- fied with what I have written is not one of them. Seju. r, 1790. It grieves me that, after all, I am obliged to go into public without the whole advantage of I\Ir. Fuseli's ju- dicious strictures. I\Iy only consolation is, that I have not forfeited them by my own impatience. Five years are no small portion of a man's life, especially at the latter end of it, and in those five years, being a man of almost no engagements, I have done more in the way of hard work than most could have done in twice the number. I beg you to present my compliments to Mr. Fuseli, with many and sincere thanks for tlie services that his own more important occupations would allow him to render me. It is a singular spectacle for those who love to contemplate the progress of social arts, to observe a foreigner, who has raised him- self to high rank in the arduous profession of a painter, correcting, and thanked for correcting the chief poet of England in his English version of Homer. From tlie series of letters now before me, I cannot resist the temptation of transcribing two more passages, because they dis- play the disposition of Cowper in a very amiable point of view, 'I'he first relates to INIr. Newton — the second to Mr. Johnson him- self. Wcatcn, Oct. o, 1790. Mr. Ncwt>^ii having again requested that the preface •which he Avrote for my first volume may be prefixed t« "m LIFE OF COVVPER. i it, I am desirous to gratify him in a particular that so emphatically bespeaks his friendship for me ; and should my books see another edition, shall be obliged to you if you will add it accordingly. I beg that you will not suifer your rever- ence, either for Homer or his translator, to check your continual examinations. I never knew, with certainty, till now, that the marginal strictures I found in the Task-proofs were yours. The justness of them, and the benefit I derived from them, are fresh in my memory, and I doubt not that their utility will be the same in the present instance. Weston, Oct. 30, 1790. I am anxious to preserve this singular anecdote, as it is honour- able both to the modest poet, and to his intelligent bookseller. But let me recall the reader's attention to the letter, in which the poet delivered so forcibly his own ideas of English versifica- tion. This letter leads me to suggest a reason why some readers imagine that the rhyme of Cowper is not equal to his blank verse. Their idea arises from his not copying the melody of Pope: but from this he deviated by design, and his character of Pope, in the Poem of Table-Talk, may, when added to this letter, completely unfold to us his reasons for doing so. The lines to which I allude are these : Then Pope, as harmony itself exact, In verse well disciplin'd, complete, compact, Gave virtue and morality a grace. That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face. Levied a tax of wonder and applause. E'en on the fools that trampled on their laws : But he (his musical finesse was such. So nice his ear, so delicate his touch) Made poetry a mere mechanic art, And every warbler has his tune by heart. Cowper conceived that Pope, by adhering too closely to the use of pure Iambic feet in his verse, deprived himself of an advantage to be gained by a more liberal admission of other feet, and parti, cularly Spondees, which, according to Cowper's idea, have a very LIFE OF COWPER. 1ST happ}' eflFect in giving variety, dignity, and force. He exempli- fies his idea by exclaiming, in the following couplet of the same poem, Give me the line that ploughs its stately course Like a proud swan, conquering the stream by forpe. It is, however, remarkable, that Cowper, in his Poem on the Na- tivitv, from the French of Madame Guion, seems to have chosen the style of Pope, which, on other occasions, he had rather tried to avoid. His versification in the poem just mentioned, affords a complete proof that, in rhyme, as in blank verse, he could at once be easy, forcible, and melodious. Churchill had before objected to an excess of unvaried excel- lence in the verses of Pope : an objection that appears rather fastidious than reasonable. Happy the poet whose antagonist can only say of his language, that it is too musical, and of his fancy, that it is too much under the guidance of reason ! Such are the charges by which even scholars and critics, of acknowledged taste and good nature, have, from the influence of accidental pre- judice, endeavoured to lessen the poetical eminence of Pope ; a poet remarkably unfortunate in his numerous biographers: for Ruffhead, whom Warburton employed in a task, which gratitude might have taught him to execute better himself, is neglected as dull: Johnson, though he nobly and eloquently vindicates the dig- nity of the poet, }et betrays a perpetual inclination to render him contemptible as a man : and Warton, though by nature one of the most candid and liberal of critics, continues, as a biographer, to indulge that prejudice which had early induced him, in his popular Essay on this illustrious poet, to endeavour to sink him a little in the scale of poetical renown : not, I believe, from any envious mo- tive, but as an affectionate compliment to hi3 friend Young, tho patron to whom he inscribed his Essay. Of this continued prejudice, which this good natured critic was himself very far from perceiving, he exhibits a I'emarkablc proof in his Life of Pope, by the following facetious severity on the trans- lation of Homer. " No two things can be so unlike as the Iliad of Homer and the Iliad of Pope : to colour the images, to point the sentences, to lavish Ovidian graces on the simple Grecian, is to put a bag-wig on Mr. Townley's fine busto of the venerable old bard." This senter.ce has all the sprightly pleasantry of my amijble old friend : but to prove that it is critically unjust, the reader has only to observe that Pope is very fur from having produced that ludicrous ISS LIFE OF COWPER. effect which the comparison of the critic supposes. Spectatori must laugh, indeed, at a bust of Homer enveloped in a wig; but the reader has not a disposition to laughter in reading the Iliad of Pope. On tlie contrary, in many, many passages, where it devi- ates widely from the original, a reader of taste and candour ad- mires both the dexterity and the dignity of the translator ; and if he allows the version to be unfaithful, yet, with Mr. Twining, (the accomplished translator of Aristotle, who has justly and grace- fully applied an expressive Latin verse to this glorious translation, so bitterly branded with the epithet unfaithful) he tenderly ex- claims, " Perfida, sed quamvis perfida, cara tamen." I have been induced, b}^ a sense of what is due to the great works of real genius, to take the piirt of Pope against the lively injustice of a departed friend, for whose literary talents, and for whose so- cial character, I still retain the sincerest regard. The deliuht and the improvement derived from such noble vvrorks as the Ho- mer of Pope, ought to guard every scholar against any partialities of friendship that can render him blind to the predominant merits, or severe to the petty imperfections of such a work. Predominant merits and petty imperfections are certainly to be found in the translation of Pope. These are temperately and judiciously dis- played in the liberal essay of that gentle and amiable critic, Spense, ©n the Odyssey ; who, though he was rather partial to blank verse, yet regarded Pope's Homer as a work entitled to great admira- tion. It is, indeed, a work so truly admirable, that I should be sorry if the more faithful version of my favourite friend could materially injure the honour of its author : but between Pope and CoAV])er there is no contest : " 'I'hey are performers on different instruments," as Cowper has very properly remarked himself, in the preface to his own translation. We may apply to the two translators, therefore, tlie compre- hensive Latin words that Gibbon applied to two eminent lawyers, " Magis pares^ quani similes;" but of the two translators it may be added, that each has attained such a degree of excellence in the mode he adopted, as will probably remain unsurpassed for ever. Instead, therefore, of endeavouring to decide which is en- titled to the greater portion of praise, a reader, Avho has derived great pleasure from both, may rather wish (for the embellishment and honour of the English language) that it may exhibit a double version of every great ancient poet, perfectly equal in spirit and beauty to the Homers of Pope and of Cowper. My impartial es- teem for the merits of these two pre-eminent translators had al« LIFE OF COWPER. 156 most tempted me to introduce in this composition a minute display of their alternate successes and failures in many most striking pas- sages of Homer ; but, on reflection, it appears to me, that such a comparison, if fairly and extensively conducted, would form an episode too large for the body of my work, and the spirit of my de- parted friend seemed to admonish me against it, in the following Tvords of his Grecian favourite : " Neither praise me much, nor blame, For these arc Grecians in whose ears thou speak'st, And know me well." Cc7i'/!e7-'s Homer's Iliad, 10. I will therefore confine myself to the general result of such a comparison, and I am persuaded that all unprejudiced scholars, who may amuse themselves bv pursuing the comparison, will find the result to be tliis : that both the English poets have rendered noble justice to their original, taken altogether; that, in separate parts, each translator has frequently sunk beneath him, and each, in their happier moments, surpassed the model which they endea- voured to copy. Pope had partners in the latter portion of his work : Cowper accomplished his mighty labour by his own exertions : and he seems to have taken an honest pleasure in recording, with his own hand, the time and the pains that he bestowed on his translation. In the copy of Clarke's Homer, which he valued particularly as the gift of his friend, Mr. Rose, he inserted the following me- morandum. " My translation of the Iliad I began on the twenty-first day of November, in the year 17'84, and finished the translation of the Odyssey on the twenty-fifth day of August, 1790. During eight months of this time I was hindered by indisposition, so that I have been occupied in the work, on the whole, five years and one month. Wm. Cowper. "Mem: I gave the work another revisal while it was in the press, which I finished March 4, 1791." When we add to this account all the time which he gave to pre- parations for his second edition, it will hardly be hyperbolical ta ICO LIFE OF COWPER. say, that this deeply studied version of Homer was, like the siege of Troy, a work of ten years. Nor will this time appear won- derful, when we recollect how determined Cowper was to be as minutely faithful as possible to the exact sense of his original. The following passage from one of his letters to Mr. Park will show how much he gratified his own mind by such scrupulous fidelity. In thanking his friend for a present of Chapman's Iliad, he says: . " Wesson, July 15, 1793. " I have consulted him in one passage of some difficulty, and find him giving a sense of his own, not at all- warranted by the words of Homer. Pope sometimes does this, and sometimes omits the difficult part entirely. I can boast of hav- ing done neither, though it has cost me infinite pains to exempt myself from the necessity." The late Mr. Wakefield, in re-publishing Pope's Homer, has mentioned Cowper's superior fidelity to his original with the libe- ral praise of a scholar ; but he falls, I think, into injudicious se- verity on the structure of his verse — a severity the more remark- able, as he warmly censures Boswell for unfeeling fietulance and insolent dogmatism^ in speaking of Cowper's translation. Mr. Wakefield, though a man of extensive learning and acute sensi- bility, appears to me in some measure unjust both to Cowper and to Pope. He labours to prove that Pope v/as miserably defective in the knowledge of Greek, and questions the exactitude of Lord Bathurst's testimony', in the anecdote that seemed to vindicate the translator's acquaintance with the original. It is in my power to strengthen the credibility of that anecdote by a circumstance with- in my oAvn memory, which I mention with pleasure, to refute a stra'.ge uncandid supposition, that Pope did not rea.d himself the Greek which he profest to translate, but trusted entirely to other translators. Many years ago I had in my hands a small edition of Homer, (Greek, without Latin) and it was the very copy that Pope used in his translation. It had a few memorandums in his own hand-writing, ascertaining the lines he translated on such and such days. I might have bought the book for a price considerably above its usual value, but I was at the time unhappily infected with Warton's prejudice against the genius of Pope, and from the influence of that prejudice I failed to purchase a book which, " on my mended judgment, if I oflFend not to say it is mended," I should have rejoiced to acquire by doubling the price. May this petty anecdote be a warning to every literary )'cuth, of an ardent spirit, not to adopt too hastily ideas that may lessen his regard for such LIFE OF COWPER. 161 celeliratcd wi'iters as time and experience will probably endear to his more cultivated mind. It is, indeed, a prejudice net uncommon in the litei*ary world, that little respect is due to poetical translators. The learned and amiable Jortin says, in his Life of Erasmus, " The translating of poets into other languages, and into \erse, seems to be an occu- pation l>encath a good poet; a work in which there is much labour and little honour." Jortin was led to this idea by some expressions in a letter from Erasmus to Ecbanus Hessus, who translated Homer into very ani- mated Latin verse. As that translator did not employ a living lan- guage in his version of the great poet, his correspondent might justly apprehend that the credit of his work would not be answer- able to its laI)our. But surely the case is very different, when poets, who liave gained reputation by original works in a modern language, devote their talents to make their countrymen, learned or unlearned, easily and agreeably intimate with the poetical fa- vourites of the ancient world, Jortin presumes that pecuniary advahtage must be a primary moti\e with a translator of extensive works; but there is a nobler incentive to such composition, and one that, I am persuaded, was very forcibly felt both by Pope and Cowper: I mean the generous gratification that a feeling spirit enjoys in a fair prospect of adding new lustre to the glory of a favourite author, to whom he has been often indebted for inexliaustible delight. He labours, indeed ; but he frequently labours " Studio fallente laborem." Yet the magnitude of such works entitles them to no ordinary praise, when they are accomplished with considerable success. Every nation ought to think itself highly indebted to translators who enrich their native language by works of such merit as the Homers of Pope and of Cowper, because a long translation to the greatest masters of poetical diction is a sort of fatiguing dance performed in fetters. It certainly was so to Pope, and even to Cowper, whose versification, in his Homer, though so excellent that it gives to his translation what Johnson calls the first excel- lence of a translator, " to be read with pleasure by these who know not Ijve original," yet seems not, in every part, to have that exquisite union of force, freedom and fluency, which is felt so delightfully through all the books of the Task. It is there that the versification of Cowper is mcst truly Homeric, that it ]K'i'pe- tually displays what Piutarrh describes as the characteristic of VOL. 11. y i&i LIFE OF COWPER. Homer's verse, compared with that of Antimachus, « a certain charm, superadded to other graces and power, an appearance of having been executed with dexterous facility."* Perhaps of all poets, ancient and modern. Homer, and Cowper in his original composition, exhibit this charm in the highest de- gree. They both have the gift of speaking in verse, as if poetry were their native tongue. The poetical powers of the latter were indeed a gift, and his use of them was worthy of the veneration which he felt towards the giver of every good. He has accomplished, as a poet, the sub- limest object of poetical ambition — he has dissipated the general prejudice that held it hardly possible for a modern author to suc- ceed in sacred poetry — he has proved that verse and devotion are natural allies^he has shown that true poetical genius cannot be more honourably or more delightfully employed than in diffusing through the heart and mind of man, a filial affection for his Ma- ker, with a firm and cheerful trust in his word. He has sung in a strain equal to the subject, the blessed Advent of universal peace ; and perhaps the temperate enthusiasm of friendship may not ap- pear too presumptuous in supposing that his poetry will have no inconsiderable influence in preparing the world for a consumma- tion so devoutly to be wished. Those who are little inclined to attribute such mighty powers to modern verse may yet allow, that the more the works of Cowper are read, the more his readers will find reason to admire the va- riety and the extent, the graces and the energy of his literary ta- lents. The universal admiration excited by these will be height- ened and endeared, to the friends of virtue, by the obvious reflec- tion, that his writings, excellent as they appear, were excelled by the gentleness, the benevolence, and the sanctity of his life. To the merits of such a life, I could wish that a more early intimacy with my departed friend had enabled me to render more ample justice ; but affection has made me industrious in my endeavours to supply, from the purest sources of intelligence, all the deficiency of my per- sonal knowledge ; and in composing this cordial tribute to a man whose history is so universally interesting, my chief ambition has been to deserve the approbation of his pure spirit, who appeared to me on earth among the most amiable of earthly friends, and * H |U?y A'JTi^xx^ '7roiYi(Ti^ X-Cik to, Aiowa-m (^uyfCi^rifjLa.Ta.j ruv KoXo- (P«v*£t,'v icyvv £)^o)iToc. KXi Tovov EHbEbta(7ju.svoi; xai xaraTTovotj eojxe : ratj ds . Pliuarcli. in Tiraoleone. LIFE OF COWPER. 165 tvhom I cherish a hvely hope of beholding in a state of happier ex- istence, with the spirits of " just men made perfect." Pardon me, thou tenderest of mortals, if I have praised thee with a warmth of affection that might appear to thy diffident natui-e to border on excess. I am not conscious that I have, in the slightest particular, over-stepped the modesty of truth ; but, lest expressions of my own should have a more questionable shape, I will close this imperfect, though affectionate memorial, by applying to thee those tender and beautiful verses which Cowley (one of thy favourite poets) addressed to a poetical brother, in all points, perhaps, and assu- redly in genius, by many degrees, thy inferior. Long did the Muses banish 'd slaves abide, And build vain pyramids to mortal pride : Like Moses, thou (though spells and charms withstand) Hast brought them nobly home, back to their holy land. Poet and Saint, to thee are justly given. The two most sacred names of Earth and Heaven. POSTSCRIPT. It has been once more my lot, during the process of printing an extensive work, to lose a friend whom I had anxiously hoped to please with a sight of my completed publication. I allude to Lady Austen, whose name is justly mentioned with honour in the Life of Cowper, as she possessed and exerted an influence so happily favourable to the genius of the poet. Before I began the present work, I had the pleasure and the advantage to form a personal acquaintance witli this lady : she favoured me, in a very graceful and obhging manner, with much valuable information, and with some highly interesting materials for the history of our friend, who had sportively given her the title of sister, and who, while their intercourse lasted, treated her with all the tenderness and all the confidence of a brother. Her maiden name was Richardson : she was married, very early in life, to Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, and resided with him in France, where he died. Her intercourse with Cowper is already related. In a subsequent period she was married to a native of France, Mr. De Tardif, a gentleman and a poet, who has ex- pressed, in many elegant French verses, his just and deep sense 164 LIFE OF COWPER. of her accomplished, endearing character. In visiting Paris with him, in the course of tlie last summer, she sunk under the fatigue of the excursion, and died in that city on the twelfth of August, 1802. My obligations to her kindness induce me to terminate this brief account of a person so cordially regarded by Cowper, and so in- strumental to the existence of his greatest woi'k, with an offering of respect and gratitude, in the shape of an EPITAPH. Honour and Peace, ye guardians kindly just. Fail not in duty to this hallow 'd dust I And mortals (all wliose cukur'd spirits know Joys that pure faith and heavenly verse bestow) Passing this tomb, its buried inmate bless. And obligation to her powers confess, Wlio, when she grac'd this earth, in Austen's name, Wak'd, in a poet, inspiration's flame! Remov'd, by counsel, like the voice of spring. Fetters of diffidence from Fancy's wing. Sent the freed eagle in the sun to bask. And from the mind of Cowper — call'd the Task ! I close my work with these verses, from a persuasion that I can pay no tribute to the memoiy of Cowper more truly acceptable to his tender spirit, than praise sincerely bestowed on the objects of his aifection. APPENDIX. (No. 1.) ORIGINAL POEMS. To JOHN JOHNSON, On his presenting vie with an antique Bust of Homer. iVINSMAN belov'd, and as a son by me, \A^hen I behold this fruit of thy regard. The sculptur'd form of my old fav'rite bard, I rev'rence feel for him, and love for thee. Joy too, and grief ; much joy, that there should be Wise men, and learn 'd, who grudge net to reward. With some applause, my bold attempt, and hard, Which others scorn. Critics by courtesy I The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine, I lose my precious years, now soon to fail ; Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine. Proves dross when balanc'd in the Christian scale ! Be wiser thou I — Like our fore-father Donne, Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone I To the Rc\erend Mr. NEWTON, On his Return from Ranisgate. That ocean you of late survey'd. Those rocks I too have seen. But I, afflicted and dismay'd, You tranquil and serene. 166 APPENDIX. You from the flood-controuling steep Saw stretch 'd before your view, With conscious joy, the threat'ning deep. No longer such to you. To me, the waves that ceaseless broke Udoii the dang'rcus coast, Poarsely, and ominously, spoke Of all my treasure lost. Your sea of troubles you have past, And found the peaceful shore ; I, tempest toss'd, and wreck'd at last. Come home to port no more. LOVE ABUSED. What is there in the vale of life Half so delightful as a wife, Wlien friendship, love, and peace combine To stamp the marriage-bond divine ? The stream of pure and genuine love Derives its current from above ; And earth a second Eden shows Where'er the healing water flows: But ah, if from the d}'kes and drains Of sensual nature's fev'rish veins. Lust, like a lawiess, headstrong flood, Impregnated with ooze and mud, Descending fast on ev'ry side. Once mingles with the sacred tide, Farewell the soul-enliv'ning scene I The banks that wore a smiling green. With rank defilement overspread, Bewail their fiow'ry beauties dead. The stream, polluted, dark and dull, Difiiised into a Stygian pool. Through life's last melancholy years Is fed with ever-flowing tears. Complaints supply the zephyr's part, And sighs that heave a breaking heart. APPENDIX. 1G7 EPITAPH On Mr. Chester, of Chichchy, Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies, 'Till all who knew him follow to the skies. Tears therefore fall, where Chester's ashes sleep ; Him, wife, friends, brothers, children, servants weep— And justly — few shall ever him transcend As husband, parent, brother, master, friend. EPITAPH On Mrs. M. Higgins^ of Weston. Laurels may flom-ish round the conqu'ror's tomb, But happiest they who win the world to come : Believers have a silent field to fight, And their exploits are veil'd from human sight. They in some nook, where little known they dwell, Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell : Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine. To Count GRAVINA. On his translating the Author's Song on a Rose into Italian Verse, My Rose, Graviua, blooms anew, And steep'd not now in rain, But in Castalian streams, by you, Will never fade again. INSCRIPTION For a Stone, erected at the solving of a Grove of Oaks at Chilling- ton, the Seat of Thomas Giffard, Esquire. 1790. Other stones the xra tell When some feeble mortal fell; I stand here to date the birth Of these hardy sons of earth. Which shall longest brave tiie sky. Storm, and frost? — these Oaks or V. Pass an age or two away, I must moulder and decay ; 168 APPENDIX. But the yeai's that crumble me Shall invigorate the tree, Spread the branch, dilate its size, Lift its summit to the skies. Cherish honour, virtue, truth ! So shalt thou prolong thy youth : Wanting these, however fast Man be fixt, and form'd to last, He is lifeless even now. Stone at heart, and cannot grow. INSCRIPTION For a Hermitage in the Author's Garden. This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, Built as it has been in our waning years, A rest afforded to our weary feet. Preliminary to the last retreat. STANZAS On the late indecent Liberties taken nvith the Reinains of the great Mil f ON.— Anno 1790. Me too, perchance, in future days, The sculptur'd stone shall show. With Paphian myrtle, or with bays Parnassian, on m}- ijrnw. But I, or ere that season come, Escap'd from every care, Shall reach my refuge in the tomb. And sleep securely there.* So sang, in Roman tone and stile, The yoivdiful bard ere long, Grdain'd to grace his native isle With her sublimest song. * Forsitan et nostros ducat de niaimore vulius Ncctei.s aiit Tanliia myrti aut Parnasside lauri Froiiiie comas — At ego se^ju.a pace quicscam. MiUoii. APPENDIX. 169 Who, then, but must conceive disdain, Hearing the deed unblest Of wretches who have dar'd prophane His dread sepulchral rest ? Ill fare the hands that heav'd the stones WTiere Milton's ashes lay, That trembled not to gi'asp his bones, And steal his dust away. Oh ill requited bard ! neglect Thy living worth repay'd. And blind idolatrous respect As much affronts the dead. A TALE, Founded on a Fact which happened in January^ 1779. Wliere Humber pours his rich commercial stream. There dwelt a wretch, who breath'd but to blaspheme. In subterraneous caves his life he led. Black as the mine, in which he wrought for bread. When on a day, emerging from the deep, A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep) The wages of his weekly toil he bore To buy a cock, whose blood might win him more ; As if the noblest of the feather'd kind Were but for battle, and for death design'd ; As if the consecrated hours were meant For sport, to minds on cruelty intent : It chanc'd (such chances Providence obey) He met a fellow-lab'rer on the way, Whose heart the same de.'-ires had once inflam'd — But now the savage temper was reclaim'd. Persuasion on his lips had taken place ; For all plead well who plead the cause of grace ! His iron-heai-t with scripture he assail'd, Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd. His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew. Swift, as the lightning-glimpse, the arrow flew j He wept, he trembled; cast his eyes around, To find a worse than he : But none he found. VOL. ir. 2 iro APPENDIX. He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel. Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal. Now, farewell, oaths, and blasphemies, and lies ! He quits the sinner's, for the martyr's prize. That holy day was wash'd with many a tear, Gilded with hope, y^t shaded too by fear. The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine Learn 'd by his alter'd speech — the change divine! Laugh'd when they should have wept, and swore the day Was nigh, when he would swear as fast as they. *' No," said the penitent, " such words shall share " This breath no more, devoted now to pray'r. *' Oh ! if thou seest, (thine eye the future sees) " That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these ; " Now strike me to the ground, on which I kneel, " Ere yet this heart relapses into steel ; " Now take me to that Heav'n I once defy'd, *' Thy presence, thy embrace !" — ^He spoke, and dy'd I A TALE. In Scotland's realm, where trees are few, Nor even shrubs abound ; But where, however bleak the view, Some better things are found ; For husband there and wife may boast Their union undefii'd ; And false ones are as rare almost As hedge-rows in the wild: In Scotland's realm, forlorn and bare, Tliis hist'ry chanc'd of late — This hist'ry of a wedded pair, A chaffinch and his mate. The spring drew near, each felt a breast With genial instinct fill'd; They pair'd, and only wish'd a nest, But found not wliere to build. APPENDIX. 171 The heatlis uncover'd, and the moors, Except with snow and sleet ; Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores Could yield them no retreat. Long time a breeding place they sought, 'Till both grew vex'd and tir'd; At length a ship arriving, brought The good so long desir'd. A ship! — could such a restless thing Afford them place to rest ? Or was the merchant charg'd to bring The homeless birds a nest ? Hushl — silent hearers profit most! — This racer of the sea Pi'ov'd kinder to them than the coast — It serv'd them with a tree. But such a tree ! 'twas shaven deal ; The tree they call a mast, And had a hollow with a wheel. Through which the tackle pass'd. Within that cavity aloft Their roofless home they fixt; Form'd with materials neat and soft, Bents, wool, and feathers mixt. Four iv'ry eggs soon pave its floor. With russet specks bedight: — The vessel weighs — forsakes the shore, And lessens to the sight. The mother bird is gone to sea. As she had chang'd her kind ; But goes the mate ? Far wiser, he Is doubtless left behind. No ! — Soon as from ashore he saw The Avingcd mansion move ; He flew to reach it, Ijy a law Of never -failing love I m APPENDIX. Then perching at his consort's side, Was briskly borne along ; The billoAvs and the blasts defied, And cheer'd her with a song. The seaman, with sincere delight, His feather 'd shipmate eyes. Scarce less exulting in the sight, I'han when he tows a prize. For seamen much believe in signs, And from a chance so new, Each some approaching good divines, And may his hopes be true I Hail, honour'd land ! a desert, where Not even birds can hide, Yet parent of this loving pair, Whom nothing could divide. And ye, who rather than resign Your matrimonial plan ; Were not afraid to plough the brine In company with man. To whose lean country, much disdain 'We English often show ; Yet from a richer, nothing gain But wantonness and woe. Be it your fortune, year by year. The same resource to prove ; And may ye, sometimes landing here, Instruct us how to love ! This tale is founded on an anecdote which the author found in the Buckinghamshire Herald, for Saturday, June 1, 1793, in the following words. Glasgow^ May 23d. In a block or pully, near the head of the mast of a gabcrt, now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was APPENDIX. . 175 followed hither by both birds. Tliough tlie block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not for- saken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it but when she descends to the hulk for food. STANZAS, Addressed to Lady HESKEfH, by a Lady, in retiu-ning a Poem of Mr. Coii-PEJi's, le?it to the Writer on Condition she shoidd neither shoiu it, nor take a Copy, What wonder ! if my waverijig hand Had dar'd to disobey, When Hesketh gave a harsh command. And Cowper led astray ? Then take this tempting gift of thine, By pen uncopied yet : But can'st thou, Memory, confine, Or teach me to forget ? More lasting than the touch of art Her characters remain ; When written by a feeling heart On tablets of the brain. Cowper' s Reply. To !)e remcmber'd thus is fame. And in the first degree ; And did the few, like her, the same. The press might rest for me. So Homer, in the memory stor'd Of many a Grecian belle. Was once preserv'd — a richer hoard. But never lodg'd so well. APPENDIX. (No. 2.) TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES. From the Greek of Julianus* A. SPARTAN, his companions slain, Alone from battle fled ; His mother, kindling with disdain That she had borne him, struck him dead ; For courage, and not birth alone, In Sparta, testifies a son. On the same, by Palladas, A Spartan, 'scaping from the fight, His mother met him in his flight, Upheld a falchion to his breast. And thus the fugitive address'd : " Thou can'st but live to blot with shame " Indelible thy mother's name, " While ev'ry breath that thou shalt draw " Ofifends against thy country's law : " But if thou perish by this hand, " Mj'self, indeed, throughout the land, " To my dishonour shall be knoAvn " The mother still of such a son ; " But Sparta will be safe and free, '' And that shall serve to comfort me," APPENDIX. 175 AN EPITAPH. My name — my counti-y — what are they to thee ? What — whether base or proud, my pedigree ? Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men — Perhaps I fell below them all — what then? Suffice it, stranger, that thou see'st a tomb — Thou know'st its use — it hides — no matter whom. ji not her. Take to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain With much hard labour in thy service worn. He set the vines that clothe yon ample plain, And he these olives that the vale adorn. He fill'd with grain the glebe, the rills he led Through this green herbage, and those fruitful bow'rs: Thou, therefore, Earth, lie lightly on his head, His hoary head, and deck his grave with flow'rs. jinotlier. Painter, this likeness is too strong, And we shall mourn the dead too long. Another. At three-score winters end I died A clieerless being, sole and sad; The nuptial knot I never tied, And wish my father never had. By Callimachus. At morn we plac'd on his funereal bier Young Melanippus ; and at even-tide. Unable to sustain a loss so dear. By her own hand his Ijlooming sister died. Thus Aristippus mourn'd his noble race, Annihilated by a double blow ; Nor son could hope, nor daughter more t' embrace, Aud all Cyrene saddcn'd at his woe. 176 APPENDli. On MlLflADES, Miltiades, thy valour best (Although in every region known) The men of Persia can attest, Taught by thyself at Marathon. Oil an Infant. Bewail not much, my parents, me, the prey Of ruthless Ades, and sepulcher'd here, An infant, in my fifth scarce finish'd year, He found all sportive, innocent, and gay, Your young Callimachus ; and if I knew Not many joys, my griefs were also few. By Heraclides. In Cnidus born, the consort I became Of Euphron. Aretimias was my name. His bed I shared, nor proved a barren bride, But bore two children at a birth, and died. One child I leave to solace and uphold Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old ; And one, for his remembrance sake, I bear To Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there. 0)1 the Reed. I was of late a barren plant. Useless, insignificant, Nor figv nor grape, nor apple bore, A native of the marshy shore ; But gather'd for poetic use, And phmg'd into a sable juice, Of which my modicum I sip, With narrow mcuth and slender lip. At once,- although by nature dumb, All-eloquent I have beconie, And speak with fiuency untired, As if by Phosbus self , inspired. APPENDIX. X77 To Healthy Eldest born of pow'rs divine, Blest H}'gei ! be it mine To enjoy what thou ctin'st give, And henceforth with thee to live : For in pow'r if pleasure be, Wealth, or num'rous progeny ; Or in amorous embrace. Where no spy infests the place ; Or in aught that Heav'n bestows To alleviate human woes. Wlien the wearied heart despairs Of a respite from its cares ; These and ev'ry true delight Flourish only in thy sight. And the sister Graces Three Owe, themselves, their youth, to thee, Without whom we may possess Much, but never happiness. On the Astrologers. Th' Astrologers did all alike presage My uncle's dying in extreme old age ; One only disagreed. But he was wise, And spoke not till he heard the fun'ral cries. On an Old Woman, Mycilla dyes her locks, 'tis said. But 'tis a foul aspersion ; She buys them black, they therefore need No subsequent immersion. On Invalids, Far happier are the dead, methinks, than they Who look for death, and fear it every day. VOL. II. A a 178 APPENDIX. On Flatterers, No mischief worthier of our fear In nature can be found, Than friendship, in ostent sincere. But hollow and unsound. For lull'd into a dang'rous dream, We close infold a foe, Who strikes, when most secure we seem, Th' inevitable blow. On the Sivaliorv. Attic maid ! with honey fed, Bear'st thou to thy callow brood Yonder locust fi'om the mead, Destin'd their delicious food? Ye have kindred voices clear, Ye alike unfold the wing, Migi'ate hither, sojourn here, Both attendant on the spring. Ah, for pity, drop the prize ; Let it not, with truth, be said That a songster gasps and dies. That a songster may be fed. On late acquired Wealth. Poor in my youth, and in Ufe's later scenes Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour ; Who nought enjoy 'd, while young, denied the means; And nought, when old, enjoy'd, denied the pow'r. On a true Friend. Hast thou a friend? Thou hast, indeed, A rich and large supply. Treasure to serve your ev'ry need, Well-manag'd, till you die. APPENDIX. 179 On a Bath^ by PlAfo, Did Cytherea to the skies From this pellucid lymph arise ? Or was it Cytherea's touch, When bathing here, that made it such ? On a FoivleVi by Isiodorus, With seeds and bird-lime, from the desert air, Eumelus gather'd free, though scanty fare. No lordly patron's hand he deign 'd to kiss, Nor luxury knew, save liberty, nor bliss. Thrice thirty years he liv'd, and to his heirs His reeds bequeath'd, his bird-lime, and his snares. On J^''iOBE. Charon, receive a family on board, Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl ; Apollo and Diana, for a word By me too proudly spoken, slew us all. On a good Man, Traveller, regret not me ; for thou shalt find Just cause of sori-ow none in my decease, Who, dying, children's children left behind ; And with one wife liv'd many a year in peace. Three virtuous youths espoused my daughters three, And oft their infants in my bosom lay ; Nor saw I one of all derived from me Touch 'd with disease, or torn by death away. Their duteous hands my fun'ral rites bestow'd, And mc my blameless manners fitted well To seek it, sent to the serene abode Where shades of pious men for ever dwell. M» APPENDIX. On a Miser. They call thee rich, I deem thee poor — Since, if thou dar'st not use thy store, But sav'st it only for thine heirs, The treasure is not thine, but theirs. Another. A Miser, traversing his house, Espied, unusual there, a mouse, And thus his uninvited guest, Briskly inquisitive, address'd : *' Tell me, my dear, to what cause is it *' I owe this unexpected visit?" The mouse her host obliquely eyed, And, smiling, pleasantly replied, " Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard, " I come to lodge, and not to board." Another. Art thou some individual of a kind Long-liv'd by nature as the rook or hind? Heap treasure, then, for if thy need be such. Thou hast excuse, and scarce can'st heap too much. But man thou seem'st ; clear therefore from thy breast This lust of treasure — folly at the best ! For why should'st thou go wasted to the tomb. To fatten with thy spoils, thou know'st not whom ? On Female Inconstancy. Rich, thou had'st many lovers — poor, hast none, So surely want extinguishes the flame ; And she who call'd thee once her pretty one, And her Adonis, now inquires thy name. APPENDIX. 1^1 Where wast thou born, Sosicrates, and where, In what strange country can thy parents live. Who seem'st, by thy complaints, not yet aware That want's a crime no woman can forgive ? On the Grasshopper. Happy songster, perch 'd above On the summit of the grove. Whom a dew-drop cheers to shig With the freedom of a king. From thy perch survey the fields Where prolific nature yields Nought that willingly as she, Man surrenders not to thee. For hostility or hate None thy pleasures can create. Thee it satisfies to sing Sweetly the return of Spring ; Herald of the genial hours, Harming neither herbs nor flow'rs. Therefore man thy voice attends Gladly— thou and he are friends ; Nor thy never-ceasing strains, Phoebus or the muse disdains, As too simple or too long. For themselves inspire the song. Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying, Ever singing, sporting, playing, What has nature else to show Godlike in its kind as thou ? Oji Hermocra'Tia. Hermocratia named — save only one. Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none. For neither Phoebus pierc'd my thriving joys, Nor Dian— she my girls, or he my boys. But Dian rather, when my daughters lay In parturition, chas'd their pangs away ; And all my sons, by Phoebus' bounty, shared A vig'rous youth, by sickness unimpaired. Oh Niobe 1 far less prolific, sec Thy boast against Latona shani'd by iTie I 183 APPENDIX. From MEifASDKRm Fond youth, who dream'st that hoarded gold Is needful, not alone to pay For all thy various items sold To serve the wants of ev'ry day- Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat, For sav'ry viands season'd high, But somewhat more important yet— I tell thee what it cannot buy. No treasure, had'st thou more amass'd Than fame to Tantalus assign'd. Would save thee from the tomb at last; But thou must leave it all behind: I give thee, therefore, counsel wise ; Confide not vainly in thy store. However large — much less despise Others comparatively poor. But in thy more exalted state, A just and equal temper show, That all who see thee, rich and great, May deem thee worthy to be so. On Pallas Bathing, From a Hymn of Callimachus. Nor oils of balmy scent produce. Nor mirror for Minerva's use ; Ye nymphs who lave her ! she, array'd In genuine beauty, scorns their aid. Not even when ihey left the skies. To seek on Ida's head the prize, From Paris' hand, did Juno deign, Or Pallas in the chrystal plain Of Simois' stream, her locks to trace, Or in the mirror's polish 'd face. Though Venus oft with anxious care Adjusted twice a single hair. APPENDIX. 183 To Demos^henjs. It flatters and deceives thy view, This mirror of ill-polish 'd ore; For were it just, and told thee true, Thou would'st consult it never more. On a similar Character. You give your cheeks a rosy stain. With washes dye your hair ; But paint and washes both are vaiu To give a youthful air. Those wrinkles mock your daily toil ; No labour will efface 'em ; You wear a mask of smoothest oil ; Yet still with ease we trace 'em. An art so fruitless then forsake. Which, though you much excel in, You never can contrive to make. Old Hecuba young Helen. On an ugly Fellow^ Beware, my friend, of chrystal brook. Or fountain, lest that hideous hook, Thy nose, thou chance to see. Narcissus' fate would then be thine. And, self-detested, thou would'st pine As self-enamour'd he. 072 a battered Beauty, Hair, wax, rouge, honey, teeth, you buy A multifarious store : A mask at once would all supply, Nor would it cost you more. 184 APPENDIX. On a Thief, When Au\is, the nocturnal thief, made prize Of Hermes, swift-winged envoy of the skies — Hermes, Arcadia's king, the thief divine, Who, when an infant, stole Apollo's kine, And whom, as arbiter and overseer Of our gymnastic sports, we planted here — Hermes I he cried, you meet no new disaster ; Oftimes the pupil goes beyond his master. On Pedigrees from Kpicharmus. My mother, if thou love me, name no more My noble birth. Sounding at every breath My noble birth, thou kiU'st me. Thither fly. As to their only refuge, all from whom Nature withholds all good besides : they boast Their noble birth, conduct us to the tombs Of their forefathers, and from age to age Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race. But whom hast thou beheld, or can'st thou name, Deriv'd from no forefathers ? Such a man Lives not ; for how could such be born at all ? And if it chance, that, native of a land Far distant, or in infancy depriv'd Of all his kindred, one who cannot trace His origin, exist, why deem him sprung From baser ancestry than theirs who can ? My mother, he whom nature at his birth Endow 'd with virtuous qualities, although An ^thiop and a slave, is nobly born. On Envy, Pity, says the Theban bard, From my wishes I discard Envy: let me rather be, Rather far a theme for thee. Pity to distress is shown ; Envy to the great alone. APPENDIX. 185 So the Theban — But to shine Less conspicuous be mine I I prefer the golden mean Pomp and penury between. For alarm and peril wait Ever on the loftiest state, And the lowest, to the end, Obloquy and scorn attend. By Philemon. Oft we enhance our ills by discontent, And give them bulk beyond what nature meant. A parent, brother, friend deceas'd, to cry, " He's dead indeed, but he was born to die ;" Such temperate grief is suited to the size And burthen of the loss, is just and wise. But to exclaim, " Ah ! wherefore was I born, " Thus to be left, for ever thus foi'lorn ?" Who thus laments his loss, invites distress. And magnifies a woe that might be less. Through dull despondence to his lot i-esigned, And leaving reason's remedy behind. By MoscHUS. I slept, when Venus enter'd : To my bed A Cupid in her beauteous hand she led, A bashful-seeming boy, and thus she said: " Shepherd receive my little one : I bring " An untaught love, whom thou must teach to sing." She said, and left him. I suspecting nought. Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught, How reed to reed Pan first with ozier bound. How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound. How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire Of Phcebus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre. Such were my themes : my themes nought heeded he, But ditties sang of am'rous sort to me. The pangs that mortals and immortals prove From Venus' influence and the darts of love. Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught ; His lessons I retain'd, and mine foi'got. VOL. II. B b APPENDIX. (No. 3.) TRANSLATIONS from HORACE and VIRGIL. THE FIFTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. (Printed in Duncombe's Horace.) A humorous Description of the Author's Journey from Rome to Brundusium, 1 WAS a long journey lay before us, When I, and honest Heliodorus, Who far in point of rhetoric Surpasses ev'ry living Greek, Each leaving our respective home, Together sally 'd forth from Rome. First at Aricia we alight. And there refresh, and pass the night, Our entertainment rather coarse Than sumptuous, but I've met with worse; Thence o'er the causeway, soft and fair, To Apiiforum we repair. But as this road is well supply'd (Temptation strong) on either side With inns commodious, snug and warm, We split the journey, and perform In two days time, what's often done By brisker travellers in one. Here, rather choosing not to sup Than with bad water mix my cup, APPENDIX. Mr After a warm debate, in spite Of a provoking appetite, I sturdily resolv'd at last To balk it, and pronounce a fast, And in a moody humour wait. While my less dainty comrades bait. Now o'er the spangled hemisphere DifFus'd, the starry train appear, When there arose a desp'rate brawl, The slaves and bargemen, one and all, Rending their thi'oats, (have mercy on us I) As if they wei'e resolv'd to stun us ; " Steer the barge this way to the shore ! " I tell you, we'll admit no more ! " Plague ! will you never be content?" Thus a whole hour at least is spent, While they receive the sev'ral fares, And kick the mule into his gears. Happy, these difficulties past. Could we have fall'n asleep at last! But, what with humming, croaking, biting, Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting, These tuneful natives of the lake Conspir'd so keep us broad awake. Besides, to make the concert full. Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull, The bargeman, and a passenger. Each in his turn essay'd an air In honour of his absent fair. At length, the passenger, opprest With wine, left off, and snor'd the rest. The weary bargeman too gave o'er, And hearing his companion snore, Seiz'd the occasion, fix'd the barge, Turn'd out his mule to graze at large, And slept, forgetful of his charge. And now the sun o'er eastern hill Discover'd that our barge stood still ; WTien one, whose anger vcx'd him sore, With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore, Plucks up a stake, with many a thwack Assails the mule and driver's back. m APPENDIX. Then slowly moving on with pain, At ten Fei'onia's stream we gain, And in her pm-e and glassy wave Our hands and faces gladly lave. Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's height We reach, with stony quarries white. While here, as was agreed, we wait 'Till, charg'd with bus'ness of the state, Maecenas and Cocceius come. The messengers of peace from Rome. My eyes, by wat'ry humours blear And sore, I with black balsam smear. At length they join us, and with them Our worthy friend, Fonteius came, A man of such complete desert, Antony lov'd him at his heart. At Fundi we refus'd to bait. And laugh 'd at vain Aufidius' state. A praetor now, a scribe before. The purple-border'd robe he wore, His slave the smoking censer bore, Fir'd at Mursena's we repose, At Formia sup at Capito's. With smiles the rising morn we greet, At Sinnuessa pleas'd to meet With Plotius, Varius, and the bard Whom Mantua first Avith wonder heard. The world no purer spirits knows. For none my heart more warmly glows. Oh! what embraces we bestow 'd. And with what joy our breasts o'ei'flow'd! Sure, while my sense is sound and clear, liong as I live, I shall prefer A gay, good-natur'd, easy friend, To ev'ry blessing Heav'n can send. At a small village the next night Near the Vulturnus we alight ; Where, as employ'd on state affairs. We were supply'd by the purvey'rs. Frankly at once, and without hire, With food for man and horse, and fire. Capua next day betimes we reach, Wlicre Virgil and myself, who each APPENDIX. 18* Lal)om''d with different maladies, His such a stomach, mine such eyes, As would not bear strong exercise, In drowsy mood to sleep resort ; Mxcenas to the tennis-court. Next at Cocceius' farm we're treated, Above the Caudian tavern seated. His kind and hospitable board W'ith choice of wholesome food was stor'd. Now, O ye Nine, inspire my lays ! To nobler themes my fancy raise ! Two combatants, who scorn to yield The noisy tongue-disputed field, Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claim A poet's tribute to their fame ; Cicirrus of true Oscian breed, Sarmentus, who was never freed, But ran away. We don't defame him. His lady lives, and still may claim him. Thus dignify'd, in hardy fray These champions their keen wit display, And first Sarmentus led the way. " Thy locks," quotli he, " so rough and coarse, " Look like the mane of some wild horse." We laugh. Cicirrus undismay'd — " Have at you !" — cries, and shakes his head. " 'Tis well," Sarmentus says, " you've lost " That horn your forehead once could boast ; " Since, maim'd and mangled as you are, " You seem to l^utt." A hideous scar Improv'd, 'tis true, with double grace, The native horrors of his face. Well, after much jocosely said Of his grim front, so fi'ry red, (For carbuncles had blotch'd it o'er. As usual on Campania's shore) " Give us," he cry'd, " since you're so big, " A sample of the Cyclops' jig. " Your shanks mcthinks no buskins ask, <' Nor does yom- phiz require a mask." To this Cicirrus — " In return, " Of you, Sir, now I fain would learn, I9p APPENDIX. " When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave, " Your chains you to the Lares gave : " For though a scriv'ner's right you claim, " Your lady's title is the same. " But what could make you run away, *' Since, pygmy as you are, each day " A single pound of bread would quite " O'erpow'r your pufty appetite?" Thus jok'd the champions, while we laugh 'd> And many a cheerful bumper quaff'd, To-Beneventum next we steer; Where our good host, by over-care In roasting thinishes lean as mice, Had almost fall'n a sacrifice. The kitchen soon was all on fire, And to the roof the flames aspire. There might you see each man and master Striving amidst this sad disaster To save the supper. Then they came With speed enough to quench the flame. From hence we first at distance see Th' Apulian hiUs, well known to me, Parch'd by the sultry western blast; And which we never should have past. Had not Trivicus by the way Receiv'd us at the close of day. But each was forc'd at ent'ring here To pay the tribute of a tear ; For more of smoke than fire was seen — The hearth was pil'd with logs so green. From hence in chaises we were carry'd Miles twenty-four, and gladly tarry'd At a sma.]] town, whose name my verse (So bai'b'rcus is it) can't rehearse. Know it you may, by many a sign. Water is dearer far than wine ; Their bread is deem'd such dainty fare. That ev'ry pn-deiit traveller His v/allet loads with many a crust, For at Canueium you might just As well attempt to gnaw a stone As Uiiiik to sret a morsel down. APPENDIX. 191 That too -with scanty streams is fed, Its founder was brave Diomed. Good Varius, (ah, that friends must part!) Here left us all with aching heart. At Rubi we arriv'd that day. Well jaded by the length of way, And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter. Next day no weather could be better. No roads so bad ; we scarce could crawl Along to fishy Barium'" wall. Th' Egnatians next, who, by the rules Of common sense, are knaves or fools, Made all our sides with laughter heave, Since we with them must needs believe, That incense in their temples burns, And without fire to ashes turns. To circumcision's bigots tell Such tales I For me, I know full well, That in high heav'n, unmov'd by care, The gods eternal quiet share: Nor can I deem their spleen the cause. Why fickle Nature breaks her laws. Brundusium last we reach : and there Stop short the Muse and traveller. THE NINTH SATIRE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE, The Descrijition of an Imfierdnent, Adapic-J to the present I'imcs, 1759. SaUNT'RING along the street one day. On trifles musing by the way — Up steps a free familiar wight, (I scarcely knew the man by sight.) " Carlos," he cry'd, " your hand, my dear ! " Gad, I rejoice to meet you here ! m APPENDIX. " Pray heav'n I see you well !" — " So, so : " E'en well enough, as times now go. " The same good wishes, Sir, to you." Finding he still pursu'd me close — " Sir, you have bus'ness I suppose." " My bus'ness. Sir, is quickly done. " 'Tis but to make my merit known. " Sir, I have read" — " O learned Sir, " You and your learning I revere." Then, sweating with anxiety. And sadly longing to get free, Gods, how I scamper'd, scuffled for't, Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short, Beckon'd my boy, and puU'd him near, And whisper'd nothing in his ear. Teaz'd with his loose unjointed chat — " What street is this ? What house isthat?"— . O Harlow, how I envy'd thee Thy imabash'd effrontery. Who dar'st a foe with freedom blame, And call a coxcomb by his name ! When I return 'd him answer none. Obligingly the fool ran on : " I see you're dismally distrest, " Would give the world to be releas'd. " But by your leave, Sir, I shall still " Stick to your shirts, do what you will. " Pray, which way does your journey tend?" " Oh 'tis a tedious way, my friend, " Across the Thames, the Lord knows where. " I would not trouble you so far." " Well, I'm at leisure to attend you." " Are you?" thought I, " the de'il befriend you." No ass, with double panniers rack'd, Oppress'd, o'erladen, broken-back'd, E'er look'd a thousandth part so dull As I, nor half so like a fool. " Sir, I know little of myself, (Proceeds the pei-t conceited elf) " If Gray or Mason you will deem " Than me more wortliy your esteem. " Poems I write by folios, " As fast as other men write prose. APPENDIX. 193 " Then I can sing so loud, so clear, " That bard cannot with me compare. " In dancing too I all surpass, " Not Cooke can move with such a grace," Here I made shift, with much ado, To interpose a word or two. " Have you no parents, Sir, no friends, " Whose welfare on your own depends?" — " Parents, relations, say you ? No, " They're all dispos'd of long ago — " Happy to be no more pei-plex'd. " My fate too threatens, I go next. " Dispatch me, Sir, 'tis now too late^ " Alas 1 to struggle with my fate ! " Well, I'm convinc'd my time is come — " When young, a gypsy told my doom. " The beldame shook her palsy'd head, " As she perus'd my palm, and said : " Of poison, pestilence, or war, " Gout, stone, defluction, or catarrh, " You have no reason to beware. " Beware the coxcomb's idle prate ; " Chiefly, my son, beware of that. " Be sure, when you behold him, fly " Out of all ear-shot, or you die." To Rufus' Hall we now drew near, Where he was summon'd to appear, Refute the charge the plaintiff brought, Or suffer judgment by default. " For Heaven's sake, if you love me, wait " One moment ! I'll be with you straight." Glad of a plausible pretence — " Sir, I must beg you to dispense " With my attendance in the court, " My legs will surely suffer for't." — " Nay, prythee, Carlos, stop awhile I" " Faith, Sir, in law I have no skill; " Besides, I have no time to spare. " I must Ije going, you know where." " \\^ell, I protest, I'm doubtful now, *' Whether to leave my suit or you." " Me without scruple ! (I reply) " Me by all means, Sir,"—" No, not L VOL. II. c c 194. APPENDIX. ^'' Allons^ Monsieur!" 'Twere vain, you know, To strive with a victorious foe ; So I reluctantly obey, And follow, where he leads the way. " You, and Newcastle, are so close, " Still hand and glove, Sir, I suppose.— " Newcastle (let me tell you, Sir) " Has not his equal every where." — " Well ; there, indeed, your fortune's made. " Faith, Sir, you understand your trade. " Would you but give me your good woi'd, " Just introduce me to my Lord, " I should serve charmingly by way " Of second fiddle, as they say: " What think you. Sir ? 'twere a good jest, " 'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest." — . " Sir, you mistake the matter far, " We have no second fiddles there."— " Richer than I some folks may be, " Moi'e learned. But it hurts not me. " Friends though he has of difF'rent kind, " Each has his proper place assign'd." " Strange matters these alledg'd by you I" — " Strange they may be. But they are true,'' " Well, then, I vow 'tis mighty clever ; " Now, I long ten times more than ever " To be advanc'd extremely near " One of his shining character. " Have but the will ; there wants no more, " 'Tis plain enough you have the pow'r. " His easy temper (that's the worst) '' He knows, and is so shy at first. " But such a cavalier as you — " Lord, Sir, you'll quickly bring him too { " Well ; if I fail in my design, " Sir, it shall be no fault of mine. " If by the saucy servile tribe " Deny'd, what think you of a bribe ? " Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow, " But try my luck again to-morrow. " Never attempt to visit him " But at the most convenient time ; APPENDIX. 1^5 *' Attend him on each levee-day, " And there my humble duty pay. *' Labour like this our want supplies, *♦ And they must stoop who mean to rise." While thus he wittingly harangu'd, For which you'll guess I wish him hang'd, Campley, a friend of mine, came by, Who knew his humour more than I. We stop, salute, and — " Why so fast, " Friend Carlos?— Whither all this haste ?"- Fir'd at the thoughts of a reprieve, I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve, Kod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout, Do ev'ry thing but speak plain out ; Wliile he, sad dog, from the beginning Determin'd to mistake my meaning, Instead of pitying my curse. By jeering made it ten times worse. *' Campley, what secret, pray, was that " You wanted to communicate?" " I recollect. But 'tis no matter, " Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter. " E*en let the secret rest. 'Twill tell " Another time. Sir, just as well." Was ever such a dismal day ! tJnlucky cur, he steals away. And leaves me, half bereft of life, At mercy of the butcher's knife : Wlien sudden, shouting from afar, See his antagonist appear ! The bailiff seiz'd him quick as thought. " Ho, Mr. Scoundrel ! are you caught ? *' Sir, you are witness to th' aiTest." " Aye marry. Sir, I'll do my best." The mob huzzas. Away they trudge, Culprit and all, before the judge. Meanwhile I luckily enough. Thanks to Apollo, got clear off. 196 APPENDIX. THE SALLAD. By VIRGIL. This singular fioem^ which the learned and judicious Heyne seems inclined to think a translation of Virgil's, from the Greek of Parthenius, loas translated into English, by Convfier, during his depressive 7nalady, June, 1^99 ; and to those ivho are used to philosophize on the powers of the human mind under afflic- tion, it will appear a highly interesting curiosity. Ifitid, in the second-volume of the St. James's Magazine, published in 1763, by Lloyd, the early friend of Cowper, another version of this poem in rhyme — it has only the initials of the author prefixed — R. T. 1 HE winter-night now well-nigh worn away, The wakefiil cock proclaim 'd approaching day, When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm, Yawn'd, stretch 'd his limbs, and anxious to provide Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied. By slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook. And, poking in the dark, explor'd the nook Where embers slept with ashes heap'd around. And with burnt fingers-ends the treasure found. It chanc'd that from a brand beneath his nose, Sui'e proof of latent fire, some smoke arose ; When trimming with a pin th' incrusted tow, And stooping it toward the coals below, He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite The ling'ring flame, and gains at length a light. With prudent heed he spreads liis hand before The quiv'ring lamp, and opes his gran'ry door. Small was his stock, but taking for the day A measur'd stint of twice eight pounds away. With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand, Fixt in the wall, affords his lamp a stand: Then baring both his arms — a sleeveless coat fie girds, the rough exuvix of a goat ; APPENDIX. 19? And with a rubber, for that use design 'd, Cleansing his mill within, begins to grind ; Each hand has its employ; lab'ring amain, This turns the wince, while that supplies the grain. The stone revolving rapidly, now glows, And the biuis'd corn, a mealy current flows; While he, to make his heavy labour light. Tasks oft his left-hand to relieve his right ; And chaunts with rudest accent, to beguile His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while. And now, dame Cybale, come forth ! he cries; But Cybale, still slumb'ring, nought replies. From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid, Whose face and form alike her birth betra,y'd. With Avooliy locks, lips tumid, sable skin. Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly tliin. Legs slender, broad and most mishapen feet, Chapp'd into chinks, and parch'd with solar heat. Such, summon'd oft, she came ; at his command Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd, And made, in haste, her simm'ring skillet steam, Replenish'd newly from the neighbouring stream. The labours of the mill perform 'd, a sieve The mingled flour and bran must next receive. Which shaken oft, shoots Ceres through refin'd And better dress'd, her husks all left behind. This done, at once, his future plain repast, Unleaven'd, on a shaven board he cast, With tepid lymph first largely soak'd it all. Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball, And spreading it again with both hands wide, With sprinkled salt tlie stiffen 'd mass supplied ; At length the stubborn substance, duly wrought. Takes from his palms, impress'd, the shape it ouglit, Becomes an orb — and, quarter'd into shares. The faithful mark of just division bears. Last, on liis hearth it finds convenient space. For Cyl:)ale Ijcfore had swept the place. And there, witli tiles and cmljcrs overspread, She leaves it, reeking in its sultry bed. 198 APPENDIX. Nor Simulus, while Vulcan thus alone His part perform 'd, proves heedless of his o-\vn ; > But sedulous not merely to subdue His hunger, but to please his palate too, Prepares more sav'ry food. His chimney-side Could boast no gammon, salted well, and dried, And hook'd behind him ; but sufficient store Of bundled annis, and a cheese it bore — A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strung With a tough broom-twig, in the corner hung ; The prudent hero, therefore, with address And quick dispatch, now seeks another mess. Close to his cottage lay a garden-ground, With reeds and osiers sparely girt around ; Small was the spot, but lib'ral to produce, Nor wanted aught that serves a peasant's use ; And sometimes e'en the rich would borrow thence, Although its tillage was his sole expense. For oft, as from his toils abroad he ceas'd. Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast, His debt of culture here he duly paid. And only left the plough to wield the spade. He knew to give each plant the soil it needs, To drill the ground, and cover close the seeds; And could with ease compel the wanton rill To turn, and wind, obedient to his will. There flourish'd star-wort, and the branching beet, The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet. The skirret, and the leak's aspiring kind, The noxious poppy— quencher of the mind I Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board, The lettuce, and the long huge bellied gourd ; But these (for none his appetite controul'd With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold; With broom-twigs neatly bound, each kind apart, He bore them ever to the public mart ; WTience, laden still, but with a lighter load Of cash well-earn'd, he took his homeward road, Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome, His gains, in flesh-meat for a feast at home* There, at no cost, on onions rank and red, Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed: APPENDIX. 199 On scallions sHc'd, or, with a sensual gust, On rockets — foul provocatives of lust ! Nor even shunn'd, Avith smarting gums, to press Nasturtium — pungent, face-distorting niess I Some such regale now also in his thought. With hasty steps his garden-ground he souglit : There delving with his hands, he first displac'd Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast; The tender tops of parsley next he culls, Then the old rue-bush shudders as he pulls, And coriander last to these succeeds. That hangs on slightest threads her trembling seeds, Plac'd near his sprightly fire, he now demands The mortar at his sable servant's hands ; When, stripping all his gariick first, he tore Th' exterior coats, and cast them on the floor, Then cast away, with like contempt, the skin. Flimsier concealment of the cloves within. These search'd, and perfect found, he one by one Rinc'd, and dispos'd within the hollow stone. Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese. With his injected herbs he cover'd these, And tucking with his left his tunic tight, And seizing fast the pestle with his right, The garlick bruising first he soon express'd, And mix'd the various juices of the rest. He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below, Lost in each other, their own pow'rs forego, And with the cheese in compound, to the sight Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white. His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent, He curs'd full oft his dinner for its scent. Or with wry faces, wiping, as he spoke. The trickling tears, cried, " Vengeance on the smoke I" The work proceeds : not roughly turns he now The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow. With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills, Some drops of olive-oil he next instills ; Then vinegar, with caution scarcely less ; And gatli'ring to a ball the medley-mess, J-,ait, with two fingers frugally applied, iSweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side, 200 APPENDIX. And thus complete in figure and in kind, Obtains at length the sallad he design'd. And now black Cybale before him stands, The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands ; He glad receives it, chasing far away All fears of famine, for the passing day : His legs enclos'd in buskins, and his head In its tough casque of leather, forth he led And yok'd his steers, a dull obedient pair, Then drove a-field, and plung'd the pointed share. APPENDIX. (No. 4.) Translations froni various Latin Poems of Vincent Bournti and a few Epigrams of Oxven. The Thracian. 1 HRACIAN parents, at his birth, Mourn their babe with many a tear, But with undissembled mirth, Place him breathless on his bier. Greece and Rome, with equal scornj " Oh the savages !" exclaim, Whether they rejoice or moui'n, Well-entitled to the name ! But the cause of this concern And this pleasure, would tliey trace. Even they might somewhat learn From the savages of Thrace. THRAX. ThreiciiUTi infantem, cum hicem intravit et auras, Fletibus excepit nijestus uterque parens. Threicium infantem, cum luce exivit et auri» Extulit ad funus Ixtus uterque parens. Interea tu Roma ; et tu tibi Grjecia plaudens, Dicitis, hxc vera est Thraica barbarics. Lsetitia: causa/n, causamque exquirite luctus; Vosque est quod doceat Thraica barbaries. VOL. II. 9«l 202 APPENDIX. Reciprocal Kindneaa, the primary Laiv of Nature, Androcles, from his injur'd Lord, in dread Of instant death, to Lybia's desert fled ; Tir'd with his toilsome flight, and parch 'd with heatj He spied, at length, a cavern's cool retreat. But scarce had given to rest his weary frame, When, hugest of its kind, a lion came : He roar'd approaching ; but the savage din To plaintive murmurs chang'd, arriv'd within, And with expressive looks his lifted paw Presenting, aid implor'd from whom he saw. The fugitive, through terror at a stand, Dar'd not awhile affbi-d his trembling hand, But bolder grown at length, inherent found A pointed thoi-n, and drew it from the woimd. The cure was wrought ; he wip'd the sanious flood, And firm and free from pain the lion stood. Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day Regales his inmate with the parted prey. Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepar'd, Spread on the gi-ound, and with a lion shar'd. But thus to live — still lost, sequester'd still — Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge an heavier ill. JMutua Eenevolentia primaria Lex Naturx est. Per Libyse Androcles siccas errabat arenas, Qui vagus iratum fugerat exul herum. Lassato tandem fractoque labore viarum, Ad scopuli patuit cceca caveina latus. Hanc subit ; et placids dederat vix membra sopori Cum subito immanis rugat ad antra leo: lUe pedem attollens Issum, et miserabile murmur Edens, qua poterat voce, precatur opem. Perculsus novitate rei, incertusque timore, Vix tandem tremulas admovet erro manus : Et spinam explorans (nam fixa in vulnere spina Hccrebat) cauto moUiter ungue trahit : Condnuo dolor omnis abit, teter fluit humor; Et coit, absterso sanguine, rupta cutis: Nunc iterum sylvas dumosque peragrat ; et affert Providus assiduas hospes ad antra dapcs. APPENDIX. 203 Home, native home ! — Oh might he but repaii' !— . He must, he will, though death attends him there. He goes, and doom'd to perish on the sands Of the full theatre unpitied stands ! When, lo ! the self-same lion from his cage Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage. He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey The man, his healer, pauses on his way, And, soften'd by remembrance into sweet And kind composure, crouches at his feet. Mute with astonishment th' assembly gaze ; But why, ye Romans ? Whence your mute amaze ? All this is nat'ral — Nature bade him rend An enemy ; she bids him spare a friend. A Manual more ancient than the Art of Printings and not to be found in any Catalogue, Thei-e is a book, which we may call (Its excellence is such) Alone a library, though small ; The ladies thumb it much. Juxta epulis accumbit homo conviva leonis, Nee crudos dubitat participare cibos. Qiiis tamen ista ferat desert?e taedia v'lix. I Vix furor ultoris tristior asset heri Devotum certis caput objectare periclis Et patrios statuit rursus adire lares. Traditur hie, feri facturus speotacula plebi, Accipit et miserum tristis arena reum. Irruit e caveis fors idem impastus et acer, Et medicum attonito suspicit ore leo. Suspicit, et veterem agnoscens vetus hospes amicum Decumbit notos blandulus ante pedes. Quid vero perculsi aniniis, stupuere quirltes? Ecquid prodigii, territa Roma, vides? Unius naturK opus est ; ea sola furorem Sumere (]use jussit, ponere sola jubet. Manuale Typographia mnni antiquius mdli unpiam Libronmi insertum Catalogo. Exigu'.is liber est, muliebri creber in usu. Per se (jui dici bibliotbcca potest. r 204 APPENDIX* T^^ords none,- things num'rous it contains J And, things with words compar'd, Wlio needs be told, that has his brains, ^Vhich merits most regard ? Oflimes its leaves of scarlet hue A goiden edging boast; And open'd, it cisplays to view if Twelve pages at the most. Nor name nor title, stamp'd behind Adorns its outer part ; But all within 'tis richly iin'd, A mi'.gaziiie of art. The whitest hands that secret hoard Ofl visit ; and the fair Preserve it in their bosoms stor'd, As with a miser's care. Thtnce implements cf ev'ry size, And foriTi'd for various use, (They need but to consult their eyes) They readily produce. The largest and the longest kind Possess the foremost page, A sort most needed by the blind, Or nearly such from age. Copla verborum non est, sed copla rerum ; Co]>ia (quod nemo deneget) utilior. Rvibris consuitur pannis ; fors texitur auro ; Bis sexta ad surnmum pagina claiidit opus. Nil habet a tergo titulive aut nominis ; intus Thesauros artis servat, et intus opes : Intus opes, qux nympha sinu pulcherrima gestet, Qiias nive candidior tractet ametque nanus. Quando msti'uiTientum prjesens sibi postulat usus, Majusve, aui operis.pro ratione, minus. Et gentre ct modulo diversa habet arma, gradatim Digesta, ad , miraeros aitenuata sues. APPENDIX. 305 The fuU-charg'd leaf, which next ensues, Presents in bright array The smaller sort, which matrons use, Not quite so blind as they. The third, the fourth, the fifth supply What their occasions ask, Who with a more discerning eye Perform a nicer task. But still with regular decrease, From size to size they fall. In ev'ry leaf grow less and less j The last are least of all. Oh ! what a fund of genius, pent In narrow space, is here ? This volume's method and intent, How luminous and clear ! It leaves no reader at a loss Or pos'd, whoever reads; No commentator's tedious gloss, Nor even index needs. Search Bodley's many thousands o'er ! No book is treasur'd there. Nor yet in Granta's num'rous store, That may with this compare. Primum enchiridii folium majuscula profert, Qualia qua: bloeso est lumine poscat anus Qiiod sequitur folium, matronis arma ministrat, Dicere quje magnis proximiora licet. Tertium, item quartum, quintumque minuscula supplet, Sed non ejusdem singula quoeque loci. Disposita ordinibus certis, discrimina servant; Qux sibi conveniant, seligat unde nurus. Ultima quae restant quae multa minutula nympha Dicit, sunt sexti divitae folii. Qiiantillo in spatio doctrina O ! quanta latescit ! Qiiam tamen obscuram vix brevitate voces. Non est interpres, non est commentaiius ulhia, Aut index ; tarn sunt omr.iu i)erbpicua. 206 APPENDIX, No ! — Rival none in either host Of this was ever seen, Or that contents could justly boast So brilliant and so keen. An Mnigma* A needle small, as small can be, In bulk and use surpasses me, Nor is my purchase dear; For little, and almost for nought, As many of my kind are bought As days are in the year. Yet though but little use we boast, And are procured at little cost, The labour is not light. Nor few artificers it asks. All skilful in their sev'ral tasks, To fashion us aright. One fuses metal o'er the fire, A second draws it into wire, The shears another plies, Who clips in lengths the brazen thread For him, who, chafing every shred, Gives all an equal size. ^tatem ad quamvis, ad captum ita fingitur omnem, Ut nihil auxilii postiilet inde liber. Millia libronim numerat perplura; nee ullum Bodlaei huic jactat bibliotheca parem. Millia Csesareo numerat quoque munere Granta, Hsec tamen est inter millia tak nihil. Non est, non istis author dc millibus unu», Cui tanta ingenii vis, vel acumen inest. ^ENIGMA. Parvula res, et acu minor est, et ineptior usu : Qiiotque dies annus, tot tibi drachma dabit. Sed licet exigui pretii minimique valoris, Ecce, quot artificum postulat ilia manus! Unius in primis cura est conilare metallum i In longa alterius ducere fila labor. APPENDIX. 207 A fifth prepares, exact and round, Tlie knob, with which it must be crown'd ; His foUow'r makes it fast ; And with his mallet and his file To shape the point, employs a while The seventh, and the last. Now, therefore, CEdipus! declare What creature, wonderful, and rare, A process, that obtains Its purpose with so much ado. At last produces J — Tell me true, And take me for your pains ! S/iarrows self-domesticated in Trinity College^ Cambridge, None ever shar'd the social feast, Or as an inmate, or a guest, Beneath the celebrated dome Where once Sir Isaac had his home. Who saw not, (and with some delight Perhaps he view'd the novel sight) How num'rous, at the tables there, The sparrows beg their daily fare. For there, in e\'ery nook and cell. Where such a family may dwell, Tertius in partes resecat, quartusque resecturn Perpolit ad modulos attenuatque datos. Est quintitornare caput, quod sextus adaptet ; Septimus in punctum cudit et exacuit. His tandem auxiliis ita res procedit, ut omnes Ad numeros ingens perficiatur opus. Quse tanti ingenii quae tanti est summa laboris ? Si mihi respondes Gidipe, tota tua est. Passeres indigent Col. Trin. Cant. Cmmnensales. Incola qui norit sedes, aut viserit hospes, Newtoni egregii quas celebravit honos; Vidltque et mcminit, loetus fortasse videndo. Q_uam multa ad mensas advolitarit avis. lUe nee ignorat, nidos ut, vere Ineunte, Tecta per et forulos et tabuiata struat. 308 APPENDIX. Sure as the vernal season comes Their nests they weave in hope of crUmbs, Which kindly given, may serve with food Convenient their unfeather'd brood ; And oft as with its summons clear The warning bell salutes their ear, Sagacious list'ners to the sound. They flock from all the fields around, To reach the hospitable hall. None more attentive to the call. Arriv'd, the pensionary band, Hopping and chirping, close at hand, Solicit what they soon receive, The sprinkled, plenteous donative. Thus is a multitude, though large, Supported at a trivial charge ; A single doit would overpay Th' expenditure of every day. And Avho can grudge so small a grace To suppliants, natives of the place ? Familiarity Dangerous. As in her ancient mistress' lap, The youthful tabby lay, They gave each other many a tap, Alike dispos'd to play. Ut coram educat teneros ad pabula foetus. " Et'pascat micis, quas det arnica manus. Convivas quoties campaiix ad prandia pulsus Convocat, baud epulis certlor hospes adest. Continuo jucusda simul vox fertuv ad aures, Vicinos passer quisque relinquit agros Hospitium ad notum properatur ; et ordine stantes Expectant panis fragmina quisque sua. IIos tamen, hos omnes, vix uno largior asse Sumptus per totam pascit alitque diem. Hunc unum, hunc modicum (nee quisquam inviderit assem) Indigent hospitii jure, merentur aves. Nulli te facias nimis wJalcui. Palpat heram felis, gremio recubans in anili ; Qiiam semel atque iterum Lydia palpat hem. APPENDIX. 209 But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm, And with protruded claws Ploughs all the length of Lydia's arm, Mere wantonness the cause. At once, resentful of the deed, She shakes her to the ground With many a threat, that she shall bleed With still a deeper wound. But Lydia, bid thy fury rest ! It was a venial stroke, For she that will with kittens jest Should bear a kitten's joke. Invitation to the Redbreast. Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains— And seldom another it can — To seek a retreat, while he reigns, In the well-shelter'd dwellings of man, Who never can'st seem to intrude. Though in all places equally free. Come, oft as the season is rude ! Thou art sure to be welcome to me. At sight of the first feeble ray That pierces the clouds of the east, To inveigle thee eveiy day My window shall show thee a feast. Ludum lis sequitur ; nam totos exerit ungues, Et longo lacerat vulnere felis anum. Continue cxardens grenjio muliercula felem Nee gravibus multis excutit absque minis. Quod tamen baud a;quum est — si vult cum fele jocari, Felinum debet Lydia ferre jocum. Ad Jxubeculatn Invitatio. Hospes avis, conviva domo gratissima cuivis, Quam bruma hunianam quserere cogit opem ; Hue OI hyberui fugias ut frigora coeli, Confuge, et incolumis sub lare viye meo! VOL. II. KC m APPENDIX. For, taught by experience, I know Thee mindful of benefit long; And that, thankful for all I bestow, Thou wilt pay me with many a song. Then, soon as the swell of the buds Bespeaks the renewal of spring, Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods, Or where it shall please thee to sing : And should'st thou, compell'd by a frost, Come again to my window or door, Doubt not an affectionate host ! Only pay, as thou payd'st me before. Thus music must needs be confest To flow from a fountain above, Else how should it work in the breast Unchangeable friendship and love? And who on the globe can be found, Save your generations and ours, That can be delighted by sound, Or boasts any musical pow'rs ? Unde tuam esuriem releves, alimenta fenestrae Apponam, quoties itque reditque dies. Usu etenim edidici, quod grato alimenta rependes Cantu, quae dederit cunque benigna manus. Vere novo tepids spirant cum molliter aurae, Et novus in quavis arbore vernat honos, Pro libitu ad lucos redeas, sylvasque revisas, Laeta quibus resonat musica, parque tuac, Sin iterum, sin forte iterum, incleinentia brumac Ad mea dilectam tecta reducet avem Esto, redux, grato memor esto rependere cantu Pabiila, qu£e dederit cunque benigna manus. Vis hinc harmoniae, numerorum hinc sacra potestas Conspicitur, nusquam conspicienda magis, Vincula quod stabilis firmissima nectit amoris, Vincula vix longa dissocianda die. Captat, et incantat blando oblectamiue musa Humanum pariter pennigerumque genus ; Nos homines et aves, quotcunque animantia vlvunt, Nos soli harmoniae geus studiosa sumus. APPENDIX. 211 Strada's JVightingaCe, The shepherd touch'd his reed ; sweet Philomel Essay'd, and oft essay'd to eatch the strain, And treasuring, as on her ear they fell. The numbers, echo'd note for note again. The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before A rival of his skill, indignant heard, And soon (for various was his tuneful store) In loftier tones defy'd the simple bird. She dar'd the task, and rising as he rose, With all the force that passion gives, inspir'd, Return 'd the sounds awhile, but in the close Exhausted fell, and at his feet expir'd. Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife 1 By the poor songstress playfully begun ; And O sad victory ! which cost thy life^r^ And he may wish that he had never won ! Ode on the Death of a Lady who lived one hundred Years, and died on her Birth-day in 1728. Ancient dame, how wide and vast, To a race like ours appears, Rounded to an orb at last. All thy multitude of years ! Stradx Philomela. Pastorem audivit calamis Philomela camentem, Et voluit tenues ipsa referre modos ; Il)sa retentavit numeros, didicitque retentans Argutum fida reddere voce melos. Pastor inassuetus rivalem ferre, misellam Grandius ad carmen provocat, urget avem. Tuque etiam in modulos siirgis Philomela; sed impar Viribus heu impar, examinisque cadis. Durum certamem ! tristia victoria! cantum Mahierit pastor non suj)crasse tiium. ANUS S/ECULARIS ^Lt justann centinn annoruvi tetatem, ipso die natali, cxplc\it, et dauslt anno 1728. Singiilaris prodiglum O senectie, Et novum exemplum diuturnitatis, Cujus anuorum series in amplum dcslnit ovbera! m APPENDIX. We, the herd of human kind, Frailer and of feebler pow'rs; We, to narrow bounds confin'd, Soon exhaust the sum of ours. Death's delicious banquet — we Perish even from the womb ; Swifter than a shadow flee. Nourish 'd, but to feed the tomb. Seeds of merciless disease Lurk in all that we enjoy; Some that waste us by degrees. Some that suddenly destroy. And if life o'erleap the bourn Common to the sons of men, What remains, but that we mourn, Dream, and doat, and drivel Uien ? Fast as moons can wax and wain Sorrow comes ; and while we groan, Pant with anguish, and complain, Half our years are fled and gone. Vulgus infelix hominum, dies en ! Computo quam dispare computamus ! Quam tun. a summa procul est remota summula nostra. Pabulum nos luxuriesque lethi, Nos, simul nati, inc.ipimus perire, Nos statim a cunis cita destinamur praeda sepulchro. Occulit mors insidias, ubi vix, Vix opinari est, rapidaeve febris Vim repentinam, aiit male pertinacis semina moibi. Sin brevem possit siiperare vita Terminum, quicqiiid superest, vacivum, lUud ignavis superest et imbe- cillibus annis. Detrahunt multum, minuuntqiie sorti JNIorbidi questus gemitusque anheli ; Ad parem crescunt numerum diesque atque dolorcai APPENDIX. 2U If a few, (to few 'tis giv'n) Ling'ring on tliis earthly stage, Creep, and halt with steps unev'n, To the period of an age :— Wherefore live they but to see Cunning, arrogance, and force? Sights, lamented much by thee. Holding their accustom'd course! Oft' was seen, in ages past, All that we with wonder view j Often shall be to the last; Earth produces nothing new. Thee we gratulate ; content, Should propitious Heav'n design Life for us, as calmly spent, Though but half the length of thine. The Cause won. Two neighbours furiously dispute j A field — the subject of the suit. Si quis hxc vitet (quotiis ille quisque est!) Et gradu pergendo laborioso Ad tuum, fortasse tuum, moretur reptilis oeviira ! At videt, mxstum tibi saepe visum, in- Jurias, vim, furta, dolos, et inso- Lentiam, quo semper eunt, eodem Nil inest rebus novitatis ; et quod Uspiam est nugarum et ineptiarum, Unius volvi videt, et revolvi Integram jetatam tibi gratulamur; Et dari nobis satis scstimamus. Si tuam, saltern vacuam querelis Victoria Forensis. Caio cum Titio lis et vexatio longa Sunt de vicini proprietate soli. ire tenore. civculus jEvi. dimidiemui. SW APPENDIX. Trivial the spot, yet such the rage With which the combatants engage, 'Twere hard to tell who covets most The prize — at whatsoever cost. The pleadings swell. Words still suffice* No single word but has its price. No term but yields some fair pretence, For novel and increas'd expense. Defendant thus becomes a name, Which he that bore it may disclaim; Since both, in one description blended. Are plaintiffs — when the suit is ended. The Silk- Worm, The beams of April, ere it goes, A worm, scarce visible, disclose; All winter long content to dwell The tenant of his native shell. The same prolific season gives, The sustenance by which he lives^ The mulb'ry-leaf, a simple store, That serves him — till he needs no more ! For, his dimensions once complete, Thenceforth none ever sees him eat ; Protinns ingentes animos in jurgia sumunt Utraque vincendi pars studiosa nirriis. -Lis tuniet in schedulas, et jam verbosior, et jamr Nee verbum quodvis asse minoris emunt. Pra:terunt menses, et terminus alter et alter ; Qiiisque novos sumptiis alter et alter, habent. lUe querens, hie respondens pendente voeatur Lite; sed ad finem litis, uterqvie querens. BOMBYX. Fine sub Aprilis Bombyx excluditur ovo, Reptilis exiguo corpore vermiculus. Frondibus hie mori, volvox dum fiat adultus, Gnaviter ineumbens, dum satietur, edit. Crescendo ad justum cum jam maturuit scvnm, Incipit artifici stamine textor opus : APPENDIX. ,. . . . .^ His Though, till his growing time be past, Scarce ever is he seen to fast. That hour arriv'd, his work begins; He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins, Till circle upon circle wound Careless around him and around, Conceals him with a veil, though slight, Impervious to the keenest sight. Thus self-enclos'd, as in a cask, At length he finishes his task; And, though a worm, when he was lost, Or caterpillar at the most, When next we see him, wings he wears, And in papilio-pomp appears ; Becomes oviparous ; supplies With future worms and future flies The next ensuing year; — and dies J The Innocent Thief. Not a flow'r can be found in the fields, Or the spot that we till for our pleasure, From the largest to least, but it yields The bee, never-weary 'd, a treasure. Scarce any she quits unexplor'd. With a diligence truly exact ; Yet, steal what she may for her hoard. Leaves evidence — none of the fact . Filaque condensans filis, orbem implicat orbi Et sensim in gyris conclitus ipse latet. Inque cadi teretem formam se coUigit, unde Egrediens pennas papilionis habet. Fitque parens tandem, factumque reponit in ovi« Hoc demum extremo munere functus obit. Quotquot in hac nostra spirant animalia terra, Nulli est vel brevior vita, vel utilior. Jnnocms Pradatrix. Sedula per campos nuUo defessa labore, In cella ut stipet mella vagatur apis: Purpurcumvix tlorem opifex praetervolat unum, Innumeras inter quas alit hortus opes; 216 APPENDIX. Her lucrative task she pursues, And pilfers with so much address, That none of their odour they lose, Nor charm by their beauty the less. Not thus inoffensively preys The canker-worm ; in-dwelling foe ! His voracity not thus allays The sparrow, the finch, or the crow. The worm, more expensively fed. The pride of the garden devours ; And birds pick the seed from the bed. Still less to be spar'd than the flow'rs. But she, with such delicate skill. Her pillage so fits for our use, That the chymist in vain with his still Would labour the like to produce. Then grudge not her temperate meals, Nor a benefit blame as a theft; Since, stole she not all that she steals, Neither honey, nor wax would be left. Herbula gramineis vix una innascltur agris, Thesauri unde aliquid non studiosa legit. A flore ad florem transit, moUique volando Delibat tactu suave quod intus habent. Omnia delibat, parce sed et omnia, furti Ut ne vel minimum videris indicium. Omnia degustat tarn parce, ut gratia nulla Floribus, ut nullus diminuatur odor. Non ita praedantur modice bruchique et erucacj Non ista hortorum maxima pestis aves : Non ita raptores corvi, quorum improba rostr:; Despoliant agros, effodiuntque sata. Succos immiscens succis, ita suaviter omnes Temperat, ut dederit chymia nulla pares. Vix furtum est illud, dicive injuria debet, (^lod cera, et multo melle rependit apis. APPENDIX. 217 Denner's Old- Woman, In this mimic form of a matron in years, How plainly the pencil of Denner appears ! The matron herself, in whose old age we see Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she ! No dimness of eye, and no cheek hanging low ! No wrinkle, or deep-furrow'd frown on tlie brow ! Her forehead, indeed, is here circled around With locks like the ribbon with which they are bound } WTiile glossy, and smooth, and as soft as the skin Of a delicate peach, is the down of her chin : But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe, Or that indicates life in its winter — is here J Yet all is exjiress'd, with fidelity due. Nor a pimple, or freckle, conceal'd from the view. Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste For the labours of art, to this spectacle haste : The youths all agree, that, could old age inspire The passion of love, her's would kindle the fire : And the matrons, with pleasure, confess that they see Ridiculous nothing, or hideous in thee. Denneri Amis* Doctiim anus artificem, juste celebrata fatetur, Denneri pijixic qiiani studiosa manus. Nee stupor est oculis, fronti iiec ruga sevei'a, Flaccida nee sulcis pendet utrinque gena. Nil habet illepidum, niorosum, aiit triste tabella; Argentum capitis prjeter, anile nihil. Apparent nivxi vittse sub margine cani, Fila colorati qualia Seres habent. Lanugo mentum, sed quae tenuissima, vcstit ; Mollisque, et quails Persica mala tcgit. Nulla vel e minimis fugiunt spiracula visum ; At neque lincoiis de cutis ulla latet. Spectatum veniunt, novitas quos allicit usquam, Quosque vel ingenii fama, vel artis amor. Adveniunt juvenes ; et anus si possit amari, - Dcnnere, agnoscunt hoc meniisse tuam. * Diu publico fuit spcctaculo, egisgia hacc tabula in area Palatina exteiiori, ju.xta fanum Westtnorasterier.se. VOL. II. F f il8 APPENDIX. The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a decline, Oh wonderful woman 1 as placid as thine. Strange magic of art ! which the youth can engage To peruse, half enamour 'd, the features of age ; And force fi-om the virgin a sigh of despair, Tliat she, when as old, shall be equally fair I How great is the glory that Denner has gain'd. Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtain'd I The Tears of a Fainter, Apelles, heai'ing that his boy Had just expir'd — ^his only joy I Although the sight with anguish tore him, Bade place his dear remains before him. He seiz'd his brush, his colours spread; And — " Ohl my child, accept" — he said, " ('Tis all that I can now bestow,) *' This tribute of a father's woe I" Then, faithful to the two-fold part, Both of his feelings and his aii:. He clos'd his eyes, with tender care, And form'd at once a fellow pair. His brow, with amber locks beset, And lips he drew, not livid yet ; And shaded all that he had done, To a just image of his son. Adveniimt hilares nymphae ; similemque scHectam Tarn pulchram et placidam dent sibi fata, rogant Matronae adveniunt, vetulaeque fatentur in ore Qiiod nihil horrendum, ridiculumve vident. Quantus honos arti, per quam placet ipsa senectus; Qir-e Cornua vel leviter tangas, se protinus in se Cclligit, in proprios contrahiturque lares. Secum habitat quacuuque habitat ; sibi tota supellex ; Sols, quas adamat, quasque reqiiirit opes. Secum potat, edit, dormit; sibi in oedibus isdem Conviva et comes est, hospes et hospitium. Limacem, quacumque siet, quacumque morctur, (Si quis eum quoerat) dixeris esse domi. APPENDIX. EPIGRAMS TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN. On one Ignorant and Arrogant, Thou may'st of double ign'rance boast, Wlio kiiow'st not that thou nothing know'st. In ignorantem arrogantem Linum, Cafitivum^ Line, te tenet ignorantia duplex. Sets nihil, et nescis te quoque scire nihil. Prudent Simjilicity. That thou may'st injure no man, dove-like be, And serpent-like, that none may injure thee ! Prudens Simplicitas, Ut nulli nocuisse velis, imitare columbam : Scrfientem, ut possit nemo nocere tibi. To a Friend in Distress, ■"^ ^ I wish thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend, For when at worst, they say, things always end! Ad Amicum Pauper em. Est male nunc ? Utinam in pejus sors omnia vertat, Succedunt sumniis optima sape mails. When little more than boy in age, I deem'd myself almost a sage ; But now seem worthier to be stil'd, For ignorance — almost a child. Omnia me dum junior essetn, scire putabam, Quo scio plus, hoc me nunc scio scire minus* APPENDIX. 223 Retaliation. The works of ancient Bards divine, Aulus, thou scorn 'st to read; And should posterity read thine, It would be strange indeed ! Lex Talionis, Majorum nunguam, jlule, legia monumenta tiiorum: Mirum est, posteritas si tua acrifita legat» Sunset and Sunrise. Contemplate, when the sun declines. Thy death, with deep reflection ; And when again he rising shines, Thy day of resurrection. De Ortu et Occasu. Sole orient e^ tui reditus a morte memento i Sis memor Occasus) sole cadente^ tui } ' APPENDIX. (No. 5.) MONTES GLACIALESy In oceano Gennanico natantes. ilN, qux prodigia, ex oris allata remotis, Oras adveniunt pavefacta per squora nostras ! Non equidem priscse sxclum rediisse videtur Pyrrlije, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montes Et sylvas, egit. Sed tempora vix leviora Adsunt, evulsi quando radicitus, alti In mare descendunt montes, fluctusque pererrant Quid vero hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visu? Splendentes -video, ceu pulchro ex ?bre vel auro Conflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique gemmis, Bacca cjerulea, et flammas imitante pyropo. Ex oricnte adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellus Parturit omnigenas, quibus xva per omnia sumptii Ingenti finxere sibi diademata reges ? Vix hoc crediderim. Non fallunt talia acutos Mercatorum oculos : prius et quam Httora Gangis Liquissent, avidis gratissima prxda fuissent. Ortos unde putemiis ? An illos Vesvius atrox Protulit, ignivomisve ejecit faucibus ^Etna ? Luce micant propria, Phxbive, per aera purum Nunc stimulantis equos, argentea tela retorquent ? Phjebi luce micant. Ventis et fiuctibus altis Appulsi, et rapidis subter currentibus undis. Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre est Multa onerata nive, et canis conspersa pruinis. Cxtera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma fere omnes Contristat menses, portenta hxc horrida nobis Ilia sti'ui voluit. Quoties de culmine summo Clivorum fluerent in littora prona soluts Sole, nives, propei'o tender.tes in mare cursu, IlJa gelu fixit. Paulatim attoUere sese Mirum cxpit opus ; glacieque ah origine rcrum In glaciem aggesta, sublimes vertice tandem APPENDIX. 225 iEquavit monies, non crescere nescia moles. Sic immensa diu stetit, xtcrnumque stetisset Congeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte, Littora ni tandem declinia deseruisset, Pondera victa suo Dilabitur. Omnia circum Antra et saxu gemunt, subito concussa fragore, Dum ruit in pelagum, tanquam studiosa natandi, Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim Insula in /Egaco fluitasse erratica ponto. Sed non ex glacie Delos : neque torpida Delum Bruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque. Sed vestita herbis erat ilia, ornataque nunquam Decidua lauro ; et Delum dilexit Apollo. At vos, errones horrendi et caligini digni, Cimmeria Deus idem odit. Natalia vestra, Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueri Sustinuit. Patrium vos ergo requirite C3elum I Ite ! Redite ! Timete moras ; ni, leniter austi-o Spirante, et nitidas Phcebo jaculante sagittas Hostili vobis, pereatis gurgite misti ! ON THE ICE ISLANDS. Seenjloating in the German Ocean. What portents, from what di.tant region, ride, Unseen, till now, in ours, th' astonis'd tide? In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the groves. But now, descending whence of late they stood, Themselves the mountains, seem to rove the flood. Dire times were they, full-charg'd with human woes. And these, scarce less calamitous than those. What view we now ? More wond'rous still! Behold! Like burnish 'd brass they shine, or beaten gold; And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, And all around the ruby's fiery glow. Come they from India, where the burning earth, All-bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth ; And Avhere the costly gems, that beam around The brows of mightiest potentates, are found? No ; never such a countless, dazzling store. Had left unseen the Ganges' peopled-shore. Rapacious hands, and ever watchful eyes. Should sooner far have mark'd, and seiz'd the prize. VOL. II. G § :26 APPENDIX. Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come From Ves'vius' or from iEtna's burning womb ? Thus shine they, self-illum'd, or but display The borrow 'd splendours of a cloudless day? With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales that breathe, Now land-ward, and the current's force beneath, Have borne them nearer : and the nearer sight, Advantag'd more, contemplates them aright. Their lofty summits, crested high, they show, With mingled sleet and long-incumbent snow. The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe, Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year. Their infant growth began. He bade arise Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. Oft' as, dissolv'd by transient suns, the snow Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below. He caught and curdled, with a freezing blast, The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. By slow degrees, uprose the wond'rous pile. And long-successive ages roU'd the while ; Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claimed to stanij Tall, as its rival mountains, on the land. Thus stood — and, unremoveable by skill Or force of man, had stood the structure still; But that, though firmly fixt, supplanted yet By pressure of its own enormous weight. It left the shelving beach — and, with a sound That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, (As if instinct with strong desire to lave) Down went the pond'rous mass. So bards of old, How Delos swam th' /Egean deep, have told. But not of ice was Delos ; Delos bore Herb, fruit, and flow 'r. She, crown 'd with laurel, wore, E'en under wint'ry skies, a summer smile j And Delos was Apollo's fav'rite isle. But, horrid wand'rers of the deep, to you He deems Cimmerian darkness only due : Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey, But scornful turn'd his glorious eyes away. Hence ! seek your home ; nor longer rashly dare The darts of Phcebus, and a softer air ; Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast, In no congenial gulph for ever lost ! APPENDIX. (No. 6.) / make no afiology for the introduction of the following Linesy though I have never learned who wrote them. Their elegance •will sufficiently recoinmcnd them tofiersons of classical taste and erudition: and 1 shall be hapfiy if the English version that they have received from me, be found not to dishonour them. Af- fection for the memory of the worthy man whom they celebrate alone firompted me to this endeavour, W. CO WPER. VERSES To the Memory of Dr. Llotd. Spoken at the Westminster Election next after his Decease. VyUR good old friend is gone, gone to his rest, Whose social converse was itself a feast ; O ye of riper years, who recoUect How once ye lov'd, and eyed him with respect, Both in the firmness of his better day, While yet he rul'd you with a father's sway, And when impair'd by time, and glad to rest, Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest) He took his annual seat, and mingled here His sprightly vein with yours, now drop a tear ! In morals blameless, as in manners meek. He knew no wish, that he might blush to speak. But, happy in whatever state below, And richer than the rich in being so. Obtain 'd the hearts of all, and such a meed At length from one* as made him rich indeed. Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted hei"e ! Go', garnish merit in a higher sphere, * He was usher and under-master of Westminster near fifty years, and retired tVum his oc- cupaiion when he was near seventy, *itb a handsome peosion from the king. 228 APPENDIX. The brows of those, whose more exalted lot He could congratulate, but envy'd not ! Light lie the turf, good Senior, on thy breast, And tranquil, as thy mind was^ be thy rest ! Tho' Hving thou had'st more desert than fame, And not a stone now chronicles thy name ! Abiit senex. Periit senex amabilis, Quo non fuit jucundior. Lugete vos setas quibus maturior Senem colendum prcestitit ; Seu quando, viribus valentioribus Firmoque fretus pectore, Florentiori vos juventute excolens Cura fovebat patria, Seu quando, fr actus, jamque donatus rudej Vultu sed usque blandulo, Miscere gaudebat suas facetias His annuls leporibus ! Vixit probis, puraque simplex indole, Blandisque comis moribus, Et dives xqua mente, charus omnibus, Unius auctus munere. Ite, tituli ! Meritis beatioribus Aptate laudes debitas ! Nee invidebat ille, si quibus favens Fortuna plus arriserat. Placide senex, levi quiescas cespite, Esti superbum nee vivo tibi Decus sit inditum, nee mortuo Lapis notatus nomine ? APPENDIX. (No. 7.) TRANSLATIONS from the FABLES of GAY Lefius Mtdtis Amicus, LuSUS amicitia est uni nisi dedita, cen fit, Simplige ni nexus fcedere, lusus amor. Incerto genitore puer, non saepe paternx Tutamen novit, deliciasque domus : Quique sibi fidos fore multos sperat, amicus Mirumest huic misei'o si ferat uUas opem. Comis erat mitisque, et nolle et velle paratus Cum quovis, Gaii more modoque, lepus ; Ille quot in sylvis, et quot spatiantur in agris Quadrupedes norat conciliare sibi. JEt quisque innocuo, invitoque lacessere quenquam Labra tenus saltem fidus amicus erat. Ortum sub lucis dum pressa cubilia linquit Rorantes herbas, pabula sucta, petens, Venatorum audit clangores pone sequentum Fulmineumque sonum territus erro fugit. Corda pavor pulsat, sursum sedet, erigit aures, Respicit et sentit jam prope adesse neCem. Utque canes fallat, late circumvagus, illuc Undc abiit mira callidate, redit ; Viribus et fractis tandem se projicit uUro In media miserum semianimcmque via. Vix ibi stratus equi sonitum pedis audit, et oh spe Quam Ixta adventum cor agitatur equi ! Dorsum, inquit, mihi, chare, tuum concede, tuoque Auxilio nares fallerc, vimque canum, Me mens, ut nosti, pes prodit — fidus amicus Fert quodcunquc lubcns, ncc grave sentit, onus. S30 APPENDIX. Belle miscelle lepuscule ! equus respondet, amara Omnia qucK tibi sunt, sunt et amara mihi, Varum age — sume animos — multi, me pone, bonique Adveniunt quorum sis cite salvus ope. Proximus armenti dominus bos solicitatus Auxilium his verbis se dare posse negat, Quando quadrupedum quot vivunt, nuUus amicum Me nescire potest usque fuisse tibi, Libertate sequus, quam cedat amicus amico, Utar, et absque metu ne tibi displiceam ; Hinc me mandat amor. Juxta istum messis ascervum Me mea, prce cunctis cliara, juvenca manet ; Et quis non ultro quscumque negotia linquit, Pareat ut dominas, cum vocat ipsa, suse ? Neu me crudelem dicas — discedo — sed liircus (Cujus ope eflFugias integer) hircus adest. Febrem, ait hircus habes : heu sicca ut lumina languent I Utque caput collo deficiente jacet ! Hirsutum mihi tergum ; et forsan Ixserit scgrum, Vellere eris melius fultus, ovisque venit. Me mihi fecit onus natura, ovis inquit anhelanS Sustineo lanx pondera tanta meac ; Me nee velocem nee fortem jacto, solentque Nos etiam ssevi dilacerare canes. Ultimus accedit vitulus, vitulumque precatur Ut periturum alias ocyus eripiat. Remne ego respondet vitulus suscepero tantam, Non depulsus adhuc ubere, natus heri ? Te quem maturi canibus vaUdique relinquunt Incolumem potei'o reddere pai-vus ego? Prscterea. tollens quem illi aversantur, amicis Forte parum videar consuluisse meis. Ignoscas oro. Fidissima dissociantur Corda, et tale tibi sat liquet esse meum. Ecce autem ad calces canis est 1 te quanta perempto Tristitia est nobis ingruitura! — Vale ! ,4varns et Plutus. Irta fenestra Euri flatu stridcbat, avarus Ex somno trepidus surgit, opumque memcr. Lata silcnter humi ponit vestigia, quemque Respicit ad scnitum respiciensque tremit ; APPENDIX. . 231 Angustissima quxque foramina lampade visit, Ad v^cctes, obices, fertquc refcrtque manum. Dein reserat crebris junctam compagibus arcani Exultansque omnes conspicit iutus opes. Sed tandem furiis iiltricibus actus ob artes Queis sua res tenuis creverat in cumulum, Contortis manibus nunc stat, nunc pectora pulsans Aurum execratur, perniciemque vocat ; O mihi, ait, misero mens quam tranquilla fuisset, Hoc celasset adhuc si modo terra malum ! Nunc autem virtus ipsa est venalis ; et aurum Quid contra vitii tormina sxva valet ? O inimicum aurum ! O homini infestissima pcstis Cui datur illecebras vincere posse tuas ? Aurum homines suasit contemnere quicquid honestum est, Et prxter nomen nil retinere boni. Aurum cuncta mali per terras semina sparsit ; Aurum nocturnis fiiribus arma dedit. Bella docet fortes, timidosque ad pessima ducit Fcedifragas artes, multiplicesque dolos. Nee vitii quicquam est quod non inveneris ortum Ex malesuada auri sacrilegaque fame. Dixit, et ingemuit ; Plutusque suum sibi numen Ante oculos, ira fervidus ipse stetit. Arcum clausit avarus, et ora horrentia rugis Ostcndens, tremulum sic deus increpuit. Questil)us his raucis mihi cur, stulte, obstrepis aures ? Ista tui similes tristia quisque canit. Commaculavi egone humanum genus, improbe ? Culpa, Dum rapis et captas omnia, culpa tua est. Mene execrandum censes, quia tarn pretiosa Criminibus fiunt perniciosa tuis? Virtutis specie, pulchro ccn pallio amictus Quisque catus nebulo sordida facta tegit. Atque suis manibus commissa potentia, durum Et dirum subito vergit ad imperium. Hinc, nimium dum latro aurum detrudit in arcam, Idem aurum latct in pectore pestis edax. Nutrit avaritiam et fastum, suspcndere adunco Suadet naso inopes, et vitium omne docet. Auri et larga probo si copia contigit, instar Horis dilapsi ex scthei-e cuncta beat: Turn, quasi numen inesset, alit, fovet, educat orbos Et viduas lacr\ mis ora rigare vetgt. 232 APPENDIX. Quo sua crimina jure auro derivet avarus Aurum anims pretium qui cupit atque capit? J^ege par} gladium incuset sicarius atrox Cjeso homine, et ferrum judicet esse reuTn. Pafiilio et Limaoe. Qui subito ex imis rerum in fastigia surgit, Nativas sordes, quicquid agatur olet. In closing this series of Cowper's translations, I must not fail to express my concern, that I am unable to present to my reader, according to my intention, a specimen of the Hem'iade, as trans- lated by the poetical brothers. I had been informed that I should ^nd their production in a Magazine for the year 17'59 — I have indeed found in a Magazine of that period a version of the poem, but not by the Cowpers ; yet their version probably exists, comprised in a periodical pubUcation : but my own researches, and those of a few literary friends, kindly diligent in inquiry, have hitherto been unable to discover it. APPENDIX. (No. 8.) During Coivper's visit t6 Eartham^ he kindly pointed out to me three of his pajiers in the last volume of the Connoisseur. I inscribed them "with his name at the time^ and imagine that the readers of his Life may be gratified in seeing them inserted here. I find other numbers of that ivork ascribed to him; but the three follonving I print as his, on his own explicit authority, JVumber 119. Thursday, May 6, 1756 A''umber 134. Thurs^ day, August 19, 1756. — ■A^'umber 138. Thursday, September ;6, 1756. THE CONNOISSEUR. (NUMBER 119.) Pleniis rimarum sum, luic et illuc perfluo. Tek. Leaky at bottom ; if those chinks you stop. In vain — the secret will run o'er at top. 1 HERE is no mark of our confidence taken more kindly by a fi-iend, than the entrusting him with a secret ; nor any which he is so likely to abuse. Confidants in general are like crazy fire- locks, which are no sooner charged and cocked, than the spring gives way, and the report immediately follows. Happy to have been thought worthy the confidence of one friend, they are impa- tient to manifest their importance to another : till, between them and their friend, and their friend's friend,^ the whole matter is pre- sently known to all our friends round the wrekin. The secret catches, as it were by contact, and, like electrical matter, breaks forth from every link in tlie chain, almost at the same instant. Thus the whole exchange may be thrown into a l)uz to-morrow by what was whispered in the middle of Marlborough Downs this morning, and in a week's time the streets may ring with the in- trigue of a woman of fasluou^ bellowed out from tlie foul mouthy VOL. II. «h 234 APPENDIX. of the hawkers, though at present it is known to no creature lir- ing but her gallant and her waiting-maid. As the talent of secrecy is of so great importance to society, and the necessary commerce between individuals cannot be se- curely carried on without it, that this deplorable weakness should be so general is much to be lamented. You may as well pour water into a funnel, or a seive, and expect it to be retained there, as commit any of your concerns to so slippery a companion. It is remarkable, that in those men who have thus lost the faculty of rfetention, the desire of being communicative is always most pre- valent where it is least justified. If they are intrusted with a matter of no great moment, affairs of more consequence Avill, per- haps, in a few hours, shuAlc it entirely out of their thoughts : but if any thing be delivered to them with an earnestness, a low voice, and the gesture of a man in terror for the consequence of its being known ; if the door is bolted, and every precaution taken to pre- vfent surprise, however they may promise secrecy, and however they may intend it, the weight upon their minds will be so extre- mely oppressive, that it will certainly put their tongues in motion. This breach of trust, so universal amongst us, is perhaps in great m.easure owing to our education. The firSt lesson our little masters and misses are taught is to become blabs and tell-tales : they are bribed to divulge the petty intrigues of the family below stairs to papa and mama in the parlour ; and a doll or hobby-horse is generally the encouragement of a propensity which could scarcely be atoned for by a whipping. As soon as children can lisp out the little intelligence they have picked up in the hall, or the kitchen, they are admired for their vAt : if the butler has been cavight kissing the housekeeper in his pantry, or the footman de- tected in romping with the chambermaid, away flies little Tommy or Betsy with the news ; the parents are lost in admiration of the pretty rogue's understanding, and reward such uncommon inge- nuity with a kiss or a sugar-plumb. Nor does an inclination to secrecy meet with less encouragement at school. The governants at the boarding-school teach miss to be a good girl, and tell them every thing she knows : thus, if any yDung lady is unfortunately discovered eating a green apple in a corner ; if she is heard to pronounce a naughty word, or is caught picking the letters out of another miss's sampler, away runs the chit who is so happy as to get the start of the rest, screams out her information as she goes; and the prudent matron chucks her under the chin, and tells her that she is a good girl, and every body will love her. The management of our young gentlemen is equally absurd; APPENDIX. 235 \n most of our schools, if a lad is discovered in a scrape, the im- peachment of an accomplice, as at the Old-Bailey, is made the condition of a pardon, I remember a boy, engaged in robbing an orcliard, who was unfortunately taken prisoner in an apple-tree, and conducted, under the strong guard of tlie farmer and his dairy- maid, to the master's house. Upon his absolute refusal to discover his associates, tlie pedagogue undertook to lash him out of his fide- lity ; but finding it impossible to scourge the secret out of him, he at last gave him up for an obstinate villain, and sent him to his father, who told him he was ruined, and was going to disinherit him for not betraying his school-fellows. I must own I am not fond of thus drul^bing our youths into trea- chery; and am much pleased with the request of Ulysses, when he went to Troy, who begged of those who were to have the care of young Telemachus, that they would, above all things, teach him to be just, sincere, faitiiful, and to keep a secret. Every man's experience must have furnished him with instan- ces of confidants who are not to be relied on, and friends who arc not to be trusted ; but few, perhaps, have thought it a character so well worth their attention, as to have marked out the different de- grees into which it may be divided, and the different methods by which secrets are commiinicated. Ned Trusty is a tell-tale of a very singular kind. Having some sense of his duty, he hesitates a little at the breach of it. If he engages never to utter a syllable, he most punctually performs his promise; but then he has the knack of insinuating, by a nod and a shrug well-timed, or a seasonable leer, as much as others can con- vey in express terms. It is difficult, in short, to determine whe- ther he is more to be admired for his resolution in not mentioning, or his ingenuity in disclosing a secret. He is also excellent at a doubtful phrase, as Hamlet calls it, or ambiguous giving out ; and his conversation consists chiefly of such broken inuendoes as — " well I know — or I could — and if I would — or, if I list to speak — . or there be, and if there might," Sec. Here he generally stops, and leaves it to his hearers to dvavr proper inferences from these piece-meal pi-emises. With due en- couragement, however, he maybe prevailed on to s'lip the padlock from his lips, and immediately overwhelms you Avith a torrent of secret history, whiclv rushes forth with more violence for having been so long confined. Poor Mcanwell, though he never fails to transgress, is rather to be pitied than condemned. To ti'ust him with a secret is to spoil Ids appetite, to break his rest, and to deprive him, for a time, of ^yciy earthly enjoyment. Like a man who travels with his whol?. 236 APPENDIX. fortune in his pocket, he is terrified if you approach him, and immediately suspects that you come with a felonious intent to rob him of his chai'ge. If he ventures abroad, it is to walk in some unfrequented place, where he is least in danger of an attack. At home he shuts himself up from his family, paces to and fro his chamber, and has no relief biit from muttering over to himself what he longs to publish to the world, and would gladly submit to the of- fice of town-cryer, for the liberty of proclaiming it in the market- place. At length, however, weary of his bui'den, and resolved to bear it no longer, he consigns it to the custody of the first friend he meets, and returns to his wife with a cheerful aspect, and wonder- ftilly altered for the better. Careless is, perhaps, equally undesigning, though not equally ex- cusable. Intrust him with an affair of the utmost importance, on the concealment of which your fortune and happiness depend : he hears you with a kind of half attention, whistles a favourite air, and accompanies it with the drumming of his fingers upon the table. As soon as your narration is ended, or perhaps in the middle of it, he asks your opinion of his sword-knot — damns his taylor for having dressed him in a snufF-coloured coat instead of a pompa- dour, and leaves you in haste to attend an auction ; where, as if he meant to dispose of his intelligence to the best bidder, he di- vulges it with a voice as loud as an auctioneer's ; and when you tax him with having played you false, he is heartily sorry for it, but ne- ver knew that it was to be a secret. To these I might add the character of the open and unreserved, who thinks it a breach of friendship to conceal any thing from his intimates ; and the impertinent, who having, by dint of observa- tion, made himself master of your secret, imagines he may law- fiilly publish the knowledge it cost him so much labour to obtain, and considers that privilege as the reward due to his industry. But I shall leave these, with many other characters, which my reader's own experience may suggest to him, and conclude with prescrib- ing, as a short remedy for this evil — that no man may betray the council of his friend, let every man keep his own. APPENDIX. 23!* THE CONNOISSEUR. (NUMBER 134.) Delicta majorum immeritiis lues, Romane, donee templa refeeeris ^desque labentia Deorum, et Fxda nigro simulaera funio. HOR. The tottering tow'r and mould'ring walls repair, And fill with decency the house of prayer: Qiiick to the needy curate bring relief, And deck the parish-church without a brief. Mr. village to Mr. TOWN. t)EAR Cousin, X HE country, at present, no less than the metropolis, abounding- with poUticians of every kind, I begin to despair of picking up any intelligence that might possibly be entertaining to your readers. However, I have lately visited some of the most distant parts of the kingdom, with a clergyman of my acquaintance. I shall not trouble you with an account of the impi-ovements that have been made in the seats we saw, according to the modern taste, but pro- ceed to give you some reflections which occurred to us in observing several country churches, and the behaviour of their congrega- tions. The ruinous condition of some of these edifices gave me great offence ; and I could not help wishing that the honest vicar, instead of indulging his genius for improvements, by enclosing his goose- berry bushes within a Chinese rail, and converting half an acre of his glebe-land into a bowling-green, would have applied part of his income to the more laudable purpose of sheltering his parishioners fi'om the weather during their attendance on divine service. It is no vmcommon thing to see the parsonage-house well thatched, and in exceeding good repair, while the church perhaps has scarce any other roof than the ivy that grows over it. The noise of owls, bats, and magjjies makes the principal part of the cluirch music in many of these ancient edifices ; and the walls, like a large map, seem to be portioned out into capes, seas, and promontories, by the Various colours by which the damps have stained them. Some- times the foundation being too weak to support the steeple any longer, it has been found expedient to pull down that part of tlie S3S APPENDIJf. building, and to hang the bells under a wooden shed on the ground beside it. This is the case in a parish in Norfolk, through which I lately passed, and where the clerk and the sexton, like the two figures of St. Dunstan's, sei-ve the bells in capacity of clappers, by striking them alternately with a hammer. In other churches I have observed that nothing unseemly oi'. ruinous is to be fomid, except in the clergyman, and the append- ages of his person. The 'squire of the pa,rish, or his ancestors, perhaps, to testify their devotion, and leave a lasting monument of their magnifience,have adorned the altar-piece with the richest crimson velvet, embroidered with vine-leaves and ears of wheat ; and have dressed up the pulpit with the same splendour and ex- pense ; while the gentleman who fills it is exalted, in the midst of all this finery, with a surplice as dirty as a farmer's frock, and a periwig that seems to have transferred its faculty of curling to the band, which appears in full buckle beneath it. But if I was concerned to see several distressed pastors, as well as many of our country churches, in a tottering condition, I was more offended with the indecency of worship in others. I could wish that the clergy would inform tlieir congregations, that there is no occasion to scream themselves hoarse in making the respon- ses ; that the town-cryer is not the only person qualified to pray * with due devotion ; and that he who bawls the loudest may never- theless be the wickedest fellow in the parish. The old women, too, in the aisle might be told, that their time would be better employed in attending to tlie sermon, tlian in fumbling over their tattered testaments till they have found the text ; by which time the dis- course is near drawiiig to a conclusion: while a word or two of instruction might not be thrown away upon the younger part of the congregation, to teach them that making posies in summer time, and cracking nuts in autumn, is no part of the religious ceremony. The good old practice of psalm-singing is, indeed, wonderfully, .improved in many country churches since the days of Sternhold and Hopkins ; and thei'e is scarce a parish clerk who has so little taste as not to pick his staves out of the new version. This has occasioned gi'eat complaints in some places, where the clerk has been forced to bawl by himself, because the rest of the congrega- tion cannot find the psalm at the end of their prayer-books ; while others are highly disgusted at the innovation, and stick as obsti- natelv to the old version as to the old style. The tunes themselves have also been new set to jiggish mea- ^n-es, and the sober drawl which used to accompany the two first staves of the hundreth Psalm, with the Gloria Patri, is now split APPENDIX. 23f into as many quavers as an Italian air. For this purpose there is in every country an itinerant band of vocal musicians, Avho make it their business to go round to all the churches in their turns, and after a prelude with the pitch-pipe, astonish the audience with hymns set to the new Winchester measure, and anthems of tla^ir own composing. As these nevN^-fashioned psalmodists are necessarily made up of young men and maids, we may naturally suppose that there is a perfect concord and symphony between them : and, indeed, I have known it hajjpen, that these sweet singers have more than once been brought into disgrace by too close an unison between the tliorough-bass and the treble. It is a difficult matter to decide which is looked upon as the greatest man in a country church, the parson or his clerk. The latter is most certainly held in the higher veneration, where the former happens to be only a poor curate, who rides post every Sabbatli from village to village, and mounts and dismounts at the church-door. The clerk's office is not only to tag the prayers with an amen, or usher in the sermon with a stave ; but he is also the universal father to give away the brides, and the standing god- father to all the new-born bantlings. But, in many places, there is still a greater man belonging to the church than either the parson or the clerk himself. The person I mean is the 'squire, who, like the king, may be styled head of the church in his own parish. If the benefice be in his own gift, the vicar is his creature, and, of consequence, entirely at his devotion : or if the care of the church l^e left to a curate, the Sunday-fees, roast-beef and plumb-pudding, and the liberty to shoot in the manor, will bring him as much under the 'squire's command as his dogs and hoi"ses. For this reason, the bell is often kept tolling, and the people waiting in the church-yard, an hour longer than the usual time ; nor must the service begin till the 'squire has strutted up the aisle and seated himself in the great pew in the chancel. The length of the sermon is also measured by the will of the 'squire, as for- merly by the hour glass ; and I know one parish where the preacher has always the complaisance to conclude his discourse, however abruptly, the minute that the 'squire gives the signal by rising up aiutr his nap. In a village church, the 'squire's lady, or the vicar's wife, are perhaps the only females that are stared at for their finery ; but in the large cities and torwns, where the newest fashions are brought down weekly by the stage-coach, or waggon, all the wives and daughters of the most topping tradesmen vie with each other, e\-cry Sunday, in Uie elegance of their apparel. I could even trace 340 APPENDIX. their gradations in their dress, according to the opulence, the extent, and the distance of the place from London. I was at church in a populous city in the north, where the mace-bearer cleared the way for Mrs. Mayoress, who came sidling after him in an enormous fan-hoop, of a pattern which had never been seen before in those parts. At another church, in a corporation town, I saw several negligees, with furbellowed aprons, which had long disputed the prize of superiority : but these were most woe- fully eclipsed by a burgess's daughter, just come ft-om London, who appeared in a trollojijie or slammerkin, with treble ruffles to the cuffs, pinked and gymped, and the sides of the petticoat drawn up in festoons. In some lesser borough towns, the contest I found lay between three or four black and green bibs and aprons. At one a grocer's wife attracted our eyes by a new fashion cap, called a joan, and at another, they were wholly taken up by a mercer's daughter in a nun's hood. I need not say any thing of the behaviour of the congregations irj these more polite places of religious resort ; as the same genteel ceremonies are practised there as at the most fashionable churches, in town. The ladies, immediately on their entrance, breathe a pious ejacvilation through their fan-sticks, and the beaux very gravely address themselves to the haberdashers' bills, glewed upon the lining of their hats. This pious duty is no sooner performed than the exercise of bowing and curtesying succeeds ; the locking and unlocking of the pews drowns the reader's voice at the beginning of the service ; and the rustling of silks, added to the whispering and tittering of so much good company, renders him totally unin- telligible to the very end of it. I am, dear cousin, yours, &c. THE CONNOISSEUR. (NUMBER 138.) Servata semper lege et ratione loqucndi. Juv. Your talk to decency and reason suit. Not prate like fools, or gabble like a brute. In the comedy of the Frenchman in London, which we are told was acted at Paris with uni\ ersal applause for several nights toge- gether, there is a character of a rough Englishman, who is repre- sented as quite uiiskilled in the graaes of conversation, and his dia- APPENDIX. 241 I<)gue consists almost entirely of a repetition of the common saluta- tion of, How do you do ? how do you do ? Our nation has, indeed, been generally supposed to be of a sullen and uncommunicative dis- position ; while, on the other hand, the loquacious French have been allowed to possess the art of conversing beyond all other peo- ple. The Englishnum requires to be wound up frequently, and stops very soon ; but the Frenchman runs on in a continued ala- rum. Yet it nuist be acknowledged, that as the English consist of very different humours, their manner of discourse admits of great variety: but the whole French nation converse alike; and there is no difference in their address between a marquis and a valet de chambre. We may frequently see a couple of French barbers ac- costing each other in the street, and paying their compliments with the same volubility of speech, the same grimace, and action, as two courtiers in the 'I'huillcries. I shall not attempt to lay down any particular rules for conver- sation, but rather point out such faults in discourse and behaviour as render the company of half mankind rather tedious than amus- ing. It is in vain, indeed, to look for conversation where we might expect to find it in the greatest perfection, among persons of fashion; thei'e it is almost annihilated by universal caixl-phiying ; iTisomuch, that I have heard it given us a I'eason, why it is impos- sible for our present writers to succeed in the dialogue of genteel comedy, that our people of quality scarce ever meet but to game. All their discourse turns upon the odd trick, and the four honours, and it is ne less a maxim with the votaries of whist than with those of Bacchus, that talking spoils company. Every one endeavours to make himself as agreeable to society as he can ; but it often happens that those who most aim at shining in conversation overshoot their mark. Though a man succeeds, he should not (as is frequently the case) engross the whole talk to himself, for that desti-oys the veiy essence of conversation, which is talking together. We should try^ to keep up conversation like a ball bandied to and fro from one to another, rather than seize it ourselves, and drive it before us like a foot-ball. We should like- wise be cautious to adapt the matter of our disccurse to our com- pany, and not to talk Greek before ladies, or of the last new fui*- bclow to a meeting of country justices. But nothing throws a more ridiculous air over our Avholc conver- sation than certain peculiarities, easily acquired, but very diffi- cultly conquered and discarded. In order to display these ab^^ur- dities in a truer light, it is my present purpose to enumerate such of them as are most commonly to be met with ; and first, to take notice of those buffoons in society, the attitudiuariaus and face-ma- voi,. II. I i 242 APPENDIX. kers. These accompany eveiy word with a peculiar grimace or gesture : they assent with a shrug, and contradict with a twisting of the neck ; are angry with a wry mouth, and pleased in a caper or a minuet step. They may be considered as speaking hai'le- quins ; and their rules of eloquence are taken from the posture- master. These should be condemned to converse only in dumb show with tlieir own person in the looking-glass ; as well as the smirkers and srailers, who so prettily set off their faces, together with their words by a je-ne-scai-quoi between a grin and a dimple. With these we may likewise rank the aiFected tribe of mimics, who are constantly taking off the peculiar tone of voice or gesture of their acquaintance ; though they are such wretched imitators, that (like bad painters) they are frequently forced to write tlie name under the picture before we can discover any likeness. Next to these, whose elocution is absorbed in action, and who converse chiefly with their arms and legs, we may consider tlie profest speakers. And first, the emphatical ; who squeeze, and press, and ram down every syllable with excessive vehemence and energy. These orators are remarkable for their distinct elocution and force of expression ; they dwell on the important particles of and the^ and the significant conjunctive and ; which they seem to iiawk up with much diificulty out of their own throats, and to cram them witli no less pain into the ears of their auditors. These should be suffered only to syringe (as it were) th6 ears of a deaf man, through an hearing trumpet : though, I must confess, that I am equally offended with whisperers or low speakers, who seem to fancy alt their acquaintance deaf, and come up so close to you, that they may be said to measure noses with you, and fi-e- quently overcome you with the exhalations of a powerful breath. I would have these oracular gentry obliged to talk at a distance through a speaking trumpet, or apply their lips to the wails of a whispering gallery. The wits, \vho will not condescend to utter any thing but a bou mot, and the whistlers, or tiuie-hummers, who ne\'^r articulate at all, may be joined very agreeably together in concert ; and to these tinkling cymbals I would also add the sound- ing brass, the bawler, avIio inquires after your health with the bellowing of a town-cry er. The tatlcrs, whose pliable pipes are admirably adapted to the " soft parts of conversation," and sweetly " pratling out of fashion,"' make very pretty music from a beautiful face and a female tongue : but from a rough manly voice and coarse features, mere non- sense is as harsh and dissonant as a jig from an hurd}-gurdy. The swearers I have spoken of in a former paper ; but the half- swearers, who split, and mince, and fritter their oaths into gad'S'. > APPENDIX. 243 but, ad's-Jish, and dcmmc ; tlic (iothic humbuggcrs, and those who " nick-name God's creatures," and call a man a cabbage, a crab, a queer cub, an odd fish, and an unaccountable 7)iuskin^ should never come into company without an interpreter. But I will not tire my reader's patience, by pointing out all the pests of con- versation ; nor dwell particularly on the sensibles, who pi-onounce dogmaticalh' on the most trivial points, and speak in sentences ; the Avonderers, who are always wondering what o'clock it is, or wondering whether it will rain or no, or wondering when the moon changes ; the phraseologists, who explain a thing by all that, or en- ter into particulars with thu, that, and t'other; and, lastly, the silent men, who seem afraid of opening their mouths, lest they should catch cold, and literally observe the precept of the gospel, by letting their conversation be only yea yea, and nay nay. The rational intercourse kept up by conversation, is one of our principal distinctions from brutes. We should therefore endeavour to turn this peculiar talent to our advantage, and consider the or- gans of speech as the instruments of understanding. We should be very careful not to use them as the weapons of vice, or tools of folly, and do cur utmost to unlearn any trivial or ridiculous habits, which tend to lessen the value of such an inestimable pi'eroga- tive. It is, indeed, imagined by some philosopliers, that even birds and beasts (though without the power of articulation) per- fectly understand one another by the sounds they utter ; and that dogs and cats, &c. have each a particular language to themselves, like different nations. Thus it may be supposed, that the nightin- gales of Italy have as fine an ear for their own native wood-notes as any signer or signora for an Italian air ; that the boars of West- phaha gruntle as expressively through the nose as the inhabitants in High-German ; and that the frogs in the dykes of Holland croak as intelligibly as the natives jabber their Low Dutch. However this may be, we may consider those whose tongues hardly seem to be under the influence of reason, and do not keep up the proper conversation of human creatures, as imitating the language of dif- ferent animals. Thus, for instance, the affinity between chatterers and monkeys, and praters and parrots, is too ob\-ious not to occur at once: Grunters and growlers may be justly compared to hogs; snarlers are curs ; and the s/iif/ire /lasshnate are a sort of wild- cats that will not bear streaking, but will pur when they are pleased. Complainers are screech-owls; and story-tellers, always repeating the same dull note, are cuckows. Poets, that prick up their ears at their own hideous braying, are no better than asses ; critics in general are venomous serpents, that delight in hissing ; and some of them who hiuc got l)y heart a few technical 244 APPENDIX. terms, -without knowing their meaning, are no other than magpies^ I myself, who have crowed to the whole town for near three years past, may, perhaps, put my readers in mind of a dunghill cock; but as I must acquaint them, that they will hear the last of me on this day fortnight, I hope they will then consider me as a swan^ ffho is supposed to sing sweetly in his dying moments. ^ APPENDIX. 24J MOTTO ON A CLOCK, With a Translation by the Editor, Quot lenta accedit, quani velox i)rxtevit hora ! Ut capias, patiens esto, sed esto vigil I Sloiv co7nes the hour ; its fiassiiig s/ieed how great i JVaiting to seize it — vigilantly wait! Ptace to the A t 1 1 ho e tigettous thought Devised the Weather-house, that useful toy ; miTrinmiil Fearless of humid air and gathering rains ,((llj|jl;j!j!!'u'[)j) ( r Forth steps the Man, an emblem of myself, i'iili I'i liiili'.liiiij ^lore delicate his timorous mate retires. iiiii JhshJBJ.U/icZ': Lo-.ipi. 's tame Rate, CONCLUSION. Astanti sat erit si dicam sim tibi curx : ******* Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus Nectens aut paphia myrti, aut parnasside lauri Fronde comas, at ego secura pace quiescam. MILTON! MANSUS, 1 shall but need to say., be yet my friend: He too., fierhafis^ shall bid the marble breathe To honour me; and nvith the graceful wreath, Or of Par7iassus, or the Paphian Isle, Shall bind my brows — but I shall rest the while. COWPER'S TRANSLATION, N THE CONCLUSION. T HOUGH it seems unnecessary to enumerate the many public compliments that have been paid, by a variety of writers, to the poetical excellence of Cowper, I must not fail to notice a private tribute to his merit, which the kindness of a distant friend trans- mitted to me while these volumes were in the press. In the form of a letter, to an accomplished author of Ireland, it comprizes a series of extensive observations on the poetry of my departed friend ; observations so full of taste and feeling, that I hope the judicious writer will, in a season of leisure, revise, extend, and convert them into a separate monument to the memory of tlie poet, whom he is worthy to praise. Being favoured with the liberty of using, in this publication, the manuscript I have mentioned, I shall select from it a passage re- lating both to Milton and to Cowper, as an introduction to the pi'oposal in honour of the two illustrious and congenial poets, with which I have already promised to close this address to the public. After many forcible remarks on the moral spirit of poetry, and a quotation from Lowth on its end and efficacy, the animated cri- tic proceeds in the following words. " The noblest benefits and delights of poetry can be but rarely produced, because all the requisites for producing them so very seldom meet. A vivid mind, and happy imitative power, may enable a poet to form glowing pictures of virtue, and almost pro- duce in himself a short-lived enthusiasm of goodness ; but although even these transient and f;vctiti(nis movements of mind may serve fo produce grand and delightful effusions of poetry, ) et when the best of these are compared with the poetic productions of a genuine lover of virtue, a discerning judgment will scarcely fail to mark the difference. A simplicity of conception and expression — a conscious, and therefore unaffected dig-nity — an instinctive ad- herence to Sober reason, even amid the highest flights — an uniform justness and consistency of thought — a glowing, yet temjicrate ar- dour of feeling — a peculiar felicity, both in the choice and combi- natiou of terms, by which cvtn the phiinest words acquire tlie 548 CONCLUSION. truest character of eloquence, and which is rarely to be found, ex- cept where a subject is not only intimately known, but cordially loved; these, I conceive, are the features peculiar to the real vo- tary of virtue, and which must, of course, give to his strains a perfection of effect never to be attained by the poet of infei'ior moral endowments. , I believe it will be readily granted, that all these qualities were never more perfectly combined than in the poetry oi Milton; and I think, too, there will be little doubt, that the next to him, in every one of these instances, beyond all comparison, is Coivpcr. The ge- nius of the latter did certainly not lead him to emulate the songs of the seraphim. But though he pursues a lower walk of poetry than his great master, he appears no less the enraptured votary of pure unmixed goodness. Nay, pei'haps he may, in this one respect, possess some peculiar excellences, which may make him seem more the bard of Christianity. That divine religion infinitely ex- alts, but it also deeply humbles the mind it inspires. It gives ma- jesty to the thoughts, but it impresses meekness on the manners, and diffuses tenderness through the feelings. It combines sensi- bility with fortitude— ^the lowliness of the child with the magna- nimity of the hero. The grandest features of the Christian character were nevci' moi-e gloriously exemplified than in that spirit which animates the whole of Milton's poetry. His ov/n J\I!c/iael does not impress us with the idea of a purer or more awful virtue than that which we feel in every portion of his majestic verse; and he no less happily indicates the source from which his excellence was derived, by the bright beams which he ever and anon reflects upon us from the sa- cred scriptures. But the milder graces of the gospel are certainly less apparent. What we behold is so awful, it might almost have inspired a wish, that a spirit equally pure and heavenly might be raised to illustrate, with like felicity, the more attractive and gentler influences of our divine religion. In Cowper, above any poet that ever lived, would such a wish seem to be fulfilled. In his charming effusions, we have the same spotless purity — the same elevated devotion — the same vital exer- cise of every noble and exalted quality of the mind — the same de- votedness to the sacred scriptures, and to the peculiar doctrines of the gospel : the difference is, that instead of an almost repressive dignity, we have the sweetest familiarity — instead of the majestic grandeur of the Old Testament, we have the winning graces of the New— instead of those thunders by which angels were discom-? fited, we have, as it were, " the still small voice" of Him who was meek and lowiv of heart. CONCLUSION. 249 May we not then venture to asse rt, that from that spirit of devoted piety which has rendered both these great men Hable to the charge of riih-^ious enthusiasm, but which, in truth, raised the minds of t)oth to a kind of happy residence, " In regions mild, of cahn, and serene air, " Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot " Which men call Earth," 5 peculiar character Jias been derived to the poetry of them botjt, which distinguishes their compositions from those of almost all U.e world besides ? I have already enumerated some of the superior advantages of a truly virtuous poet, and presumed to state, that these are realized, in an unexampled degree, in Milton and Cow- per. Tiiat they both owed this moral eminence to their vivid sense of religion^ will, I conceive, need no demonstration, except what will arise to every reader of taste and feeling on examining their works. It will here, I think, be seen at once, that tliat sub- limity of conception, that delicacy of virtuous feeling, that majes- tic independence of mind, that quick relish for all the beauties of nature, at once so pure, and so exquisite, which we find ever oc- curring in them both, could not have existed in the same unrivalled degree, if their devotion had been less intense, and, of course, their minds more dissipated amongst low and distracting objects." In printing this brief specimen from the manuscript of a modest writer, who is personally unknown to me, I hope I may lead him to make, for his own honour, a more extensive use of his pro- duction. His eloquent remarks on the congeniality of mind be- tween Milton and Cowper, may, possibly, induce some readers to favour my intention of rendering Milton a contributor to the posthu- mous honours of Cowper, by the following proposal. My departed friend having expressed a wish to me that an edi- tion of Milton might be formed, in which our respective writings concerning him should appear united, I hope to accomplish that affectionate desire. If the puljlic favour my idea, the whole pro- fits of the book will be applied to the purpose of raising a marble Monument in the metropolis, to Cowper, by the sculptor whose genius he particularly reganled, my friend Mr. Flaxman. The proposed edition is to contain Cowper's admirable translations from the Latin and Italian poetry of IMilton, and all that is pre- served of that unfinished Connnentary, which he intended to con- tinue and complete as a series of Dissei'tations on tlie Paradise Lost. VOL. ir. K k 250 CONCLUSION. It is proposed that CoAvper's Milton (for so I wish the editiori to be called) shall consist of three quarto volumes, decorated with various engravings, at the price of six guineas ; and those Avho intend to contribute in this manner to a national monument, in inemory of Cowper, are requested to deposit their subscriptions either with Mr. Johnson, bookseller, of St. Paul's, or with Mr. Evans, bookseller, of Pail-Mall. As many persons may be inclined to subscribe to Cowper's jnonument, without subsci-ibing to the intended Milton, it is pre- sumed such persons will be gratified in being informed, that the two booksellers above-mentioned will receive any smaller sum as a contribution to the monument, and either faithfully devote what- ever may be received to that purpose, or return the sum so ad- vanced to every subscriber, if the purpose should be relinquished : It may, however, be reasonably hoped, that a purpose where the feelings of national esteem and love are so perfectly in unison with those of private friendship, will be happily accomplished, and that many who feel how justly tlie pre-eminent character of Cowper is endeared to our country, will delight in contributing to perpetuate his renown, by the most honourable memorial of public aiFectiohi FINISo BOOKS •Printed by and for T. & J. SWORDS, and sold at their Store, No. 160 Pearl-Street, New-York. i. 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