WW-" *' to^^. ' Km^TWy ^.V :>^ !« „_ • m. • fc.-Zr Afc^ -1^- ^ ■•^ «^. L9l W, it^ L%1 ^® ^:^, ^^ C; JS^-t: ,)'.7 i<^ ►/-t «^ >^ :i!i»4m ^^ y >^^*^ a • t ", ' • ' • • • • . ,• y ♦^ vi AN 1 INTRODUCTORY LETTER TO THE Right HonouraUe Earl COW PER, YOUR family, my Lord, our country itself, and the whole literary world, sustained such a loss in the death of that amiable Alan, and enchanting Author, who forms the subjeCl of these Volumes, as inspired the friends of genius and virtue with uni- versal concern. It soon became a general wish, that some authentic, and copious memorial of a charadler 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 de- served, her applause, her esteem, her affeElion. If this laudable wish was very sensibly felt by the public at large, it glozued with peculiar warmth and eagerness in the bosom of thefew^ who had been so fortu- nate as to enjoy an intimacy xoith Cowper in some unclouded periods of his life, and who knexofrom such an intimacy, that a lively sweetness, a and 198Ji^« IV INTRODUCTORY LETTER. and sanEiity of spirit, xoerc as truly the chara6lcristics of his social en- joyments, as they are allowed to constitute a principal charm in his poetical produElions. — It has justly been regarded as a signal blessing to have possessed the perfe£l esteem, and confidence of such a man; and not long after his decease, one of his particular frierids presumed to suggest to an accomplished 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 enjoyed with him from their lively hours of infantine friendship to the dark evening of his wonderfully chequered life; her cultivated and affeElionate mind, which led her to take peculiar delight and inte- rest in the merit and the reputation of his writings, and lastly that generous attachment to her offliRed Relation, tvhich induced her to watch over his disordered health, in a period of its most calamitous depression, these circumstances united seemed to render it desirable that she should assume the office of Cowpers Biographer, having suck advantages for the perfeEl execution of that very delicate office, as perhaps no other memorialist could possess in an equal degree. For the interest of literature, and for the honour of many poets, whose me- mories have suffered from some biographers of a very different descrip- tioUy INTRODUCTORY LETTER. V tion, xoe may wish that the extensive series of poetical biography had been frequently enriched by the memoirs of such remembrancers, as fed only the infuence of tenderness and truth. — Some poets indeed of re- cent times have been happy in this most desirable advantage. The Scottish favourite of nature, the tender and impetuous Burns, has found in Dr. Carrie an ingenuous, eloquent, ajfedionate 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, singu- larly happy in vindicating his charaSler from invidious dctraclion. We may observe, to the honour of Scotland, that her national enthu- siasm has for some years been very laudably exerted in clierishing the vtemory of her departed poets. — But to return to the Lady, who gave rise to this reynark ! The natural dijpdence 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 oj sub- mitting herself , as an Author, to the formidable eye of the Public. Her knowledge of the very cordial regard, xoith -which Coioper has honoured me, as ow. of his most confidential friends, led her to re- quest, that she might assign to me that arduous ofice, which she candidly confessed she had not the resolution to assume. She confided to VI IVTRODUCTORY LETTER. to my care such materials for the work in question, as her ajfinity to the deceased had thrown into her hands. — In receiving a colleElion 0} many private Letters, and of several posthumous little Poems, in the well-known characters of that beloved Correspondent, at the sight of •whose hand I have often exulted, I felt the blended emotions of me- lancholy regret, and of awful pleasure. Yes! I was pleased that these affeBing papers were entrusted to my care, because some incidents induce me to believe, that f 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 perfeSlly aware of the difficulties, and the dangers attending it : One danger indeed appeared to me of such a nature, as to require perpe- tual caution, as I advanced: I mean the danger of being led, in writing as the Biographer of my Friend, to speak infnitely 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 suffered many expressions of his INTRODUCTORY LETTER. VII his affeBionate 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 endeavoured to execute xohat I regard as a mournful duty, as if I zuere under the immediate and visible direSlion of the most pure, the most truly modest, and the most gracefully virtuous mind, that I had ever the happiness of know- ing in the form of a manly friend. It is certainly my wish that these Volumes may obtain the entire approbation of the zuorld, but it is infnitely more my desire and ambition to render them exaBly such, as I think most likely to gratify the conscious spirit of Cowper him- self in a superior existence. — The person who reconwiended 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 pays a just and a splendid compliment to one of the early English poets, xoho, in the tenderness, and purity of his heart, and in the vivid powers of description, may be thought to resemble Coxoper. — The passage I allude to is this : — " The nobility of the Spencers has been illustrated and enriched by the b trophies Vin JNTRODUCTORY LETTER. trophies of Marlborough, but I exhort them to consider the Fairy Queen as the most precious jewel of their coronet." Jf this lively metaphor is just in every point of view, toe may regard The Task as a jewel of pre-eminent lustre in the coronet belonging to the noble family of Cowper. Under the infuence of this idea allow me, my Lord, to address to you such Memoirs of your admirable Relation, as my oxon intimacy loith him> and the kindness of those who knew and loved him most truly, have enabled me to compose ! J will tell you, zuith perfe6i sincerity, all my motives for addressing them to your Lordship. — First I fatter myself it viay be a pleasing, and permit me to say, not an unuseful occupation to an ingenuous young Nobleman, to trace the steps by which a retired man of the most diffident modesty, whos^ private virtues did honor to his name, arose to peculiar celebrity. — My second motive is, I oxon, of a more selfish nature , for I am per- suaded, that in addressing my Work to you, I give the Public a satisfa&ory pledge for the authenticity of my materials, — I will not pretend to say, that I hold it in the power of any title, or affinity, to refieEl an additional lustre on the memory of the departed Poet : for I think so highly of poetical distindion, when that distindion is pre- eminently INTRODUCTORY LETTER. IX eminently obtained by genius, piety, and benevolence, that all common honours appear to be eclipsed by a splendour more forcible, and exten. sive. — Great poets, my Lord, and that I may speak of them, as they de- serve, let me say, in the zcords of Horace, Primum mc illorum, (icdcrim quibus esse Poetas, Excerpam nuinoro. Great poets have generally united in their destiny those extremes of good and evil, which Homer, their immortal president^ assigns to the bard, he describes ; and which he exemplified himself in his ozun person, — Their lives have been frequently chequered by the darkest shades of calamity ; but their personal infelicities are nobly com- pensated by the prevalence 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 zoorld, peculiarly exalted hy intelleElual endowments : with two of these illustrious characters, the Poet, whose life I have en- voured i INTRODUCTORY LETTER. deavoured to delineate, was in some measure connected : being related to one, the immediate ancestor of your Lordship, and being intimate, in early life, xoith a Chancellor of the present reign, xchose elevation to that dignity, he has recorded in rhyme. Much respect is due to the legal names of Cowper, and of Thurlow. Knowledge, eloquence, and political importance, conspired to aggrandize the men, xoho 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 visible in the vast expanse of history ! But, at that time* the Poet, ofxohom I speak, xvill continue to sparkle in the eyes oj all men, like the radiant star of the evening, perpetually hailed by the voice of gratitude, afedion, and delight. There is a principle of imperishable vitality (if I may use such an expression) in the compositions of Cowper; which must ensure to them in future ages, what we have seen them so happily acquire and maintain in the present — universal admiration, 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 INTRODUCTORY LKTTKR. ■ M Like them it comes " hom^ to the business and bosom, of every man ;" by possessing the rare and double talent to familiarize and endear (he most aioful subjeds, and to dignify the most familiar, the Poet natu- rally becomes a favourite with Readers of every description. His xvorks must interest every nation under Heaven, xohere his sentiments arc un- derstood, and where the feelings of humanity prevail. Yet their Author is eminently an Englishman, in the noblest sense of that honourable rp- pellation. — He loved the constitution ; he revered the religion of his country ; he was tenderly, and generously alive to her real inieresi and honor ; 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 1 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 xchat ^manner I wish to make that character display itself to my Read- ers, as far as possible, in his ozon most interesting language. — Per- haps no man ever possessed the powers of description in a higher degree. both in verse and prose. By zoeaving into the texture of these Me- moirs, an extensive sele&ion of his private Letters, and several of his c posthumous XII INTRODUCTORY LETTER. posthumous Poems, I trust, that a faithful representation of him has beenformed, where the most striking 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 aJfeElionate 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 imperfetl attempt, and lead both your Lordship, and our Country, to honour with some degree of approbation. Your very faithful Servant^ WILLIAM HAYLEY. THE CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. Introductory lktter. The Life, Part the First The Family, Birth, and First Residence of Cow- per His Eulogy on the Tenderness of his Mother, pages i, 2, 3 Her Portrait Her Epitaph by her Niece, 4, 5 Phe Schools that Cowper attended His sufferings in Childhood, 7, 8, 9 Leaves West- minster and is stationed in the House of an Attorney, 11 Verses on his early Affliftions, 12, 13 Settles in the Inner Temple His Acquaint- ance with eminent Authors, 14 His Epistle to Lloyd, 15 His Translations in Buncombe's Horace, 19 His own Account of his early Life, 19 Stanzas on Reading Sir Charles Grandison, 20 Verses Written at Bath, 1748 His Nomination to the Office of Reading Clerk in the House of Lords, 24 His extreme dread of appearing in Public, 25 His Health deranged His Retirement to the House of Dr. Cotton at St, Alban's, 26 His Recovery, 28 He settles at Huntingdon to be near his Brother residing in Cambridge, 29 The Two Brothers cm- ployed on a Translation of Voltaire's Henriade, 29 The Origin of Cowper's Acquaintance with the Family of Unwin, 30 He becomes a Part of that Family, 32 His early Friendship with Lord Thurlow and Joseph Hill, Esqr. 33 Commencement of his Letters. To Joseph Hill, Esqr. • June 24, 1J65 ••-• 1 To Major Cowper OQ. 12,1765 2 To Joseph Hill, Esqr. Ott. 25,1765 3 To Mrs, Cowper March 11, 1766 •••• 4 A To CONTENTS. To Mrs. Cowper To the same To the same To the saine April April April Sept. 4, 1766 17, 1766 18, 1766 3. 1766 20j 1766 To the same Ofl. To the same March 11, 1767 To the same March 14, 1767 To the same April 3, 1767 To the same July 13. 1767 To Joseph Hill, Esqr July 16,1767 Letter 5 6 7 8 9 10 II 12 ^3 The origin of Cowper's Acquaintance with the Rev. Mr. Newton, 65. His Removal with Mrs. Unwin on the Death of her Husband to Olney in Buckinghamshire His Devotion and Charity in his New Residence r Continuation of his Letters. June 15 16 To Joseph Hill, Esqr To the same A Poem in Memory of John Thornton, Esqr. 68 a Necessitous Child, 71 ■ Composes a Series of Hymns Continuation of his Letters. 16, 1768 •• 1769 ■• Cowper's Beneficence to To Mrs. Cowper ... without Date ij To the same August 1769, 18 Cowper is hurried to Cambridge by the dangerous Illness of his Brother, y6 To Mrs. Cowper March 5, 1770 — 19 A brief Account of the Rev. |ohn Cowper, who died March 20, 1770- and the Tribute paid to his Memory by his Brother the Poet. 20 21 22 To Joseph Hill, Esqr. May 8,1770- To Mrs. Cowper Ji'"e 7, 1770 • To Joseph Hill, Esqr. Sept. 25, 1779 • The Colleftion of the Olney Hymns interrupted by the Illness of Cowper, page 86— —His long and severe depression His tame Hares one of his first CONTENTS first amusements on Letters. his revival, 89, 90 Continuation of his To Joseph Hill, Esqr May 6, 1780 To Mrs. Cowper May 10, 17S0 To Joseph Hill, Esqr July 8, 1780 To Mrs. Cowper July 20, 17 So To the same Aug. 31, 1780 To Joseph Hill, Esqr Dec. 25,1780 To the same Feb. 15,178! To the same May 9,1781 To Mrs. Cowper 0£t. 19,1781 The Publication of his first \'oIume — not immediately successful probable reasons of the negleft that it seemed for some time to experience— —an example of the Poet's amiable ingenuousness in speaking of himself — . the various kinds of excellence in his first Volume — from page 110 to 114. Letter •• 23 ' 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 PART THE SECOND. The origin ofCowper's acquaintance with Lady Austen -a Poetical Epistle to that Lady, j 15, 120 — a Billet to the same r.,ady, and three Songs writ- ten for her Harpsichord, 122, 128 She relates to Cowper the Story of John Gilpin, 129 Contiunation of Letters, 130. To Joseph Hill, Esqr Feb. 13, 1783, ••■• 32 To the same, inclosing a Letter irom Benjamin Franklin Feb, 20,1783, .... 33 To the same i^g^^ .... 3^ To the same May 26, 1783, .... 35 To the same Oct. 20, 1783, .... 36 The origin of the Task, 135 extraQs from Cowper's Letters to the Revd. Mr. Bull, relating to the progress of that Poem, 136, 137 a sudden end af the Poet's Intercourse with Lady Austen i:-continuation of his Letters. To CONTENTS. Sept. II, 1784 To Joseph Hill, Esqr, To the same To the same ' Ji^"^ 25 1785 Letter '■• 37 ••• 38 ... ^g The Publication of Cowper's second Volume, in 1785, leads to a renewal of his Correspondence with his Relation Lady Hesketh, 139 continuation of his Letters. 24, 10, 9> 11, To Lady Hesketh Ofl. 1 2, To the same Nov. 9, To the same • ■ To the same To the same To the same To the same To the same To the same To the same To Joseph Hill, Esqr. To Lady Hesketh, To the same To the same To the same To the same To the same To the same To Joseph Hill, Esqr To the same To the same Cowper receives at Olney his Relation Lady Hesketh, 207 his Letters to the Revd. Mr, Bull Poem on Friendship, from 210 to 224 — Extraa from the Revd. Mr. Newton's Memoirs of Cowper, 225 the Removal of Mrs. Unwin and Cowper from the Town of Olney, to the Vil- lage of Weston, 226 — —continuation of his Letters: ^ To Dec Jan. Jan. Feb. Feb. Feb. ig, March 6, April 5, April April May May May May June June 17. 24, 8, 15. 25, 29, 4, 9> oa. 6, 7^5 7^5 785 785 786 786 786 786 786 786 786 786 786 786 786 786 786 786 786 7S6 786 Extrafts from 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 CONTENTS. To Lady Hesketh Nov. 26, 1786 To the same Dec. 4, 1786 To the same Dec. 9, 1786 To Joseph Hill, Esqr. Dec. 9, 1786 To Lady Hesketh Dec. 21,1786 To the same Jan. 8, 1787 "To the same Jan. .., 1787 To Samuel Rose, Esqr. July 24,1787 To the same Aug. 27, 1787 To Lrdy Hesketh Aug. 30, 1787 To the same Sept. 4, 1787 To the same Sept. 15, 1787 To the same Sept. 29, 1787 To Samuel Rose, Esqr Oft. 19, 1787 To Lady Hesketh Nov. 10, 1787 The Retired Cat, an occasional Poem, page 253. To Joseph Hill, Esqr. Nov. 16, 1787 To Lady Hesketh Nov. 27, 1787 To the same Dec. 4,1787 To the same Dec. 10, 1787 To Samuel Ro^e, Esqr Dec. 13, 1787 To Lady Plesketh Jan. 1,1788 To the same Jan. 19, 1788 To the same Jun. 30, 1788 To the same Feb. 1, 1788 To Samuel Rose, Esqr Feb. 14,1788 To Lady Hesketh Feb. 16,1788 To the same Feb. 22, 1788 To the same March 3, 1788 To the same . 12, 17S8 To General Cowper Dec. 13, 1788 The .Morning Dream, a Ballad, page 289. B Letter 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 7a 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 83 89 9<^ To \ CONTENTS Letler To Samuel Rose, Esqr March 29,1788 91 To Lady Hesketh March 31, 1788 ga To Joseph Hill, Esqr 1788 •••• 93 To Lady Hesketh May 12,1788 94 To Joseph Hill, Esqr. May 24,1788 95 To Lady Hesketh May 27,1788 gS To the same June 8^1788 gy To Joseph Hill, Esqr June 8, 1788 98 To Lady Hesketh June 10,1788 •••• 99 To the same June 15,1788 •••• lOo To Samuel Rose, Esqr. June 23, 1788 •••• loi To Lady Hesketh July 28, 1788 102 To the same August 9, 1788 103 To Samuel Rose, Esqr. August 18, 1788 104 To the same Sept. 11,1788 — 105 Two Poems on a favourite Spaniel, page 316, 317. To Samuel Rose, Esqr. Sept. 25,1788 .... 106 To the same Nov. 30,1788 107 To the same Jan, 19,1789 ... 108 To the same Jan. 24,1789 •••• 109 To the same May 20,1789 no A Poem on the Queen's Visit to London the Night of March 17, 1789, page 326. To Samuel Rose, Esqr June 5. 17^9 "•• "^ To the same June 20,1789 112 To Mrs. Throckmorton July 18,1789 113 To Samuel Rose, Esqr. July 23,1789 •••■ 114 To the same Aug. 8, 1789 115 To the same Sept. 24,1789 ■•■• 116 To the same Sept. 1789 •••• 117 To Joseph Hill, Esqr Dec. 18,1789 •••• 118 To CONTENTS. Letter To Samuel Rose, Esqr Jan. 3,1790 119 To Lady Hesketh J an. 23. 1 790 1 20 To Samuel Rose, Esqr Feb. 2,1790 121 To Lady Hesketh Feb. 9, 1790 • ... 122 Verses to Mrs. Throckmorton on her beautiful Transcript of Horace's Ode, Ad Librum suum, page 346. To Lady Hesketh Feb, 26, 1790 — i2j To Mrs. Bodham } eb. 27 1790 124 To John Johnson, Esqr. •• Feb. aS, .'79) 125 To Lady Hesketh March 8, i;q> 126 To Samuel Rose, Esqr March 11,1 790 127 To Mrs. Throckmorton March 21, 1790 i2i) To Lady Hesketh March 22, 1790 129 To John Johnson, Esqr. March 23, 1790 130 To the same , April 17,1790 131 To Lady Hesketh April 19, 1790 132 To the same April 30, 1 790 • • • • 133 To Mrs Throckmorton May 10,1790 134 To Lady He.-keth May 28, 1790 ..•• 135 To the same Jii"<^ 3> '79^ 136 To John Johnson, Esqr. June 7, 1790 137 To Samuel Rose, Esqr. June 8,1790 138 To Mrs, Bodham June 29, 1790 •••• 139 To Lady Hesketh July 7,1790 140 To John Johnson, Esqr. July 8, 1790 141 To the same July 31,1790 •■•• 142 To Mrs. Bodham Sept. 9, 1790 143 To Samuel Rose, Esqr Sept 13, 1 790 1 44 To Mrs. Bodham Nov. 21, 1790 14,- To John Johnson, Esqr. Nov. 26,1790 146 To Samuel Rose, Esqr. Nov, 30, 1790 147 To John Johnson, Esqr. Dec. 18,1790 — 148 To CONTENTS. To John Johnson, Esqr Jan, To Samuel Rose, Esqr Feb. To Lady Hesketh .'. Feb. To John Johnson, Esqr Feb. To Joseph Hill, Esqr March To the same March To John Johnson, Esqr. To- Samuel Rose, Esqr. To Mrs. Throckmorton To John Joljnson, Esqr. To Samuel Rose, Esqr. To John Johnson, Esqr, March March April April April May 21, 1791 5. 1791 13. 1791 27, 1791 6, 1791 10, 1791 19, 1791 24, 1791 1, 1791 6, 1 79 1 29, 1791 23. 1791 The Judgment of the Poets, an occasional Poem, page 405. To Samuel Rose, Esqr June 15,1791 • Letter 149 150 152 153 154 ^55 156 158 159 160 161 The first Publication of Cowper's Homer The Pleasure he derived from that Work Extraft of a Letter on the Subjeft to his Kinsman of Nor- folk, page 410, to the End of the Volume. DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER. The Portrait, after Romncy, as a Frontispiece to Vol. I. The Portrait, after Lawrence, as a Frontispiece to Vol. II. The Portrait of Mrs. Cowper, to face the 4th Page of Vol. I. THE LIFE O F C O W P E R. PART THE FIRST. INGENIUM PROBITAS, ARTEMQUE MODESTIA VINCIT. nr^ H E Family of Cowper appears to have held, for several centuries, a respe6lable rank among the merchants and gen- try of England. We learn from the life of the first Eai'l Cowper, in the Biographia Britannica, that his ancestors were inhabitants of Sussex, in the reign of Edward the Fourth. The name is found repeatedly among the Sheriffs 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 distinction in the beginning of die last century, by the remarkable circun'istance of producing t^vo brothers, who both obtained a seat in tlic house of jxers by eminence in the profession of the law. William, the eldest, became Lord High Chancellor in 1707. Spencer Cowper, the youngest, was appointed Cliicf Justice of Chester in 1717, and afterwards a judge in the court of Common Pleas, being permitted by the particular favor of the King to B hold ■2 LIFE OF COWPER. hold those two offices to the end of his hfe. He died in Lincoln's Inn, on the tenth 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, Esqr. Judge Cowper left several children ; among them a daughter Judith, who at the age of eighteen discovered a striking talent for poetry, in the praise of her cotemporary poets Pope and Hughes. This lady, the wife of Colonel Madan, transmitted her own poetical and devout spirit, to her daughter Frances Maria, who was married to her cousin Major Cowper, and whose amiable charafter will unfold itself in the course of this work, as the friend and correspondent of her more eminent relation, the second grandchild of the judge, destined to honor the name of Cowper, by displaying with pecu- liar purity and fervor, the double enthusiasm of poetry and devo- tion. The father of the great author to whom I allude, was John Cowper, the judge's second son, who took his degrees in divinity, was chaplain to King George the Second, and resided at his Rec- tory of Great Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, the scene of the Poet's infancy, which he has thus com.memorated in a singu- larly 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 nursry floor. And where the gardener Robin day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted LIFE OF COWPER. 3 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet viantle xoarm, 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, Still outlives many a storm that has ejfacd A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. That thou might' st knoxo me safe and zoarmly laid. Thy morning bounties, ere I left my home. The biscuit, or confcElionary plumb ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow d By thy own hand, 'till fresh they shone andglow'd. All this, and more endearing still than all. Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall ; Ne'er roughen'd by those catarads and breaks, That humour interposd too often makes, All this, still legible in memory's page. And still to be so to my latest age. Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may. The parent whose merits are so feelingly recorded by the filial tenderness of the Poet, was Ann daughter of Roger Donne, Esqr. of Ludham Hall, in Norfolk. This lady, whose family is said to have been originally from Wales, was married in the bloom of youth to Dr. Cowper; after giving birth to several children, who died in B 2 their 4 I-IFE OF COWPER. their infancy, and leaving two sons, William, the immediate subjeft 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), she died in childbed at the early age of 34, in 1737. It may be Avished that the painter employed to preserve a resemblance of such a wo inan had possessed those powers of graceful and perfect delinea- tion, which in a different art belonged to the pen of her son, bui her portrait executed by Heins in oil-colours, on ^ small scale, is a production infinitely inferior to tlie very beautiful 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 affeftionate interest in the mothei. of Cowj:)er? Those who delight in contemplating the best affections of our nature, Avill ever admire the tender sensibility Avith \vhich the Poet has acknowledged his obligations to this amiable mother, in a poem composed more than 50 years after her decease. Rea- ders of this description may find a pleasure in obsei-ving how the praise so liberally bestowed on this tender parent, at so late a pe- riod is confirmed (if praise so unquestionable may be said to re- ceive confirmation) by another poetical record of her merit, which the hand of affinity and affeftion bestowed upon her tomb. A re- cord Avritten at a time when the Poet, who was destined to prove in his advanced life her more poAverful eulogist, had hardly begun to shew the dawn of that genius, which after years of silent afflic- tion, arose like a star emerging from tempestuous darkness. The LIFE OF COWPER, ' 5 The monument of Mrs. Cow|:>er, ereclcd by her liusbaiid in the chancel of St. Peter's church at Bcrkhamstead, contains the following verses composed by a young lady her niece, the late Lady Walsingham. Here lies, in early years bereft of lije, Tlie best of mothers, and the kindest wife. Who neither knew, norpradic'd any art. Secure in all she xdsh'd, her husband's heart. Her love to him still prevalent in death Pray'd Heaven to bless him with her latest breath. Still zuas slie sticdious never to offend, And glad of an occasion to commend : With ease zoould pardon injuries received. Nor e'er was chearful when another griev'd. Despising state, with her own lot content. Enjoy' d the con forts of a life well-spent. Resigned wlien Heaven demanded back her breath, Her mind heroic 'midst the pangs of death. Whoe'er thou art that dost this Tomb draw near, stay awhile, and shed afriendly tear. These lines, tho' weak, are as herself sincere. \ The truth and tenderness of this Epitaph will more than compensate with every candid Reader the imperfeftion ascribed to it by its young and modest Author — To have lost a parent of a characler so virtuous and endearing, at an early period of his 6 LIFE OF COWFER. his childhood, was the prime misfortune of Cowper, and what contributed perhaps in the highest degree to the dark colouring of his subsequent life. — The nifluence of a good mother on the first years of her children, whether nature has given them pecu- liar strength, or peculiar delicacy of frame, is equally inestimable : It is the prerogative and the felicity of such a mother to temper the arrogance of the strong, and to dissipate the timidity of the tender. The infancy of Cowper was delicate in no common degree, and his constitution discovered at a very early season that morbid ten- dency to diffidence, to melancholy, and despair, ^vhich darkened as he advanced in years into periodical fits of the most deplorable 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 thro' life the highest degrees of admiration and of pity — of admi- ration for mental excellence, and of pity for mental disorder. We understand human nature too imperfeftly to ascertain in what measure the original structure of his frame, and the casual in- cidents of his life, contributed to the happy perfeftion of his ge- nius, or to the calamitous eclipses of his effulgent mind. Yet such were the talents, the virtues, and the misfortunes of tliis wonderful person, that it is hardly possible for Biography, extensive as her province is, to speak of a more interesting individual, or to seleft a subje6l on which it may be more difficult to satisfy a variety of readers. LIFE OF COWPER. 7 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, with which I cultivated his friendship, and to the gratification that I feel in recalling to my own recollection the delightful extent and diversity of his literary powers, with the equally delightful s\veet- ness of his social chara6ler. But the powerful influence of such recolleQion has drawn mc imperceptibly from the proper course of my narrative.— I return to the childhood of Cowpcr. In first quitting the house of his pa- rents, he ^vas sent to a reputable school at Market-Street, in Hert- fordshire, under the care of Dr. Pitman, and it is probable that he was removed from it in consequence of an ocular complaint. From a circumstance which he relates of himself at that period, in a letter written to mc in 1792, he seems to 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, subjeft to inflamma- " tions 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 mc to a female Oculist of great renown at that " time, in whose house I abode two years, but to no good pur- pose. 8 LIFE OF COWPER, " pose. Fi-om her I went to Westminster school, where at the age " of fourteen the small-pox seized me, and proved the better ocu- " list of the t\vo, for it delivered me from them all. — Not how- " ever from great liableness to inflammation, to which I am in a " degree still subjeft, tho' much less than formerly, since I have '•' been 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 occulist, immedi- ately into all the hardships that a little delicate boy must have to encounter at a public school. But the mother of Cowper was dead, and fathers, tho' good men, are in general, utterly unfit to manage their young and tender orphans. The little Cowper was sent to his first school in the year of his mother's death, and how ill-suited the scene was to his peculiar character, 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 exis- tence. He has been frequently heard to lament the persecution, that he sustained in his childish years, from the cruelty of his school fel- lows, in the two scenes of his education. His own forcible expres- sion, represented him at Westminster as not daring to raise his eye above the shoe-buckle of the elder boys, ^vho were too apt to tyran- nise over his gentle spirit. The acutcness of his feelings in his childhood, rendered those importcmt years (^vhich might have produced, under tender cultivation, a series of lively enjoyments) miserable LIFE OF COWPER. g miserable years of increasing timidity and depression, which, in the most cheerful hours of his advanced life, he could hardly describe to an intimate friend, without shuddering at the recollcftion 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 Poem on public schools. Poets may be said to realize, in some measure, the poetical idea of the Nightingale's singing with a thorn at her breast, as their most exquisite songs have often originated in the acuteness of their personal sufferings. Of this obvious truth, the Poem, I have just mentioned, is a very memorable example, and if any Readers have thought the Poet too severe in his strictures on that system of education, to which we owe some of the most accomplished cha- rafters, that ever gave celebrity to a civilized nation, such Readers will be candidly reconciled to that moral severity of reproof, in re- coUeding, that it flowed from severe personal experience, united to the purest spirit of philanthropy 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 Tansillo's poem, the Nurse, by which these enchanting writers have induced, and will continue to induce, so many mothers in polished life to suckle their own children. Yet similar as these ex- hortations may be esteemed, in their benevolent design, and in their C graceful lo LIFE OF COWPER. graceful expression, there arc two powerful reasons, which must, in all probability, prevent their being attended with similar success. In the first place, ^voman has, in general, much stronger propensity than man to the perfect discharge of parental duties : and secondly the avocations of men are so imperious, in their different lines of life, that few fathers could command sufficient leisure (if nature fur- nished them with talents and inclination) to fullill the arduous office of preceptor to their own children; yet arduous and irksome as the office is generally thought, there is perhaps no species of mental labour so perfectly sweet in its success ; and the Poet justly exclaims : 'tis a sight to he zoith joy perus'd. A sight surpass'd by none that zve can shew! A Father blest xcith 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, that he describes in these A'erses, his early years would certainly have been happier ; but men, Avho are partial to public schools, will probably doubt, if any system of private tuition could have pro\ed more favorable to the future display of his genius, than such an education, as he received at Westminster, where, however, the peculiar delicacy of his nature might LIFE OF COWPER. n might expose him to an extraordinaiy portion of juvenile discomfort, he undoubtedly acquired the accomplishment, and the reputation of scholaiship ; ^vith the advantcige of being known and esteemed by- some aspiring youths, of his o^vn age, ^vho were destined to become conspicuous, and po-werful, 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 determined, that all his early situations in life should be peculiarly irksome to his delicate feelings, and tend rather to promote, than to counteraft a constitu- tional tendency 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 vears in the house of a Mr. Chapman, to whom he was engaged by articles for that time. Here he ^vas placed for the study of a profession, \vhich nature seemed resolved, that he never should practice. The h\v is a kind of soldiership, and like the profession of arms, it may be said to require for the constitution of its heroes " A frame of adamant, a soul of fire.'' The soul of Cowper had indeed its fire, but fire so refined and aethe- rial, that it could not be expe£led to shine in the gross atmosphere of worldly contention. Perhaps therenever existed a mortal, who possessing, with a good person, intellectual po\s'ers naturally strong, and highly cultivated, Avas so utterly unfit to encounter the bustle C 2 and J 2 LIFE OF COWPER. and j^erplexities of public life. But the extreme modesty and shy- ness of his nature, which disqualified him for scenes of business and ambition, endeared him inexpressibly to those, who had oppor- tunities to enjoy his society, and faculties to appretiate the uncom- mon excellence of his interesting characler. 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 lo^'e : but tho' 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 the lady, to whom they were addressed. Doom'd, as I am, in solitude to waste The present moments, and regret the past ; Deprived of every joy, I valued most, My Friend torn from me, and my Mistress lost ; Call not this gloom., Itoear, this anxious mien. The dull effect of humour, or of spleen! Still, LIFE OF COWPER. 13 Still, still, I mourn, mth each returning day. Him* s natch' d by Fate, in early youth, away. And Her — thro' tedious years of doubt and pain, Fix'd in her choice, and faithful — but in vain ! prone to pity, generous, and sincere. Whose eye ne'er yet refused the -wretch a tear ; Whose heart the real claim of friendship knozus, Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes; See me — ere yet my des tin' d course ha f done, Cast forth a wand'rer on a wild unknown ! See me negleEled 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 f 0x0! Why all, that sooths a heart,from anguish free. All that delights the liappy — palls with me ! When he quitted the house of the solicitor, where he was placed to acquire the rudiments of litigation, he settled liimself in chambers of the Inner-Tcmplc, as a regular student of law; but altho he resided there to the age of thirty-three, he rambled (accord- ing 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 con- fined him to social and subordinate exertions: — He wrote "^and printed both prose and verse, as the concealed assistant of less dif- fident * Sir William Russel, the favourite friend of the young Poet. 14 LIFE OF COWPER. fident 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 Thornton, and Lloyd. His regard to the two first induced him to contribute to their periodical publication, entitled the Connoisseur, three excellent papers, which the Reader will find in the Appendix to these \'olumes, and from Avhich he will perceive, that Cowper had such talents for this pleasant and useful species of composition, as might h^ve rendered him a worthy associate, in such labours, to Addison himself, whose graceful powers have never been surpassed in that province of literature, which may still be considered as pecu- Harly his own. The intimacy of Cowper and Lloyd may have given rise^ per- haps to some early productions of our Poet, Avhich it may now be hardly possible to ascertain ;— the probability of this conjefture arises from the necessities of Lloyd, and the affectionate liberality of his friend. As the former was tempted by his narro^\- finances to en- gage in periodical works, it is highly probable that the pen of Cowper e\er ready to second the charitable Avishes of his heart, might be devoted to the service of an indigent Author, whom he appears to have loved with a very cordial affection. — I find that af- fection agreably displayed in a sporti\'c poetical epistle, which may claim a place in this volume, not only as an early specimen of Cowpcr's poetry, but as exliibiting a sketch of his own mind at the .age of twenty-three. AN LIFE OF COWPER. 15 AN' EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESOR. 173 1- 'Tis not that J 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 ; Nor that I mean, zohile thus I knit My thread-bare sentiments together, To shew my genius, or my nit. When God and you know, I have neither : Or such, as might be better shewn, By letting Poetry alone. 'Tis not with either of these views, That I presume to address the Muse ; But to divert a fierce banditti, f Sworn foes to every thing that's zoitty f) That, with a black, infernal train. Make cruel inroads in my brain. And daily threaten to drive thence My little garrison of sense : The fierce banditti, which I mean, Are gloomy thoughts, led on by spleen. Then there's another reasonyet. Which is, that I may fairly quit The debt, tohich justly became due The moment, when I heard from you : And you might grumble, crony mine. If paid in any other coin ; Since twenty sheets of lead, God knoxos (I xuould say twenty sheets of prose) Can i6 LIFE OF COWPER. Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much As one of gold, and yours -was such. Thus, the preliminaries settled, I fairly find myself pitch-kettled ;* And cannot see, tho'few see better, Mow I shall hammer out a letter. First, for a thought — since all agree — A thought — I have it — let me see — 'Tis gone again — Plague on' t ! I thought I had it — but I have it not. Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son, That useful thing, her needle, gone; Rake well the cinders ; — sweep thefoor, And sift the dust behind the door ; While eager Hodge beholds the prize In old Grimalkin's glaring eyes ; And Gammer finds it on her knees In every shining straw, she sees. This simile were apt enough ; But I've another critic-proof f The Virtuoso thus, at noon Broiling beneath a July sun, The gilded Butterfy pursues, O'er hedge and ditch, thro' gaps and mews ; And * PiUh-kettled a favorite phrafe at the time when this Epifllc was written, cxpreflive of being puzzled, or what, in the Speftators' time, would have been called bamboozled. LIFE OF COWPER. 17 And after many a vain essay To captivate the tempting prey. Gives him at length the lucky pat. And has him safe, beneath his hat : Then lifts it gently from the ground ; But ah ! 'tis lost, as soon as found ; Culprit his liberty regains ; Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains. The sense was dark ; 'twas therefore fit With simile V 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 Mattheios numbers run with ease, Each man of common sense agrees ; All nun 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 refind, the meanest strains ; Nor suffer' d one ill chosen rhyme T escape him, at the idlest time ; And thus o'er all a lustre cast. That, while the language lives, shall last. An' t please your Ladyship (quoth I J For 'tis my business to reply ; D Sure i8 LIFE OF COWPER. Sure so much labour, so much toil. Bespeak at least a stubborn soil : Theirs be the laurel-zvreath decreed. Who both write well, and write full speed ! Who throzo their Helicon about As freely, as a conduit spout ! Friend Robert, thus like chien scavant, Let's fall a poem en passant. Nor needs his genuine ore refine ; 'Tis ready polish! d from the mine. It may be proper to obser\^e, that this lively praise on the playful talent of Lloyd was written six years before that amiable, but unfortunate, Author published the best of his serious poems, " The A6lor," a composition of considerable merit, Avhich proved a prelude to the more powerful, and popular, Rosciad of Churchill; who, after surpassing Lloyd as a rival, assisted him very liberally as a friend. While Cowpcr 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, tho' diffident, passion for poetry, and to train him imperceptibly to that masterly command of language, 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 him- self in translation from anticnt and modern poets, and devoted his composition LIFE OF COWPER. 19 composition 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 Duncombes, father and son, were amiable scholars, of a Hertfordshire family ; and the elder Buncombe, 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 reSpeftable 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 t\v'o Satires, I have mentioned, were translated by William Cowper, I ha\'e not been able to ascertain ; but they are worthy his pen, and will therefore appear in the Appendix to these volumes. Speaking of his own early life, in a letter to Mr. Park (dated March 1792) Cowj^er says, with that extreme modesty, which was one of his most remarkable char.acleristics, " From the age of " 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, ^\•here my reading has been only an " apology for idleness, and where, when I had not either a Maga- " zine, or a Review, I was sometimes a Carpenter, at others, a " Bird-cage maker, or a Gardener, or a Drawer of landscajxs. At •' fifty years of age I commenced an Author : — It is a ^vhim, that " has ser\'cd me longest, and best, and will probably be my last." D 2 Lightly ■io LIFE OF COWPER. Lightly as this most modest of Poets has spoken of his own exertions, 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 sentiments of piety ; and in proof of this assertion, I seleft 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 oppressed ; — unseen, and unimplord, To chear the face of woe ; From latoless insult to defend An orphan's right — a fallen friend, And a forgiven foe ; These, these, distinguish, from the croud. And these alone, the great and good. The guardians of mankind ; Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, 0, with what matchless speed, they leave/ The multitude behind ! Then ask ye from zohat cause on earth Virtues like these derive their birth ? Derived fr 0771 Heaven alone. Full on thatfavor'd breast they shine. Where Faith and Resignation join To call the blessing down. . Such LIFE OF COWPER. 21 Such is that heart : — But while the Muse Thy theme, Richardson, pursues, Her feebler spirits faint : She cannot reach, and xuould not wrong That suhjeUfor an Angel's song. The Hero, and the Saint. His early tuin to moralize, on the slightest occasion, will apjxrai 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 themselves in the richest maturity, at a distant period, and rendered that beautiful and su- blime poem, The Task, the most instru6livc and interesting of modern compositions. VERSES WRITTEN \T BATH, IN I748, ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE. Fortune ! I thank thee : gentle Goddess ! thanks ! Not that my Muse, tho' 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 dispell the fumes. And bowel-racking pains of emptiness. Nor noon-tidefcast, nor evening's cool repast Hopes she from this, presumptuous, tho' perhaps The Cobler, leather-carving artist ! might. Natkless 2 2 LIFE OF COWPER. Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon Whatever, not as erst the fabled Cock, Vain glorious fool ! unknowing zvhat he found, Spurn'd the rich gem, thou gav'st him. Wherefore ah ! Why not on me that favour, (-worthier sure ! ) Conferfdst thou, Goddess ! Thou art blind, thou safst : Enough ! — Thy blindness shall excuse the deed. Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found ; Illustrious hints to moralize my song ! This pond'rous Heel of perforated hide Compa6l, with pegs indented, many a row. Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks) The weighty tread of some rude peasant cloxon Upbore : on this supported oft, he stretched. With uncouth strides, along the furrow' d glebe. Flattening the stubborn clod, Hill cruel time, (What will not cruel time ?) on a wry step Sever'd the striEl cohesion : when, alas ! He, who could erst, with even, equal pace. Pursue his destined zuay, with syyiietry. And some proportion form' d, now, on on one side, Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys. Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop ! With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on. Thus fares it oft with other, than the feet Of humble villager — the statesman thus, Up LIFE OF COWPER. 23 Up the steep road, where proud ambition leads, Aspiring first, uninterrupted xdnds His prosp'rous way ; nor fears miscarriage foul, While policy prevails, and friends prove true : But that support soon failing, by him left, On whom he most depended, basely left, Betray'd, deserted, from his airy heigth Head-long he falls ; and thro' the rest of life. Drags the dull load of disappointment on. * Of a youth, who, in a scene Uke Bath, could produce such a meditation, it might fairly be expefted, that he would " In riper Ife, exempt from public haunt. Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks. Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." These few words of Shakespear have often appeared to me as an absolute portrait of Cowpcr, at that happiest period of his days, \vhen he exercised, and enjoyed, his rare poetical powers in pri- \'acy, at the pleasant village of Weston. But before we contem- plate the poetical Recluse in that scene, it is the duty of his Biographer to relate some painful incidents, that led him, by ex- liaordinary steps, to his favourite retreat. Tho' extreme diffidence, and a tendency to dcsix)nd, seemed earh' 2 4 LIFE OF COWPER. early to preclude Cowper from the expeftation of climbing to the splendid summit of the profession, he had chosen ; yet, by the interest of his family, he had prospefts of emolument, in a line of public life, that appeared better suited to the modesty of his na- ture, 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 establish- ment might enable him to marry early in life ; a measure, to which he was doubly disposed by judgement and inclination. But the peculiarites 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 expedient was devised to promote his interest, without wounding his feelings. Resigning his situation of reading Clerk, he was appointed Clerk of the Journals in the same House of Par- liament, with a hope, that his personal appearance, in that assembly, might not be required ; but a parliamentary dispute made it neces- sary for him to appear at 'the Bar of the House of Lords, to en- title himself publickly to the office. Speaking of this important incident in a sketch, Avhich he once formed himself, of passages in his early life, he expresses, what he endured at the time, in these remarkable words: " They, " whose LIFE OF COWPER. 25 " whose spirits are formed like mine, to whom a public exhibition " of themselves is mortal poison, may have some idea of the horrors " 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 altho' he had endeavoured to prepare himself for his public duty, by attend- ing closely at the oflice, for several months, to examine the par- liamentary journals, his application Avas 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 encreased to such a degree, as the time for his appearance approached, that when the day so anxiously dreaded, arrived, he was unable to make the experiment. The very friends, Avho called on him, for the purpose of attending him to the House of Lords, acquiesced in the cruel necessity of his relinquishing the prospect of a station so severely formidable to a fi-ame of such singular sensibility. The conflict bet\v'een the wishes of just affcftionate am- bition, and the terrors of diffidence, so entirely overwhelmed his health and faculties, that after two learned and benevolent Divines (Mr. Joiin Cowper his brother, and the celebrated Mr. Martin Madan, his first cousin) had vainly endeavoured to establish a lasting tranquillity in his mind, by friendly and religious con\Tr- E sation, 26 LIFE OF COWPER. sation, it was found necessary to remove him to St. Alban's, where he resided a considerable time, under the care of that eminent phy- sician. Dr. Cotton, a scholar, and a poet, who added to many ac- complishments a peculiar sweetness of manners, m very advanced life, Avhen I had the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with him. The misfortune of mental derangement is a topic of such aweful delicacy, that I consider it as the duty of a Biographer, rather to sink, in tender silence, than to proclaim, with circum- stantial, and offensive temerity, the minute particulars of a cala- mity, to which all human beings are exposed, and perhaps in pro- portion, as they have received from nature those delightful, but dangerous gifts, a heart of exquisite tenderness, and a mind of creative energy. This is a sight for pity to peruse, 'Till she resembles, faintly, xohat she views ; 'Till sympathy contrail a kindred fain, Pierc'd with the woes, that she laments in vain. This, of all maladies, that man infest, Claims most compassion, and receives the least. But, with a soul, that ever felt the sting Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing. 'Tis LIFE OF COWPER. 27 'Tis not, as heads that never ach, suppose, Forg'ry of fancy, and a dream of woes. Man is a harp, xohose chords elude the sight. Each yielding harmony, disposed aright ; The screws reversed (a task, which if He f lease God, iiv a moment executes with ease ; ) Ten thousand, thousand strings at once go loose ; Lost, till He tune them, all their poxc'r and use. No xoounds like those, a wounded, spirit feels ; No cure for such, 'till God, who makes them, heals. And thou, sad Sufferer, binder nameless ill. That yields not to the touch of human skill. Improve the kind occasion, understand A Father's froxon, and kiss the chasVning Hand ! Il is in this aweful, and instructi\'e light, that Cowpcr himself leaches us to consider the calamity, of which I am now speaking; imd of which he, like his illustrious brother of Parnassus, the younger Tasso, was occasionally a most affefting example. Heaven appears to ha\'e given a striking lesson to mankind, to guard both virtue, and genius, against pride of heart, and pride of intelleft, by thus suspending the affeftions, and the talents, of two most tender, and sublime Poets, who, in the purity of their li^•es, and in the splendor of their intelle6lual poAvers, ^vill be ever deservedly reckoned among the pre-eminent of the earth. From December 1 763, to the follo'wing July, the pure mind E 2 of 2 8 LIFE OF COWPER. of Cowper a])pears to hav^e laboured under the severest sufferings of morbid depression : but the medical skill of Dr. Cotton, and the chearful, 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 admirable faculties of this innocent, and upright man. His ideas of religion -were changed, from the gloom of terror and de- spair, to the lustre of comfort and delight. This juster and happier view of Evangelical truth is said to have arisen in his mind, Avhile he Avas reading the 3d Chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans. Devout contemplation became more and more dear to his re\'i\'ing spirit : resoh'ing to relinquish all thoughts of a laborious profession, and all intercourse with the busy \v'orld, he acquiesced in a plan of settling at Huntingdon, by the advice of his brother, who, as a Minister of the Gospel, and a Fellow of Bennet College, in Cambridge, resided in that University ; a situation so near to the place chosen for Cowper's retirement, that it afforded to these afteclionatc brothers opportunities of easy and frequent intercourse. I regret that all the letters, which passed between them, have perished, and the more so as they sometimes 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 WiUiam, who translated, as he informed me himself, two entire Cantos LIFE OF COWPER, " 29 Cantos of the Poem. A specimen of this fraternal production, which appeared in a Magazine of die year 1759, will be found iu the Appendix to these volumes. In June 1 765, the reviving Invalid removed to a private lodg- ing in the To\vn of Huntino;don, but Providence soon introduced him into a family, which afforded him one of the most singular, and valuable friends, that ever watched an afflifted mortal in sea- sons of overAvhclming adversity ; that friend, to whom the Poet exclaims, in the commencement of the Task, And witness, dear companion of my walks. Whose arm, this txoentieth winter, I perceive Fast lock'd in viine, with pleasure, such as love, Confirmed by long experience of thy xoorth. And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire ; Witness a joy, that thou hast doubled long ! Thou knoxo'st my praise of nature most sincere ; And that my raptures are not conjured up To serve occasions of poetic pomp. But genuine, and art partner of them all. These verses would be alone sufficient to make every poetical Reader take a lively interest in the lady, they describe, but these are far from being the only triljutc, which the gratitude of Co^vpe^ has paid to the endearing virtues of his female companion. More poetical memorials of her merit ^vill be found in these Volumes, and 30 LIFE OF COWEPR. 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 inspired these admirable eulogies. The attachment of Cowper to Mrs. Unwin, the Mary of the Poet ! Avas an attachment perhaps unparalelled. Their domestic union, tho' not sanftioned by the common forms of life, was supported with perfeft innocence, and endeared to them both, by their having struggled together, thro' a series of sorro^v. 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 sino;ular attachment, ^o" L' Amour n'a rien de si tendr^, Ni L'Amitie de si doux. As a connexion 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 following little incident. The countenance and deportment of Cowper, tho' they indi- cated his native shyness, had yet very singular powers of attradion. On his first appearance in one of the churches at Huntingdon, he LIFE OF COWPER. 31 he engaged the notice and respefl of an amiable young man, William Cawthorne Unwin, then a student at Cambridge, who, ha\'ing observed, after divine service, that the interesting Stranger was taking a solitary turn under a row of trees, was irresistbly led to share his walk, and to solicit his acquaintance. They were soon pleased Avith each other, and the intelligent youth, charmed with the acquisition of such a friend, was eager to communicate the treasure to his parents, who had long resided in Huntinsfdon. Mr. UnAs'in, the father, had for some years, been master of a free school in the town; but, as he advanced in life, he quitted thai 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 Ax'orthy Divine, who was now far advanced in years, had been Leclurer to the tAvo Churches in Huntingdon, before he obtained, from his College at Cambridge, the Living of Grimston. While he Yived in expeclation of this preferment, he had attached himself to a young lady of li\'ely talents, and remarkably fond of reading. This lady, who, in the process of time, and by a series of singular events, became the friend and guardian of Cowper, was the daughter of Mr. Cawdiorne, a draper in Ely. She was married to Mr. Un\vin on his succeeding to the preferment, that he e.v- peeled 32 LIFE OF COWPER. peeled 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 kno^vn and respe£led. They had resided there many years, and with their two only 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 counte- nances uncommonly pleasing) they formed a chearful, and social family, when the younger Unwin, described by Cowper, as " A Friend, Whose zoorth deserves the warmest lay. That ever friendship pennd ;" presented to his parents the solitary Stranger, on whose retire- ment he had benevolently intruded, and whose welfare he became more and more anxious to promote. An event highly pleasing and comfortable to Cowper soon follo\ved this introduftion ; he was af- feftionately 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 enabled to employ his own descrip- tive powers in recording the events and charafters, that particularly interested him, and in displaying the state of his mind at a re- markable LIFE OF COWPER. 33 markable season of his checkered life. The following are the most early Letters of this affeftionate 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 particu- larly regarded two gentlemen, Av'ho devoted themselves to different branches of the Law, the present Lord Thurlow, and Joseph Hill, Esqr. whose name appears in the second Volume of Cowper's Poems, prefixed to a few \^erses of exquisite beauty ; a brief epistle, that seems to have more of the genuine ease, spirit, and moral gaiety of Horace, than any original epistle in the English language ! From these two confidential associates of the Poet, in his unclouded years, I expefted materials for the display of his early genius ; but in the torrent of busy and splendid life, which bore the first of them to a mighty distance from his less ambitious fellow-student of the Temple, the private letters, and verses, that arose from their A'outhful intimacy have perished. Mr. Hill has kindly favored mc with a very copious collec- tion of Co\vper's Letters to himself, through a long period of time, and altho' many of them are of a nature, not suited to publication, yet 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 fij-st F atnong 34 LIFE OF COWPER. among those, Avhom Cowper has honored by addressing to them his highly interesting and aflPectionale Letters. Many of these which I shall occasionally introduce in the parts of the narrative to ^\•hich they belong, may tend to confirm a truth, not unpleasing to the majority of Readers, that the temperate zone of moderate for- tune, equally remo^'ed from high, and low life, is most faA'orable to the permanence of friendship. LETTER I. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. — Cook's Court, Carey- Street, London. Huntingdon, June 24, 1765. DEAR JOE, The only recompense I can make you for your kind attention to my affairs, during my illness, is to tell you, that by the mercy of God I am restored to perfeft health both of mind and body. This, I believe, will give you pleasure, and I would gladly do any thing, from which you could re- ceive it. I left St. Alban's on the 17th, and arrived that day at Cam- bridge, spent some time there with my brother, and came hither on the 2 2d. I have a lodging that puts me continually in mind of our summer excursions ; we have had many worse, and except the size of it (which however is sufficient for a single man) but few better. LIFE OF COWPER. 35 better. I am not quite alone, having brought a servant \viili me from St. Alban's, who is the very mirror of fidcUty and affedion for his master. And whereas the Turkish Spy savs, he kept no servant, because he would not have an enemy in his house, I hired mine, because I would have a friend. Men do not usually bestow these encomiums on their lackeys, nor do they usually deserve them, but I have had experience of mine, both in sickness and in health, and never saw his fellow. The ri\'cr Ouse, I forget how they spell it, is the most agrea- ble circumstance in this part of the world ; at this town it is I be- lieve as wide as the Thames at \Vindsor; nor docs the silver Thames better deser\e that epithet, nor has it more flowers upon its banks, diese being attributes which in stri6l truth belong to neither. Flucllin would say they are as like as my fingers to my fingers, and there is Salmon in bodi. It is a noble stream to bathe in, and I shall make that use of it three times a week, having in- troduced myself to it for the first time this morning. I beg you will remember me to all my friends, which is a task will cost you no great pains to execute — particularly remem- ber me to those of your own house, and bclie\'e me Your very affeclionatc Wm. COWPER. F 2 1. 1 r T L R. :^6 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER II. To Major COWPER, at the Park-House, near Hartford, Huntingdon, Ocl. 18, 1765. MY DEAR MAJOR, I liaA'e neither lost the use of my fingers nor my memory, though my unaccountable silence might incline you to suspeft, that I had lost both. The history of those things which hzve, 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 expeftations of the accommodation I should meet with at Huntingdon. Ho^y 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 impos- sible I could have fixt upon a place so agreable to me in all re- spefts. I so much dreaded the thought of having a ne^v^ acquain- tance to make, with 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 arrival, I became known to all the visitable people here, and do verily think it the most agreable neighbourhood I ever sa-w. Here LIFE OF COWPER. 37 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, who suit my temper to a hair. The town is one of the neatest in England, the country is fine, for several miles about it, and the roads, \vhich are all turnpike, and strike out four or five different ways, are perfe6lly good all the year round. I mention this latter circumstance 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 ^veek, by an alternate reciprocation of inter- course, as Sam Johnson would express it, sometimes I get a lift in a neighbours chaise, but generally ride. As to my o^v^n personal condition, I am much happier than the day is long, and sun-shine and candle-light alike see me perfeftly contented. I get books in abundance, as much company as I chuse, a deal of comfortable lei- sure, and enjoy, better health, I think, than for many years past. What is 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 cvciy body at the Park. If Mrs. Maitland is with you, as I suspeft by a passage m Lady Hcsketh's letter to mc, pray remember mc to her very affeftionatcly. And believe mc, my dear friend, ever yours, Wm. COWPER. LETTER 38 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER III. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. October 25, 1 765. DEAR JOE, I am afraid the month of Oclober has proved rather unfavourable to the belle assemblee at South- hampton, high winds and continual rains being bitter enemies to that agreable 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 UnA\'in — the most agr^ble people imaginable; quite sociable, and as free from the ceremonious civility of country gentlefolks as any I ever met with. They treat me more like a near relation then a stranger, and their house is always open to me. The old gentleman carries me to Cambridge in his chaise, He is a man of learning and good sense, and as simple as Parson Adaiiis. His wife has a very uncommon understanding, has read much to excellent purpose, and is more polite than a dutchess. The son, who belongs to Cajnbridge, is a most amiable young man, and the daughter quite of a piece Avith the rest of the family. They see but little company, which suits me exactly ; go when I \\'i\\, I find a house full of peace and cordiality in all its parts, and am sufe to hear no scandal, but such discourse instead of it, as" we are all the better for. You remember Rousseau's description LIFE OF COWPER. 39 description of an English morning ; such are the mornings I spend with these good people, and the e\'enings differ from them in nothing, except that they are still more snug and quieter. Now I know them, I wonder that I liked Huntingdon so well before I knew them, and am apt to think, I should find every place disa- greable, thai had not an Unwin belonging to it. This incident con\'inces me of tlie truth of an observation I ha\'e 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 think- ing disgraceful to ourselves. Wapping and Rednff may contain some of the most amiable persons living, and such as one would go to Wapping and Rcdrifi' to make acquaintance with. You re- member 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 blush unseen, And waste its fragrance on the desert air. Yours, dear Joe, Wm. COWPER. LETTER 40 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER IV. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, near Hartford. MY DEAR CaUSIN, I am much obliged to you for PearsalFs Meditations, especially as it furnishes me with an occasion of writing to you, which is all I have waited for. My friends must excuse me, if I write to none but those, who lay it fairly in my way to do so. The inference I am apt to dra\v from their silence is, that they wish me to be silent too. I have great reason my dear Cousin, to be thankful to the gra^ cious Providence, that conduced me to this place. The lady, in whose house I live, is so excellent a person, and regards mc with a friendship so truly Christian, that I could almost fancy my own Mother restored to life again, to compensate to me for all the friends I have lost, and all my connexions broken. She has a son at Cam- bridge in all respects worthy of such a mother, the most amiable young man I ever kncAV. His natural and acquired endowments are very 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 tome, to say the LIFE OF COWPER. 41 the least, I now kno\v hoAv 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 shinins: 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 affeftionately, Pluntingdon, W. COWPER. At the Revd. Mr. Unwin's, March 11,1 766^ LETTER V. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. April 4, 1766. MY DE.\R COUSIN, I agree with you that letters are not es- sential to friendship, but they seem to be a natural fruit of it, -w^hen they are the only intercourse that can be had. And a friendship producing no sensible effeds is so like indifference, that the ap- pearance may easily deceive even an acute discerner. I retraft G however 4'Z LIFE OF COWPER. however all thai I said in my last upon this subject, having reason to suspecl that ic proceeded from a principle which I \vould dis- courage in myself upon all occasions, even a pride that felt itself hurt upon a mere suspicion of negle6l. I have so much cause for humilitv, and so much need of it too, and every little sneaking resentment is such an enemy to it, that I hope I shall never give quarter to any thing that appears in the shape of sullenness or self- consequence hereafter. Alas ! if my best Friend, ^vho laid down his life for me, were to remember all the instances, in which I have negleftcd him, and to plead them against me in judgment, where should I hide my guilty head in the day of recompense ? I will pray therefore for blessings upon my friends even though they cease to be so, and upon my enemies though they continue such. The deceitfulness of the natural heart is inconceivable : I know well that I passed upon my friends for a person at least religiously inclined, if not aftually religious, and what is more wonderful I thought myself a Christian, when I had no faith in Christ, when I sa^v no beauty in him, that I should desire him, in short Avhen I had neither faith nor love, nor any Christian grace Avhatever, but a thousand seeds of rebellion instead, ever more springing up in en- mity against him. But blessed be God, even the God who is be- come my salvation. The hail of affliclion, and rebuke for sin has swept away the refuge 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 LIFE OF COWPER. 43 ever attends the gift 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 bind me up, thus did he wound me, and his hands made me whole. My dear Cousin, I make no apology for entertaining you with the history of my conversion, 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 e\'er meet again m this world, I ^vill relate them to you by word of mouth, if not they will ser\'e for the subject of a con- ference in the next, Avhere I doubt not I shall remember and re- cord them with a gratitude better suited to the subject. Yours my dear Cousin affedionately, Wm. COWPER. LETTER VI. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. April 17, 1766. .MY DEAR COUSIN, As in matters unattainable by reason, and unrevcaled in tlic 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 G 2 conclusion. 44 LIFE OF COWPER. conclusion. This seems to me to be the very case with the point ni question — Reason is able to form many plausible 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 subjecl. We may indeed reason about the plausibility of our conjeftures, and we may discuss, with great industry, and shrewdness of argument, those passages in the Scripture, which seem to favour the opinion : but still no certain means having been afforded us, no certain end can be attained ; and after all, that can be said, it will still be doubt- . ful, whether we shall know each other or not. As to arguments founded upon human reason only, it ^vould be easy to muster up a much greater number on the affirmative side of the question, than it would be worth my while to write, or yours to read. Let us see therefore what the Scripture says, or seems to say towards the proof of it; and of this kind of argument also I shall insert but a few of those, which seem to me to be the fairest and clearest for the purpose. For after all, a disputant, on either side of this question, is in danger of that censure of our bles- sed Lord's, " Ye do err, not knowing the Scripture, nor the power of God." As LIFE OF COWPER, 45 As to Parables, I know it has been said in the dispute con- cerning 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, lo proA'e 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 im- ply. In this Parable we see that Dives is represented as knowing Lazarus, and Abraham as knoAving them both, and the discourse between them is entirely concerning their respective characlers and circumstjmces 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 the soul that is saved, surely the heirs of salvation shall know and recollecl each other. In the first Epistle to the Thessalonians, the 2d Chapter, and 1 gih Verse, Saint Paul says, " What is our hope, or joy, or crown '■ of rejoicing ? Are not even ye in tlie presence of our Lord Jesus "• Christ at his coming ? For ye are our glory and our joy" As to the hope which the Apostle has formed concerning them, he himself refers 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 refers likewise to the same period, both which would result from the sight of such num- bers redeemed by the blessing of God ujx)n his ministration, when he 46 - LIFE OF COWPER. 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 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 which he teaches them to support their spirits? Even this, " That them, which sleep in Jesus, shall God bring with him." In other words, and by a fair paraphrase surely, telling them they are only taken from them for a season, and that they should receive them at 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 Pearshali 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 whetted 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 en- quire for the Book the next time I go to Cambridge. Perhaps I may be LIFE OF COWPER. 47 be partial to Hcrvey for the sake of his other writings, but I cannot give Pearshall the preference to him, for I think him one of the most scriptural writers in the world. Yours, Wm. COWPER. LETTER V 11 . To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. April 18, 1766. MY DEAR COUSIN', Having gone as far as I thought needful to justify the opinion of our meeting and kno^ving each other here- after : I find upon refleftion, that I ha\'e done but half my business, and that one of the questions, you proposed, remains intirely uncon- sidered, \'i/.. '•' Whether the things of om^ present state \vill not be of too low and mean a nature to engage our thoughts, or make a part of our communications in Heaven." The common and ordinarv occurrences of life no doubt, and even the ties of kindred, and of all tcmpcjral interests, will be en- tirely discarded from amongst that happy society, and possibly even the remembrance of them done away. But it docs not therefore follow, that our spiritual concerns, e\'cn in this life, \vill be for- gotten, neither do I think that they can ever api^ear trilling to us in any 48 LIFE OF COWPER. . any the most distant period of Eternity- God, as you say in refe- rence to the Scripture, will be all in all. But does not that expres- sion mean, that being admitted to so near an approach to our hea- \'enly Father and Redeemer, our \vhole nature, the soul, and all its faculties, will be employed in praising and adoring him ? Doubtless however this will be the case, and if so, ^vill it not furnish out a glorious theme of thanksgiving, to rccollefl " The rock whence we were hewn, and the hole of the pit whence we were digged?" To recolleft the time -when our faith, Avhich under the tuition and nur- ture of the Holy Spirit, has produced such a plentiful harvest of immortal bliss, Avas as a grain of Mustard seed, small in itself, pro- mising but little fruit, and producing less? To recolleft 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 conviclions may be, of the sinfulness and corruption of our nature, we can make but a very imperfeft estimate either of our -weakness or our guilt. Then, no doubt, we shall understand the full value of the wonderful sah^ation wrought out for us : and it seems reaso- nable to suppose, that in order to form a just idea of our redemp- tion, 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 Ave shall be more able to render due praise and honour to His strength who fought for us; when we know completely thehatefulness of sin in the sight of God, and how deeply we were tainted by it, we shall LIFE OF COWPER. 49 shall know how to value the blood by which ^ve 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 retrospcfl; to their respeftive conditions upon earth, and that each remem- bered out of what particular kindred and nation he had been re- deemed, and if so, then surely the minutest circumstance of their redemption did not escape their memory. They who triumph over the Beast in the 15th Chapter, sing the Song of Moses, the servant of God; and what was that Song.^ A sublime record of Israel's deliverance, and the destruction of her enemies in the Red- Sea, typical no doubt of the Song Avhich the redeemed in Sion shall sing to celebrate their own salvation, and the defeat of their spiri- tual enemies. This again implies a recolleftion of the dangers they had before encountered, and the supplies of strength and ardour they had in every emergency received from the great Deliverer out of all. These quotations do not indeed prove that their warfare upon earth includes a part of their converse with each other, but they prove that it is a theme not unworthy to be heard even before the throne of God, and therefore it cannot be unlit for reciprocal communication. But you doubt \vhcthcr there is any communication between the Blessed at all, neither do I recolIe6l any Scripture that proves it, or that bears any relation to the subjeft. But reason seems to H require 50 LIFE OF COWPER. require it so percnij)Lonly, that a society, without social intercourse seems to be a solecism, and a contracliclion in terms, and the inha- bitants of those regions are called you know in Scripture an innu- merable Covipany, 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 have all the weight it can : I know no greater names in Divinity than Watts, and Doddridge, they were both of this opinion, and I send you the words of the latter : " Our Companions in Glory may probably assist us by their wise and good observations, ^vhen we come to make the Providence of God, here upon earth, under the guidance and direftion of our Lord Jesus Christ, the suhjeEl of our mutual converse." Thus, my dear Cousin, I have spread out my reasons before you for an opinion which, whether admitted or denied, affe6ls not the state or interest of our soul : — May our Creator, Redeemer, and Sanftifier, condud; us into his own Jerusalem, ^vhere there shall be no night, neither any darkness at all, where we shall be free even from innocent error, and perfeft in the light of the knowledge of God in the face of Jesus Christ. Yours faithfully, Wm. COWPER. LETTER LIFE OF COWPER. 51 LETTER VIII. 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 op|X)ncnt 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 sorry, that what I have said, concerning our kno^vledge of each other, in a future state, has a lit- tle inclined you to the affirmative. For though the redeemed of the Lord shall be sure of being as happy in that state as infinite power, employed by infinite goodness, can make them, and there- fore it may seem immatei ial ^vhether we shall, or shall not, recol- le£l each other hereafter; yet our present happiness at least is a little interested in the question. A parent, a friend, a wife, must needs, I think, feel a little heart ache at the thought of an eternal separation from the objefts of her regard : and not to know them, when she meets them in another life, or never to meet them at all, amounts, though not altogether, yet nearly to the same thing. Remember them, I think, she needs must. To hear that they are happy, will indeed be no small addition to her own felicity: but to see them so, will surely be a greater. Thus at least it appears to our present human apprehension ; consequently, therefore, to think, that when H 2 we 5^ LIFE OF COWPER. we leave them, we lose them for ever, that we must remain eternally ignorant \vhethcr they, that Avere flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone, partake with us of celestial glory, or are disinherited of their heavenly portion, must shed a dismal gloom over all our pre- . sent connexions. For my own part, this life is such a momentary thinor, and all its interests have so shrunk in mv 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 afFeclions, this very thought would eat out the heart of them all, had I a thousand ; and were their date to terminate with this life, I think I should have no inclination to cultivate, and improve such a fugitive business. Yet friendship is necessary to our happi- ness here, and built upon Christian principles, upon which only it can stand, is a thing even of religious sanftion — for what is that love, which the Holy Spirit, speaking by St. John, so much incul- cates, but friendship? The only love, which deserves the name : a love which can toil, and \vatch, and deny itself, and go to death for its brother. Worldly friendships are a poor weed compared with this, and even this union of spirit in the bond of peace, would suf- fer 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 perfeft in Christian love, or any other divine LIFE OF COWPER, 53 divine attainment, and am therefore unwilling to forego \vhatc\'cr may help me in my progress. You are so kind as to inquire after my health, for Avhich rea- son I must tell you, \vhat othei-w^ise would not be Avorth menti- oning, that I have lately been just enough Tndisposed 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 illness 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 strengthened day by day, as I hope under 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 from the dead, in a literal sense, has given me the grace I trust to be ready at the shortest notice, to surrender up to him that life, which I have twice received from him. Whether I live or die, I desire it may be to His Glory, and it must be to my happiness. 1 thank God that I have those amongst my kin- dred 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 shew you what the Almighty, whose Name I am unworthy to mention, has done for me, the chief of sinners. Once he ^s'as a terror to me, and his ser- vice. Oh what a w^eariness it was ! No\v I can say I love him, and his 54 LIFE OF COWPER. his Holy Name, and am never so happy as when I speak of his Mercies to mc.- Yours, dear Cousin, Wm. COWPER. LETTER IX. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. Huntingdon, Oft. 20, 1766. MY DEAR COUSIN, I am very sorry for poor Charles's illness, and hope you will soon have cause to thank God for his complete recovery. We have an epidemical fever in this country likewise, which leaves behind it a continual sighing, almost to suf- focation: not that I have seen any instance of it, for blessed be God our family have hitherto escaped it, but such Avas the account I heard of it this morning. I am obliged to you for the interest you take in my -welfare, and for your enquiring so particularly after the manner in which my time passes here. As to amusements, I mean what the world calls such, -^ve have none : the place indeed swarms -with, them, and Cards and Dancing are the professed business of almost all the gentle inhabitants of Huntingdon. We refuse to take part in them, or to be accessaries to this way of murthering our time, and by so doing have acquired the name of Methodists. Ha^'ing told you how^ ^ve do LIFE OF COWPER. 55 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 Di\'ine Service, which is performed here twice every day, and from twelve to three we separate, and amuse ourselves as we please. During that interval I either read in my o\vn apartment, or walk, or ride, or work in the gar- den. We seldom sit an hour after dinner, but if the Avcathcr per- mits, adjourn to the garden, where with Mrs. Unwin, and her Son. I have generally the pleasure of religious conversation till tea time! If it rains, or is too Avindy for walking, we either converse within doors, or sing some Hymns of Martin's colleclion, and by the help of Mrs. Unwin's Harpsichord make up a tolerable concert, in which our hearts, I hope, are the best and most musical performers. After tea we sally forth to walk in good earnest. Mrs. Unwin is a good Avalker, and we have generally travelled about four miles before we see home again. ^Vhen the days are short, we make this excursion in the former part of the day, between church time and dinner. At night we read and converse as before, till supper, and com- monly finish the evening either with hymns, or a sermon, and last of all the family are called to prayers. 1 need not tell you, that such a life as this is consistent with the utmost cheerfulness, accor- dingly we are all happy, and dwell together in unity as brethren. Mrs. Unwin has almost a maternal affeftion ("or me, and I Inne somcthinsr verv like a filial one for her, and her Son and I are broil icrs. ^6 LIFE OF COWPER. brothers. Blessed be the God of ovir 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 belie\'e every new convert is apt to think himself called ujx^n for that purpose; but it has pleased God, by means which there is no need to particularize, to give me full satisfaftion as to the pro- priety 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 spokes-man. Yours ever, my deai- Cousin, Wm. COWPER. LETTER X. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. March ii, 1767. MY DEAR COUSIN, To find those whom I love, clearly and strongly persuaded of Evangelical Truth, gives me a pleasure su- perior to any, that this world can aflford me. Judge then, whether your LILE OF COWPER. 57 your Letter, in which the body and substance of a saving faith is so evidently set forth, could meet Avith a lukewarm reception at my hands, or be entertained with indifference ! Would you "know the true reason of my long silence? Conscious that my religious principles are generally excepted against, and that the conduft they produce wherever they are heartily maintained, is still more the objeft of disapprobation than those principles themselves, and remembering, that I had made both the one and the other known to you, without having any clear assurance that our faith in Jesus was of the same stamp and character, I could not help thinking it jx)ssible that you might disapprove both my sentiments and prac- tice, that you might think the one unsupported by Scripture, and the other, -whimsical, and unnecessarily stricl and rigorous, and consequently would be rather pleased with the suspension of a cor- respondence, which a dilferent way of thinking upon so momen- tous a subjecl as that we ^vrotc upon, was likely to render tedious and irksome to you. I ha\'c told you the truth from my heart; forgive me these injurious suspicions, and never imagine that I shall hear from )'ou upon this delightful theme without a real joy, or without prayer to God to prosper you in the way of his Truth, his sanftifying imd 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 do6lrines he I maintains J 8 LIFE OF COWPER. inainiains are, under the influence of the spirit of Christ, the very life of my soul, and the soul of all my happiness; that Jesus is a present ijaviour from the guilt of sin by 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, ^ve are complete ; that being imited 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 heavenly Father, and that all this inestimable trea- sure, the earnest of which is in Grace, and its consummation in Glory, is given, freely given to us of God ; in short, that he hath opened the Kingdom of Heaven to all Believers. These are the Truths, ^v'hich, 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 Avhich the pride of our hearts (till Almighty grace sub- dues them) is determined never to allow. May the Almighty reveal his Son in our hearts, continually more and more, and teach us to increase in love towards him continually, for having given us the unspeakable Riches of Christ. Yours faithfully, Wm. COWPER. LETTER LIFE OF COWPER. ^g LETTER XI. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. March 14, 1767. MV DEAR COUSIN, I just add a line by Avay of Postscript to my last, to apprize you of the arrival of a \'cry dear Friend of mine at the Park on Friday next, the Son of Mr. Unwin, Avhom I have desired to call on you in his way from London to Hunting- don. 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, Avhich he is very able to do. He is ready possessed of an answer to every question you can jx)ssibly ask concerning me, and knows my zohole Story from first to last. I give you this previous notice, be- cause 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 doftor. If the Major can make up a small packet of Seeds that will make a figure in a garden, where we have little else besides Jessamine and Honey- suckle; 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 management, for at present I have no skill to spare. I 2 I 6o LIFE OF COWPER. I think Marshal one of the best writers, and the most spiritual expositor of Scripture, I ever read. I admire the strength of his argument, and the clearness ot his reasonings upon those parts of our most holy Religion, which are generally least understood (even by real Christians) as master-pieces of the kind. His Section upon the union of the Soul with Christ, is an instance of what I mean, in which he has spoken of a most mysterious truth with admirable perspicuity, and with great good-sense, making it all the while sub- servient to his main purport of proving Holiness to be the fruit and effect of Faith. I subjoin thus much upon that Author, because though you desired my opinion of him, I remember that in my last, I rather left you to find it out by inference, than expressed it as I ought to have done. I never met with a man who understood the plan of salvation better, or was more happy in explaining it. LETTER XII. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. Huntingdon, April 3, 1767. MY DEAR COUSIN, You sent my friend Unwin home to us, charmed with your kind reception of him, and with every thing he saw at the Park. Shall I once more give you a peep into my vile and LIFE OF COWPER. oi and deceitful Heart ? What motive do you think lay at the bottom of my conduft when I desired him to call upon you ? I did not sus- peft at first that pride and vain glory had any share in it, but quicklv after I had recommended the visit to him, I discovered in that fruit- ful soil the very root of the matter. You know 1 am a Stranger here: all such are suspe6led characters, unless they bring their creden- tials with them. To this moment, I believe, it is matter of specula- tion in the place, whence I came, and to whom I belong. Though my Friend, you may suppose, before I \\'as admitted an inmate here, Avas satisfied that I Avas not a mere Vagiibond, and has since that time received more convincing proofs of my sponsibility, yet I could not resist the opportunity of furnishing him with ocular demonstration of it, by introducing him to one of my most splendid connexions; that when he hears me called that felloxc Cozcper, which has hapjx^ned 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 the subtlety of a Serpent, and seems to walk erect, though it crawls upon the earth. How Avill it twist and twine itself about, to get from under the Cross, which it is the gloiy ofour Christian calling to be able to bear with patience aiid 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 ex- cuse 62 LIFE OF COWPER. cuse myself. But in good truth it was abominable pride of heart, indignation and vanity, and deserves no better name. How ft 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 away the guilt of sm, 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"w that your secrecy and discretion may be trusted with any thing. A thread of mercy ran through all the intricate maze of those affliftive Providences, so mysterious to myself at the time, and which must ever remain so to all, who will not see what was the 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 ground, whence they will soon spring up like so many mementos to remind me of my friends at the Fark. LETTER Xni. To Mrs. COWPER, at the Park-House, Hartford. MY DEAR COUSIN, Huntingdon, July 13, 1767. The News-paper has told you the truth. Poor Mr. Unwin being flung from his Horse, as he was going to his LIFE OF COWPER. 6^ 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 upon 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 Lo 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 hoiu", when our Lord cometh. The effeft of it upon my circumstances will only be a change of the place of my abode. For I shall still, by God's leave, continue with Mrs. Unwin, whose 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 pre- pare a rest for us. Wc have employed our friend Haweis, Dr. Conyers of Hclmsley. in Yorkshire, and Mr Newton of Olney, to look out for us, but at present arc entirely ignorant under which of the three we shall settle, or whether under either. I have wrote to my Aunt Madan, to desire Martin lo assist us with his inqui- ries. It is probable we shall stay here till Michaelmas. LETTER XIV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. DEAR JOE, July 16, 1767. Your \vishcs that the Newspaper may have misinformed you, 64 LIFE OF COWPER. you, are vain. Mr. Unwin is dead, and died in the manner there mentioned. At Nine o'clock on Sunday Morning he was in perfefit health, and as likely to live twenty years as either of us, and before Ten Avas stretched speechless and senseless upon a flock bed in a poor cottage, where (it being impossible to remove him) he died on Thursday Evening. — I heard his dying groans, the effecl of great agony, for he was a strong man, and much convulsed in his last moments. The few short intervals of sense that were indulged him, he spent in earnest prayer, and in expressions of a firm trust and confidence in the only Saviour. To that strong hold we must all resort at last, if we would have hope in our deadi ; when every other refuge fails, we are glad to fly to the only shelter, to which we can repair to any purpose ; and happy is it for us when the false ground we have chosen for ourseleves 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 unde- served mercy. Our society will not break up, but we shall settle in some other place, where, is at present uncertain. Yours, Wm. COWPER. These LIFE OF COWPER. 65 These tender and confidential Letters describe, in the clearest light, the singularly joeaceful and devout life of this amiable Writer, during his residence at Huntingdon, and the melancholy accident 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. Ne'^vton, then Curate of Olney, in Buckinghamshire, had been requested by the late Dr. Conyers (who in taking his degree in Divinity at Cambridge, had formed a friendship ^vith young Mr. Unwin, and learned from him the reli- gious character of his Mother) to seize an opportunity, as he was passing thro' Huntingdon, of making a visit to an exemplary lady. This visit, (so important in its consequences to the destiny of Cowper!) happened to take place within a fe\v days after the cala- mitous death of Mr. Unwin. As a change of scene appeared desi- rable, both to Mrs. Un\vin, and to the interesting Recluse, whom she had generously requested to continue under her care, Mr. Newton offered to assist them in removing to the pleasant and pic- turesque county in which he resided. They were willing to enter into the flock of a benevolent and animated pastor, whose 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 Oclober, 1767. K The 66 LIFE OF COWPER. The time of Cowper, in his new situation, seems to have been chiefly devoted to religious contemplation, to social prayer, and to aftive charity. To this first of Christian virtues, his heart was emi- nently inclined, and Providence very graciously enabled him to exercise and enjoy it to an extent far superior to what his own scanty fortune appeared to allow. He was very far from inheriting opulence on the death of his Father in 1756; and the singular cast of of his own mind was such, that nature seemed to have rendered it impossible for him either to covet or to acquire riches. His pcr- feft exemption from worldly passions is forcibly displayed in the two followino; Letters. LETTER XV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Olney, June 16, 1768. DEAR JOE, I thank you for so full an ansAver 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 visited St. Albans about a fortnight since in person, and I visit it every day in thought. The recolleclion of what passed there, and the consequences that follo^ved it, fill my mind continually, and make the circumstances of a poor transient half spent life, so insipid and unaffecling, that I have no heart to think or write much about LIFE OF COWPER. 67 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 ever)' blessing, and makes every trouble light. Affeftionately yours, W. C. LETTER XVI. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. DE.'VR JOE, 17^9- Sir Thomas crosses the Alps, and Sir Cowper, for that is his title at Olney, prefers his home to any other spot of earth in the world. Horace observing this difference of temper in different persons, cried out a good many years ago, in the true spirit of Poetry, " How much one man differs from another ! This does not seem a very sublime exclamation in English, but I remember we were taught to admiie it in the original. My dear Friend I am obliged to you for your invitation: but being long accustomed to retirement, which I was ahvays 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 friendshij) I ever professed, which is as K 2 much 68 LIFE OE COWPER. much as 1 ever entertained for any man. But the strange and uncommon incidents of my life, have given an intire new turn to my whole chara6ler and condu6l, 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 re- membrance of me, and shall not cease to be their and your Affeflionate Friend and Servant, W. COWPER. His retirement was ennobled by many private a£ls of beneficence, and his exemplary virtue was such, that the opulent sometimes de- lighted 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 extensive and imostentatious philanthropy, the late John Thornton, Esqr. whose name he has immortalized in his Poem on Charity, still honouring his memory by an additional tribute to his virtues, in the following unpublished Poem, written immediatelv on his decease, in the year 1 790. Poets attempt the noblest task they can, Praising the Author of all Good in Man ; And next commemorating worthies lost. The dead, in whom that good abounded most. Thee LIFE OF COWPER. 6g Thee therefore of comnurcialfame, but more Fam'dfor thy probity » from shore to shore. Thee, Thornton, worthy in some page to shine As honest, and more- eloquent than mine, I viourn ; or since thrice happy thou must be, The world, no longer thy abode, not thee ; Thee to deplore were grief mis-spent 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, Sxoeet, 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. Thou had'st an industry in doing good. Restless as his, who toils and sweats for food. Avrice in thee was the desire of wealth By rust unperishable, or by stealth. And if the genuine worth of gold depend On application to its noblest end. Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven, Surpassing all, that mine or mint had given : And tho God made thee oj a nature prone To distribution, boundless of thy oxon, And 70 LIFE OF COWPER. And still, by motives of religious force, Jmpell'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 aEl unwearied, secret still, As, in some solitude, the summer rill Refreshes, where it loinds, the faded green, And chears the drooping Jlozoers, unheard, unseen. Such zoas thy Charity ; no sudden start, After long sleep of passion in the heart. But steadfast principle, and in its kind Of close alliance zvith th' eternal mind ; Trac'd easily to its true source above. To Him, whose works bespeak his nature, love. Thy bounties all zoere Christian, and I make This record of thee for the Gospel's sake ; That the incredulous themselves 7nay see Its use and power, exentplified in Thee. This simple and sublime eulogy was perfeftly merited, and among the happiest aftions of this truly liberal man, we may reckon his furnishing to a charafter so reserved, and so retired as Cowper, the means of his enjoying the gratification of aftive 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 concerned in distri- buting LIFE OF COWPER. 71 buting the private, yet extensive bounty of an opulent, and exem- plary merchant. Cowpcr, before he quitted St. Albans, assumed 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. Albans. The warm, benevolent, and chcarful enthusiasm of Mr. Newton mduced his friend Co^vper 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 direfted the prayers 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 and hardy fibre, would be far from apprehending. Perhaps the life, that Cowper led, on his settling in Olney, had a tendency to encrease the morbid propensity of his frame, though it was a life of admi- rable santtity. Absorbed as he was in devotion, he forgot not his distant friends, and particularly his amiable Relation and Corres|X)ndent of the Park-House, near Hartford. The following Letter (o that lady has no date, but it was probably written soon after his esta- blishment 72 LIFE OF COWPER. blishmcnt at Olney : The remarkable memento in the Postscript \ras undoubtedly introduced to countera6l an idle rumour, arising from the circumstance of his having settled himself under the roof of a female friend, Arhose age, and ^rhose 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 respefts. I take the next immediate opportunity ho^vever 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 kin- dred, and rejoice to hear of their welfare. He who settles the bounds of our habitations, has at length cast our lot at a great dis- tance from each other, but I do not therefore forget their former kindness 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 afford, to fill and satisfy the desires of an immortal soul. That God who created us for the enjoyment of himself, has deter- mined in mercy that it shall fail us here, in order that the blessed result LIFE OF COWPER. 73 result of all our enquiries after happiness in the creature, may be a warm pursuit, and a close attachment to our true interest, in fel- lowship and communion \vith Him, through the name and media- tion of a dear Redeemer. I bless his goodness and grace that I have any reason to hope I am a partaker with you in the desire after better things, than are to be found in a world polluted ^vith sin, and there- fore devoted to destruction. May he enable us both to consider our present life in its only true light, as an opportunity put into our hands to glorify him amongst men, by a conducl 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 sin- cere desire to live just so long as I may be enabled, in some poor measure, to answer the end of my existence in this respeft, 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 chari- table construclion upon my silence than the facl will warrant. I am not better employed than I should be in corresponding with her, I have that within which hinders me wretchedly 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 en- quire after me. May God be with you to bless you, and do you L good 74 LIFE OF COWPER. good by all his dispensations ; don't forget me when you are speak- ing to our best Friend before his Mercy-seat. Yours ever, X. B. I am not married. W. COWPER. In the year 1 769, the Lady to whom the preceeding Letters are addressed, was involved in domestic affliftion, and the follow- ing which the Poet wrote to her on the occasion is so full of genuine piety, and true pathos, that it would be an injury to his memoiy to suppress it. LETTER XVIII. Olney, Aug. 31, 1769. To Mrs. COWPER. DEAR COUSIN, A Letter from your brother Fredeirc brought me yesterday the most afflifting intelligence that has reached me these many years. I pray to God to comfort you, and to enable you to sus- tain this heavy stroke with that resignation to his will, which none but Himself can give, and which he gives to none but his own chil- dren. How blessed and happy is your lot, my dear Friend, beyond the common lot of the greater part of mankind ; that you know what it is to draw near to God in prayer, and are acquainted with a Throne of Grace ! You have resources in the infinite love of a dear Redeemer, which are witheld from millions : and the promise 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 LIFE OF COWPER. 75 heavenly Father will ever put into your hand. May He now give you liberty to drink at these wells of salvation, till you are filled with consolation and peace in the midst of trouble. He has said, Avhen thou passest through the fire I will be with thee, and \vhen 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 when he \\'ill 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 ne\'er expect to hear of a distress which shall call upon me with a louder voice to pray for the suf- ferer. I know the Lord hears me for myself, vile and sinful as I am, and believe, and am sure, that he will hear me for you also. He is the Friend of the Widow, and the Father of the Fatherless, even God in his holy habitation ; in all our affliclions he is affli6led, and chastens us in mercy. Surely he will sanftify this dispensation to you, do you great and everlasting good by it, make the world ap- pear like dust and vanity in your sight, as it truly is, and open to your view the glories of a better country, where there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor pain, but God shall wipe away all tears from your eyes for ever. Oh that comfortable word! " I have chosen thee in the furnaces of affliftion," so that our very sorrows are evidences of our calling, and he chastens us because we are children. My dear Cousin, I commit you to the word of his Grace, and L 2 to j6- LIFE OF COWPER. to the comforts of his Holy Spirit. Your life is needful for your family, may God in mercy to them prolong it, and may he pre- serve you from the dangerous effe6ls 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. In the following year the tender feelings of Cowper were called forth by family affliclion, that pressed more immediately on himself; he was hurried to Cambridge by the dangerous illness of his Brother, then residing as a Fello'w in Bennet College — an aflfeftion truly fraternal had ever subsisted between the Brothers, and the Reader will recolleft \vhat 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 was probably written in the chamber of the Invalide, whom the Writer so fervently wished to restore. LETTER XIX. To Mrs. COWPER. March 5, 1770. My Brother continues much as he was. His case is a very dangerous one. An Imposthumc of the Liver, attended by LIFE OF COWPER. 77 by an Asthma and Dropsy. The Physician has httlc hope of his re- covery, I believe I might say, none at all, only being a friend, he does not formally give him over by ceasing to visit him, Icsi ii should sink his spirits. For my own part I have no expe6lation ot his recovery, except by a signal interposition of Providence in answer to Prayer. His case is clearly out of the reach of Medicine i but 1 have seen manv a sickness healed, where the danger has been equally threatening, by the only Physician of value. I doubt not he will have an interest in your prayers, as he has in the prayers of many. May the Lord incline his ear, and give an answer of peace. 1 know it is good to be alTlicled. I trust that you have found it so, and that under the teaching of God's own Spirit we shall both be purified. It is the desire of my soul to seek a better country, where God shall wijie away all tears from the eyes of his l^eople ; and where looking back upon the ^vays by which he has led us, we shall be filled with everlasting wonder, love and praise. I must add no more. Yours ever, W. COWPER. The sickness and death of his learned, pious, and affectionate Brotlier, made a very strong impression on the tender heart and mind of Cow}:>er — an impression so strong diat it induced him to write a Narrative of the remarkable circumstances which occurred at the time. He sent a copv of this Narrative to Mr. Newton. The paper is curious in every point of view, and so likely to awaken 78 LIFE OF COWPER a\\-aken sentiments of piety in minds where it may be most desira- ble to have them a\vakened, that Mr. Newton has thought it his duty to print it. Here it is incumbent on me to introduce a brief account of the interesting person, whom the Poet regarded so tenderly. 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 conduft and sentiments as a Minister of the Gospel are copiously displayed by his Brother in recording the remarkable close of his life. Bennet College, of which he was a Fellow, was his usual resi- dence, and it became the scene of his death on the 20th of March, 1 770. Fraternal affeftion has executed a perfeftly just and graceful description of his character, both in prose and verse. I transcribe both as highly honorable to these exemplary Brethren, Avho 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 rc- " markably sweet, and in his behaviour to me he had always mani- " fested an uncommon affedion. His outward conduft so far as it " fell under my notice, or I could learn it by the report of others, " was perfectly decent and unblameable. There was nothing vici- " ous in any part of his praftice, but being of a studious, thoughtful " turn, he placed his chief delight in the acquisition of learning, " and LIFE OF COWPER. 79 " and made such acquisitions in it, that he had but kw 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 perfeflly understood the French and Italian, the " latter of which he could speak fluently. Learned however as he " was, he was easy and chearful in his conversation, and entirely " free from the stiffness which is generally contraded by men de- " voted to such pursuits." / had a Brother once: Peace to the memory of a Man of Worth! A man of letters, and of vianners too ! Of manners, stoeet as virtue always wears. When gay good humour dresses her in smiles ! He gradd a College, in which order yet Was sacred, and was honour d, lov'd, and wept By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. Another interesting Tribute to his Memory 'will be found in the following Letter. LETTER XX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. May 8, 1770. iJtAR JOE, Your Letter did not reach me till the last post, when 1 had not time to answer it. I left Cambridge im- mediately after my Brother's death. I 8o LIFE OF COWPFR. I am obliged to you for the particular account you have sent lYlQ * * * w ■» * He to whom I have surrendered myself, and all my concerns, has otherwise appointed, and let his will be done. He gives me much, ^vhich he witholds from others, and if he \vas pleased to withold all that makes an outward difference between me and the poor mendicant in the street, it would still become me to say. His Will be done. It pleased God to cut short my Brother's connexions and ex- pectations here, yet not without giving him li^'ely and glorious \4ews 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 respecl) he \vas candid and sincere in his inquiries after truth. Tho' he could not come into my sentiments when I first acquainted him with them, nor in the many conversations which I afterward had with him upon the subjeft, could he be brought to acquiesce in them as scriptural and true, yet I had no sooner left St. Albans than he began to study wath the deepest attention those points in -which we differed, imd to furnish himself with the best ^vriters upon them. His mind was kept open to conviftion for five years, during all Avhich time he laboured in this pursuit with unwearied diligence, as leisure and opportunity were aflforded. Amongst his dying words were these, " Brother, I thought you wrong, yet wanted to believe as you did. " I LIFE OF COWPER. 81 •• 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 own most amiable charafter, and to submit himself to the righteousness which is of God by faith. With these views he \\as desirous of death. Satis- fied of his interest in the blessing purchased by the blood of Christ, he prayed for death with earnestness, felt the approaches of it with joy, and died in peace. Yours my dear Friend, W. COWPER. The exquisite sensibility of Cowj^er 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 corrosive influence of sorrow. Devotion, if it had no other bene- ficial effect on the human character, would be still inestmiablc to man, as a medicine for the anguish he feels, in losing the objefts of his affeclion. How far it proved so in the present case, the Rea- der will be enabled to judge by a Letter, in which Cowper describes his sensations on this awcful event to one of his favorite cor- respondents. LETTER XXI. M 82 LIFE OE COWPER. LETTER XXI. To Mis. COWPER, Holies-Street Cavendish-Square. DEAR COUSIN, Olney, June 7, 1770. I am obliged to you for sometimes 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 af- fefted 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 de- servedly dear to me, and that he left me just when our sentiments upon the most interesting subjeft 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, because he might have done all, that he was pleased to do for him, and yet have afforded him neither strength nor op- portunity to declare it. 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 was first ordained, he began to be dissatisfied with his religious opinions, and to suspeft that there LIFE OF COWPER. 83 there were greater things concealed in the Bible, than were gene- rally 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 \'iews of divine truth, which I had received in that school of aflliftion. He laid what I said to heart, and besiun to furnish himself with the best writers upon the controverted points, whose works he read with great diligence and attention, comparing them all the \vh'\\e with the Scripture. None ever truly and ingenuously sought the truth, but they found it. A spirit of eainest 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 dispell 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 die affair of the Fortune-teller he never mentioned it to me, nor was there any such paper found as you mention. I looked over all his papers before I left the place, and had there been such a one, must have discovered it. I have heard the report from other quarters, but no other particulars than that the woman foretold him when he should die. I suppose there may be some truth in tlie matter, but whatever he might think of it before his knowledge of the truth, and however extraordinary her predictions might really be, I am satisfied that he had then received far other views of the wisdom and majesty of God, than to suppose that he would entrust his secret counsels to a vagrant, who did not M 2 mean 84 LIFE OF COWPER; mean I suppose, to be understood to have received her intelligence from the Fountain of Light, but thought herself sufficiently honored by any, ^vho would give her credit for a secret intercourse of this kind ^vith the Prince of Darkness. Mrs. Unwin is much obliged to you for your kind enquiry after her. She is well, I thank God, as usual, and sends her re- spects to you. Her Son is in the Ministry, and has the Living of Stock, in Essex. We were last week alarmed with an account of his being dangerously ill ; Mrs. Umvin went to see him, and in a few days left him out of danger. The Letters of the afflicted Poet to this amiable and sympa- thetic Relation ha\'e already afforded to my Reader an insight into the pure recesses of Cowper's wonderful 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 shock of his Brothers death. In the autumn of the year in ^vhich he sustained that affecting loss, he ^vTOte the following serious, but animated Letter to Mr. Hill. LETTER XXII. LIFE OF COWPER. Sj LE TTER XXII. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Sept. 25, 1770. DEAR JOE, I have not done conversing with terrestial objects, though I should be happy were I able to hold more continual converse with a Friend above the skies. He has my heart, but he allows a corner in it for all who shew me kindness, and therefore one for you. The storm of 6'^ made a wreck of the friendships I had contracted in the course of many years, yours excepted, Avhich has survived the tempest. I thank you for your repeated invitation. Singular thanks are due to you for so singular an instance of your regard. I could not leave Olncv unless in a case of absolute necessity, without much inconvenience to myself and others. In his sequestered life he seems to ha^'c 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 expected him to have contributed a much larger number, as he has declared in the Pieface to that collection of Hymns, wliich con- tains these devotional effusions of Cowpcr, distinguished by the initial 8(7 LIFE OF COWPER. initial letter of his name. The Volume composed for the inhabi- tants of Olney was the joint production of the Divine and the Poet, and intended, as the former expressly says in his Preface, " as a " Monument to perpetuate the remembrance of an intimate and en- " deared 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 different form, if the wise, tho' mysterious Providence •' of God had not seen fit to cross my wishes. We had not pro- " ceeded far upon our proposed plan, before my dear Fiiend was " prevented by a long andaffefting indisposition from affording me " any farther assistance." — The severe illness of the Poet, to which these expressions relate began in 1773, and extended beyond the date of the Preface (from which they are quoted) February 15. 1779- These socical 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 subjeft, in the following passage from his Poem on Conversation. True Bliss, if Man may reach it, is composed Of hearts in union mutually disclosed ; And, farewell else all hope of pure delight ! Those hearts should be reclaimed, renewed, upright : Bad LIFE OF COWPER. 87 Bad Men, profaning Friendship's halloxced name. Form in its stead a covenant of shame: * * * * * w « 4e' ft * * * But souls, that carry on a blest exchange Of joys, they meet with in their heavenly range, And zoith a fearless confidence make known The sorrows, sympathy esteems its own, Daily derive encreasing 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 purpo- ses, must be delightful indeed, if attended with success, and at all events, it is entitled to respecl : yet it may be doubted if the intense zeal, with which Cowper embarked in this Hiscinating pursuit, had not a dangerous tendency to undermine his very delicate health. Such an apprehension naturally arises from a recollection ot \vhat Medical writers of great ability have said on the aweful 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 we made, that man in all conditions, ought perhaps to pray, that 88 LIFE OF COWPER. tliut he never may be led to think of his Creator, and of his Re- deemer either too httle, or too much. But if the charitable and relisjious 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 A'irtues, and his misfortunes were calculated 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 viclim of age and in- firmity, she received from that exemplary being, \vho considered himself indebted to her friendly vigilance for his life, and Avho never forgot an obligation, when his mind was itself. In 1773, he sunk into such severe paroxysms of religious de- spondency, that he required an attendant of the most gentle, vigi- lant, 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, extended thro' several years, with that perfe6l mixture of tender- ness LIFE 0¥ COWPER. 89 ness and fortitude, which constitutes the inestimable influence of maternal protection. I ^vish to pass rapidly o^er this calami- tous jx^riod, and shall only obser\'c, that nothing could surpass the sufferings of the Patient, or the care of his Nurse, That meri- torious care recei\'cd from Heaven the most delightful of rewards, in seeing the pure and jxDwerful mind, to whose restoration it had contributed so much, not only gradually restored to the common enjoyments of life, but successively endowed with new and mar- vellous 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 sufliciently 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 Leveret, the good-nature of his neighbours supplied him ^\•ith three. The variety of their disjxjsitions 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 \'ery animated minute account of this singular family humanized, and described most ad- mirably by himself, in prose, a})peared first in the Gentleman's Magazine, and has been recently inserted in the second Volume of his Poems. These interesting animals had not only the honor of being cherished and celebrated by a Poet, but the pencil has also contri- buted to their renown ; and their Portraits, engraved from a diawing N presented 9« LIFE OF COWPER presenled to Cowper by a friend unknown, may serve as a little embellishment to this Life of their singularly tender and benevo^ lent Proteclor. His three tame Hares, Mrs. Unwin, and Mr. Newton, were, for a considerable time, the only companions of Cowper ; but as Mr. Newton was removed to a distance from his afflicted friend, by preferment in London, to which he was presented by that libe- ral encourager of a6live piety Mr. Thornton, the friendly Divine, before he left Olney in 1780, humanely triumphed over the strong reluclance of Cowper to see a stranger, and kindly introduced him to the regard and good offices of the Revd. Mr. Bull of Newport- Pagnell, who, from that time, considering it as a duty to visit the Invalide, once a fortnight, acquired, by degrees', his cordial and confidential esteem. The affe6lionate temper of Cowper inclined him particularly to exert his talents at the request of his friends ; even in seasons, when 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 Avriting 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 manv LIFE OF COWPER. 5» many acrimonious bigots, and secured to her the friendship of the mild and indulgent Fcnclon ! o We shall perceive, as we advance, that the gieater Works of Cowper were also written at the express desire of persons, Avhom he particularly regarded ; and it may be remarked, to the honor of Friendship, that he considered its influence as the happiest inspi- ration : or to use his own expressive words. The Poet's lyrct to fix his fame. Should be the Poet's heart : AffeBion 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. But those mingled flames of Friendship and Poetry, which were to burst forth with the most powerful cflfcft 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 corres}K)ndcnce with the Relation, whom he so cordiall)- re- N 2 gardcd, g-2 LIFE OF COWPER. garded in Hartfordshirc, except by brief Letters on pecuniary con- cerns in 1779. But in the spring of the following year, a Letter to Mr, Hill abundantly proves that he had regained the free exer- cise of his talents, both serious and sportive. LETTER XXIII. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Olney, May 6, 1780. MY DEAR FRIEND, I am much obliged to you for your speedy answer to my queries. I know less of the Law than a country Attorney, yet sometimes I think I have almost as much bu- siness. My former connexion Avith the profession has got wind, and though I earnestly profess, and protest, and proclaim it abroad that I know nothing of the matter, they cannot be persuaded to be- lieve that a head once endued with a legal perriwig, can ever be de- ficient in those natural endowments it is supposed to cover. I have had the good fortune to be once or t\\-ice in the right, which added to the cheapness of a gratuitous counsel, has advanced my credit to a decree I never expefted to attain in the capacity of a Lawyer. Indeed if two of the wisest in the science of jurisprudence may give opposite opinions upon the same point, which does not unfre- quently 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 LIFE OF COWPER. 93 arrives at the same end by regular approaches, and is conducted to the mark he aims at by the greatest authorities. * * * * * These violent attacks of a distemper so often fatal, are very alarming to all xvho esteem and respeft the Chancellor as lie de- serves. A life of confinement, and of anxious attention to impor- tant objefts, where the habit is bilious to such a terrible degree, threatens to be but a short one ; and I ^vish he may not be made a text for men of refleftion to moralize uj)on, affording a conspi- cuous instance of the transient and fading nature of all human ac- complishments and attainments. Yours aflPeftionately, W. COWPER. At this time his attention was irresistibly recalled to his Cousin, Mrs. Cowper, by hearing that she was deeply afTli6led: and he wrote to her the following Letter on the loss of her Brodicr, Frederick Madan, a soldier, who died in America, after having distinguished himself by poetical talents, as well as by military virtues. LETTER XXIV. To Mrs. COWPER. .MY i)K.\R COUSIN, May 10, 1780. I do not write to comfort you ; that oHice is not likely to be ^\'eIJ performed by one, who has no com- fort 94 LIFE OF COWPFR. fort for himself; nor to comply ^\'■ith an impertinent ceremony, ^\■ hich 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 sorrov/ for your Brother's death, I should expecl that nobody would for mine: When I knew him he was much beloved, and I doubt not con- tinued to be so. To live and die together is the lot of a few hap- py families, ^vho hardly know \\'hat a separation means, and one sepulchre serves them all ; but the ashes of our kindred are dispersed indeed. Whether the American Gulph has swallowed up anv other of my relations I know not, it has made many mourners. BelicA'e me, my dear Cousin, though after long silence which perhaps nothing less than the present concern could have prevailed ^vith me to interrupt, as much as ever. Your affeftionate 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, Esqr. MON AMI, July, 8, 1780. If you ever take the tip of the Chancellors ear between your finger and thumb, you can hardly improve the opportunity LIFE OF COWPER. 95 opportunity to better purpose, than if you should whisper into it the \'oice of compassion and lenity to the Lace-makers. I am an eye witness of their jxjverty, and do kno^v, that hundreds m this little Town, are u]X)n the point of starving, and that the most un- remitting industry is but barely sufficient to keep them from it. I kno^v diat the Bill by which they ^vould have been so fatally af- fected 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 lieiicc to Lord Dartmouth ; I signed it, and am sure the contents are true. The purport of it was to inform him that there are \'ery near 1200 Lace-makers in this beggarly Town, the most of ^vhom had reason enough, while the Bill was in agitation, to look upon every loaf they bought, as the last they should be e\'er able to earn. I can ne\'cr think it good policy to incur the certain inconvenience of ruining 30,000, 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-maker.'? arc the sickly crop that trembles before the edge of it. The pros- pect of peace \vith America, is like the streak of da^vn in their ho- rizon, but this Bill is like a black cloud behind it, that threatens their hope of a comfortable day with utter extinftion. I did not perceive till this moment that I had tacked two si- milies together. ;i practice, which though warranted by the example of gS LIFE OF COWPER. of Homer, and allowable in an Epic Poem, is rather luxuriant and licentious in a Letter; lest I should add another, I conclude. His affeftionate 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 effeft on his reviving 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 pleasantry peculiar to himself. LETTER XXVI. To Mrs. COWPER, Park-Street, Grosvenor Square. July 20, 1780. MY DEAR COUSIN, 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 effefts of time seem to have taken place rather on the outside of my head, than within it. What was brown is become grey, but what was foolish remains foolish still. Green fruit must rot before it ripens, if the season is such as to afford it nothing but cold winds and dark clouds, that interrupt every ray of sunshine. My days steal away silently, and march on (as poor mad King Lear would have made his LIFE OF COWPER. 97 his soldiers march, as if they were shod with Felt; not so silent- ly but that I hear them, yet were it not that I am always listening to their flight, having no infirmity that I had not when I was much younger, 1 should deceive myself with an imagination that I am still young. I am fond of ^vriting, 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 my- self reduced to the necessity, the disagreeable necessity, of writ- ing about myself. This does not mend the matter much, for though in a description of my owm condition, I discover abund- iun materials to employ my pen upon, yet as the task is not very agreeable to me, so I am sufliciently aAvare, that it is likely to prove irksome to others. A painter Avho should confine himself in the exercise of his art to the drawing of his own picture, must be a Avonderful coxcomb, if he did not soon grow sick of his oc- cupation, 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 and confusion, 1 hope that though you could not but hear the icj)ort, you heard no more, and that the roarings of the mad multitude did not reach you. That was a day of terror to the innocent, and O the gS LIFE OF COWPER. the present is a day of still greater terror to the guilty. The law \\'^as for a few moments like an arrow in the quiver, seemed to be of no use, and did no execution, now it is an arrow upon the string, and many who despised it lately, are trembling as they stand be- fore the point of it. I have talked more already than I have formerly done in three visits, you remember my taciturnity, never to be forgotten by those who knew me ; not to depart entirely from what might be for aught I know, the most shining part of my charafter. I here shut my mouth, make my bow, and return to Olney. W. C. The next is a little more serious than its predecessor, yet equally a proof that the affeftions of his heart, and the energy of his mind, were now happily restored. LETTER XXVIl. To Mrs. COWPER, Park-Street, Grosvenor-Square. August 31, 1780. MY DEAR COUSIN, I am obliged to you for your long- Letter, which did not seem so, and for your short one, which was more than I had any reason to expeft. Short as it was, it con- veyed to me two interesting articles of intelligence. An account of your recovering from a fever, and of Lady Cowper's death. The LIFE OF COWPER. gg The latter was, I suppose, to be expected, for by -what remem- brance I have of her Ladyship, who ^vas never much acquainted with her, she had reached those years, that are ahvays found upon the borders of anotlier \vorld. As for you, your time of hfe is comparatively of a youthful date. You may think of Death as much as you please (you cannot think of it too much) but I hope you will live to think of it many years. It costs me not much difficulty to suppose that my friendi ^vho were already grown old, when I saw them last, are old still, but it costs me a good de;il sometimes to think of those who w^ere at that time young, as being older than they w^ere. 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 obsen-ation, it remains the same; my memory presents me with this image unimpaired, and while it retains the resemblance of what they were, forgets that by this time the picture may have lost much of its likeness, through the alteration that succeeding years ha\'e 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 sheath them with much tender- ness, as if fearful of doing injury to odiers. But though an enemy to the person, he is a friend to the mind, and you have found him so. Though even in this respctt his treatment of us depends upon what he meets ^vith at our hands ; if we use him \vc\\, and listen O 2 to loo LIFE OF COWPER. lo his admonitions, he is a friend indeed, but othenvise the wocst of enemies, who takes from us daily something that we valued, and gi\'es us nothing better in its stead. It is well 'with them, who like you can stand a tip toe on the mountain top of human life, look do'ivn with pleasure upon the valley they have passed, and some- times stretch their wings in joyful hope of a happy flight into Eter- nity. Yet a little while, and your hope will be accomplished. When you can favor me with a little account of your own 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 kno\V' as little of their concerns as if oceans and continents were interposed bet"\veen us. Yours, my dear Cousin, Wm. COWPER. The following Letter to Mr. Hill contains a Poem already printed in the Works of Co^vper. but the Reader will probably be gratified in finding a little favorite piece of pleasantry introduced to him, as it was originally dispatched by the Author for the amuse- ment of a friend. LETTER XXVni. • To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. December 25, 1780. MY DEAR FRIEND, Weary with rather a long walk in the snow, I am not likely to write a very sprightly Letter, or to produce any LIFE OF COWPER. loi any thing that may cheer this gloomy season, unless I have recourse to my Pocket-book, where perhaps I may find something to tran- scribe ; something that was written before the Sun had taken lea\c of our Hemisphere, and when I ^vas less fatigued than I am at present. Happy is the man who kno^vs just so much of the La\v, as to make himself a little merry now and then with the solemnity of juri- dical proceedings. I ha\'e heard of common law judgments before now, indeed have been present at the delivery of some, that accord- ing to my poor apprehension, while they paid the utmost respect to the letter of a statute, have departed widely from the spirit of it, and being go\'erned entirely by the point of law, have left equity, rea- son, and common sense behind them at an infinite distance. You will judge whether the following report of a Case, drawn up by my- self, be not a proof and illustration of this satyrical assertion. NOSE Plaintif. EYES Defendants. 1. Betxoeen Nose and Eyes a sad contest arose, The Spectacles set them unhappily wrong. The point in dispute zoas, as all the xoorld knoxes. To xuhich the said Spedacles ought to belong. So 102 LIFE OF COWPER. So the Tongue was the Lawyer, and argued the cause, With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning. While chief Baron Ear, sat to balance the laws, Sofarn'dfor his talents at nicely discerning. In behalf of the Nose, it xcill quickly appear, And your Lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had SpeElacles always in wear. Which amounts to possession, time out of mind. Then holding the Spectacles up to the Court, Your Lordship observes, they are made with a straddle. As wide as the ridge of the Nose is, in short, Desigii'd to sit close to it just like a Saddle. Again would your Lordship a moment suppose, (Tis a case that has happened, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear Spectacles then ? On LIFE OF COWPER. 103 6. On the lohole 'it appears, and my argument showA With a reasojiing the Court zvill never condemn. That the SpeBacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly, intended for them: Then shifting his side as a Lawyer knows how. He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes, But zvhat zoerc his arguments few people know. For the Court did not think they were equally wise. 8. So his Lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone. Decisive and clear, without one if or but. That zohenever the Nose put his Spectacles on By day-light, or candle-light — Eyes should be shut f Yours afFeclionately, / W: COWPER LETTER XXIX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. MY DEAR FRIEND, Fcb. IJ, I781. I am glad you were pleased with my report of so extraordinary a Case. If the thought of ^'ersifying the deci- sions 104 LIFE OE COWPER. sions of our Courts of Justice had struck me, while I had the honor to attend them, it would perhaps have been no difficult matter to have compiled a volume of such amusing and interesting prece- dents; which if they wanted the eloquence of the Greek or Roman oratory, ^vould have amply compensated tliat deficiency by the harmony of rhime and metre. Your account of my Uncle and your Mother gave me great pleasure. I have long been afraid to inquire after some in whose welfare I always feel myself interested, lest the question should pro- duce a painful ans\ver. Longevity is the lot of so fe^v, 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 happy in those respefts, 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 Falstaif calls them, an antidiluvian age is at all a de- sirable thing, but to live comfortably, while we do live, is a great matter, and comprehends in it every thing that can be -wished for on this side the curtain, that hangs between Time and Eternity. Farewell my better Friend than any I ha^'e to boast of eithe among the Lords or Gentlemen of the House of Commons. Yours ever, Wm. COWPER. The LIFE OF COWPER. 105 Ihe reviving Poet who had hved half a century Avith such a modest idea of his OAvn extraordinary talents, that he had hitherto given no composition professedly to the public, now amused him- self with preparations to appear as an Author. But he hoped to conduct those preparations ^vith a modest secrecy, and was asto- nished to hnd one of his intimate friends apprized of his design. LETTER XXX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. May 9, 1781. MY DEAR SIR. I am in the Press, and it is in vain to deny it. But how mysterious is the con\'eyance of intelligence from one end to the other of your great City ! — Not many days since, except one man, and he but little taller than yourself, all London was ig- norant of it ; for I do not suppose that the public prints have yet announced the most agreable tidings, the title-page, Avhich is the basis of the advertisement, having so lately reached the publisher ; and now it is known to you, who live at least two miles distant from my confidant upon the occasion. My labours are principally the produdion of the last winter ; all indeed, except a few of the minor pieces. When I can find no other occupation, I think, and when I think, I am very apt to do it in rhyme. Hence it comes to pass that the season of the year which generally pinches off the flowers of Poetry, unfolds mine, such as P they lob LIFE OF COWPER. tlicy arc, and crowns 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 leaA'CS of the Parnassian laurel, and when a reasonable man would as little expect to succeed inverse, 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 re- medy. A friend will weigh and consider all disadvantages, and make as large allowances as an Author can wish, and larger per- haps then he has any right to expecl ; but not so the World at large ; Avhatever they do not like, they will not by any apology be persuaded to forgive, and it would be in vain to tell them that I wrote my verses in January, for they would immediately reply, '•' why did not you write them in May?" A question that might puzzle a wiser head than we Poets are generally blessed with. I was informed by Mrs. Unwin that she strongly solicited her Friend to devote his thoughts to Poetry, of considerable extent, on his recovery from his very long fit of mental dejeftion, suggesting to him, at the same time, the first subjeft of his Song, " The Pro- gress of Error!" which the Reader will recolleftas the 2d Poem in his LIFE OF COWPER. 107 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 interesting Letter to his fair poetical Cousin. LETTER XXXI. To Mrs. COWPER. October 19, 1 781. MY DEAR COUSIN, Your fear lest I should think you un- ■worthy of my correspondence on account of your delay to answer, may change sides now, and more projperly belongs to me. It is long since I received your last, and yet I believe I can say truly that not a jx)st has gone by me since the recei])t of it, that has not reminded me of the debt I owe you for your obliging and unre- served communications both in prose and verse, especially for the latter, because I consider them as marks of your peculiar confi- dence. I'he truth is, I have been such a verse maker myself^ and so busy in preparing a \'olume for the press, -which I imagine will make its appearance in the course of the winter, that I hardly had leisure 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 con- sign it over to the judgment of the Public. It is a bold under- taking at this time of day, when so many Writers of the greatest abilities have gone before, who seem to have anticipated every va- P 2 luable loS LIFE OF COWPER. liiablc subjed, as well as all the graces of poetical embellishment, to step forth into the world in the character of a Bard, especially when it is considered that luxury, idleness, and vice have debauched the public taste, and that nothing hardly is welcome, but childish fidtion, or -what has at least a tendency to excite a laugh. I thought however that I had stumbled upon some subjects that had never before been poetically treated, and upon some others, to which I imagined it would not be difficult to give an air of novelty, by the manner of treating them. My sole drift is to be useful ; a point which however, I knew, I should in vain aim at, unless I could 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 my arrow to the mark. My Readers will hardly have begun to laugh, before they will be called upon to correft that levity, and peruse me with a more serious air. As to the effeft, I leave it alone in his hands who can alone produce it ; neither prose nor verse, can re- form 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 impait. You made my heart ach Avith a sympathetic sorrow, when you described the state of your mind on occasion of your late visit into Hartfordshire. Had I been previously informed of your jour- ney before you made it, I should have been able to have foretold all LIFE OF COWl^ER. 109 all your feelings with the most unerring certainty of prediction . You will never cease to feel upon that subjeft, but with your prin- ciples 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 affeftionate 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 recolleftion of which is still painful. Those \\'^ho read Avhat, the Poet has here said of his intended publication, may perhaps think it strange, that it was introduced to the ^vorld 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 difli- dcncc in regard to himself, and his kind eagerness to gratifv the affectionate ambition of a Friend, whom he tenderly esteemed ! Mr. NcAVtonhas avowed the fer\'en(?y of this ambition in a very inge- nuous and manly manner, and they must have little candor indeed, who are disposed to cavil at his alacrity in presenting himself to the public as the bosom Friend of that incomjoarable Author, whom he had attended so faithfully in sickness and in sorrow ! — I hope it is no sin to no LIFE OF COWPER. to covet honor as the Friend of Cowper, for, if it is, I fear I may say but too truly in the words of Shakespeare, " / am the most offending soul alive." Happy however if I may be able so to conduft, and finish this bio- graphical 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 distinftion ! The immediate success of his first Volume was very far from being equal to its extraordinary merit. For some time it seemed to be neglefted by the Public, altho' the first Poem in the colleftion contains such a powerful image of its Author, as might be thought sufficient not only to excite attention, but to secure attachment : for Cowper had undesignedly executed a masterly portrait of himself, in describing the true Poet : I allude to the following Verses in " Table Talk." Nature, exerting an unwearied power. Forms, opens, and gives scent to every Jloxoer ; Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads The dancing Naiads thro' the dewy meads: She fills profuse ten thousand little throats With music, modulating all their notes ; And charms the woodland scenes, and zoilds unknozon With artless airs, and concerts of her own: But LIFE OF COWPER iii But seldom (as if fearful of expence) Vouchsafes to Man a Poet's just pretence — Fervency, freedovi,fuency 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 earth, a mind Skill' d in the charaders that form mankind; And, as the Sun in rising beauty drest Looks from the dappled orient to the West, And marks, whatever clouds may interpose. Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close. An eye like his to catch the distant goal, Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll. Like his to shed illuminating rays On every scene and subjcSl it surveys : Thus grac'd the Man asserts a Poet's name. And the world cheerfully admits the claim. The concluding lines may be considered as an omen of thar celebrity, 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 for the inattention of the Public) that he hazarded some sentiments in his fust Volume, which were very likely to obstrucl its immedi- ate success in the world. I particularly allude to his bold eulogy on Whitfield, Avhom the dramatic satire of Foote, in his Comedy of the 112 LIFE OF COVvTER. llie IMinor, had taught the Nation to deride as a mischievous fa- natic. I alkide also to a httle 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 in a Sunday evening. Such praise, and such reproof, bestowed on popular enthusiasts, might easily induce many careless Readers, unacquainted with the singular mildness and purity of charader, that really belonged to the new Poet, to rejeft his Book, without giving it a fair perusal, as the production of a Recluse, in- flamed with the fierce spirit of bigotry. 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 auste- rity of reproof. Of this he was aware himself, and confessed it, in the most ingenuous manner, on the following occasion. One of his intimate friends had written, in the first Volume of his Poems, the following passage from the younger Pliny, as descriptive of the Book: " Multa tenuiter, raulta sublimiter, multa venuste, multa tenere, multa didciter, multa cum bile." Many passages are delicate, many sublime, many beautiful, many tender, many sweet, many acri- monious. Cowper LIFE OF COWPER. 113 Cowper was pleased with the application, and said, with the utmost candour and sincerity, " The latter part is very true indeed : yes! yes ! there are " multa cum bile" many acrimonious. These little occasional touches of austerity would naturally arise in a life so sequestered; but how just a subject of surprize and admiration is it, to behold an Author starting under such a load of disadvantages, and displaying on the sudden such a variety of excellence ! For neglecled, 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 antient world. He is not only great in passages of pathos, and sublimity, but he is equally admirable in wit and humour. After descanting most copiously on sacred subjefts, with the anima- tion of a Prophet, and the simplicity of an Apostle, he paints the lu- dicrous charafters of common life with the comic force of Moliere ; particularly in his Poem on Conversation, and his exquisite portrait of a fretful temj)er : a piece of moral painting so highly finished, and so happily calculated to promote good humour, that a transcript of the Verses shall close the First Part of these Memoirs. Some fretful tempers wince at every touch; You always do too little, or too much : You speak with life, in hopes to entertain ; Your elevated voice goes through the brain : Q you Ill LIFE OF COWPER. You fall at once into a loxoer 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: — 7iow 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 chuses Fish; With Soal — that's just the sort he xoould not xvish. He takes what he at first profess' d to loath; And in due time feeds heartily on both: Yet, still o'ercloud.ed with a constant fr axon ; He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. Your hope to please him vain on every plan. Himself should work that wonder, if he can. Alas ! his efforts double his distress ; He likes your' s little, and his own still less. Thus always teazing others, always teaz'd, His only pleasure is to be displeas'd. 2ND OF THE FIRST PART. THE THE LIFE O F C O W P E R. PART THE SECOND. Avvjo vj^tTTO, xolSxv. A New aera 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 ani- mating and direclmg the fancy of her poetical friends. The World ^vill perfeftly agree with me in this eulogy, when 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 imme- diate duty, as the Biographer of the Poet, to introduce her circum- stantially to the acquaintance of my Reader. A lady, whose name was Jones, was one of tlic fc^\' neighbours admitted in the residence of the retired Poet. She was the wife of a Clergyman, who resided at the village of Clifton, ^\•ilhin a mile Q 2 of 116 LIFE OF COWPER. of Olney. Ilcr sister, the widow of Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, tame to pass some time with her in the Autumn of 1781 ; and] as the t\v'o ladies chanced to call at a shop in Olney, opposite to the house of Mrs. Unwin, Cowper observed them from his window.— Although naturally shy, and now rendered more so by his very long ilhiess, he was so struck with the appearance of the stranger, that on hearing she was sister to Mrs. Jones, he requested Mrs. Unwin to invite them to tea. So strong was his reluftance to ad* mit the company of strangers, that after he had occasioned this invi- tation, he was for a long time unwilling to join the little party ; but having forced himself at last to engage in conversation with Lady Austen, he was so reanimated by her uncommon colloquial talents, that he attended the ladies on their return to Clifton, and from that time continued to cultivate the regard of his new acquaintance with such assiduous attention, that she soon received from him the fami- liar and endearing title of Sister Ann. The great and happy influence, which an incident, that seems at first sight so trivial, produced very rapidly on the imagination of Cowper, ^vill best appear from the following Epistle, which, soon after Lady Austen's return to London for the winter, the Poet ad- dressed to her, on the 17 th of December, 1781. Dear Anna Betzveen friend and friend. Prose anszoers every common end; Serves LIFE OF COWPER. 117 Serves, in a plain, and homely way, T' express th' occurrence of the day ; Our health, the weather, and the news ; What xvalks we take, what books we chuse ; And all the Jloating thoughts, we find Upon the surface of the mind. But v)hen a Poet takes the pen. Far more alive than other men. He feels a gentle tingling come Down to his finger and his thumb, Deriv'dfrom nature's noblest part. The centre of a glowing heart ! And this is what the world, zoho knozos No fights, above the pitch of prose. His more sublime vagaries slighting. Denominates an itch for writing. No wonder I, who scribble rhyinct To catch the trifers of the time. And tell them truths divine* and clear. Which couch'd in prose, tliey will not hear : Who labour hard to allure, and drazo 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 ii8 LIFE OF COWPER. 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 til allotment of the skies. The Hand of the Supremely Wise, That guides, and governs our affcElions, And plans, and orders our connexions ; DireEls us in our distant road, And marks the bounds of our abode. Thus we zoere settled zohen 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,\ Are come from distant Loire, to chuse A cottage on the Banks of use. This page of Providence, quite ncwt And now just opening to our viexo. Employs our present thoughts and pains, To guess, and spell, what it contains : But * An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the residence of Cowper, which faced ibe market-place. t Lady Aullcn's residence in France. LIFE OF COWPER. ng But day by day, and year by year. Will make the dark cenigma 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 slozu 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 perfed whole. Which busy man's inventive brain Toils to anticipate in vain. Say Anna, had you never known The beauties of a Rose full blozon. Could you, tho' luminous your eye. By looking on the bud, descry, Or guess, with a prophetic power, The future splendor of the fower ? Just so th' Omnipotent who turns The system of a world's concerns. From mere minutice can educe Events of most important use ; And bid a dawning sky display The blaze of a meridian day. The works of man tend, one and all. As needs they must, from great io small; And 120 LIFE OF COWPER. And vanity absorbs at length The monuments of humayi strength. But who can tell how vast the plan, Which this day's incident began ? Too small perhaps the slight occasion For our dim-sighted observation ; It pass' d unnoticd, 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 fowers. Rose from a seed of tiny size, That scem'd to promise no such prize : A transient visit intervening. And made almost without a meaning, (Hardly the effed, of inclination, Much less of pleasing cxpeElation I ) Producd a friendship, then begun, That has cemented us in one ; And p lac' d it in our power to prove, By long fdelity and love. That Solomon has zvisely spoken : " A threefold cord is not soon broken." In this interesting Poem the Author expresses a lively and de- vout presage of the superior productions, that were to arise in the process LIFE OF COWPER. 121 process 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 agreably promote the studies, and animate the fimcy of diis 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 friend- ship, to lead it into permanent and successful exertion. Such was the genius of Cowper; and he therefor^ considered the chearful and animating society of his new accomplished Friend, as a bless- ing conferred on him by the signal favour of Providence. She re- turned the following summer to the house of her Sist^if, 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 port- able Printing-Press, and he gratefully sent her the following Verses printed by himself, and enclosed in a billet that alludes to the occa- sion on which they were composed — a very unseasonable flood, that interrupted the communication between Clifton and Olney. R To 1-2 LIFE OF COWPER. To toatch the storms, and hear the sky Give all our Almanacks the lie; To shake with cold, and see the plains In Autumn drown' d with Wintry rains : 'Tis thus I spend my moments here. And zoish myself a Dutch Mynheer : I then should have no need of wit ; For lumpish Hollander unjit ! Nor should I then repine at mud. Or meadows delug'd by ajlood; But in a bog live well content. And find it just my element ; Should be a clod, and not a vian. Nor zoish 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 legible, that I could not afford finer. I intend to employ an ingenious mechanic of the town to make me a longer case : for you may observe, that my lines turn up their tails hke Dutch mastiffs, so difficult do I find it to make the two halves exa6lly coincide ^vith each other. We LIFE OF COWPER. 123 Wc wait with impatience for the departure of this unseasonable flood — Wc think of you, and talk of you, but wc can do no more, till the Avaters shall subside. I do not think our correspondence should drop because we arc within a mile of each other. It is but an ima- ginary approximation, the flood having in reality as effe6lually parted us, as if the British Channel rolled between us. Yours my clear Sister, \vith Mrs, Unwin's best love. Wm. COWPER. August 1 2, ] 782. A flood that precluded him from the conversation of such an enlivening Friend, was to Cowper 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 com- fortably 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 man- ner, to visit the sequestered Poet, who resided in the next house. Lady Austen had the advantage of this easy intercourse, and so cap- tivating was her society, both to Cowper, and to Mrs. UnAvin, that these intimate neighbours might be almost said to make one family, as it became their custom to dine always together, alternately in the houses of the two ladies. R 2 The 1-5 1 LIFE OF COWPER. Tlic 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 solemnity. SONG WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OF I783, AT THE REQUEST Of LADY AUSTEN. Air — " My fond Shepherds of late, &c." No longer I follow a sound ; No longer a dream 1 pursue: Happiness, not to be found. Unattainable treasure, adieu ! 1 have sought thee in splendor and dress; In the regions of pleasure and taste : I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess. But have proved thee a vision at last. An humble ambition and hope The voice of true wisdom inspires; 'Tis stifficient, if Peace be the scope. And the summit of all our desires. Peace LIFE OF COWPER. 12 Peace may be the lot of the mind. That seeks it in meekness and love; But rapture and bliss are conjin'd To the glorified Spirits above. SONG 2. Air—" The Lass of Pattie's Mill. When all zvithin is peace. How Nature seems to smile Delights that never cease, The livelong day beguile. From morn to dewy eve, With open hand she shoxoers. Fresh blessings, to deceive. And soothe the silent hours. It is content of heart. Gives Nature power to please ; The mind that feels no smart. Enlivens all it sees ; Can make a wintry sky Seem bright as smiling May. And evening's closing eye As peep of early day. Tht 126 LIFE OF COWPER, The vast ^najestic globe. So beauteously arrayed hi Nature's various robe, With zvond'roiis skill displayed, Is, to a viourner's heart, A dreary wild at best : It Jill tiers to depart. And longs to be at rest. I add die folloMang Song (adapted to the March in Scipio) for two reasons; because it is pleasing to promote the celebrity of a brave man, calamitously cut off in his career of honour, and because the Song was a favourite produftion of the Poet's ; so much so, that, in a season of depressive illness, he amused himself by trans- lating it into Latin verse. SONG 3. ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. Toll for the Brave ! The Brave ! that are no more ! All sunk beneath the xoave, Fast by their native shore. Eight hundred of the Brave, Whose courage well zoas tried. Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side, A LIFE OF COWPER: 127 A land breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset ; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete. Toll for the Brave / Brave Kempenfelt is gofie ; His last sea-fight is fought ; His work of glory done. It was not in the battle ; No tempest gave the shock : She sprang no fatal leak ; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath ; His fingers held the pen. When Kempenfelt zuent down, With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes f And mingle with our cup. The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound. And she mayfioat again Full charged with England's thunder. And plough the distant main. But i.« LIFE OF COWPER. But Kempenfelt is gone, His vifiories are o'er ; And he and his eight hundred. Shall plough the xoave 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 exquiste pathos, with his diverting history of John Gilpin! That admirable, and highly popular piece of pleasantry was composed at the period of which I am now speaking. An elegant and judicious Writer, who has recently favoured the public with three interesting Volumes relating to the early Poets of our country, conjeftures, that a Poem, written by the celebrated Sir Thomas More in his youth (the merry jest of the Serjeant and Frere) may have suggested to Cowper his tale of John Gilpin; but that fasci- nating Ballad had a different origin ; and it is a very remarkable fa£l, that full of gaiety and humour, as this favourite of the public has abundantly proved itself to be, it was really composed at a time, when the spirit of the Poet, as he informed me himself, was \'ery 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 sink- ing into encreasing dejedion ; it was her custom, on these occasions, to LIFE OF COWPER. 129 to try all the resources of her sprightly powers for his immediate re- lief She told him the stoiy of John Gilpin (which had been trea- sured in her memor}^ from her childhood) to dissipate the gloom of the passing hour. Its effect on the fancy of Co\\^pcr had the air of enchantment : he informed her the next morning, that convulsions of laughter, brought on by his recolleftion of her story, had kept him waking during the greatest part of the night; and that he had turned it into a Ballad. — So arose the pleasant Poem of John Gilpin : It was eagerly copied, and finding its way rapidly to the News- pajxrrs, it was seized by the lively spirit of Henderson, the Come- dian, a native of Ncwport-Pagnell, and a Man, like the Yorick de- scribed by Shakespeare " of infinite jest, and most excellent fancy," it was seized by Henderson as a proper subject for the display of his own comic powers, and by reciting it, in his public Readings, he gave uncommon celebrity to the Ballad, before the public sus- pected 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 die world, and a circumstance re- lating to the first Volume of Cowper's Poems, \vhich may render the following selection from this correspondence peculiarly interesting. S LETTEH 130 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER XXXII. To JOSEPH HILL. Esqr. Feb. 13, & 20, 1783. MY DEAR FRIEND, In writing to you I never want a subje6i:. Self is always at hand, and Self with its concerns is always interesting 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 suspefting the Author. My Book procures me favors, which my modesty will not permit 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 brought me. I have been refreshing myself with a walk in the garden, where I find that January (who according to Chaucer was the husband of May) being dead, February has married the widow. Yours, &c. W. C. LETTER LIFE OF COWPER. 131 LETTER XXXIII. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. OIney, Feb. 20, 1783. Suspefting 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 Avrite another by the same post, and believing that you would have the grace to pardon a little self complacency in an Author on so trying an occasion, I let it pass. One sin naturally leads to another, and a greater, and thus it happens now : for I have no way to gratify your curiosity, but by transcribing the Letter in question. It is addressed by the Avay, not to me, but to an acquaintance of mine, \vho had transmitted the Volume to him ^vithout my knowledge. " Sir, Passy, May 8, 1782. I received the Letter you did me the honor of writing to me, and am much obliged by your kind present of a Book. The relish for reading of Poetry had long since left me, but there is something so new in the manner, so easy and yet so correal in the lan- guage, so clear in the expression, yet concise, and so just in the senti- ments, that I have read the whole with great pleasure, and some of the pieces more than once. I beg you to accept my thankful acknowledge- ments, and to present my respcds to the Author. Your most obedient humble Servant, B. Franklin.'' S2 LETTER i;ii LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER XXXIV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. MY DKAR TRIEND^ Great revolutions happen in this Ant's nest of ours. One Emmet of illustrious charafter, and great abili- ties pushes out another, parties are formed, they range themselves in formidable opposition, they threaten each other's ruin, they cross over, and are mingled together, and like the coruscations 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 imasre which Nebuchadnezzar saw in his dream was made up of heterogeneous and incompatible mate- rials, and accordingly broken. Whatever is so formed must ex- pe6l 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 appearance clumsily sa- cerdotal. Our friendship is dead and buried, yours is the only sur- viving one of all with which I was once honored. Adieu. LETTER LIFE OF COVVPER. 133 LETTER XXXV To JOSEPH HILL, Esqt. May 26, 1783, I feel for my Uncle, and do not wonder that his loss afflicts him. A connexion that has subsisted so many years could not be rent asunder without great pain to the survivor, I hoj)e, however, and doubt not but when he has had a little more time for rccolleftion, he will find that consolation in his own fa- mily, which is not the lot of every father to be blessed wllh. Ii seldom happens that married persons live together so long, or so haj)pily : but this \vhich one feels oneself ready to suggest as mat- ter of alleviation, is the very circumstance that aggravates his dis- tress; therefore he misses her the more, and feels that he can but ill spare her. It is however a necessary tax, \vhich all who live long must pay for their longevity, to lose many whom they ^vould be glad to detain, ({perhaps those in whom all their happiness is cen- tered) and to see them step into the grave before them. In one res{)e6l at least this is a merciful appointment. When life has lost that to which it owed its principal relish, we may ourselves the more chearfully resign it. I beg you would present him with my most affeclionate remembrance, and tell him, if you think fit, how much I wish that the evening of his long day, may be serene and ha}lp^•. L-r T T E R x^i i^ifE ^F COWPER. LETTER XXXVI. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Oclober 20, 1783. I should not have been thus long silent, had I known with certainty where a Letter of mine might find you. Your summer excursions however are now at an end, and address- ing 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, though a passionate lover of fine weather, and the pleasant scenes of summer; but the long evenings have their comforts too, and there is hardly to be found upon the earth, I suppose, so snug a creature 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 circumnavigating the globe, and I find the old story with which I amused myself some years since, through the great felicity of a memory not very reten- tive, almost new. I am however sadly at a loss for Cooks Voyage, can you send it ? I shall be glad of Foster'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 \vintcr evenings, which the Poet has painted so exquisitely in verse. The tAVO LIFE OF COWPER. 13.3 two ladies whom he mentions as his constant auditors were Mrs. Unwin and Lady Austen. The PubUck ah-eady indebted to the friendly and chearful 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 very master-piece of Co\vper's un- bounded imasfination ! This lady happened, as an admirer of Milton, to be partial to blank verse, 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- jeft : — you can write upon any : — write upon this Sofa!" The Poet obeyed her command, and from the lively repartee of fami- liar conversation arose a Poem of many thousand verses, unex- ampled perhaps both in its origin, and its excellence! A Poem of such infinite variety, that it seems to include every subjed, 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 whatever may lead them most happily to the full enjoyment of human life, and to the final attainment of Heaven. The Task appears to have been composed in the \\'intor of 1784. A circumstance the more remarkable, as Winter was, in ge- neral, particularly unfavourable to the health of the Poet. In the commencement 13^^ LIFE OF COWPER. commencement of the Poem he marks both the season and the year, in the tender address to his companion. " Whose arm this twentieth Winter I perceive " Fast lock'd iri mine." If such can be the proper date of this most interesting Poem, it must have been ^vritten witli inconceivable rapidity, for it was certainly finished very early in November. This appears from the following passage in a Letter of the Poet's to his friend Mr. Bull, in which he not only mentions the completion of his great work, but gives a particular account of his next produftion. " The Task, as you know, is gone to the Press : since it went I have beeii employed in ^vriting another Poem, which I am now transcribing, and which in a short time, I design, shall follow. It is. entitled Tirocinium, or a Review of Schools: the business and purpose of it are to censure the Avant of discipline, and the scanda- •lous iiiattenfion to morals, that obtain in them ; especially in the -largest; and to recommend private tuition as a mode of education preferable on all accounts ; to call upon fathers to become tutors of their own sons, where that is prafticable ; to take home to them a. domestic tutor, where it is not; and if neither can be done, tO; place them 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 LIFE OF COWPER. 137 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 1 784, and that the passage which I have cited, as marking the aera of its composition, was added in the course of a revisal. The following passages from Cowper's Letters to his last men- tioned Corres|X)ndent, confirm this conje61ure. August 3, 1783 — " Your sea-side situation, your beautiful prosj:)e6ts, 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 should we envy any man ? Is not our Green- house a cabinet of perfumes ? It is at this moment fronted ^vith 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, which your natural acumen, sharpened by habits of logical attention, will enable you to reconcile in a m(5- ment. Do not imagine, however, that I lounge ovGi- it — on the contrary, I fmd it severe exercise, to mould and fashion it to my mind !" Feb. 22, 1784, " I congratulate you on 'the thaw — I suppose it is an universal blessing, and probably felt all over Europe, I myself am the better for it, who ^vanted nothing, that might make T the 138 LIFE OF COWPER. the frost supportable ; what reason, therefore, have they to re- joice, Avho being in want of all things, were exposed to its utmost ligour ? — The ice in my ink, however, is not yet dissolved — It was long before the frost seized it, but at last it prevailed — The Sofa has consequently received little or no addition since — It con- sists at present of four Books, and part of a fifth: when the sixth is finished, the work is accomplished, but if I may judge by my present inability, that period is at a considerable distance." The Year 1784, was a memorable period in the life of the Poet, not only as it witnessed the completion of one extensive work, and the commencement of another, (his Translation of Homer) but as it terminated his intercourse with that highly pleasing and valu- able Friend, \vhose 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 grcAv impossible to preserve that triple cord, which his own pure heart had led him to suppose, not speedily to be broken, Mrs. Un^vin, though by no means destitute of mental accomplishments, ^vas eclipsed by the brilliancy of the Poet's new Friend, and naturally became un- easy under the apprehension of being so, for to a Avoman of sensi- bility, what evil can 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 ? Cowper LIFE OF COWPER. 139 Cow'per perceived the painful necessity of sacrificing a great portion of his present gratifications. He felt, that he must relin- quish that antient 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 him to hesitate, and with a resolution and delicacy, that do the highest honor to his feelings, he ^vrote a farewell Letter to Lady Austen, explaining, and lamenting the circumstances, that forced him to renounce the society of a Friend, whose enchanting talents and kindness had proved so agreeably instrumental to the rc\'ival of his spirits, and to the exercise of his fancy. The Letters addressed to Mr. Hill at this period, express in a most pleasing manner, the sensibility of Cowper. LETTER XXXVII. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Sept. 11, 1784. MY DEAR FRIEND, I have ne\'er seen Di'. Cotton's book, concerning ^vhich 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 living is better qualified T 2 to MO LIFE OF COWPER, lo wrilc 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 always respeft him. He is truly a Philosopher according to my judgment of the charader, every tittle of his knowledge in natu- ral subjects, being conne6led in his mind, with the firm belief of an Omnipotent Agent. Yours, &c. W. C. LETTER XXXVIII. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. MY DEAR FRIEND, To condole with you on the death of a Mother aged 87 would be absurd — Rather therefore, as is reaso- nable, 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 respeft have been very different, as in- deed in almost every other. Your Mother lived to see you rise, at least to see you comfortably established in the world. Mine dying when I was six years old, did not live to see me sink in it. You may remember with pleasure while you live, a blessing vouchsafed to you so long, and I, while I live, must regret a comfort, of which I was deprived so early. I can truly say that not a week passes, (perhaps I might with equal veracity say a day) in which I do not think LIFE OF COWPER. 141 think of her. Such was the impression her tenderness made ujx)n me, though the opportunity she had for shewing it was so short. But the ways of God are equal — and when I refleft 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, ^v'ithin 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 \''olume of mine \vill 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 enter- taining than the former, as it treats a greater variety of subjecls, 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 another which I finished yesterday, called I believe Tirocinium, on the subje6l of Education. You perceive that I have taken your advice, and given the Pen no rest. LETTER JJ2 LIFE OE COWPER. LETTER XXXIX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. June 25, 1785. MY DEAR FRIE^'D, I write in a nook that I call my Boudoir. It is a summer-house not much bigger than a sedan-chair, tlie door of which opens into the garden that is now crowded with pinks, roses, and honey-suckles, and the ^vindow into my neighbour's orchard. It formerly served i\n Apothecary, now dead, as a smoking room, and under my feet is a trap door, which once covered a hole in the ground, where he kept his bottles. At pre- sent however it is dedicated to sublimcr uses. Having lined it ^vith 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 in- trusion: for intruders sometimes trouble me in the winter evenings 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 proposition, and never presume to violate it. The last sentence puts me in mind to tell you, that I have ordered my Volume to your door. My Bookseller is the most di- latory of all 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 LIFE OF COWPER. 143 Manuscript at the beginning of last November, that he might publish while the Town is full, and he will hit the exaft moment when it is entirely empty. Patience you will perceive is in no situation ex- empted from the severest trials ; a remark that may serve to com- fort you under the numberless 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 affctlionate heart, another fe- male Friend, and lively Associate, now providentially led to contri- bute to his comfort, when the advanced age and infirmities of Mrs. Unwin made such an acquisition of new, or rather revived friend- ship, a matter of infinite im].X)rtance to the tranquility and welfare of the sequestered Poet. The Lady to whom I allude had the advantage of being nearly re- lated to Cowper. Their intercourse had been frequent, and endeared by reciprocal esteem in their early years, but the whirlwinds of life had driven them far from the sight of each other. During the Poet's long retirement his fair Cousin had passed some years with her Husband abioad, and others, after her return, in a variety of mournful 114 LIFE OF OOWPER. mournful duties. She was at this time a Widow, and her indelible 1 cgard for Iier poetical relation, being agreeably inspirited by the publication of his recent works, she wrote to him, on that occa- sion, a very kind letter. It ga\'e rise to many from him, Avhich I 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 veiy interesting period of his life ; and because I persuade myself they will refleft peculiar honor on my departed Friend in various points of view, and lead the Public to join with me in thinking that his Letters are rivals to his Poems, in the rare excellence of representing life and nature with graceful and endearing fidelity. LETTER XL. To Lady HESKETH, New Norfolk Street, Grosvenor-Square. October 12, 1785. MY DEAR COUSIN, It is no new thing with you to give pleasure, but I will venture to say that you do not often give more than you gave me this morning. W^hen I came down to breakfast, and found upon the table a Letter franked by my Uncle, and when opening that frank I found that it contained a Letter from you, I said within myself, this is just as it should be ; we are all grown young again, and the days that I thought I should see no more, are adually LIFE OF COWPER. 145 acliKiUy returned. You percei^'e therefore that you judged well when you conjeftured that a line from you ^vould not be disagree- able to me. It could not be otherwise, than as in faft it proved, a most agreeable surprize, for I can truly boast of an affeftion for you that neither years, nor interrupted intercourse have at all abated. I need only recoUeft how much I valued you once, and with how much cause, immediately to feel a revival of the same value ; if that can be said to revive, which at the most has only been dormant for want of employment. But I slander it when I say that it has slept. A thousand times ha^'e I recollefted a thousand scenes in which our two selves have formed the Avhole 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 afforded us, as you well know, a fund of merriment that deserves never to be forgot. I have Avalked Avith you to Nettley Abbey, and have scrambled with you over hedges in every direction, and many other feats we have performed together, upon the field of my remembrance, and all within these few years, should I say Avithin diis twelvemonth I should not transgress the truth. The hours that I have spent with you were among the pleasantest of my former days, and are there- i I fore chronicled in my mind so deeply as to fear no erasure. Neither do I forget rny jxiorlriend 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 U him 140 LIFE OF COWPER. l)im io me siill more. With his micommon understanding (for ■with- many |xxuliarities 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, so it was the best proof, that he could give of a judgment, that never de- ceived 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 ^vhat quarter, but it is no matter. I must tell you, however, my Cousin, that your information has been a little defeftive. That I am happy in my situation is true, I live and have li\'ed these t%venty years with Mrs. Unwin, to whose afFe6lionate care of me during the far greater part of that time, it is, under Pro- vidence, 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 gra\-e. But I will pass to another subjeft ; it would be cruel to particular- ize only to give pain, neither would I by any means give a sable hue to the first Letter of a correspondence so unexpecledly re- newed. 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'. LIFE OF COWPER. 147 much, but to have that late day enlivened with the vivacity of youth, is much more, and m these postdiluvian times a rarity in- deed. Happy for the most part, are parents ^vho have daughters. Daughters are not apt to outlive their natural affeclions, which a son has generally survived e\'en before his boyish years are expired. I rejoice particularly in my Uncle's felicity, \vho has three female de- scendents from his little person, who leave him notliing to wish for upon that head. My dear Cousin, dcjedion of spirits, which I suppose may liavc prevented many a man from becoming an Author, made me one. I fmd constant employment necessary, and therefore take care to be constantly employed. Manual occupations do not engage the mind sufliciently, 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. 1 read also, but less than I write, for I must have bo- dily 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. U 2 Adieu, i.^H LIFE OF COWPER. Adieu, my beloved Cousin, I shall not always be dius nimble in reply, but shall always have great pleasure in answering you when I can. Yours, my Friend and Cousin, Wm. COWPER. LETTER XLI. To Lady HESKETH. Olney, Nov. 9, 1785., MY DEAREST COUSIN, Whose last most affeftionate Letter h^s run in my head ever since I received it, and which I now sit down to answer two days sooner than the post will serve me. I thank you for it, and with a warmth for which I am sure you will give me credit, though I do not spend many words in describing it. I do not seek ruszo friends, not being altogether sure that I should find them, but have unspeakable pleasure in being still beloved by an old one. I hope that now our correspondence has suffered its last interruption, and that we shall go down together to the grave, chatting and chirping as merrily as such a scene of things as this, will permit. I am happy that my Poems have pleased you. My Volume has afforded me no such pleasure at any time, cither while I was writing it. LIFE OF COWPER. 149 it, or since its publication, as I have derived from yours, and my Uncle's opinion of it. I make certain allowances for partiality, and for that peculiar quickness of taste, with which you both relish what you like, and after all draw-backs upon those accoinits duly made, find myself rich in the measure of your approbation that still re- mains. 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 valuable acquisition than all the laughter in the world amounts to, the recovery of my intercourse with you, which is to me inesti- mable. My benevolent and generous Cousin ; when I was once asked if I \vantcd any thing, and given delicately enough to under- stand that the enquirer was ready to supply all my occasions, I thankfully and civilly, but positively declined the favour. I neither suffer, nor Ikuc suffered any such inconveniences as I had not much rather endure, than come under obligations of that sort to a person comparatively with yourself a stranger to me. But to you I answer otherwise. I knoAV you thoroughly, and the liberality of )'pur dis- jX)sition; and ha\'e that consummate confidence in the sincerity of your wish to serve me, that delivers me from all awkAx'ard con- straint, and from all fear of trespassing by acceptimce; Jlkj.you, therefore, I reply, yes. Whensoever, and whatsoever, and in what manner soever you please ; and add moreoAcr, that my alfeftion for the giver is such, as will encrease to me tenfold the satisfaftion that I shall have in receiving. It is necessary however that I should let you i,5o LIFE OF COVVPER. you a little iiiLo Lhe state of my finances, that you may not suppose them more narro\vly circumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Unwin and I ha\'e Hvcd at Ohiey, we have had but one purse ; although during the Avhole of that time, till lately, her income was nearly double mine. Her revenues indeed are now in some measure re- duced, and do not much exceed my own ; the worst consequence of this is, that we are forced to deny ourselves some things which hitherto we have been better able to afford, but they are such things as neither life, nor the well being of life depend upon. My own income has been better than it is, but when it was best, it would not have enabled me to live as my connexions demanded that I should, had it not been combined ^vith a better than itself, at least at his 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 oeconomical matters, I contrived to spend the income of a twelve month. Now, my beloved Cousin, you are in possession of the Avhole case as it stands. Strain no points to your o^vn inconvenience, or hurt, for there is no need of it; but indulge yourself in communicating (no matter what) that you can spare without missing it, since by so doing you will be sure to add to the comforts of my life, one of the sweetest that I can enjoy, a token and proof of your affeclion. In the affairs of my next publication, toward which you also offer me so kindly your assistance: there will be no need that you should LIFE OF COWPER. 151 should help me in the manner that you propose. It will be a large work, consisting I should imagine, of six \'okunes at least. 1'hc 12th of this month I shall have spent a year upon it, and it will cost me more than another. I do not love the Booksellers well enough to make them a present of such a labour, but intend to publish by subscription. Your \'ote and interest, my dear Cousin, upon the. occasion, if you please, but nothing more! I -wall trouble you \vith some papers of Proposals, when 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 is a great secret, that you must not whisper even to )^our Cat. No creature is at this moment ap- prized of it, but Mrs. Unwm, and her Son. I am making a new translation of Homer, and am upon the j>oint of finishing the twenty-first book of the Iliad. The reasons upon Avhich I under- take this Herculean labour, and by which I justify an cnterprize in which I seem so effectually anticipated by Pope, although in fact, he has not anticipated me at all, I may possibly gi\'c 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 die road by itself, that I should not instantly recollect. I should say, that is my Cousin's nose, or those LIFE OF COWPER. those are her Hps and her chin, and no woman upon earth can claim them but herself. As for mc, I am a very smart youth of my years. I am not indeed grou'n grey so mucli as I am grown bald. No matter. There v\'as more hair in the world 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 na- tural growth; which being ^vorn with a small bag, and a black riband about my neck, continues to me the charms of my youth, even on the verge of age. Away with the fear of writing too often. Yours my dearest Cousin, W. C. P. S. That the view I give you of myself may be complete, I add the two following items — That I am in debt to nobody, and that I grow fat. LETTER XLII. To Lady HESKETH. MY DEAREST COUSIN, I am glad that I always loved you as 1 did. It releases me from any occasion to suspe6l that my present afiPeclion for you is indebted for its existence to any selfish consider- ations. LIFE OF COWPER. 15 o ations. No. I am sure I love you disinterestedly, and for your o\vn sake, because I never thought of you with any other sensa- tions than those of the truest affeftion, even while I was under the influence of a persuasion, diat I should never hear from you again. But ^\•ith 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 de- sart, starts at the sudden and unexpecled sound of a waterfall. You have placed me in a situation new' to me, and in which I feel my- self 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 o^^'n. Although I do not suspe6l 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 effe6l under which I laid you. I have now made such a progress in my Translation, that I need neither fear that I shall stop short of the end, nor that any other Rider of I'e- 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 X 1 1^4 LIFE OF COWPER. I am so occupied, you have my Poctship's free permission. Dr. Johnson read and recommended my first Volume. W. C. LETTER XLIII. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Dec. 24, 1785. MY DEAR FRIEND, 'Till I had made such a progress in my present undertaking, as to put it out of all doubt, that, if I lived, I should proceed in and finish it, I kept the matter to myself It would have done me little honor to have told my friends, that I had an arduous enterprize in hand, if afterwards I must have told them, that I had dropped it. Knowing it to have been universally the opinion of the Literati, ever since they have allowed themselves to consider the matter coolly, that a Translation, properly so called, of Homer, is, notwithstanding ^vhat Pope has done, a desideratum in the English language, it struck me that an attempt to supply the deficiency would be an honorable one ; and having made myself in former years some^vhat critically a master of the original, I Avas by this double consideration induced to make 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 LIFE OF COWPER, 155 LETTER XLIV. To Lady HESKETH. Jan. 10, 1785. It gave me great pleasure that you found my friend Un^snn, what 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 be- cause it is possible to do a man material injury, by making his praise his harbinger. It is easy to raise expeftation to such a pitch, that the reality, be it ever so excellent, must necessarily fall belo\\' it. I hold myself much indebted to Mr. , of whom I liave the first information from yourself, both for his friendly disposi- tions towards me, and for the manner in which he marks the de- fects in my Volume. An author must be tender indeed to wince on being touched so gently. It is undoubtedly as he says, and as you, and my Uncle say, You cannot be all mistaken, neither is it at all probable that any of you should be so. I take it for granted therefore, that there are inequalities in the composition, and I do assure you, my dear, most fiiithfully, that if it should reach a second edition, I will spare no pains to improve it. It may serve mc for an agreeable amusement |)erhaps, ^vhcn Homer shall be gone and done with. The first edition of jjocms has generally been suscep- tible of improvement. Pojx?, I believe, never published one in X 2 his J 56 LIFE OF COWPER. his life that did not undergo variations, and his longest pieces many. I will only observe, that inequalities there must be always, and in every work of length. There are level parts of every subject, parts Avhicli we cannot with propriety attempt to elevate. They are by nature humble, and can only be made to assume an awkward and uncouth appearance by being mounted. But again I take it for granted, that this remark does not apply to the matter of your ob- jeclion. 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 have 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 ^vhat perpetual interruptions from a cause that has since been removed, so that sometimes I had not an oppor- tunity of writing more than three lines at a sitting, you would long since have wondered as much as I do myself, that it turned out any thing better than Grub-street. My Cousin, give yourself no trouble to find out any of the Magi to scrutinize my Homer. I can do without them; and if I were not conscious that I have no need of their help, I would be the first to call for it. Assure yourself that I intend to be careful to the utmost line of all possible caution, both with respect to lan- guage and versification. I will not send a verse to the Press that shall not have undergone the strictest examination. A LIFE OF COWPER. 157 A subscription is surely on every account the most eligible mode of publication. When I shall have emptied the purses of my friends, and of their friends into my own, I am still free to levy contributions upon the world at large, and I shall then have a fund to defray the expences of a ne\v edition. I have ordered Johnson to print the Proposals immediately, and hope tliat 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 re- plied, that " such a work is much wanted." W. C. LETTER XLV, To Lady HESKETH. Olney, Jan. 3I, 1786. It is veiy pleasant, my deai-est Cousin, to receive a present so delicately conveyed as that which I received so lately from Anonymous, but it is also very painful to have nobody to thank for it. I find myself therefore driven by stress of necessity to the follo\\'ing resolution, viz. that I will constitute you my Thank-receiver General for whatsoever gift I shall receive hereafter, as well as for those, that I have already received from a nameless Benefactor. I therefore thank you, my Cousin, for a most clegimt 158 LIFE OF COWPER. elegant present, including the most elegant compliment that ever Poet was honored with ; for a snufF-box of tortoise-shell, with a beautiful landscape on the lid of it, glazed with chrystal, having the figures of three Hares in the fore-ground, and inscribed above with these words. The Pheasant's Nest, and below with these- 7? no', Puss, and Bess. For all and every of these I thank you, and also for standing proxy on this occasion. Nor must I forget to thank you, that so soon after I had sent you the first Letter of Anonymous, I received another in the same hand. — There! — Now I am a little easier. I have almost conceived a design to send up half a dozen stout country-fellows to tie by the leg to their respeclive bed- posts the company that so abridges your opportunity of writing to me. Your Letters are the joy of my heart, and I cannot endure to be robbed by I know not whom, of half my treasure. But there is no comfort without a drawback, and therefore it is, that I, who have unknown friends, have unknown enemies also. Ever since I wrote last, I find myself in better health, and my nodurnal spasms and fever considerably abated. I intend to ^vrite to Dr. Kerr on Thursday, that I may gratify him \vith an account of my amendment; for to him I know that it will be a gratification. Were he not a Physician, I should regret, that he lives so distant, for he is a most agreeable man, but being what he is, it would be impossi- ble to have his company, even if he were a neighbour, unless in time LIFE OF COWPER. i^g time of sickness, at \vhich time whatever charms he might have himself, my own must necessarily lose much of their efFecl on him. When I ^vrite 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 \vhich you arc well acquainted. For once however I will venture. — On Wednesday last I received from Johnson the Mss. copy of a specimen that I had sent to the General, and inclosed in the same cover, Notes upon it by an unkno^v^n Critic. Johnson in a short Letter recommended him to me as a man of unquestion- able learning and ability. On perusal and consideration of his re- marks 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 unfmishcd, I answered Johnson, " that I would Ljladlv submit my mss. to his friend." He is, in truth, a \'ery clever fellow, perfeftly a stranger to me, and one \vho I pro- mise you will not spare for severity of animadversion where he shall find occasion. It is impossible for you, my dearest Cousin, to express a wish that I do not equally feel a wish to gratify. You are desirous that Maty should see a book of my Homer, and for tliat reason if Maty zciil see a book of it he shall be welcome, al- though time is likely to be precious, and consequently any delay that is not absolutely necessary, as much as possible lobe avoided. I am n)w revising the Iliad; it is a business that wlW cost me four months 1.^0 LIFE OF COWPER. months, perhaps five, for I compare the very words as I go, and if much alteration should occur, must transcribe the whole. The first Book I have almost transcribed already. To these five months Johnson says, that nine more must be added for Printing, and upon my own experience I will venture to assure you, that the tardiness of Printers will make those nine months twelve. There is danger therefore that my subscribers may think, that I make them wait too long, and that they who know me not may suspeft 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 always, and without reference to her taste and judgment I have printed nothing. With one of you at each elbow I should think myself the happiest of all Poets. The General and I having broken the ice are upon the most cornfortable terms of correspondence. He writes very affecti- onately to me, and I say every thing to him that comes uppermost. I could not write frequently to any creature living upon any other terms than those. He tells me of infirmities that he has, which make him less aftive 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 affeftionate Letter imaginable from Colman, who writes to me like a brother. The Chancellor is yet dumb. May LIFE OF COWPER. 16 1 May God have you in his keeping, my beloved Cousin. Farewell. W. C. LETTER XLVI, To Lady HESKETH. Olney, Feb. 9, 1786, 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 subjeft, and longs also to see you. I should ha\'e told you so by the last post, but have been so completely occupied by this tormenting Specimen, that it was impossible 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, quicL him again. Johnson has apologized v^ery civilly for the multitude of his friend's striclures, and his friend has pio- miscd to confine himself in future to a comparison of me with the original, 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 promising us a visit has charmed us both. I shall see you again — I shall hear your voice, we shall take walks together ; I \\ill shew you my prospects, the hovel, the alco\'e, the Ouse, and its banks, every thing that I have described. I anticipate the pleasure of Y those i62 LIFE OF COWPER. those days not very far distant, and feel a part of it at this moment. Talk not of an inn, mention it not for your life. We have never had so many \'isitors but we could easily accommodate them all, though we ha\'e received Unwin, and his wife, and his sister, and his son, all at once. My dear, I will not let you come till the end of May, or beginning of June, because before that time my green- house will not be ready to receive us, and it is the only pleasant room belonging to us. When the plants go out, we go in. I line it with mats, and spread the floor with mats, and there you shall sit with a bed of mignonette at your side, and a hedge of honey- 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 entered the vestibule, if you cast a look on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box of my making. It is the box in which have been lodged all my Hares, and in 'vvhich lodges Puss at pre- sent. But he poor fellow, is worn out with age, and promises to die before you can see him. On the right hand, stands a cupboard, the work of the same Author. It ^vas once a dove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table which I also made, but a merciless servant having scrubbed it until it became paralytic ; it serves no purpose now but of ornament, and all my clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the farther end of this superb vestibule you will find the door of the parlour into which I will condu 61 LIFE OF COWPER. i6j conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs. Umvin (un- less we should meet her before) and ^vhcre we will be as happy as the day is long. Order yourself, my Cousin, to the Swan at Ne^vport, and there you shall find me ready to conduct you to Olnev. My dear, I have told Homer what you say about Casks and Urns, and have asked him whether he is sure that it is a Cask in which Jupiter keeps his wine. He swears that it is a Cask, and that it will never be any thing better than a Cask to Eternity. So if the God is content ^vith it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be so too. Adieu my dearest dearest Cousin. W. C. LETTER XLVII. To Lady HESKETH. Olney, Feb. 1 1, 1786. MY DEAREST 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. Be that as it may, here I come. We talk of nobody but you ; what we will do with you, when we get you; where you shall walk, where }'ou shall sleep, in short every thing that bears Y 2 the i6i LIFE OF COWPER. the remotest relation to your wel] being at OIney, occupies all our talking time, Avhich 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 |;he Diligence on Wednesday next I mean to send you a quire of my Homer for Maty's perusal. It will contain the first book, and as much of the second as brings us to the catalogue of the ships, and is every morsel of the revised copy that I have 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 cri- ticisms 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 subjefl 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 appro- bation gives security for that of all others qualified like himself. I speak thus, my dear, after having just escaped from such a storm of trouble, occasioned by endless remarks, hints, suggestions, and ob- jections, as drove me almost to despair, and to the very edge of a resolution to drop my undertaking for ever. With infinite diffi- culty I at last sifted the chaff from the wheat, a\'ailed myself of what appeared LIFE OF COWPER. 165 appeared to me to be just, and rejeftod the rest, but not till the labour and anxiety had nearly undone all that Kerr had been doing for mc. 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 tlie effect of an alarm, that I could not help taking, \vhen 1 compared the great trouble I had with a few lines only, thus handled, with that, which I foresaw such handling of the Avholc must necessarily give mc. I felt before hand that my constitution would not bear it. I shall send up in this second specimen, in a box that I have had made on pinpose, imd when Maty has done with the copy, and you have done with it yourself, then you must return it in said box to my Translator- ship. — Though Johnson's friend has teased me sadly, I verily be- lieve that I shall have no more such cause to complain of him. We now understimd one another, and I firmly believe that I might have gone the world through before I had found his equal in an accurate and familiar acquaintance Avith the original. A Letter to Mr. Urban in the last Gentleman's Magazine, of which I's book is the subjeft, pleases me more than any thmg 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 \\'Ould be impossible. He has no doubt forgotten it entirely, and -vvouW be obliged to take i66 LIFE OF COWPER. take my word for the truth of it, which I could not bear. We drank tea together ^vith Mrs. C c, and her Sister, in King- Street, Bloomsbury, and there was the promise made. — I said ThurloAV — I am nobody, and shall be always nobody, and you will be Chancellor — You shall provide for me when you are. He smiled and replied, I surely will. • These ladies said I are wit- nesses. He still smiled, and said, let them be so, for I will cer- tainly do it. But alas! twenty-four years have passed since the day of the date thereof, and to mention it now would be to up- braid him with inattention to his plighted troth. Neither do I sup- pose he could easily serve such a creature as I am if he would. Adieu whom I love intirely. W. C. LETTER XLVIII. To Lady HESKETH, Olney, Feb. ig, 1786. MY DEAREST COUSIN, Since so it must be, so it shall be. If you will not sleep under the roof of a friend, may you never sleep under the roof of an enemy. An enemy however you will not presently find. Mrs. Unwin bids me mention her affectionately, and tell you that she willingly gives up a part for the sake of the rest, willingly at least as far as willingly may consist with some re- luctance : LIFE OF COWPER. 167 ludancc ; I feel my reluftance 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 Avould ha\'c been an additional re- commendation of it to me. But all reluclances are superseded by the thought of seeing , you ; and because we have nothing so much at heart as the ^vish to see you happy and comfortable, we are de- sirous therefore to accommodate you to your own mind, and not to ours. Mrs. Unwin has already secured for you an apartment, or rather two, just such as we could wish. The house in. which you will find them, is within thirty )'ards of our own, and opposite to it. The whole affair is thus commodiously adjusted ; and now I have nothing to do but to \vish for June, and June, my Cousin, was never so wished for since June was made. I shall have a thousand things to hear, and a thousand to say, and they will all rush into my mind together, till il \vi\\ 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 mea- sure) they will stand the better chance. After so long a separa- tion, 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 111 the oilier ^\■orld whose resurre6lion would give me greater pleasure. i68 LIFE OF COWPER. 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 aware that in this respeft 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 defeflive. But I comfort myself with the thought, that in reality it is no defe£l, 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 from all others. As an accomplished person moves gracefully without thinking of it, in like manner the dignity of Homer seems to cost him no labour. It was natural to him to say great things, and to say them ^vell, and little ornaments were beneath his notice. If Maty, my dearest Cousin, should return to you my copy with any such striclures 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 immcdidtely. For he Avrites me word he wishes his friend to go to work upon it as soon as possible. When you come, my dear, we will hang all these Critics together, for they have worried me ^vithout remorse or conscience, at least one of them has : I had actually murthcred more than a few of the best li)K-s in the speci- men, LIFE OF COWPER. 169 men, in compliance with his requisitions, but plucked up my cou- rage at last, and in the very last opportunity that I had, recovered theai 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 ^vhich I \va.s myself excited, than to any proposed amend- ments from Mr. Critic; for as sure as you are my Cousin, whom I long to see at Olney, so surely would he have done me 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 smug 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. letteh 170 LIFE OF OOWPER. LETTER XLIX. To Lady HESKETH. ■Olneyj 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 Avith two great inconveniences. Our verse con- sisting 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 continually the conse- quence ; — The clement — rA^ air, &c. Thirdly, the French who are LIFE OF COWPER. 171 ai-e equally with the English chargeable with barbarism in this par- ticular, dispose of their Le and their La 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 pradice of cutting short a The, is warranted by Milton, who of all Entrlish Poets that ever lived, had certainly the finest ear. Dr. Warton indeed has dared to say that he had a bad one, for which he deserves, as far as critical demerit can deserve it, to lose his own. I thought I had done, but there is still a fifthly behind, and it is this. That the custom of abbreviating The, belongs to the stile in which, in my advertisement annexed to the specimen, I profess to write. The use of that stile would have Avarranted me in the praftice 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- j')est, r th' door- way, &c. -which however I would not allow myself to do, because I was aware that it would be objefted to, and with reason. But it seems to me for the causes above said, that when I shorten The, before a vo\vel, or before xoh, as in the line you mention, " Than th' whole broad Hellespont iji all his parts.'' my license is not equally exceptionable. Because W, though he rank as a consonant in the word xchole, is not allowed to announce him- self to the car, and Hiszn aspirate. But as I said at the beginning, Z 2 so 172" LIFE OF COWPER. 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 o^vn day. Neither \vould I ha-ve 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 obje6lions 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 ob- je6lion to that passage. " Softly he placed his hand " On th' old man's hand, and pushed it gently away." I can say neither more nor less than this, that when our dear friend the General sent me his opinion of the specimen, quoting those very words from it, he added, " With this part I was particularly 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 di- versities of opinion on the same subjeft, for which it is not possi- ble 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 LIFE OF COWPER. ^73 sfsked his permission to send him the Books of my Homer, as fast as I should finish them off, I shall be glad of his remarks, and more glad than of any thing, to do that \vhich I hope may be agreeable to him. They will of course pass into your hands before they are sent to Johnson. The quire that I sent is now in the hands of Johnson's friend. I intended to have told you in my last, but for- got it, that Johnson behaves very handsomely in the affair of my two Volumes. He acts ^vith a liberality not often found in persons of his occupation, and to mention it when occasion calls me to it, is a justice due to him. I am very much pleased with Mr. Stanley's Letter — several compliments were paid me on the subje6l of that first Volume by my own friends, but I do not recolleft that I ever knew the opin- ion of a stranger about it before, whether favorable or odierwise; I Only heard by a side wind that it was very much read in Scotland, and more than here. Farewell my dearest Cousin, whom we expeft, of whom we talk continually, and whom we continually long for. W. C. Your anxious wishes for my success delight me, and you may rest assured, my dear, that I have all the ambition on the subje£l that you can wish me to feel. I more than admire my Audior. I often stand astonished at his beauties. I am for ever amused with the translation 1 74 LIFE OF COWPER. - translation of him, and I have received a thousand encouragements. These are all so many happy omens that, I hope, shall be verified by the event. LETTER L. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. April 5, 1786. I did, as you suppose, bestow all pos- sible consideration on the subje6l of an apology for my Homerican undertaking. I turned the matter about in my mind an hundred different ways, and in every way in which it would present itself, found it an impra£licable business. It is impossible for me, with what delicacy so ever I may manage it, to state the objeftions that lie against Pope's Translation, without incurring odium, and the imputation of arrogance; foreseeing this danger, I choose to say nothing. W. C. P. S. You may well wonder at my courage, who have under- taken a work of such enormous length. You would wonder more if you knew that I translated the whole Iliad \vith no other help ' than a Clavis. But I have since equipped myself better for this immense journey, and am revising the Work in company with a good Commentator. LETTER LIFE OF COWPER. 175 LETTER LI. To Lady HESKETH. Olney, April 17, 1786. If you will not quote Solomon, my dearest Cousin, I will. He says, and as beautifully as truly — " Hope de- ferred maketh the heart sick, but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life!" I feel how much reason he had on his side when he made this observation, and am myself sick of your fortnight's delay. The Vicaraore was built by Lord Dartmouth, and was not finished till some time after we arrived at Olncy, consequently it is new. It is a smart stone building well sashed, by much too good for the Living, but just what I would wish for you. It has, as you justly concluded from my premises, a garden, but rather calculated for use than ornament. It is square, and well walled, but has neither arbour nor alcove, nor other shade, except the shadow of the house. But \ve have two gardens, which are yours. Between your mansion and ours is interposed notliing but an brcliard, i)i((\ which a door opening out of our garden, affords us the easiest coiii- munication imaginable, will save the round about b}' the town, II ud n^ H'LIFIi OF CQWffER. and make both houses one. Your chamber windows look over the I'U'er, and over the meado-ws, to a village called Emberton, and command the whole length of a long bridge, described by a cer- tain Poet, together with a view of the road at a distance. Should you wish for Books at Olney, you must bring them with you, or you will wish in vain,' for I have none but the works of a certain Poet, Cow per, of whom perhaps you have heard, and they are a3 y€t but two Volumes. They may multiply hereafter, but at pre- sent they are no more. ■mm:w. You are the first person for whom I have heard Mrs. Unwin express such feelings as she does for you. She is not profuse in pro- fessions, nor forward to enter into treaties of friendship with new faces, but when her friendship is once engaged, it may be con- fided in even unto death. She loves you already, and how much more will she love you before this time twelve-month! I have indeed endeavoured to describe you to her, but perfectly as I have you by heait, I am sensible that my pifture cannot do you justice; I never saw one that did. Be you what you may, you are much beloved, and will be so at Olney, and Mrs. U. expects you with the pleasure that one feels at the return of a long absent, dear rela- tion; that is to say, with a pleasure such as mine. She sends you her warmest affections. On Friday I received a Letter from dear Anonymous, ap- prising LIFE OF COWPER. 177 prizing me of a parcel that the coach would bring me on Saturday. Who is there in the world that has, or thinks he has, reason to love me to the de be j^eriDctuated for ever. C c 2 For ig6 LIFE OF COWPER. For you must know that I should not love you half so well, if I did not believe you would be my friend to Eternity. There is not room enough for friendship to unfold itself in full bloom, in such a nook of life as this. Therefore I am, and must, and will be. Yours for ever, W. C LETTER LVI, To Lady HESKETH. Olney, May 29, 1786. Thou dear, comfortable Cousin, Avhose Letters among all that I receive, have this property peculiarly their own, that I expeft them without trembling, and never hnd any thing in them that does not give me pleasure ! for which, therefore, I would take nothing in exchange that the ^vorld 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 spring 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 customary walk yesterday in the wilderness at Weston, and saw with regret, the laburnums, syringas, and guelder-roses, some of them blown, and others just upon the point of LIFE OF COWPER. ^97 of blowing, and could not help observing — all diese will be gone before Lady Hesketh comes. Still, however, 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 delightful here, and cannot bear that the advance of the season should steal away a single pleasure before you can come to enjoy it. Every day I think of you, and almost all the day long ; I \vill venture to say, that even you were, never so expefted in your life. I called last week at the Quakers 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 subjeft classical. Every morning you will open your eyes on Phaeton kneeling to Apollo, and imploring his father to grant him the conduft 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 shew you my workshop, and to sec you sitting on the opposite side of my table. We shall be as close packed as two wax figures in an old fashioned pifture frame. I am writing in it noAv. It is the place in which I fabricate all iny verse in sum- mer time. I rose an hour sooner than usual this morning, that I might J 98 LIFi^ OF COWPER. might fniish mv sheet before breakfast, for I must write this day to the General. The o-rass under my windows is all bespangled with dew- drops, and the birds are singing in the apple-trees among the blos- soms. Never Poet had a more commodious oratory in which to invoke his Muse. 1 have made your heartache too often, my poor dear Cousin, with talking about my fits of dejeftion. Something has happened that has led me to the subjeft, or I would have mentioned them more sparingly. Do not suppose, or suspecl, that I treat you with reserve, there is nothing in which I am concerned that you shall not be made acquainted \vith. 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 expeft, with good reason, a comfortable lift from you. Guess then, my beloved Cousin, Avith 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 LIFE OF COWPER. »99 shall see and converse with you at Olney, may, perhaps, make it an abiding one. W. C. LETTER LVir. To Lady HESKETH. Ohiey, June 4 and 5, 1786. Ah! my Cousin, you begin ahxady to fear and quake. What a hero am I, compared with you. I have no lears o^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 ho^\■ much courage I would face you. But what cause have you for fear ? Am I not your Cousin, with Avhom you have wandered in the fields of Frecmantle, and at Be vis'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 respecls at all altered.'^ You \vill not find me so, but just as ready to laugh and to wander as you e\'er knew me. A cloud perhaps may come over me now and then, for a few hours, but from clouds I was never exempted. 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 1 had'dmcd there, 200 LIFE OF COWPER. there, and was just going back to Westminster.) If these things are so, and I am sure that you cannot gainsay a syllable of them all, then this consequence follows ; that I do not promise myself more pleasure from your company than I shall be sure to find. Then you are my Cousin, in 'whom I always delighted, and in ^vhom I doubt not that I shall delight, even to my latest hour. But this wicked coach-maker has sunk my spirits. What a miserable thing it is to depend, in any degree for the accomplishment of a wish, and that wish so fervent, on the pun£luality of a creature, who I suppose was never punftual in his life ! Do tell him, my dear, ip order to quicken him, that if he performs his promise, he shall make my coach ■\vlien I want one, and that if he performs it not, I ' ^vill most assuredly employ some other man. The Throckmortons sent a note to invite us to dinner — we went, and a very agreeable day we had. They made no fuss with us, which I was heartily glad to see, for where I give trouble I am sure that I cannot be ^velcome. 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 subjtft — their o^vn religion. I happened to say, that in all professions and trades, man- kind affected an air of mystery. Physicians, I observed, in parti- cular. LIFE OF COWPER: 201 cular, were objects of that remark, who persist 111 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 Avhat I said, and turning to his Chaplain, to my inhnite surprize, observed to him, '•' That is just as absurd as our praying in Latin/' I could have hugged him for his liberalit)', and freedom from bigotry, but thought it rather more decent to let the matter pass without any visible notice. I therefore heard it \vith 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 prin- cipally (as I afterwards learned from Mrs. Umvin) on a most de- lightful topic, viz. myself In the first })lacc, 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 y\uthor, 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 sj^aks kindly of your Cousin, will certainly love Mrs. Throckmorton, ^vhen you shall be told what she said of him, and that you xcill be told is equally certain, 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 our neigh- bours in the matter of admiration and esteem, but the more I know, the more I like them, and have nearly an affedion for them VOL. I. D D both 202 LIFE OF COWPER. both. I am delighted that the Task has so large a share of the ap- probation 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 my- self for controversy. He lies very open, to a very eflfeftual reply. My dearest Cousin, adieu ! I hope to write to you but once more before we meet. But Oh! this Coachmaker, and Oh! this ho- liday week I Yours, with impatient desire to see you, W. C. LETTER LVIII, To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Olney, June g, I'/SG. MY DEAR FRIEND, The little time that I can devote to any other purpose than that of Poetry, is, as you may suppose, stolen. Homer is urgent. Much is done, but much remains undone, and no school-boy is more attentive to the performance of his daily task than I am. You will therefore excuse me, if at present, I am' both unfrequent and short. The paper tells me that the Chancellor has relapsed, and I am truly LIFE OF COWPER. 203 truly sorry to hear it. The first attack was dangerous, but a second must be more formidable still. It is not probable that I should ever hear from him again, if he survi\'e; yet, of the much that I should have felt for him, had our connection never been interrupted, I still feel much. Every body will feel the loss of a man ^vhose abilities have made him of such general importance. I correspijnd again with Colman, and upon the most friendl)' 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 pleasant, 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, Avho 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 trans latinof Homer. o " To whom replied the Devil yard-long-tail' d." There never was any thing more truly Grecian, than that triple D D 2 epithet, 2 04 LIFE OF COWPER. epithet, and were it possible to introduce it into either Iliad or Odyssey, I should certainly steal it. I am now flushed ^vith expeftation of Lady Hesketh, who spends the summer with us. We hope to see her next -^veek. 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 loved her as much as I do, furnishes them for her with real elegance. W. C. LETTER LIX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Olney, June g, 1 7 86. My dear Cousin's arrival, has, as it could not fail to do, made us happier than we ever were at Olney. Her great kindness in giving us her company, is a cordial that I shall feel the effefl; 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. Throckmorton, 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 LIFE OF COWPER. 205 pa^s 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 the year, I have been imprisoned by dirty and impassable ways, till both my health, and Mrs. Unwin's, have suffered materially. Homer is ever importunate, and will not suffer me to spend half the time with my distant frie.,ds that I would gladly give them. W. C. LETTER LX. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Olney, Oft. 6, 1786. You have not heard, I suppose, that the ninth 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 sunk together 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 com- fort, encouragement, or convenience, is my transcriber also. She wrote the copy, and she will have to write it again — Hers, therefore, is 2o6 LIFE OF COWPER. is the damage. I have a thousand reasons to lament that the time approaches ■\vhen we must lose her. She has made a winterlv summer a most delightful one, but the winter itself we must spend svithout her. w. a The Letters which I have just imparted to my Reader, exliibit a pifture so minute, and so admirable, of the life, the studies,, and the affeftions of Cowper, during the period to Avhich they relate, that they require no comment from 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 effeft, which all his posthumous compositions are excellently suited to extend and confirm. It is now incumbent on me to relate the consequences of a visit, so fondly expefted by the Poet, and happily productive of a change in his local situation. It does not always happen, when the heaut and fancy have in- dulged themselves, with such fervency, in a prospeft of delight, from the renewed society of a long absent friend, it does not always happen, that the pleasure, on its arrival, proves exaftly what it promised to be on its approach. But in the present case, to the honor LIFE OF COWPER. 207 honor of the two friends concerned, ihc delightful vision was fol- lowed by a reality of delight. CoAvpcr was truly happy in re- ceiving, and settling his beloved, though long unseen, relation, as his neighbour ; she was comfortably lodged in the Vicarage of OIney, 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. Co^vper derived from this fortunate event not only the ad- vantage of daily conversation with another cultivated mind, in af- feclionate unison Avith his own, but, as his new neighbour had brought, her carriage and horses to Olney, he was gradually tempted to survey, in a wider nmge, the face of a country, that he loved, and to mix, a little more, with its most worthy inhabitants. His life had been so retired at Olncy, that he had not even extended his excursions to the neighbouring town of Newport-Pagnell, in the course of many years ; but the convenience of a carriage in- duced him, in August, to visit Mr. Bull, who resided there — the Friend to whose assiduous attention he had felt himself much obhged 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 charafter of each, that I shall take this opjxjrtu- nity of making a short seleftion from the private papers, of which the kindness of the person, to whom they are addressed, has enabled 2o8 LIFE OF OOWPER. 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 part of my Work. |A subsequent Letter, dated October 27th, in the same year, opens with this lively paragraph : — '• Mon amiable and tres cher Ami, " It is not in the power of chaises, or " chariots, to carry you, \\^here my affeftions will not folio^v you ; '• if I heard, that you were gone to finish your days in the Moon, " I should not love you the less ; but should contemplate the place '"' of your abode, as often as it appeared in the Heavens, and say, '•' Farewell, my Friend, forever! Lost, but not forgotten ! Live *•' happy in thy lantern, and smoke the 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 removal ; and as to the cares, tliat are to be " found in the Moon, I am resolved to suppose them lighter than " those below — heavier they can hardly 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 LIFF OF COWPFR. 205 expatiates on thunder storms with the fechngs of a Poet, and with his usual felicity of expression. — " I was always an admirer of " thunder storms, even before I knew, whose voice I heard in " them; but especially an admirer of thunder rolling over the great " waters. There is something singularly majestic in the sound of it " at sea, where the eye and the ear have uninterrupted opportunity " of observation, and the concavity above being made spacious, '■' reflcds it with more advantage, I have consequently envied " you your situation, and the enjoyment of those refreshing breezes, " that belong to it. We have indeed been regaled with some of " these bursts of aetherial 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 will 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 mc, and I have no further demand u{X)n them: " The Lines upon Friendship however, which were not sufficiently " of a piece with the others, will not now be wanted. I have VOL. I. E E some MO LIFE OF COWPER. ■' some other little 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 legard 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 i^uthor, with an attention proportioned to its merit, I shall intro- duce it here in a correfted state, and notice such variations as I find in the two copies before me. ON FRIENDSHIP. Amicitia nisi inter bonos esse non potest. Cicero. 1. What virtue can we name, or grace, But men unqualified and base. Will boast it their possession P Profusion VARIATIONS. I. 1. What virtue ; or what mental grace, LIFE OF COWPER. 211 Profusion apes the noble part Of liberality of heart, And dullness of discretion. 2. But as the gem of richest cost Is ever counterfeited most ; So always imitation Employs i/ie utmost skill she can, To counterfat the faithful man. The friend of long duration. Some will pronounce me too severe. But long experience speaks me clear. There] ore, that censure scorning, E E 2 / xoill VARIATIONS. II. 2. 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 rather constcllaiion. III. No knave, but boldly will pretend The requisites that form a friend, A real, and a sound one ,- 212 LIFE OF COWPER. / -will proceed to mark the shelves. On which so many dash themselves, And give the simple warning. Youth, unadmonish'd by a guide, Will trust to any fair outside : — An error,, soon corrected! For who, but learns, with riper years. That man, when smoothest he appears. Is most to be suspeded? But here again a danger lies ; Lest, thus deluded by our eyes. And taking trash for treasure, We should, when undeceived, conclude Friendship imaginary good, A mere Utopian pleasure. An VARIATIONS. 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 should unwarily conclude 5. Friendship a false ideal good. LIFE OF COWPER. 213 6. An acquisition rather rare. Is yet no subjeSi 0/ despair: Nor should it seem distressful, If either 07i forbidden ground. Or zohere it zuas not to be founds We sought it unsuccessful. No friendship will abide the test. That stands, on sordid interest And mean self-love ereEled : Nor such, as may awhile subsist ^Twixt sensualist and sensualist, For vicious ends conneEted. 8. Who hopes a friend, should have a heart Himself, xocll furnisK d for the part. And ready on occasion To VARIATIONS. VI. 3. Nor is it wise complaining, 6. Wc sought without attaining. VII. 5. Between the sot and sensualist. 214 LIFE OF COWPER. To shew the virtue that he seeks ; For, 'tis an union, that bespeaks A just reciprocation. A fretful temper will divide The closest knot that may be tied. By ceaseless sharp corrosion: A temper passionate and fierce May suddcjily your joys disperse At one immense explosion. In VARIATIONS. VIII. Who seeks a friend, should come dispos'd T'exhibit, in full bloom disclos'd, The graces and the beauties. That form the charafler he seeks, For, 'tis an union that befpeaks Reciprocrated duties. Mutual attention is implied. And equal truth on euher side. And constantly supported: 'Tis senseless arrogance, t'accuse Another of sinider views. Our own as much distorted. But will sincerity suffice ? It is inceed above all price. And must be made the basis; But ev'ry virtue of the soul Must constitute the charming whole. All shining in their places. LIFE OF COWPER. 215 10. Li vain the talkative unite With hope of permanent delight : The secret just committed They drop, thro' mere desire to prate. Forgetting its important weight. And by themselves outwitted. 1 1, How bright soe'er the prospeB 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 possessed, So jealousy looks forth distressed, On good, that seems approaching ; And, f success his steps attend. Discerns a rival in a friend, And hates him for encroaching. Hence, 2i6 LIFE OF COWPER. 13- Hence authors of illustrious name, Unless belied by. common fame. Are sadly prone to quarrel ; To deem the xoit a friend displays So much of loss to their oxon praise, And pluck each other's laurel. 14. A man, renown' d for repartee. Will seldom scruple to make free. With friendship's f nest feeling ; Will thrust a dagger at your breast. And tell you, 'twas a special jest. By way of balm for healing. 15- Bexcare of Tatlers ! keep your car Close-stopt against the tales they bear, Fruits of their own invention ! VARIATIONS. The XIV. 5. And say he wounded you in jeft. XV. Who keeps an open ear For tatlers, will be sure to hear The trumpet of invention. LIFE OF COWPER: 217 The separation of chief friends Is what their kindness most intends ; Their sport is your dissension. 16. Friendship, that wantonly admits Ajoco-serious play of zvits In brilliant altercation, Is union such, as indicates, Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates, Danger of confagration. 17. Some fickle creatures boast a soul True as the needle to the pole; Yet shifting, like the toeather. The needles constancy forego For any novelty, and show Its variations rather. VOL. I. F F Insensibility VARIATIONS. Aspersion is the babbler's trade. To listen is 10 lend him aid. And rush into contention : XVI. 1. A friendship, that in frequent fits Of controversial rage emits The sparks of difputatioii, XVII. 3. Their humour yet so various, They manifest their whole life through The needle's deviation too. Their love is so precarious. 21 8 LIFE OF COWPER. 18. Insensibility makes some Unseasonably deaf and dumb. When most you need their pity. 'Tis zvaiting, till the tears shall Jail From Gog and Magog in Guildhall, Those playthings oj the City* 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 ereded ladder. • This was written before the removal of them. VARIATIONS. XIX. 3. Plebeians must surrender. And yield so much to noble folk, It is combining fire with smoke, Obscurity with splendor. 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. Courtier LIFE OF COWPER, 219 20. Courtier and patriot cannot mix Their het'rogeneous politics Without an effervescence, Such as of salts with lemon juice. But which is rarely known t'induce, Like that, a coalescence. 21. Religion should extinguish strife, And make a calm of human life. But even those who differ Only on topics left at large. How fercely will they meet and charge ! No combatants are stiffer. 22. To prove, alas! my main iii tent, Needs no great cost of argument, No cutting and contriving. F F 2 Seeking VARIATIONS. 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 expence of argument' :220 LIFE OF COWPER. Seeking a real friend we seem, T adopt the chemst's golden dream With still less hope of thriving. 23- Then judge be/ore you chuse your man. As circumspedly as you can, And, having made ekElion, See, that no disrespeB, of yours. Such, as a friend but ill endures, Enfeeble his affeBion. 24. It is not tiynber, lead, and stone. An architeEl requires alone, To VARIATIONS. Sometimes the fault is all your own. Some blemifh in due time made known By trespass or omission : Sometimes occasion brings to light Our friend's defeft, long hid fromsight. And even from suspicion. XXIII.- ' I. Then judge yourself, and prove your man. 4. Beware, no negligence of yours That secrets are a facred trust. That friends should be sincere andjust, That constancy befits them, Are observations on the case. That savor much of common-place. And all the world admits them. XXIV.— —1. But 'tis not timber, lead, and stoncj LIFE OF COWPER. 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 defined. First rivets our attention; So, manners decent and polite. The same we praElis'd at first sight. Must save it from declension. 26. The man who hails you Tom, or Jack, And proves by thumping 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. 221 Some VARIATIONS. XXIV. 3. To finish a fine building. 5. If he could possibly fi:5rget, XXV 3. First fixes our attention. XXVI. 1. The man that hails you Tom or Jack, And proves by thumps upon your back. How he esteems your merit. -2 22 LIFE OF COWPER. 27. So me friends make this their prudent plan- Say little, and hear all you can. Safe policy, but hateful/ So barren sands imbibe the shotv'r. But render neither fruit nor foxjSr, Unpleasant, and ungrateful. 28. They whisper trivial things, and small ; But to communicate at all Things serious, deem improper. Their fceculence and froth they show, But keep their best contents below, Just like a simniring copper. 29. These samples (for alas I at last These are but samples, an'd a taste Of evils, yet unmention'dj VARIATIONS. XXVII. 1. Some aft 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, I will by no means entertain A spy on my proceeding. May LIFE OF COWPER. 02^ May prove the task, a task indeed, Ifi which 'tis much if we succeed, However well intention'd. 30- Pursue the theme, and you shall Jind A disciplined and furnish' d rnind To be at least expedient ; And, after summing all the rest. 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. VARIATIONS. XXIX. Pursue the search, and you will find Good sense, and knowledge of mankind. The noblest friend-hip ever shown The Saviour's hi tory makes known, Tho' some have turn'd and iiirn'd it. And 'whether being ( raz'd, or blind. Or seeking with a bias'd mind) Have not (it seems) disccrn'd it. O Friend. hip, if my soul forego Thy dear delightv, while here below, I o mortify and grieve me. May I myself at last appear. Unworthy, base, and insincere. Or may my friend deceive me ! Man's 2 24 LIFE OF COWPER. Man's love of woman not so pure, Kor when sincerest, so secure. To last till life is ended. This sprightly Kttle Poem contains the essence of all that has been said on this interesting subjeft, by the best ^vriters of differ- ent countries. It is pleasing to refleft, that a man, who entertain- ed such refined ideas of friendship, and expressed them so happily, was singularly fortunate in this very important article of human life. Indeed he was fortunate in this respecl to such a degree, that Providence seems to have supplied him most unexpeftedly, at different periods of his troubled existence, with exactly such friends, as the peculiar exigencies of his situation required. The truth of this remark is exemplified in the seasonable assistance, that his tender spirits derived from the kindness of Mrs. Unwin, at Huntingdon ; of Lady Austen and Lady Hesketh, at Olncy, and of his young kinsman, in Norfolk, who will soon attraft the notice, and obtain the esteem of my Reader, as the affec- tionate superintendant of Cowper's declining days. To the honor of human nature, and of the present times, it will appear, that a sequestered 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 ardor of affection, more resembling the friendship of the heroic ages, than the precarious attachments of the modern wrold. The LIFE OF COWPER. 225 The visit of Lady Hesketh, to Olney, led to a very favourable change 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 Vicarajje, to remain fourteen months in the house of his benevolent neisrhbour. His intimacv with this vener- able Divine was so great, that Mr. Newton has described it in the following remarkable terms, in Memoirs of the Poet, which af- feftion induced him to bejjin, but which the troubles and infirmi- ties of very advanced life, have obliged him to relinquish. " For nearly twelve years we were seldom separated for seven " hours at a tune, when we wei'e awake, and at home : — The first " six I passed in daily admiring, and aiming to imitate him: during " the second six, I walked pensively with him in the valley of the " shadow of death." - Mr. Newton records, with a becoming satisfa6lion, the evan- gelical charity of his Friend : " He loved the poor" (says his devout Memorialist :) " He often visited them in their cottages, conversed " with them in the most condescending manner, sympathized with " them, counselled and comforted them in their distresses; and " those, who were seriously disposed, were often cheered, and VOL. 1. G G " animated i'z6 LIFE OF COWPER. ••' animated, by his prayers!" — After the removal of Mr. Newton to London, and the departure of Lady Austen, Olney had no par- ticular attractions for Cowper; and Lady Hesketh was happy in promoting the project, which had occurred to him, of removing, %vith Mrs. Unwin, to the near arid pleasant \'illage 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 embellish. With these he had advantages still more desirable — easy, perpetual access to the spacious and tranquil pleasure grounds of his ac- complished and benevolent landlord, Mr. Throckm.orton, whose neighbouring house supplied him with society peculiarly 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 Let- ters to that amiable Relation, to whom he considered himself as par- ticularly indebted for this improvement in his domestic scenery. With these I shall occasionally conneft a selection of his Letters to particular friends, and particularly the Letters addressed to one of his most intimate correspondents, who happily commenced an acquaintance with the Poet, in the beginning of the year 1 787. 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, LIFE OF COWPER: 227 Weston, in a subsequent period, and whom I instantly learnt to regard by iinding that he held very justly a place of the most desi- rable distinction in the heart of Cowper, LETTER LXr. To Lady HESKETH. Weston Lodge, Nov. 26th, 1786. It is my birth-day, my beloved Cousin, and I determine to employ a part of it that it may not be destitute of festivity, in writing to you. The dark, thick fog that has 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 all the dreariness of the season, and whether the ways are wet or dry, our house at least is always warm and commodious. Oh! for you, my Cousin, to partake these com- forts with us ! I will not begin already to tease you upon that subjeft, but Mrs. Unwin remembers to have heard from your own lips, that you hate London in the spring. Perhaps, therefore, by that time, you may be glad to escape from a scene which will be every day growing more disagreeable, that you may enjoy the comforts of the Lodge. You \ve\\ know that the best house has a desolate appearance, unfurnished. This house accordingly, since it has been occupied by us, and om- Menhir';, is as much superior G G 2 to 2 28 LIFE OF OOWPER. to what it was when you saw it, as you can imagine. The parlour is even elegant. When 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 ob- tained, before I am quite superannuated, what he seems not to ha\'e hoped for sooner. " And may at length my weary age, " Find out the peaceful hermitage!" For if it is not a hermitage, at least it is a much better thing, and you must always understand, my dear, that when Poets talk of cottages, 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 con\'enient dimensions -, in short, exactly 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 ^'isit except in the spring or autumn. The heat of summer, and the clinging dirt of winter, would destroy 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 LIFE OF COWPER. 229 brow of which, though not lofty, you have a vie^v 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 con- sideration. 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 Avith shoes not at all too dirty for a dra-\ving-room. I was pacing yesterday under the elms, that sur- round the field in \\'hich stands the great alcove, when lifting my eyes I saw t\vo 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 turni])- field to get at me. You see therefore, 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 Kensington. If the world docs not spoil him hereafter, he will be a valuable man. Good night, and may God bless thee, W. C LETTER * Lord Cowper, LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER LXII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Dec. 4, 1786. I sent you, my dear, a melancholy Letter, and I do not know that I shall now send you one very unlike it. Not that any thing occurs in consequence of our late loss, more af- fliclive than was to be expected, but the mind does 'not perfeftly recover 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 com- forts 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 who gave it, may, when he pleases, take it away ; and that perhaps it may please him to take it at a time when we least expeft it, 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 useful to their families, their friends, and die world. His parish began to feel, and to be sen- sible of the advantages of his ministry. The Clergy around him were many of them awed by his example. His children were thriving LIFE OF COWPER. 231 thriving under his own tuition and management,, and bis eldest boy, is hkely to feel his loss severely, being by his years, in some respect qualified to understand the value of such a parent, by his literary proficiency, too clever for a school-boy, and too young at the same time for the University. The removal of a man in the prime of life, of such a charafter, and with such connexions, seems to make a void in society, that never can be filled. God seemed to have made him just \vhat he was, that he might be a blessing to others, and when the influence of his character and abilities besan to be felt, removed him. These are mysteries, my dear, that we cannot contemplate without astonishment, but which will nevertheless be explaiiied hereafter, and must in the mean time be revered in si- lence. It is well for his Mother, that she has spent her life in the practice of an habitual acquiescnce in the dispensations of Provi- dence, else I know that this stroke \vould have been heavier, after all diat she has suffered upon another account, than she could have borne. She derives, as she well may, great consolation from the thought that he li\ed the life, and died the death of a Christian. The consequence is, if possible, more unavoidable than the most mathematical 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 sec thee with these eyes no more. W. C. LETTER. 232 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER LXIII. To Lady HESKETH. Weston, Dec. 9, 1786, I am perfe6lly 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 affefts the interests of his intended pupil. When a tutor was wanted for him, you sought out the wisest and best man for the office within the circle of your connexions. It pleased God to take him home to himself. Men eminently wise and good are very apt to die, because they are fit to do so. You found in Unwin, a man worthy to succeed him, and He, in whose hands are the issues of life and death, seeing no doubt that Unwin was ripe for a removal into a better state, removed him also. The matter viewed in this light seems not so wonderful as to refuse all explanation, except such as in a melancholy moment you have given to it. And I am so convinced that the little boy's destiny had no influence at all in hastening the death of his tutors cleft, 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 office ; I would even do it, were I conscious of the same fitness for another and better state, that I be- lieve them to have been both endowed with. In that case, I perhaps LIFE OF COWPER. 233 perhaps might die too, but if I should, it would not be on account of that connexion. Neither, my dear, had your interference in the business any thing to do with the catastrophe. Your whole conduct in it must have been acceptable in the sight of God, as it was di- refted 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 Night. W. C. LETTER LXIV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Weston, Dec. 9, 1786. MY DEAR FRIEND, We had just began to enjoy the pleasant- ness of our new situation, to find at least as much comfort in it as the season of the year would permit, -w'hen afflidion found us out in our retreat, and the ncAvs 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 grave. He is gone to it, however, though young, as fit for it as age itself could have made liim. Regretted indeed, VOL. 1. H H and i2 34 I-IFE OF COWPER. and always to be regretted, by those Avho knew him, for he had every thing that makes a man valuable both in his principles and in his manners, but leaving still this consolation to his surviving friends, that he was desirable in this world chiefly because he was so well prepared for a better. I find myself here, situated exaftly to my mind, Weston is one of the prettiest villages in England, and the walks about it at all seasons of the year delightful. I know that you will rejoice with me in the chansre that we have made, and for which I am al- together indebted to Lady Hesketh. It is a change as great, as, to compare metropolitan things with rural, from St. Giles to Grosvenor Square. Our house is in all respefts commodious, and in some degree, elegant ; and I cannot give you a better idea of that which we have left, than by telling you the present candidates for it are a publican and a shoemaker. W. C. LETTER LXV. To Lady HESKETH. Weston, Dec. 21, 1786. Your welcome Letter, my beloved Cousin, which ought by the date to have arrived on Sunday, being by some untoward accident delayed, came not till yesterday. It came, LIFE OF COWPER; 235 came, however, and has relieved me from a thousand distressing apprehensions 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, \vho is apt to grow languid, and perhaps careless, without it. Praise, I find, affefts us as money does. The more a man gets of it, with the more vigilance he watches over and preserves it. Such at least is its effect on me, and you may assure yourself that I 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 \\ill or not. I do not at all suspeft that his kindness to Protestants has any thing insidious in it, any more than I suspefl that he transcribes Homer for me with a view for my conversion. He would find me a tough piece of business I can tell him, for when I had no reli- gion at all, I had yet a terrible dread of the Pope. How much more now ! I should have sent you a longer Letter, but was obliged to devote my last evening to the melancholy employment of comjX)S- ing a Latin Inscription for the tomb-stone of poor William, two copies of which I wrote out and inclosed, one to Henry Thornton, and one to Mr. Newton. Homer stands by mc biting his thumbs, H H 2 and 236 LIFE OF COWPER. and swears, that if I do not leave oflF direftly, he will choak me with bristly Greek, that shall stick in my throat for ever. W. C. LETTER LXVI. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 8, 1787. I have had a little nervous fever lately, my dear, that has somewhat abridged my sleep, and though I find myself better to day than I have been since it seized me, yet I feel my head lightish, and not in the best order for \v^riting ; you will find me therefore perhaps not only less alert in my manner than I usually am when my spirits are good, but rather shorter. I will however proceed to scribble till I find that it fatigues me, and then will do as I know you would bid me do were you here, shut up my desk, and take a walk. The good General tells me, that in the eight first Books which I have sent him, he still finds alterations and amendments neces- saiy, of which I myself am equally persuaded; and he asks my leave to lay them before an intimate friend of his, of whom he gives a character that bespeaks him highly deserving such a trust. To this I have no objeclion, desiring only to make the Translation as perfeft as I can make it ; if God grant mc life and health, I would LIFE OF COWPER. 237 would spare no labour to secure that point. The General's letter is extremly kind, and both for matter and manner, Hke all the rest of his dealings, ^vith 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 sub- jeft, he says, that my Poems are read by hundreds who kno^v nothing of my proposals, and makes no doubt that they would subscribe, if they did. I have myself always thought diem imper- fectly, or rather insufficiently announced. I could pity the poor Woman ^vho has been weak enough to claim my Song. Such pilferings are sure to be detefted. I wrote it, I kno^v not how long, but I suppose four years ago. The Rose in question, was a Rose gi\'en to Lady Austen by Mrs. Unwin, and the incident that suggested the subjccl occurred in the room in >vhicli you slept at the Vicarage, which Lady Austen made her dining room. Some time since, Mr. Bull going to London, I gave him a copy of it, which he undertook to convey to Nichols, the Printer of the Gentleman's Magazine. He shewed it to a Mrs. C , who begged to copy it, and promised to send it to the Printers 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 238 LIFE OF OOWPER. find now, perhaps, that the Rose had a thorn, and that she has pricked her fingers with it. Adieu ! my beloved Cousin. W. C. LETTER LXVII, To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 8th, 1787. I have been so much indisposed with the fever that I told you had seized me, my nights during the whole week may be said to have been almost sleepless. The consequence has been, that except the translation of about thirty lines at the conclusion of the 1 3th Book, I have been forced to abandon Homer entirely. This was a sensible mortification to me, as you may sup- pose, and felt the more, because my spirits of course failing with my strength, I seemed to have peculiar need of my old amuse- ment; 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 lit- tle degree of animation in the day time. Last night, how- ever, quite contrary to my expeflations, the fever left me en- tirely, and I slept quietly, soundly, and long. If it please God that it return not, I shall soon find myself in a condition to pro- ceed. I walk constantly, that is to say, Mrs. Unwin and I to- gether; for at these times I keep her continually employed, and never LIFE OF COWPER. 239 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 objeft in the world. Mrs. Carter thinks on the subje£l 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 texture that will not suffer me to ascribe them to so inadequate a cause, or to any cause but the operation of an exterior agency. I have a mind, my dear, (and to you I will venture to boast of it) as free from superstition as any man living, neither do I give heed to dreams in general as prediftive, though particular dreams I belic\'e to be so. Some \'ery 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 revealed his will in the Scripture, and there is no longer any need that he should in- struft or admonish us by dreams. I grant that with respe£l to doftrines and precepts, he has left us in want of nothing ; but has he thereby precluded himself in any of the operations of his Providence? Surely not. It is jx^rfeclly a different consideration ; and the same need that there ever was of his interference in this way, there is still and e\er must be, while man continues blind and fallible, and a creature beset with dangers, which he can neithcr forcsec 2 10 LIFE OF COWPER. foresee nor obviate. His operations however of this kind are, I allow, very rare ; and as to the generality of dreams, they are made of such stuff, and are in themselves so insignificant, that though I believe them all to be the manufafture of others, not our own, I account it not a farthing matter who manufactures them. So much for dreams. My fever is not yet gone, but sometimes seems to leave me. It is altogether of the nervous kind, and attended, now and then, with much dejection. A young gentleman called here yesterday, who came six miles out of his way to see me. He was on a journey to London from Glasgow, having just left the University there. He came, I suppose, partly to satisfy his own curiosity, but chiefly, as it seemed, to bring me the thanks of some of the Scotch Professors for my two Vo- lumes. 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 LXVIII. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, July 24th, 1787: DEAR SIR, This is the first time I have written these six months, and nothing but the constraint of obligation could induce LIFE OF COWPER. 241. induce mc to wriLe now. I cannot be so wanting to myself as not to endeavour at least, to thank you both for the visits ^vith which you have favoured me, and the Poems that you sent me ; in my present 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 Burn's Poems, and ha\'e read them twice. And though they be ^vritten in a language that is new to me, and many of them on subjcfts much inferior to the author's ability, I think them on the whole a very extraordinary production. He is, I be- lieve, the only Poet these kingdoms have produced in the lower rank of life, since Shakespeare, I should rather say since Prior, Avho need not be indebted for any part of his praise, to a charitable con- sideration 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 \vriting pure English, in which he appears perfeclly qualihed to e.xccl. He who can com- mand admiration, dishonours himself if he aims no higher than to raise a lausrh. *o' I am, dear Sir, with my best wishes for your prosperity, and with Mrs. Un win's respecls. Your obliged and affeciionate humble ser\ant, W. C. VOL. I. I I LETTER 2 42 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTKR LXIX. To SAMUEL ROSE. Esqr. Weston, Aug, 27, 1787. DEAR SIR I have not yet taken up the pen a- gain, except to write to you. The little taste that I have had of your company, and your kindness in finding me out, make me wish, that we were nearer neighbours, and that there were not so great a disparity in our years ; that is to say, not that you were older, but that I were younger. Could we have met in early life, 1 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 your own age can spare me. When your route shall lie through this country, I shall hope that the same kindness which has prompted you twice tQ call on me, will prompt you again ; and I shall be happy if on a fu- ture occasion, I may be able to give you a more cheerful reception, than can be expe£led from an invalid. My health and spirits arc considerably improved, and I once more associate with my neigh- bours. My head however has been the worst part of me, and still continues so; is subje6l to giddiness and pain, maladies very unfavourable to poetical employment; but a preparation of the Bark, which I take regularly, has so far been of service to me in those respefts, as to encourage in me a hope, that by perseverance in the use LIFE OF COWPER. 243 use of it, I may possibly find myself qualified to resume the Transla- tion 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 I shew myself in this respcd 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 yourself to read for mere amusement, I can recom- mend it to you (provided you have not already perused it) as tlie most amusing romance that ever was written. It is the only one indeed of an old date that I ever had the patience to go through with. It is interesting in a high degree ; richer in incident than can be imagined, full of surprizes, which the reader ne\'er 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 dial I have taken to understand him. His candle is bright but shut up in a dark lantern. I lent him to a very sensible neighbour of mine, but his I I 2 uncouth 2 44 LIFE OF COWPER. uncouth diale£l spoiled all, and before he had half read him through, he ^vas quite ranifeezled. W. C. LETTER LXX. Ta Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Aug. 30, 1787. MY DEAREST COUSIN, Though it costs me something to write, it would cost me more to be silent. My intercourse with my neighbours being renewed, I can no longer seem to forget how many reasons there are why you especially should not be negleftcd ; 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 conjefture, but endeavour, as far as I can, to be content that that they do so. I use exercise, and take the air in the Park and Wilderness. I read much, but, as yet, write not. Our friends at the Hall make themselves more and more amiable in our account, by treating us rather as old friends, than as friends newly acquired. There are few days in which we do not meet, and I am now almost as much at home in their house as in our own. Mr, Throckmorton having long since put me in pos- session LIFE OF COWPER. 245 session 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 liis 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 ^\'as mistaken. The day before yesterday after having walked with us, they carried us up to the library, (a more accurate writer would have said conduEled us) and then they shewed 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 Throckmortons must be seen often and known long, before one can understand all their value. They often enquire after you, and ask mc \\'Iicthcr 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 ^vhen 246 LIFE OF COWPER. when we may expect to see you. We were 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, Sept. 4, 1787 MY DEAREST COZ. Come when thou canst come, secure of being always welcome. All that is here is thine, together with the hearts of those who dwell here. I am only sorr)^ that your journey hither is necessarily postponed beyond the time when I did hope to have seen you, sorry too, that my Uncle's infirmities are the occasion of it. But years toill have their course, and their effect; they are happiest so far as this life is concerned, ^vho like him escape those effects the longest, and who do not grow old before their time. Trouble and anguish do that for some, ^vhich only longe- vity does for others. A few months since I was older than your Father LIFE OF COWPER. «47 Father is now, 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, when I least expeEi it, to wither again. The past is a pledge for the future. Mr, G. is here, Mrs. Throckmorton's Uncle. He is lately arrived 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 engaging, every way worthy to be related to the Throckmortons. — I have read Savary's Travels into Egypt. Memoires du Baron de Tott. Fenn's original Letters, the Letters of Frederic of Bohemia, 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 Priestly, and several pamphlets within these two months. So I am a great reader. W. C. LETTER LXXII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Sept. 15, 1787. MY DEAREST COUSIN, On Monday last I was invited to meet your friend Miss J , at the Hall, and there we found her. Her good nature, her humourous manner, and her good sense are charming, 248 LIFE OF COWPER. 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 wc had not altogether so much vivacity and cleverness as Miss J — , whose talent at mirth-making has this rare property to recommend it, that nobody suffers by it. I am making a gravel walk for winter use, under a warm hedge in the orchard. It shall be furnished with a low seat for your accommodation, and if you do but like it, I shall be satisfied. In wet weather, or rather after wet weather, when the street is dirty, it will suit you well, for lying on an easy declivity, through its whole length, it must of course be immediately dry. You are very much wished for by our friends at the Hall — how much by me I will not tell you till the second week in October. W. C. LETTER LXXIII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Sept. 29, 1787. MY DEAR^COZ. I thank you for your political intelli- gence ; retired as we are, and seemingly excluded from the world, we LIFE OF COWPER. 249 \vc arc not indifferent to what passes in it; on the contrary, the arrival of a news-paper, at the present juncture, never fails to fur- nisli 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, tliat I can hardly help presaging the conquest of that empire by the Russians. The disciples of Mahomet are such babies in modern taftics, and so enervated by the use of their favorite drug, so fatally secure in their predestinarian dream, and so prone to a spirit of mutiny against their leaders, that nothing less can be expected. In facl, they had not been their own masters at this day, had but the Russians known the weakness of their enemies half so well as they undoubtedly know it now. Add to this, that there is a popular prophecy cur- rent in both countries, that Turkey is one day to fall under the Russian sceptre. A prophecy, Avhich from whatever authority it be de- rived, as It will naturally encourage the Russians, and dispirit the Turks, in exaft proportion to the degree of credit it has obtained on both sides, has a direct tendency to affect its own accomplish- ment. In the mean time, if I wish them conquered, it is only be- cause I think it will be a blessing to them to be governed by any other hand than their own. for under Heaven has there never been a throne so execrably tyrannical as theirs. The heads of the innocent that have been cut off to gratify die humour or caprice of VOL. I. K K dicir ^50 LIFE OF COWPER. 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 accept my best love. Yours, WC. LETTER LXXIV. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, Oft. 19, 1787. . DEAR SIR, A summons from Johnson, which I received yesterday, calls my attention once more to the business of Translation. Before I begin I am willing to catch, though but a short opportunity, to acknowledge your last favour. The ne- cessity of applying myself with all diligence to a long Work that has been but too long interrupted, will make my opportunities of writing, rare in future. Air and exercise are necessary to all men, but particularly so to the man whose mind labours, and to him who has been, all his life, accustomed to much of both, they are necessary in the extreme. My time, since Ave parted, has been devoted entirely to the LIFE OF COWPER. 251 the recovery of health and strength for this service, and I am will- ing to hope with good effect. Ten months have passed since I discontmued 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 si- tuated in your new abode, as in a new abode one can be. I enter perfectly into all your feelings on occasion of the change. A sen- sible mind cannot do violence even to a local attachment, ^vithout much pain. When my Father died I was young, too young to have reflected 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 house and glebe he occupies. There was neither tree nor gate, nor stile, in all that country, to which I did not feel a relation, and the house itself I preferred to a palace. I was sent for from London to attend him in his last illness, and he died just 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 K K 2 253 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER LXXV. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Nov. lo, 1787. The ParUament, my dearest Cousin, prorogued continually," is a meteor dancing before my eyes, pro- mising me my wish only to disappoint me, and none but the King and his Ministers can tell ^vhen 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 would be incredible, if they could, Li 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-morroAV in her chaise to Chicheley. The event, however, must be supposed to depend on elements, at least on the state of the atmosphere, which is turbulent beyond LIFE OF COWPER. 253 beyond measure. Yesterday it thundered ; last night it hghtcned, and at three this morning I saw the sky as red as a city in flames could ha\'e 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, ^vhich here I ha\'e 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 intelli- gence, he is \vorth all the Barometers in the world — none of them all indeed can make the least pretence to foretell thunder — a spe- cies of capacity of which he has given the most unequivocal e^'i- dence. I gave but six-pence for him, \vhich is a groat more than the market price, though he is in fact, or rather ^vould be, if Leeches were not found in even' ditch, an invaluable acquisition. W. C. THE RETIRED C A T.^ A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave, As Poet well could wish to have, Was viuch addiSled to enquire for nooks, to which she might retire. And •NOTE BY THE EDITOR. As the Kitten mentioned in this Letter was probably in her advanced life the Heroine of a little sportive moral Poem, it may be introduced perhaps not improperly here. 254 LIFE OF COWPER. And where secure as Mouse in chink. She might repose, or sit and think. I knozu not zohere she caught the trick — Nature perhaps herself had cast her If I such a mould philosophique. Or else she learn'd it of her master. Sometimes ascending debonair, An apple-tree or lofty pear. Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watch'd the Gard'ner at his work ; So7netimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering pot, There wanting nothing, save a fan. To seem some nymph in her sedan, Apparell'd in exa5lest sort. And ready to be borne to court. But love of change it seems has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel as well as we That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing she began tofnd Expos'd her too much to the wind. And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within : She therefore wished instead of those, So77ie place of more serene repose. Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton with her hair. And LIFE OF COWPER. 255 And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode. A draw'r, it chanc'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 ijupending o'er the rest. Half open in the top-most 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. When in came, housewifely inclin'd. The Chambermaid, and shut it fast. By no vialignity impell'd, But all unconscious whom it held. Awaken' d by the shock (cried Puss " Was ever Cat attended thus! " The open draw'r was left I see " Merely to prove a nest for me, " For soon as I was well compos'd, " Then came the maid, and it was clos'd: " How 256 LIFE OF COWPER. " How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sxoeet, " Oh what a delicate retreat ! " I will resign myself to rest " Till Sol, declining in the West, " Shall call to supper ; zuhen, no doubt, " Susan will come and let me out:' The evening came, the Sun descended, And Puss remain'd still unattended. The night roll'd tardily aioay (With her indeed 'tzoas never day J 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'dfor roovi, 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 zoatching, 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 direSled, guess'd. Something imprison'd in the chest. And LIFE OF COWPER. 257 And doubtful zv/iat, mth prudent care, Resolv'd it should continue there. At length a voice, which well he knew, A long and melancholy nuzv. Saluting his poetic ears, Consol'd him, and dispelled his fears ; He left his bed, he trod the fioor. He 'gan in haste the drawers explore. The lowest frst, 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. Fourth 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 slept the Poet into bed With this refeSlion in his head. MORAL. VOL. I. ^58 I^IFE OF COWPER. MORAL. Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence ! The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight. That all around, in all that's done. Must move and a6lfor him alone. Will learn, in school of tribulation, The folly of his expedation. LETTER LXXVI. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Nov. 16, 1787; I thank you for the solicitude that you express on the subjefl; of my present studies. The \TOrk 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 possible 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 Tv^ear, I can invent for myself no employ- ment that does not exhaust my spirits more. I will not pretend to account for this, I will only say, that it is not the language of pre- dileftion LIFE OF COWPER. 259 dilcction for a favorite amusement, but that the faft is really so. I have even found that those plaything avocations which one may execute almost without any attention, fatigue mc, and wear mc away, while such as engage me much, and attach me closely, arc rather ser\'iceable to me than otherwise. W. C. LETTER LXXVII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Nov, 27, 1787. It is the part of wisdom, my dearest Cousin, to sit down contented under the demands of necessity, be- cause they arc such. I am sensible that you cannot, in my Uncle's present infirm state, and of which it is not possible to expeft any considerable amendment, indulge either us, or yourself, with a journey to Weston, Yourself, I say, both because I know it 'v\^ill give you pleasure to see Causidice mi- once more, especially in the comfortable abode where you have placed him, and because after so long an imprisonment in London, you, who love the country, and have a taste for it, would of course be glad to return to it. For my own part, to me it is e\'cr new, and though I have now been ;in inhabitant of this village a twelvemonth, and have during the half of that lime been at liberty to expatiate, and to make disco- \'crics, I am daily finding out fresh scenes and walks, ^vhich you L I. 2 would * The Apellation which Sir Thomas Ilesketh ufed to give him in jest, when he was of the Temple. 26o LIFE OF COWPER. would never be satisfied with enjoying — some of them are un- approachable by you either on foot or in your 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 Avas then perLctly 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 car- riao-e, and many of them Avithout its help, would be always at your command. On Monday morning last, Sam brought me word that there was a man in the kitchen who desired to speak with me. I ordered him in. A plain, decent, elderly figure made its appearance, and being desired to sit, spoke as follows : " Sir, I am Clerk of the Parish of " All Saints in Northampton ; brother of Mr. C. the Upholsterer. It " is customary for the person in my office to annex to a Bill of " Mortality 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 Sta- " tuary, who, every body kno^vs, 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 gentle- " man LIFE OF COWPER. 261 " man of so much reading that the people of our town cannot " understand hnn." I confess to you, my dear, 1 felt all the force of the compliment implied in this speech, and was almost ready to answer, perhaps, my good friend, they may find me unintelligible too for the same reason. But on asking him whether he had walked over to Weston on purpose to implore the assistance of my Muse, and on his replying in the affirmative, I felt my mortified vanity a little consoled, and pitying the poor man's distress, which appeared to be considerable, promised to supply him. The wag- gon has accordingly gone this day to Northampton loaded in part with my effusions in the mortuary stile. A fig for Poets who write epitaphs upon individuals ! I have writen 07ie, that serves tzoo hundred persons. A few days since I received a second very obliging Letter from Mr. M . He tells me that his own papers, which are by far, he is sorry to say it, the most numerous, are marked V. L Z. Ac- cordingly, my dear, I am happy to find that I am engaged in a correspondence with Mr. Viz, a gentleman for whom I have always entertained the profoundest veneration. But the serious fa6l is, that the pa{:)ers distinguished by those signatures, have ever pleased me most, and struck me as the work of a sensible man, who knows the world well, and has more of Addison's delicate humour than any body. A poor 'i62 LIFE OF COWPEJl. A poor man begged food at the Hall lately. The Cook gave him some Vermicelli soup. He ladled it about some time with the spoon, and then returned it to her saying, " I am a poor man it is '•' true, and I am very hungry, but yet I cannot eat broth with '•■ maggots in it." Once more, my dear, a thousand thanks for your box full of good things, useful things, and beautiful things. Ever yours, W. C. LETTER LXXVIII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Dec, 4, 1787. I am glad my dearest coz, that my last letter proved so diverting. You may assure yourself of the li- teral 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 ha\-e a peerless neighbour, we have so: In point of information upon all important subjects, in respect too, of expression and address, and in short, e\'ery thing that enters into die 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 all his ami- able qualities, and qualifications, I should certainly answer, his brother George, who if he be not his exact counterpart, endued with LIFE OF COWPER. 263 with precisely the same measure, of the same accomplishments, is nevertheless deficient in none of them, and is of a charafter singu- larly agreeable, in respect of a certain manly, I had almost said^ heroic frankness, with which his air strikes one almost immediate- ly. 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 o-wmcrs. 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 future 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 tlie wonderful changes that ^ve experi- ence ; they take place in a moment. It is not therefore worth while perhaps to consider much ^\•hat we will, or will not do in years to come, concerning \\'hich 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. W. C. LETTER LXXIX. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Dec. 10, 1787. I thank you for the snip of cloth, commonly called a pattern. At present I have two coats, and but one back. li 204 LIFE OF COWPER. 11 at any tunc hereafter I should find myself possessed of fe^vcr coats, or more backs, it ^\'ill be of use to me. E\en as you suspect, my dear, so it proved. The ball was prepared for, the ball was held, and the ball passed, and we had nothing to do with it. Mrs. Throckmorton knowizig our trim, did not give us the pain of an invitation, for a pain it would have been. And Avhy ? as Sternhold says, — because, as Hopkins answers, we must have refused it. But it fell out singularly enough, that this ball Avas held of all days in the year, on my birth-day — and so I told them — but not till it was all over. Though I have thought proper never to take any notice of the arrival of my mss. together with the other good things 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 arc in the hands of , and the fourteenth and fifteenth are ready to succeed them. This notable job is the delight of my heart, and how sorry shall I be ^vhen 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 intruders answer for them all. I thank you, my dear, for your history of the G s. What changes in that family ! And how many thousand families have in the LIFE OF COWPER. 265 the same time experienced changes as violent as theirs ! The course of a rapid river is the justest of all emblems to express the variable- ness of our scene below. Shakspeare says, none ever bathed himself t\vice in the same stream, and it is equally true, that the \vorld 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 ahvays say, gi\'e my love to my Uncle, because he kno\vs that I always love him. I do not always present Mrs. Unwin'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 telling you, that I am ever yours. WC, LETTER LXXX. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr, Weston, Dec. 13, 1787. Unless my memory deceives me, I forewarned you that I should prove a veiy unpunftual corresjxjnd- ent. The Work that lies before me, engages una\'oidably my whole attention. The length of it, the spirit of it, and the cxad- ness that is requisite to its due performance, are so many most in- \'OL. I. Mm teresting 265 LIFE OF COWPER. . teresting subjefls of consideration to me, who find that my best attempts are only introduftory to others, and that what to-day I suppose finished, to-morrow I must begin again. Thus it fares with a Translator of Homer. To exhibit the majesty of such a Poet in a modern language, is a task that no man can estimate the difficulty of till he attempts it. To paraphrase him loosely, to hang him with trappings that do not belong to him, all this is com- paratively easy. But to represent him with only his own orna- ments, 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 stu- dies, however different in themselves, in respect of the means by whicli they are to be successfully carried on, bear some resem- blance to eacli other. A perseverance that nothing can discourage, a minuteness of observation that suffers nothing to escape, and a de- termination not to be seduced from the strait line that lies before us, by any images with which fancy may present us, are essentials that should be common to us both. There are, perhaps, few arduous undertakings that are not in faft more arduous than we at first sup- posed 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 possess by nature all that is necessary to success in the profession that you have chosen. What remains is in your own power. LIFE OF COWPER. 267 power. They say of poets that they must be bom such ; so must mathematicians, so must great generals, and so must lawyers, 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 thev 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 respe6li\e pur- suits, and that strong propensity, I suppose, is %\'hat we mean by genius. The rest they gave themselves. " Macte esto," therefore, have no fears for the issue ! I have had a second kind Letter from your friend Mr. . %vhich I have just answered. I must not I find hope to sec him here, at least I must not much cxpccl it. He has a family that does not jiermit 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 distance from the spot that I now inhabit, and having never been master oi 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 affeflionately. W. C. M M 2 LETTER 268 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER LX XX I. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan, i, 1788. Now for another story ahnost incre- dible ! 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 Avell you may, the only piece of that kind that was ever produced. It is indeed original, for I dare say Mr. Merry never saw mine; but certainly it is not unique. For most true it is, my dear, that ten years since, having a Letter to write to a friend of mine, to whom I could write any thing, I filled a whole sheet with a composition, both in measure and in manner, precisely similar. I have in vain searched for it. It is either burnt or lost. Could I have found it, you would have had double postage 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 extraor- dinary a fa6l, 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 recollecl to have been per- feaiy LIFE OF COWPER. 269 fectly the same, and as to the manner I am equally sure of that, and from this circumstance, that Mrs. Unwin and I never laughed m.jrc at any production of mine, perhaps not even at John Gilpin. But for all this, my dear, you must, as I said, give me credit; for the thm^ 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 myself without 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 Mrs. Throckmorton, en- titled, The Wish, or the Poet's New Year's Gift. We dine there to-morrow, when, I suppose, I shall hear news of them. Their kind- ness is so great, and they seize with such eagerness every oppor- tunity of doing all they think will please us, that I held myself almost in duty bound to treat thein with this stroke of my profession. The small-pox has done, I believe, all that it has to do at Weston. Old folks, and even women with child, have been inocu- lated. We talk of our freedom, and some of us are free enough, but not the Poor. Dependent as they are upon parish bounty, they are sometimes obliged to submit to impositions which, perhaps in France itself, could hardly be parallelled. Can man or woman be said to be free, who is commanded to take a distemper, some- times at least mortal, and in circumstances most likely to make it so? 2/0 LIFE OF COWPER. so ? No circumstance whatever was permitted to exempt the inha- bitants of Weston. The old as well as the young, and the preg- nant as well as they who had only themselves within them, have been inoculated. Were I asked Avho is the most arbitrary sovereign on 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 occu- pation 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, being verily persuaded that as far as I have gone, I have improved the Work to double its former value. That you may begin the new year, and end it in all health and happiness, 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 LXXXII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan; 19, 1788. When 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, LIFE OF COWPER. 271 do, or I must make my pacqucts more costly than worshipful, by doubling the postage utx)n you, which I should hold to be un- reasonable. See then, the true reason why I did not send you that same scribblement till you desired it. The thou^^ht which natu- rally presents itself to me on all such occasions is this. Is not your Cousin coming? Why are you impatient? Will it not be time enough to shew her your fine things when she arrives ? Fine things indeed I have few. He who has Homer to tran- scribe may well b ■ contented to do little else. As when an Ass being harnessed with ropes to a sand cart, drags with hanging ears his heavy burthen, neither iilling the long echoing streets with his harmonious bray, nor throwing up his heels behind, frolicksome and airy, as Asses less engaged are wont to do ; so I, satisfied to find myself mdispensibly 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 those pretty little vagaries in which I should otherwise delight, and of which if 1 should live long enough, I 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 ^vhich may 272 LIFE OF COWPER. may account sutisfaftorily enough for my withholding the very few tliat I do produce. A thought sometimes strikes me before I rise -, if it runs readily into vei^se, and I can finish it before breakfast, it is Avcll ; 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 Avho ever did so. He cannot therefore be said to have humour without measure (pardon a pun, my dear, from a man who has not made one before these forty years) though he may certainly be said to be immeasurably droll. The original thought is good, and the exemplification of it in those very expressive figures, admirable. A Poem on the same sub- jeft, displaying all that is displayed in those attitudes, and in those features, (for faces they can hardly be called) would be most ex- cellent. 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 the LIFE OF COWPER. 273 said poem, adapting notes to it cxi6lly accommodated to the theme; so should the sister arts be proved to be indeed sisters, and the " world would die of laughing, W. C. LETTER LXXXIII, To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Jan. 30, 1788. MY DEAREST COUSIN, It is a fortnight since I heard from you, that is to say, a week longer than you have accustomed mc 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 ascribe your silence only to the interruptions of company. Good advice, my dear, but not easily taken by a man circumstanced as I 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 the only course in which I can indulge myself without the least danger of incurring a dis- appointment. This kind of experience, continued through many years, has given me such an habitual biass to the gloomy side of every thing, that I never have a moment's ease on any subjcft to which I am not indifferent. How then can I be easy when I am left afloat upon a sea of endless conje6lures, of which you furnish VOL. I. N N the 2 74 LIFE OF COWPER, the occasion. Write, I beseech you, and do not forget that 1 am now a battered aftor upon this turbulent stage. That what little 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 your wel- fare. I have spent houis 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 ; if you cannot without great trouble to yourself, which in your situation may very possibly be the case, contrive opportunities of writing so frequently 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, exaftly at the time, for my patience will not hold out an hour beyond it. W. C. LETTER LXXXIV. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Feb. i, 1788. Pardon me, my dearest Cousin, the mournful ditty that I sent you last. There are times when I see every thing through a medium that distresses me, to an insupport- able degree, and that Letter was written in one of them. A fog that LIFE OF COWPER. 275 thatlnd for three days obliterated all the beauties of Weston, and a north-east wind, might possibly contribute not a little to the melan- choly 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 suspe£l, either with or without cause, the least evil in which you may be concerned, without being greatly troubled. Oh trouble ! the portion of all mortals — but mine in particular. Would I had never known thee, or could bid thee farewell for ever; for I meet thee at every turn, my pillows are stuffed with thee, my very roses smell of thee, and even my Cousin, who would cure me of all trouble, if she 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 again to trouble either myself or you in the same manner, unless warranted by some more substantial ground of apprehension. What I said concerning Homer, my dear, was spoken, or rather written, merely under the influence of a certain jocularity that I felt at that moment. I am in reality so far from thinking myself an Ass, and my Translation a sand-cart, that I rather seem in my own account of the matter, one of those flaming Steeds har- nessed to the chariot of AjxdIIo, of which we read in the works of theantients. 1 have lately, I knoAv not ho^v, acquired a certain suj^e- N N 2 riority 276 LIFE OF COWPER. liority to myself in this business, and in this last revisal ha\'e ele- vated the expression to a degree far surpassing its former boast. A k\v evenings since I had an opportunity to try how far I might \'en- ture to expeft 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 Olney. 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 ex- pressions which I cannot repeat. Only this he said to Mrs. Unwin, while I was in another room, that he had never entered into the spirit of Homer before, nor had any thing like a due conception 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 more ? W. C. LETTER LXXXV. To Sx^MUEL ROSE, Esqr. MY DEAR SIR, The Lodgc, Feb. 14, 1788. Though it be long since I received your last, I have not yet forgotten the impression it made upon me, nor LIFE OF COWPER. 2 -/ / nor how sensibly I felt myself obliged by your unreser\'ed and friendly communications. I will not apologize for my silence in the interim, because apprized as you are of my present occupation, the excuse that I might alledge will present itself to you of course, and to dilate upon it would therefore be waste of paper. You are in possession of the best security imaginable, for the due improvement of your time, ^vhich is a just sense of its value. Had I been, when at your age, as much affeded 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, \vho never discover that the health and good spirits which generally accompany it, are in reality blessings onl)^ according to the use \vc make of them, till advanced years begin to threaten them with the loss of both. How much wisci would thousands have been, than now they ever wiU be, had a pun)' constitution, or some occasional infirmity, constrained them to devote those hours to study and refleftion, which for want of some such check, they have given entirely to dissipation ! I, therefore, ac- count you happy, who, young as you arc, need not to be informed that you cannot always be so, and who already know that the ma- terials upon whicli 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 278 LIFE OF COWPER. example Avas not buried with him, but happily for you (happily because you are desirous 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 connexion with Hartfordshire, must have been the 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 re- port, which always spoke honorably of them, though in all my journies to and from my Father's, I must have passed the door. The circumstance however reminds me of the beautiful reflection of Glaucus in the sixth Iliad ; beautiful as well for the affecting na- ture 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. Qg avBpuv >yev£vi, v\ [uev (pvsi, \^ 5' a-roXviyfi. Excuse this piece of pedantry in a man whose Homer is always be- fore him ! What would I give that he were living now, and within my reach ! I, of all men living, have the best excuse for indulg- ing LIFE OF COWPER. 279 ing such a wish, unreasonable as it may seem, for I have no doubt that the hre of his eye, and the smile of his lips, \vould 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 commendation. I should requite you but ill by sending you my mortuary Verses, neither at present can I prevail on myself to do it, having no frank, and being conscious that they arc not worth carriage without one. I have one copy left, and that copy I will keep for you. W. C LETTER LXXXVI. 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 com- prehend it if I should, the manner in which my mind is sometimes impressed with melancholy on particular subjecls. Your late si- lence was such a subjeft. I heard, sa\v, 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 T\-hir1i I hn\c since wished had been burned before I sent it. But 28o LIFE OF COWPER. 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, \vatching the break of day, ruminated on the subje6l which, in your last but one, you recommend to me. Slavery, or a release from slavery, such as the poor Negroes have endured, or perhaps both these topics together, appeared to me a theme so important at the present jun6lure, and at the same time so susceptible of poetical management, that I more than once perceived myself ready to start in that career, could I have allowed myself to desert Homer for so long a time as it would have cost me to do them justice. While I ^vas pondering these things, the'public prints informed me that Miss More was on the point of publication, having actually fmished what I had not yet begun. The sight of her advertisement convinced me that my best course would be that to which I felt myself most inclined, to per- severe without turning aside to attend to any other call, however alluring, in the business that I have in hand. It occurred to me likewise, that I have already borne my testi- mony in favour of my Black brethren, and that I was one of the earliest, LIFE OF COWPER. 281 earliest, if not the lirst of those who have in the present day, ex- pressed their detestation of the diabolical traffic in question. On all these accounts I judged it best to be silent, and espe- cially because I cannot doubt that some effeftual measures will no^v be taken to alleviate the miseries of their condition, the Avhole na- tion being in }X)Ssession of the case, and it being impossible also to alledge an argument in behalf of man merchandize that can deserve a hearing. I shall be glad to see Hannah Morc's Pocni; she is a favorite writer with mc, and has more nerve and energy both in her thoughts and language than half the he rhymers in the kingdom. The Thoughts on the Manners of the Great will likewise be most acceptable. I ^vant to learn as much of the world as I can, but to acquire that learning at a distance, and a book with such a title- promises fair to serve the purpose effecluull)'. 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 Avhat 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. Whatever we are at home, we ha.ve cer- tainly 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, %\'ith an unsparing hand, may they receive a retri- bution that shall in future make all governors and judges of ours, VOL. r. O o ill 282 LIFE OF COWPER. in those distant regions, tremble. While I speak thus, I equally wish them acquitted. They were both my school- feIlo^^'s, and for Hastmgs I had a particular value. Farewell. W. C. LETTER LXXXVII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Feb. 22, 1788. I do not wonder that your ears and feelings were hurt by Mr. Burke's severe inveftive. But you are to know, my dear, or probably you know it already, that the pro- secution of public delinquents has always, and in all countries, been thus conduced. The stile of a criminal chargre of this kind has been an affair settled among orators from the days of Tully, to the present, and like all other practices that have obtained for ages, this, in particular, seems to have been founded originally in rea- son, and in the necessity of the case. He who accuses another to the state, must not appear himself un- moved by the view of crimes with which he charges him, least he should be suspefted of fiftion, or of precipitancy, or of a consci- ousness that after all he shall not be able to prove his rllegations. On the contrary, in order to impress the minds of his hearers with a persuasion that he himself at least is convinced of the criminality of the prisoner, he must be vehement, energetic, rapid; must caU LIFE OF COWPER. 28 o call him tyrant, and traitor, and every thing else that is odious, and all this to his face, because all diis, bad as it is, is no more than he undertakes to prove in the sequel, and if he cannot proA'c it he must himself appear in a light very little more desirable, and at the best to have trifled with the tribunal to Avhich he has sum- moned him. Thus Tullv in the very fust sentence of his first oration asamst Cataline, calls him a monster ; a manner of address in which he persisted till said monster, unable to support the fury of his accu- ser's eloquence any longer, rose from his seat, elbowed for himself a passage through the crowd, and at last burst from the senate houst- in an agony, as if the Furies themselves had followed him. And now, my dear, though I have thus spoken, and ha\-c seemed to plead the cause of that species of eloquence which you, and every creature who has your sentiments, must necessarily dis- like, perhaps I am not altogther convinced of its propriety. Per- haps, at the bottom, I am much more of opinion, that if the charge, unaccompanied by any inflammatory matter, and simply detailed, being once deliv'ercd into the court, and read aloud ; the witnesses were immediately examined, and sentence pronounced according to the evidence, not only the process would be shortened, much time and much expcnce saved, but justice avouM have at least as fair play as now she has. Prejudice is of no use in weighing the question — Guilty or not guilty — and the principal aim, end, and O o 2 effed .84 LIFE OF COWPER, cfFed of such introduftory harangues is to create as much preju- dice as possible. When you and I, therefore, shall have the whole and sole management of such a business entrusted to us, we will order it otherwise. I was glad to learn from the papers that our Cousin Henry shone as he did in reading the charge. This must have given much pleasure to the General. Thy ever affeftionate, W. C. LETTER LXXXVIII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, March 3, 1788. One day last week, Mrs. Unwin and I having taken our morning ^valk, and returning homcAvard through the wilderness, met the Throckmortons. A minute after we had met them, we heard the cry of Hounds at no great distance, and mounting the broad stump of an elm, which had been felled, and by the aid of which we were enabled to look over the wall, we saw them. They Avere all that time in our orchard: presently we heard a Terrier, belonging to Mrs. Throckmorton, which you may remember by the name of Fury, yelping with much vehe- mence, and saw her running through the thickets within a few yards of us at her utmost speed, as if in pursuit of something which LIFE OF COWPER. 28 J which we doubted not was the Fox. Before we could reach the other end of the wildnerness, the Hounds entered also ; and when we arrived at the gate which opens into the grove, there we found the whole weary cavalcade assembled. The Huntsman dismount- ing, begged leave to follow his Hounds on foot, for he was sure he said that they had killed him. A conclusion which I suppose he drew from their profound silence. He was accordingly admitted, and with a sagacity that would not have dishonoured the best Hound in the world, pursuing precisely the same track which the Fox and the Dogs had taken, though he had never had a glimpse of either after their first entrance through the rails, arrived where he found the slaughtered prey. He soon produced dead Reynard, and rejoined us in the grove with all his Dogs about him: Having an opportunity to see a ceremony, which I was pretty sure would never fall in my way again, I determined to stay, and ta notice all that passed with the most minute attention. The Hunts- man having by the aid of a pitchfork lodged Reynard on the arm of an elm, at the height of about nine feet from the ground, there left him for a considerable time. The gentlemen sat on their horses contemplating the Fox, for which they had toiled so hard- and the Hounds assembled at the foot of the tree, with faces not less expressive of the most rational delight, contemplated the same ob- jeft. The Huntsman remounted; he cut off a foot, and threw it to the Hounds — one of them swallowed it whole like a bolus. He then once more alighted, and Urawing down the Fox by the hinder legs,. 286 LIFE OF COWPER. legs, desired the people, who were by this time rather numerous, to open a lane for him to the right and left. He was instantly obeyed, when throwing the Fox to the distance of some yards, and screaming like a Fiend, " tear him to pieces" — at least six times re- peatedly, he consigned him over absolutely to the pack, who in a few minutes devoured him completely. Thus, my dear, as Virgil says, what none of the Gods could have ventured to promise me, time itself, pursuing its accustomed course, has of its own accord presented me with. I have been in at the death of a Fox, and you now know as much of the matter as I, who am as well informed as any sportsman in England. Yours, W. C. LETTER LXXXIX. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, March 12, 1788. Slavery, and the Manners of the Great, I have read. The former I admired, as I do all that Miss More writes, as well for energy of expression, as for the tendency of the design. I have never yet seen any produftion of her pen that has not recommended itself by both these qualifications. There is likewise much good sense in her manner of treating every sub- je£l, and no mere poetic cant (which is the thing that I abhor,) in her manner of treating an.y And this I say, not because you now know and LIFE OF COWPER. 287 and visit her, but it has long been my avowed opinion of her works, which I have both spoken and written as often as I have had occasion to mention them. Mr. Wilbcrforce's little book (if he was the author of it) has also charmed me. It must, I should imagine, engage the notice of those to whom it is addressed. In that case one may say to them, either answer it, or be set down by it. They will do neither. They will approve, commend, and forget it. Such has been the fate of all exhortations to reform, whether in verse or prose, and however closely pressed upon the conscience in all ages, here and there a happy individual, to whom God gives grace and wisdom to profit by the admonition, is the better for it. But the aggregate body (as Gilbert Cooper used to call the multitude) remain, though with a very good understanding of the matter, like horse and mule that have none. We shall now soon lose our neighbours at the Hall. We shall truly miss them, and long for their return. Mr. Throckmorton said to me last night, with sparkling eyes, and a face expressive of the highest pleasure, " We compared you this morning with Pope ; we read your fourth Iliad, and his, and I verily think we shall beat him. He has many superflous lines, and does not interest one. When I read your Translation, I am deeply affefted. I see plainly your advantage, and am convinced that Pope spoiled all by at- tempting 288 LIFE OF COWPER. tempting the work In rhyme." His brother George, who xs iny most aclive amanuensis, and who indeed first introduced the sub- ject, seconded all he said. More would have passed, but Mrs. Throckmorton having seated herself at the harpsichord, and for my amusement merely, my attention was of course turned to her. The ne^v Vicar of Olney is arrived, and we have exchanged visits. He is a plain, sensible man, and pleases me much. A treasure for Olney, if Olney can understand his value. Adieu. W. C. LETTER XC. To General COWPER. Weston, Dec. 13, 1787. MY DEAR GENERAL, A Letter is not pleasant which ex- cites curiosity, but does not gratify it. Such a Letter was my last, the defeds of which I therefore take the first opportunity to supply. When the condition of our Negroes in the Islands was first presented to me as a subje6l for Songs, I felt myself not at all allured to the undertaking ; it seemed to offer only images of hor- ror, which could by no means be accommodated to the style of that sort of composition. But having a desire to comply, if possi- ble, with the request made to me, after turning the matter in my mind as many ways as I could, I at last, as I told you, produced three. LIFE OF COWPER. 289 three, and that Avhich appears to myself the best of those three, I hrivc sent you. Of the other two, one is serious, in a strain of thou^^ht perhaps rather too serious, and I could not help it The other, of which the Slave Trader is himself the subject, is somewhat ludicrous. If I could think them worth your seeing, I would, as opportunity should occur, send them also. If this amuses you I shall be glad, W. C. THE MORNING DREAM.* A BALLAD. To the Tune of Tweed-side. 'Twas in the glad season of spring. Asleep at the dawn of the day, I dreayn'd what I cannot but sing. So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. J dream d that on ocean afloat. Far hence to the Westward I sail 'd, While the billows high If ted the boat, And the fresh blowing breeze never fail'd. In VOL. I. P P * The excellence of this Ballad induces me to reprint it here, although it has appeared in the last edition of Cowper's Poems. 290 LIFE OF CO^VPER: In the steerage a woman I saw, Such at least was the form that she wore, Whose beauty impressed me with awe, Never taught me by woman before. She sat, and a shield at her side Shed light like a sun on the waves, And smiling divinely, she crfd — " I go to make Freemen of Slaves." Then raising her voice to a strain. The sweetest that ear ever heard. She sung of the Slave's broken chain. Wherever her glory appeared. Some clouds which had over us hung Fled, chas'd by her melody clear. And methought while she Liberty sung, 'Twas Liberty only to hear. Thus swiftly dividing the food. To a Slave-cultur'd island we came. Where a Demon, her enemy stood. Oppression, his terrible name. In his hand, as a sign of his sway, A scourge hung with lashes he bore. And stood looking out for his prey, From Africa's sorroxcful shore. But LIFE OF COWPER. 291 But soon as approaching the land, That goddess-like woman he vievod. The scourge he let fall from his hand, With blood of his subjcEls imbrued. I sazo him both sicken and die, And the moment the Monster expir'd Heard shouts that asceiided the sky. From thousands with rapture inspired. Awaking, how could I but muse, At what such a dream should betide ? But soon my ear caught the glad news Which served my weak thought for a guide — That Britannia, renowned o'er the waves,. For the hatred she ever has shozon To the black-sceptred rulers of Slaves, Resolves to have none of her oxon. LETTER XCI. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, March 29, 1788. MY DEAR FRIEND, I rejoice that you have so successfully performed so long a journey \vithout the aid of hoofs or wheels. I do not know that a journey on foot exposes a man to more disasters than a carriage or a horse; perhaps it may be thi- safer way of tra- velling, but the novelty of it impressed me ^vlth some anxiety on your account. P p 2 If 2^2 LIFE OF COWPER. It seems almost incredible to myself, that my company should be at all desirable to you, or to any man. I kno\\' so little of the world as it goes at present, and labour generally under such a depression of spirits, especially at those times when I could wish to be most cheerful, that my own share in every conversation appears to me to be the most insipid thing ima- ginable. But you say you found it otherwise, and I will not for my own sake doubt your sincerity, degustibus non est disputandum, and since such is yours, I shall leave you in quiet possession of it, wishinsf indeed both its continuance and increase. I shall not find a properer place in which to say, accept of Mrs. Unwin's acknow- ledgments, as well as mine, for the kindness of your expressions on this subjedl, and be assured of an undissembling welcome at all times, when it shall suit you to give us your company at Weston. As to her, she is one of the sincerest of the human race, and if she receives you with the appearance of pleasure, it is because she feels it. Her behaviour on such occasions is with her an affair of con- science, and she dares no more look a falsehood than utter one. It is almost time to tell you, that I have received the books • safe ; they have not suffered the least detriment by the way, and I am much obliged to you for them. If my Translation should be a little delayed in consequence of this favour of yours, you must take the blame on yourself. It is impossible not to read the notes of LIFE OF COWPER. 293 of a Commentator so learned, so judicious, and of so fine a taste as Dr. Clarke, having him at one's clbo\v. Though he has been but fe^v hours under my roof I have already peeped at him, and fmd that he will be instar omnium to me. They are such Notes exaftly as I wanted. A translator of Homer should ever have somebody at hand to say, '•' that's a beauty," least he should slumber where his author does not, not only depreciating, by such inadvertency, the work of his original, but depriving perhaps his o\vn of an em bellishment which wanted only to be noticed. If you hear Ballads sung in the streets on die hardships of the Negroes in the islands, they are probably mine. It must be an honour to any man to have given a stroke to that chain, however feeble. I fear however that the attempt will fail. The tidings w^hich have lately reached me from London concerning it, are not the most encouraging. While the matter slept, or was but slightly adverted to, the English only had their share of shame in common with other nations, on account of it. But since it has been can- \'assed and searched to the bottom, since the public attention has been rivetted to the horrible scheme, ^ve can no longer plead cither that we did not know it, or did not think of it. Woe be to us if we refuse the poor captives the redress, to which they have so clear a right, and prove ourselves in the sight of God and men, indifferent to all considerations but those of gain. Adieu, W. C. LETTER 2 94 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER XCII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, March 31, 1788". MY DEAREST COUSIN, Mrs. Throckmorton has promised to write to me. I beg that as often as you shall see her, you will give her a smart pinch, and say, '• have you written to my Cousin?" I build all my hopes of her performance on this expedient, and for so doing these my Letters, not patent, shall be your sufficient warrant. You are thus to give her the question till she shall answer. Yes. I have written one more Song, and sent it. It is called the Morning Dream, and may be sung to the Tune of Tweed-Side, or any other tune that will suit it, for I am not nice on that subjeft. I would have copied it for you, had I not almost filled my sheet without it, but now, my dear, you must stay till the sweet sirens of London shall bring it to you, or if that happy day should never arrive, I hereby acknowledge myself your debtor to that amount. I shall now probably cease to sing of tortured Negroes, a theme which never pleased me, but which, in the hope of doing them some little service, I was not unwilling to handle. If any thing could have raised Miss More to a higher place in my opinion than she possessed before, it could only be your in- formation that after all, she, and not Mr. Wilberforce, 15 author of that LIFE OF COWPER; 295 that volume. How conies it to pass, that she, being a ^\^oman, writes with a force and energy, and a correftness hitherto arrogated by the men, and not very frequently displayed even by the men themselves ! Adieu, W. C. LETTER XCIII To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Weston, May 8, 1788. Alas! my Library — I must now give it up for a lost thing for ever. The only consolation belonging to the circumstance is, or seems to be, that no such loss did ever befall any other man, or can ever befall me again. As far as books arc concerned I am Tot us teres atq rotundus, and may set fortune at defiance. Those books which had been my Father's, had, most of them, his arms on the inside cover, but the rest no mark, neither his name nor mine. I could mourn for them like Sancho for his Dapple, but it would avail me nothing. You will oblige me much by sending me Crazy Kate. A gen- tleman last winter promised me both her, and the Lace-maker, but he went to London, that place in which, as in the grave, " all things are forgotten," and I have never seen either of them, I begin 295 LIFE OF COWPER. I begin to find some prospefl of a conclusion, of the Il'ad, at least, now opening upon me, having reached the eighteenth book. Your Letter found me yesterday in the very fa6l of dispersing the whole host of Troy, by the voice only of Achilles. There is nothing extravagant in the idea, for you have witnessed a similai' effect attending even such a voice as mine, at midnight, from a garret window, on the dogs of a Avhole parish, whom I have put to fliffht in a moment. ^ W.C. LETTER XCIV. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, May 12, 1788. It is probable, my dearest Coz. that I shall not be able to \vrite much, but as much as I can I will. The time between rising and breakfast is all that I can at present find, and this morning I lay longer than usual. In the stile of the Lady's note to you I can easily per- ceive a smatch of her charafter. Neither men nor women write with such neatness of expression, who have not given a good deal of attention to language, and qualified themselves by study. At the same time it gave me much more pleasure to observe, that my Coz. though not standing on the pinnacle of renown quite so ele- vated. LIFE OF COWPER. 297 vated, as that which lifts Mrs. Montagu to the clouds, falls in no degree short of her in this particular ; so that should she make you a member of her academy, she will do it honour. Suspect me not of flattering you, for I abhor the thought ; neither will you suspect it. Recollect, that it is an invariable rule with me never to pay compliments to those I love ! Two days, en suite, I have \valked to Gay hurst ; a longer journey than I have w^alked on foot these seventeen years. The first day I went alone, designing merely to make the experi- ment, and chusing to be at liberty to return at whatsoever point of my pilgrimage I should find myself fatigued. For I \vas not without suspicion that years, and some other things no less in- jurious than years, viz. melancholy and distress of mind, might by this time have unfitted me for such achievements. But I found it otherwise. I reached the church, which stands, as you know, in the garden, in fifty-five minutes, and returned in ditto time to Weston. The next day I took the same walk with Mr. Powley, having a desire to shew him the prettiest place in the country. I not only performed these two excursions without in- jury to my health, but have by means of them gained indisputable proof that my ambulatory faculty is not yet impaired : a discovery which, considering that to my feet alone I am likely, as I have ever been, to be indebted always for my transportation from place to place, I find very delegable, VOL. I. O Q You -98 LIFE OF COWPER. You will find in the last Gentleman's Magazine, a Sonnet ad- dressed to Henry Cowper, signed T. H. I am the writer of it. No creature knows this but yourself; you will make what use of the intelligence you shall sec good. W.C. LETTER XCV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. May 24, 1788. MY DEAR FRIEND, For two excellent Prints I return you my sincere acknowledgements. I cannot say that poor Kate resembles much the original, who was neither so young nor so handsome as the pencil has represented her ; but she was a figure well suited to the account given of her in the Task, and has a face exceedingly expressive of despairing melancholy. The Lace-maker is accidentally a good likeness of a young woman, once our neigh- bour, who was hardly less handsome than the picture twenty years ago ; but the loss of one husband, and the acquisition of another, have, since that time, impaired her much ; yet she might still be supposed to have sat to the artist. We dined yesterday with your friend and mine, the most companionable and domestic Mr. C . The whole kingdom can hardly furnish a speclacle more pleasing to a man who has a taste LIFE OF COWPER. 299 taste for true happiness, than himself, Mrs. C , and their mul- titudinous family. Seven long miles are interposed between us, or perhaps I should oftener have an opportunity of declaiming on this subjeft. I am now in the nineteenth Book of the Iliad, and on the point of displaying such feats of heroism performed by Achilles, as make all other achievements trivial. I may well exclaim, Oh ! for a Muse of fire ! especially having not only a great host to cope with, but a great river also ; much, however, may be done when Homer leads the way. I should not have chosen to have been the original author of such a business, even though all the Nine had stood af my elbow. Time has wonderful effefts. We admire that in an an- tient, for which we should send a modern bard to Bedlam. I saw at Mr. C 's a great curiosity ; an antique bust ol Paris in Parian marble. You will conclude that it interested me exceedingly. I pleased myself with supposing that it once stood in Helen's chamber. It was in faft brought from the Levant, and though not Avcll mended, (for it had suffered much by time) is an admirable performance. W. C. Q Q 2 LETTER 300 LIFE OF COWPER LETTER XCVI. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, May 27, 1788. The General, in a Letter which came yesterday, sent me inclosed a copy of my Sonnet ; thus introduc- ing it. " I send a copy of verses somebody has written in the Gen- tleman's Magazine for April last. Lidependent of my partiality towards the subject, I think the lines themselves are good." Thus it appears that my poetical adventure has succeeded to my wish ; and I write to him by this post, on purpose to inform him that the somebody in question is myself. I no longer wonder that Mrs. Montagu stands at the head of all that is called learned, and that every critic veils his bonnet to her superior judgment ; I am now reading, and have reached the middle of her Essay on the Genius of Shakspeare ; a book of which, strange as it may seem, though I must have read it for- merly, I had absolutely forgot the existence. The learning, the good sense, the sound judgment, and the wit displayed in it, fully justify, not only my compliment, but all compliments that either have been already paid to her talents, or shall be paid hereafter. Voltaire, I doubt not, rejoiced that his antagonist wrote in English, and that his countrymen could not possibly LIFE OF COWPER. 301 possibly be judges of the dispute. Could they have known how much she was in the right, and by how many thousand miles the Bard of Avon is superior to all their dramatists, the French critic would ha\'e lost half his fame among them. I saw at Mr. C 's a head of Paris ; an antique of Parian inarble. His uncle, who left him the estate, brought it, as I understand, Mr. C , from the Levant : you may suppose I viewed it with all the enthusiasm that belongs to a Translator of Homer. It is in reality a great curiosity, and highly valuable. Our friend Sephus has sent me two Prints ; the Lace-maker and Crazy Kate. These also I have contemplated with pleasure ; having, as you know, a particular interest in them. The former of them is not more beautiful than a Lace-maker, once our neigh- bour at Olney ; though the artist has assembled as many charms in her countenance as I ever saw in any countenance, one excepted. Kate is both younger and handsomer than the original from which I drew; but she is in a good stile, and as mad as need be. How does this hot ^veather suit thee, my dear, in London ; as for mc, with all my colonades and bowers, I am quite oppressed by it. W. C. LETTER 3Q2 LIFE OF COWPER, LETTER XCVII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, June 3, 1788. MY DEAREST COZ. The excessive heat of diese last few days, was indeed oppressive ; but excepting the languor that it occasioned both in my mind and body, it was far from being prejudicial to me. It opened ten thousand pores, by which as many mischiefs, the efFe6ls of long obstruftion, began to breathe themselves forth abundantly. Then came an east wind, baneful to me at all times, but following so closely such a sultry season, uncommonly noxious. To speak in the seaman's phrase, not entirely strange to you, I was taken all aback ; and the humours which would have escaped, if old Eurus would have given them leave, finding every door shut, have fallen into my eyes. But in a country like this, poor miserable mortals must be content to suffer all that sudden and violent clmnges can inflift ; and if they are quit for about half the plagues that Caliban calls down on Prospero, they may say we are well off, and dance for joy, if the rheumatism or cramp will let them. Did you ever see an advertisement by one Fowle, a dancing master of Newport-Pagnel ? If not, I will contrive to send it you for your amusement. It is the most extravagantly ludicrous affair of the kind I ever saw. The author of it had the good hap to be crazed. LIFE OF COWPER. 303. crazed, or he had never produced any diing half so clever ; for you will ever observe, that they who are said to have lost their wits, have more than other people. It is, therefore, only a slander with ^\'hich envy prompts the malignity of persons in their senses to asperse wittier than themselves. But there are countries in the world where the mad have justice done them, where they are revered as the subjefts of inspiration, and consulted as oracles. Poor Fowle would have made a figure there. W. C. LETTER XCVIII. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Weston, June 8, 1788. MY DEAR FRIEND, Your Letter brought me the very first intelligence of the event it mentions. My last Letter from Lady Hcsketh gave me reason enough to expeft it ; but the certainty of it was unknown to me till I learned it by your information. If gradual decline, the consequence of great age, be a sufficient pre- paration of the mind to encounter such a loss, our minds were cer- tainly prepared to meet it : yet, to you, I need not say, that no preparation can supersede the feelings of the heart on such oc- casions. While our friends yet live, inhabitants of the same world with ourselves, they seem still to live to us ; we are sure that they sometimes think of us ; and hoAvever improbable it may seem, it is never imiX)ssiblc that we may sec each other once 304 LIFE OF COWPER, once again. But the graxe, like a great gulph, swallows all such expectations ; and in the moment when a beloved friend sinks into it, a thousand tender recollections awaken a regret that will be felt in spite of all reasonings, and let our warnings have been what they may. Thus it is I take my last leave of poor Ashley, whose heart towards me was ever truly parental, and to whose memory I owe a tenderness and respeft that will never leave me. W. C. LETTER XCIX. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, June lo, 1788. MY DEAR COZ. Your kind Letter of precaution to Mr. Gregson, sent him hitheras soon as chapel service was ended in the evening ; but he found me already apprized of the event that oc- casioned it, by a line from Sephus, received a few hours before. My dear Uncle's death awakened in me many reflexions, which, for a time, sunk my spitits. A man like him would have been mourned, had he doubled the age he reached ; at any age his death would have been felt as a loss that no survivor could repair. And though it was not probable that, for my own part, I should ever see him more, yet the consciousness that he still lived, was a comfort to me : let it comfort us now that we have lost him only at a time when nature could afford him to us no longer ; that as his life was blameless, so was his death without anguish ; and that he is gone to LFFE OF COV/PER. 305 to heaven. I know not that human hfe. in its most prosperous state, can present any thing to our wishes half so desirable, as such a close of it. Not to mingle this subjecl with others that would ill suit with it, I will add no more at present, than a warm hope that you and your Sister will be able, effeclually, to avail yourselves of all the consolatory matter with which it abounds. You gave yourselves, while he lived, to a Father, whose life was doubtless prolonged by your attentions, and whose tenderness of disposition made him always deeply sensible of your kindness in this respeft, as well as in many others. His old age was the happiest that I have ever known ; and I give you both joy of having had so fair an opportu- nity, and of having so well used it, to approve yourselves equal to the calls of such a duty in the sight of God and man. W. C. LETTER C. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, June 15, 1788. Although I knew that you must be very much occupied on the present most affefting occasion, yet not hearing from you, I began to be very uneasy on your account, and to fear that your health might have suffered by the fatigue both of body and spirits that you must have undergone, till a Letter that VOL. 1. R R reached 3o6 LIFE OF COWPER: ■ reached me yesterday, from the General, set my heart at rest, so far as that cause of anxiety was in question. He speaks of my Uncle in the tenderest terms : such as shcsv how truly sensible he was of the amiableness and excellence of his character, and ho-vv deeply he regrets his loss. We have indeed lost one, who has not left his like in the present generation of our family, and whose equal, in all respefts, no future of it will probably produce. My memory retains so perfect an impression of him, that had I been painter instead of poet, I could from those faithful traces, have perpetuated his face and form with the most minute exactness. And this I the rather wonder at, because some with whom I was equally coversant five and twenty years ago, have almost faded out of all recollection with me : but he made impression not soon to be effaced ; and was in figure, in temper, and manner, and in nu- merous other respects, such as I shall never behold again. I often think what a joyful interview there has been between him and some of his cotemporaries who went before him. The truth of the mat- ter is, my dear, that they are the happy ones, and that we shall never be such ourselves till we have joined the party. Can there be any thing so worthy of our warmest wishes as to enter on an eternal, unchangeable state, in blessed fellowship and communion with those whose society we valued most, and for the best reasons, while they continued with us ? A few steps more through a vnin foolish world, and this happiness will be yours : but be not hasty, my dear, to accomplish thy journey ! For of all, diatlive, thou art one, whom LIFE OF COWPER. 307 whom I can least spare, for thou also art one who shall not leave thy equal behind thee. _ ^ W. C. , LETTER CI. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, June 23, 1788. When I tell you that an unanswered Letter troubles my conscience, in some degree like a crime, you will think me endued with a most heroic patience, who have so long submitted to that trouble on account of yours not answered yet. Bui the truth is, that I have been much engaged. Homer, (you know) affords me constant employm.ent ; besides which I have rather \vhat may be called, considering the privacy in -which I have long lived, a numerous corrcs{X)ndencc : to one of my friends m particular, a near and much loved relation, I write weekly, and sometimes twice in the week : nor are these my only excuses ; the sudden changes of the weather ha\-e much affefled me, and especially with a disorder most unfavourable to letter-^vriting, an inflammation in my eyes. With all these apologies I approach you once more, not altogether despairing of forgiveness. It has pleased God to give us rain, without which this part of our country at least must soon have become a dcsart. The meadows have been parched to a January brown, ;md we have foddered oiu' cattle for some time, as in the winter. — The goodness and |X)wer of R R 2 God 3o8 LIFE OF COWPER. God are never (I believe) so universally acknowledged as at the end of a long drought. Man is naturally a self-sufficient animal, and in all concerns that seem to lie within the sphere of his own ability, thinks little or not at all of the need he always has of protec- tion and furtherance from above ; but he is sensible that the clouds will not assemble at his bidding, and that though the clouds as- semble, they will not fall in sho^vers, because ^he commands them. When, therefore, at last, the blessing descends, you shall hear, even in the streets, the most irreligious and thoughtless with one voice ex- claim, '• Thank God .'"-confessing themselves indebted to his favour, and willing, at least so far as words go, to give him the glory. I can hardly doubt, therefore, that the earth is sometimes parched, and the crops endangered, in order that the multitude may not want a memento, to whom they owe them, nor absolutely forget the power, on which all depend for all things. Our solitary part of the year is over. Mrs. Unwin's Daughter and Son-in-law have lately spent some time with us; we shall shortly receive from London our old friends the Newtons, (he was once minister of Olney;) and, when they leave us, we expeft, that Lady Hesketh will succeed them, perhaps to spend the summer here, and possibly the winter also. The summer indeed is leaving us at a rapid rate, as do all the seasons, and though I have marked their flight so often, I know not which is the swiftest. Man is never so deluded as when he dreams of his own duration. The ans^ver of the old LIFE OF COWPER. 309 old Patriarch to Pharaoh may be adopted by every man at the close of the longest life. "Few and evil have been the days of the years of my pilgrimage," Whether we look back from fifty, or from twice fifty, the past appears equally a dream ; and we can only be said truly to have lived while we have been profitably employed. Alas ! then, making the necessary deduftions, how short is life ! Were men in general to save themselves all the steps they take to no pur- pose, or to a bad one, what numbers, who are now adlive, would become sedentary ! Thus I have sermonized through my paper. Living Avhcre you live, you can bear Avith me the better. I always follow the leading of my unconstrained thoughts when I write to a friend, be they grave or otherwise. Homer reminds me of you every day. I am noAV in the twenty -first Iliad. Adieu. W. C. LETTER CII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, July 28, 1788. It is in vain that you tell me you have no talent at description, while in faft you describe better than any body. You have given me a most complete idea of your mansion and its situation ; and I doubt not that with your Letter m my hand, by 310 LIFE OF COWPER. by way of map, could I be set down on the spot in a moment, I .should find myself qualified to take my walks, and my pastime in whatever quarter of your paradise it should please me the most to visit. We also, as you know, ha\'c scenes at Weston worthy of description ; but because you know them \\-ell, I will only say that one of them has within these few days been much improved ; I mean the lime walk. By the help of the axe and the wood-bill, which have of late been constantly employed in cutting out all straggling branches that intercepted the arch ; Mr. Throckmorton has now defined it with such exaftness, that no cathedral in the world can show one of more magnificence or beauty. I bless myself that I live so near it ; for were it distant several miles, it would be well Avorth while to visit it, merely as an object of taste ; not to mention the refreshment of such a gloom both to the eyes and spirits. And these are the things which our modern improA'crs of parks and plea- sure grounds have displaced without mercy ; because, forsooth, they are reftilinear. It is a wonder they do not quarrel with the sun-beams for the same reason. Have you seen the account of five hundred celebrated Au- thors now living ? I am one of them ; but stand charged Avith the high crime and misdemeanor of totally neglecting method. An accusation which, if the gentleman would take the pains to read me, he would find sufficiently refuted. I am conscious at least myself of having laboured much in the arrangement of my mattei % and LIFE OF COWPER. 311 and of ha\'Ing given to the several parts of every book of the Task, as well as to each poem in the first volume., that sort of slight con- nexion ^vhich poetry demands ; for in poetry (except professedly of the didaftic kind) a logical precision would be stiff, pedantic, and ridiculous. But there is no pleasing some critics ; the com- fort is, that I am contented whether they be pleased or not. At the same time, to my honour be it spoken, the chronicler of us five hundred prodigies bestows on me, for ought I know, more com- mendations than on any other of my confraternity. May he IIac to write the histories of as many thousand Poets, and find me the very best amone them ! Amen ! o I join with you, my dearest Coz. in wishing that I o^v'ned the fee simple of all the beautiful scenes around you : but such emolu- ments were never designed for Poets. Am I not happier than ever Poet was, in having thee for my Cousin ; and in the expectation of diy arrival here, ■whenever StraAvbcrry Hill shall lose thee ? Ever thine, W. C. LETTER cm. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, August 9, 1788. The Newtons are still here, and con- tinue widi us I believe unlil the 15th of the month. Here is also mv 312 LIFE OF COWPER. my friend Mr. Rose, a valuable young man, who, attrafted by the effluvia of my genius, found me out hi my retirement last January twelve-month. I have not permitted him to be idle, but have made him transcribe for me the twelfth book of the Iliad. He brings me the compliments of several of the Literati, with whom he is acquainted in town ; and tells me, that from Dr. Maclean, whom he saw lately, he learns that my Book is in the hands of sixty different persons at the Hague, who are all enchanted with it ; not forgetting the said Dr. Maclean himself, who tells him that he reads it every day, and is always the better for it. Oh rare we ! I have been employed this morning in composing a Latin motto for the King's clock. The embellishments of which are by Mr. Bacon. That gentleman breakfasted with us on Wednesday, hav- ing come thirty-seven miles out of his way on purpose to see your Cousin. At his request I have done it, and have made two ; he will chuse that which liketh him best. Mr. Bacon is a most excel- lent man, and a most agreeable companion : I would that he lived not so remote, or that he had more opportuunity of travelling. There is not, so far as I know, a syllable of the rhyming cor- respondence between me and my poor Brother left, save and ex- cept the six lines of it quoted in yours. I had the whole of it, but it perished in the wreck of a thousand other things when I left the Temple. Breakfast calls. Adieu. W. C* LETTER LIFE OF COWPER. 313 LETTER CIV. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, August 18, 1788. MY DEAR FRIEND, I left you with a sensible regret, al- leviated only by the consideration, that I shall see you again in 06lobcr. I ^vas under some concern also, least, not being able to give you any certain dire6lions myself, nor knowing where you might find a guide, you should wander and fatigue yourself, good walker as you are, before you should reach Northampton. Per- haps you heard me whistle just after our separation ; it was to call back Beau, who was running after you with all speed to intreat you to return with me. For my part, I took my own time to re- turn, and did not reach home till after one ; and then so weary that I was glad of my great chair ; to the comforts of which I added a crust, and a glass of rum and \\'atcr, not without great occasion. Such a foot-traveller am L I am writing on Monday, but whether I shall finish my Let- ter this morning depends on Mrs. Unwin's coming sooner or later down to breakfast. Something tells me that you set off to-day for Birmingham -, and though it be a sort of Iricism to say here, I be- seech you take care of yourself, for the day threatens great heat, I cannot help it ; the weather may be cold enough at the time when that good advice shall reach you, but be it hot or be it cold, to a VOL. I. S s man 3H LIFE OF COWPER. man who travels as you travel, take care of yourself, can never be an unreasonable caution. I am sometimes distressed on this ac- count, for though you are young, and well made for such exploits, those very circumstances are more likely than any thing to betray you into danger. Consule quid valeant plantae, quidferre recusent. The Newtons left us on Friday. We frequently talked about you after your departure, and every thing that was spoken was to your advantage. I know they will be glad to see you in London, and perhaps when your summer and autumn rambles are over, you will afford them that pleasure. The Throckmortons are equally well disposed to you ; and them also I recommend to you as a valu- able connexion ; the rather, because you can only cultivate it at Weston. I have not been idle since you went, having not only labour- ed as usual at the Iliad, but composed a spick and span new piece, called, " The Dog and the Water-lilly ;" which you shall see when we meet again. I believe I related to you the incident which is the subjeft of it. I have also read most of Lavater's Aphorisms ; they appear to me some of them wise, many of them whimsical, a few of them false, and not a few of them extravagant. Nil illi me- dium — If he finds in a man the feature or quality that he approves, he Deifies him ; if the contrary, he is a Devil. His verdifl is in neither case, I suppose, a just one. LETTER LIFE OF COWPER. 315 LETTER CV. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, Sept. 11, 1788. MY DEAR FRIEND, Since your departure I ha^'e twice visited the Oak, and with an intention to push my inquiries a mile beyond it, where it seems I should have found another Oak, much larger and much more respeftable than the former ; but once I was hindered by the rain, and once by the sultriness of the day. This latter Oak has been kno^\'n by the name of Judith many ages ; and is said to have been an Oak at the time of the Conquest. If I have not an opportunity to reach it before your arrival here, wc will attempt that exploit together ; and even if I should have been able to \isit it ere you come, I shall yet be glad to do so ; for the pleasure of extraordinary sights, like all other pleasures, is doubled by the participation of a friend. You wish for a copy of my little Dog's eulogium, which I will therefore transcribe ; but by so doing, I shall leave myself but scanty room for prose. I shall be sorry if our neighbours at the Hall should have kft it, when we Ikuc the pleasure of seeing you. I want you to see them soon again, that a little consuctudo may ^vear off restraii> ; and you may be able to improve the advantage you have alreedy gain- S s 2 ed ^il6 LIFE OF COWPER. cd in that quarter. I pitied you for the fears which deprived you of your Uncle's company, and the more having suffered so much by those fears myself Fight against that vicious fear, for such it is, as strenuously as you can. It is the worst enemy that can attack a man destined to the Forum — it ruined me. To associate as much as possible with the most respeftable company, for good sense and good breeding, is, I believe, the only, at least I am sure it is the best remedy. The society of men of pleasure will not cure it, but rather leaves us more exposed to its influence in company of better persons. Now for the Dog and the Water-lflly.* w. a 1. ON A SPANIEL CALLED BEAU, KILLING A YOUNG BIRD. A Spaniel, Beau, that fares like you. Well-fed, and at Ms ease, Should wiser be, than to pursue Each trijle that he sees. Bui *NOTE BY THE EDITOR. As ht Poem inserted in this Letter has been printed repeatedly, I shall here introduie in its stead two sprightly little Poems, on the same favourite Spa- niel, writ^n indeed at a later period, bufhitherto, I believe, unpublished. LIFE OF COWPER. 517 But you have kill'd a tiny Bird, Which Jlew not till to-day, Against my orders, whom you heard Forbidding you the prey. Nor did you kill, that you might eat. And ease a doggish pain. For him, though chas'd xdth furious heat. You left, where he was slain. Nor was he of the thievish sort. Or one, whom blood allures. But innocent was all his sport. Whom you have torn for yours. My Dog! what remedy remains. Since teach you all I can, I see you, after all my pains. So much resemble Man? 2. beau's reply. Sirf xohen I flew to seize the Bird, In spite of your command, A louder voice than yours I heard, And harder to zoithstand: You 5i8 LIFE OF COWPER. You cried—" Forbear /" but in my breast A mightier cried — '^ Proceed !" 'Txvas Nature, Sir, xvhose strong behest ImpelL'd me to the deed. Yet much as Nature I respeEl, 1 ventur'd once to break (As you perhaps may recolleEl) Her precept, for your sake : And tvhen your Linnet on a day, Passing his prison door, Hadjlutterd all his strength away. And panting press' d thejloor. Well knowing him a sacred thing, Not destined to my tooth, I only kiss'd his ruffled xoing, And lick'd his feathers smooth. Let my obedience then excuse My disobedience now f Nor some reproof yourself refuse From your aggriev'd Bow-wow! If killing Birds be such a crime, (Which I can hardly see) What think you, Sir, of killing Time With verse addresd to me ? LETTER LIFE OF COWPER. 2^9 LETTER CVI. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, Sept. 25, 1788. MY DEAR FRIEND, Say lohat is the tiling by my Riddle designed Which you carried to London, and yet left behind. I expeft your answer, and without a fee. — The half hour next be- fore breakfast I devote to you ; the moment Mrs. Unwin arrives in the study, be what I have written much or little, I shall make my bow, and take leave. If you live to be a Judge, as if I augur right you Avill, I shall expect to hear of a walking Circuit. I was shocked at what you tell me of — Superior talents, it seems, give no security for propriety of conduct ; on the contrary, having a natural tendency to nourish pride, they often betray the possessor into such mistakes, as men more moderately gifted never commit. Ability, therefore, is not wisdom ; and an ounce of grace is a better guard against gross absurdity, than the brightest talents in the \\'orld. I rejoice that you are prepared foi- transcript \vork ; here will be plenty for you. The day on ^v•hich you shall recci\'e this, I beg you will remember to drink one glass at least to the success of the Iliad, \vhich 1 finished the day before )esterday, and yester- day •;^20 LIFE OF COWPER; day began the Odyssey. It will be some time before I shall per- ceive myself travelling in another road ; the objecls around me are at present so much the same ; Olympus and a council of Gods meet me at my first entrance. To tell you the truth, I am weary of Heroes and Deities, and, with reverence be it spoken, shall be glad for the variety sake, to exchange their company for that of a Cyclops. Weston has not been without its tragedies since you left us : Mrs. Throckmorton's piping Bullfinch has been eaten by a Rat, and the villain left nothing but poor Bully's beak behind him. It will be a wonder if this event does not at some convenient time employ my versifying passion. Did ever fair lady, from the Lesbia of Catullus, to the present day, lose her bird, and find no Poet to commemorate the loss? W.C. LETTER CVII. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, Nov. 30, 1788. MY DEAR FRIEND, Your Letter, accompanying the books with which you have favoured me, and for which I return you a thousand thanks, did not arrive till yesterday. I shall have great pleasure in taking now and then a peep at my old friend Vincent Bourne, the neatest of all men in his versification, though when I was LIFE OF COWPER. 321 was under his ushership, at Westminster, the most slovenly in his person. He was so inattentive to his boys, and so indifferent whe- ther they brought him good or bad exercises, or none at all, that he seemed determined, as he was the best, so to be the last Latin Poet of the Westminster line ; a plot which I believe he executed very suc- cessfully, for I have not heard of any who has at all deserved to be compared with him. We have had hardly any rain or sno^v since you left us ; the roads are accordingly as dry as in the middle of summer, and the opportunity of walking much more favourable, W^e have no sea- son, in my mind, so pleasant as such a winter ; and I account it par- ticularly fortunate, that such it proves, my Cousin being with us. She is in good health, ixnd cheerful, so are we all ; and this I say, knowing you will be glad to hear it, for you have seen the time when this could not be said of all your friends at Weston. We shall rejoice to see you here at Christmas ; but I rccolle6l when I hinted such an excursion by word of mouth, you gave me no great encouragement to expeft you. Minds alter, and yours may be of the number of those that do so ; and if it should, you will be entirely welcome to us all. Were there no other reason for your coming than merely the pleasure it will afford to us, that reason alone would be suffcicnt ; but after so many toils, and with so many more in pro- sped, it seems essential to your well-being that you should allow yourself a respite, which perhaps you can take as comfortably, I rim sure as quietly, here as any where. VOL. I. T T The 322 LIFE OF COWPER. 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 mc to put an end to my Letter. Adieu. W. C. LETTER CVIII. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, Jan. 19, 1789. MY DEAR SIR, I have taken since you went away many of the walks which ^ve 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 recollecl by the help of a tree, or a stile, what you said on that particular spot. For this reason I purpose when the summer is come, to ^valk ■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, that pond and that hedge will always bring to my remembrance ; and this is a sort of Memoria technica, which I 'would recommend to you, if I did not know that you have no occasion for it. I am reading Sir John HaAvkins, and still hold the same opi- nion of his book as when you Avere here. There are in it undoubt- edly some awkwardnessess of phrase, and, which is worse, here and there some unequivocal indications of a vanity not easily pardon- able LIFE OF COWPER. 323 able in a man of his years ; but on the whole I find it amusing, and to me at least, to whom e\'ery thing that has passed in the literary world within these five and twenty years, is new, sufficiently re- plete 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, perhaps, the world will feel itself oblisfcd to him. w. c. LETTER CIX. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, Jan. 24, 1789. MY DEAR SIR, We have heard from my Cousin in Norfolk-street, she reached home safely, and in good time. An 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 rea- son to expefl them; if a friend of ours travels far in indifferent roads, and at an unfaA'ourable season, we arc reasonably alarmed for the safety of one in whom we take so much interest ; yet how seldom do wc hear a tragical accoimt of such a journey ! It is on the Contrary, at home, in our yard or garden, perhaps in our parlour, T T 2 that 3^4 LIFE OF COWPER that disaster find us ; in any place, in short, where we seem per- feclly 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 perj^ietual 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 tmie 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, Esqr. The Lodge, May 20, 1789, MY DEAR SIR, Finding myself between Twelve and One, at the end of the Seventeenth Book of the Odyssey, I give the interval between the present moment and the time of %valking, to you. If I write Letters before I sit down to Homer, I feel my spirits too flat for Poetry, and too flat for Letter-writing if I address myself to Homer first ; but the last I chuse as the least evil, because my friends will pardon my dullness, but the public %vill not. I bad been some days uneasy on your account when yours arrived. We should have rejoiced to have seen you, would your engagements have permitted : but in the autumn I hope, if not be- fore LIFE OF COWPER. 325 fore, we shall have the pleasure to recei\'e you. At \\'hat time we may expccl Lady Hesketh at present I know not ; but imagine that at any time after the month of June you will be sure to find her with us, which I mention, knowing that to meet you \vill add a relish to all the pleasures she can find at Weston. When I \vroie those Lines on the Oucen's visit, I thouffht I had performed well; but it belongs to me, as I have told you before, to dislike whatever I write when it has been written a month. The performance was, 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- cause it has been favoured with yours ; and a copy will certainly be at your service whenever you chuse to have one. Nothing is more certain than that when I wrote the line, God made the country, and man made the toxon, I had not the least recolleclion of that very similar one, which you quote from Hawkins Brown. It convinces me that critics (and none more than Warton, in his Notes on Milton's minor Poems) have often charged authors Avith 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 326 LIFE OF COWPER. 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 Night of the 17th March, 1789. When long sequester' d from his Throne George took his seat again. By right of worth, not blood alone, Entitled here to reign ! Then Loyalty, with all her lamps New trimm'd, a gallant-show ! Chasing the darkness, and the damps. Set London in a glow. 'Twas hard to tell, of streets, or squares, Which formed the chief display. These most resembling cluster' d stars, Those the long milky way. Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires. And rockets few, self driven. To hang their momentary f res Amid the vault of heaven. So, LIFE OF COWPER. 327 So, fire with water to compare, The ocean serves on high, Up-spouted by a Whale in air. To express unwieldy joy. Had all the pageants of i-he world la one procession join d, And all the banners been unfurVd That heralds cer designed. For no such sight had England's Qiieen Forsaken her retreat. Where George recover' d made a scene Sweet always, doubly szoeet. Yet glad she came that night to prove A zvitness undescried. How much the objeEl of her love Was lov'd by all beside. Darkness the skies had mantled o'er In aid of her design — Darkness ! Queen! ne'er call' d before To veil a deed of thine ! On borrow'd wheels azoay shefies, Rcsolvd to be unknown. And gratify no curious eyes That night, except her own. Arriv'd, 328 LIFE OF COWPER. Arrivd, a night like noon she sees, And hears the million hum ; As all by instinct, like the bees, Had knozon their Sov'reign come. Pleas' d she beheld aloft pourtrafd On many a splendid wall. Emblems of health, and heav'nly aid, And George the theme of alL Unlike the cenigmatic line, So difficult to spell ! Which shook Belshazzar, at his wine, The night his city fell. Soon, watery grew her eyes, and dim, But with a joyful tear ! None else, except in prafr for him, George ever drew from her. It was a scene in every part Like that in fable feign' d. And seem'd by some magicians art Created, and sustain d. But other magic there she knew Had been exerted, none. To raise such wonders in her View, Save love of George alone ! That LIFE OF COWPER. 329 That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd, And through the cumb'rous throng, Not else unworthy to befear'd, Convey'd her calm along. So, ancient Poets say, serene The Sea-maid rides the waves, And fearless of the billowy scene. Her peaceful bosom laves. With more than astronomic eyes She view'd the sparkling show ; One Georgian Star adorns the skies, She myriads found below. Yet let the glories of a night Like that, once seen, suffice ! Heav'n grant us no such future sight. Such precious woe the price ! LETTER CXI. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, June 5, 1789. MV DEAR FRIEND, I am going to gi\c you a deal of trou- ble, but London folks must be content to be troubled by country folks ; for in London only, can our strange necessities be supplied. VOL. I. U u You 330 LIFE OF COWPER. 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 annually 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 indiscriminately all that passed. But now and then the Do6lor speaks hke an oracle, and that makes amends for all. Sir John was a coxcomb, and Boswell is not less a coxcomb, though of a ano- ther 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 would love my friend, when you should once be well acquainted Avith him ; and equally sure that he would take kindly to you. No^v for Homer. W. C. LETTER LIFE OF COWrER. 331 LETTER CXir. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, June 20, 1789. AMICO MIO, I am truly sorry that it must be so long be- fore we can have an opportunity to meet. My Cousin in her last Letter but one, inspired me with other expeclations, 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 subjeft, and found it feasible. A month was formerly a trifle in my account, but at my present age I give it all its importance, and grudge, that so many months should yet pass in which I have not even a glimpse of those I love ; and of whom, the course of nature considered, I must ere long, take leave for ever — But I shall live till August. Many thanks for the Cuckow, which arrived perfe£lly 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 charafter as if I had known him personally; and cannot but regret, that our Bards of other U u 2 times 332 LIFE OF COWPER. 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, how desirable ! W. C. LETTER CXIII. To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. July 18, 1789. Many thanks, my dear Madam, for your extraft from George's Letter ! I retain but little Italian ; yet that little was so forcibly mustered by the consciousness that. I was myself the subjeft, that I presently becaine master of it. I have always said that George is a Poet, and I am never in his com- pany 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 an enter- prize, 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 liaving neglected to LIFE OF COVvTER. 333 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 che 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 don't think any place pleasant, that you may find in your rambles, that we may see you the sooner. Your aviary is all in good health. I pass it every day, and often inquire at the lattice ; tlie inhabitants of it send their duty, and wish for your return. I took notice of the inscription on your seaU and had we an artist here capable of furnishing me with ano- tlier, you should read on mine '•' Encore une lettre." Adieu. W. C. LETTER CXIV. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, July 23, 1789.- You do well, my dear Sir, to improve your opportunity ; to speak in the rural phrase, this is yours owing time, and the sheaves you look for can never be yours unless you make that use of it. The colour of our whole life is generally such' as the three or four first yeais, in \\'hich ive arc our own masters, .make it. Then it is that we may be said to shape our own destiny, and to treasure up for ourselves a series of future successes or dis- appointments. Had I employed my time as ^viscly as you, in a situa- tion 334 LIF£ OF COWPER, tion very similar to yours, I had never been a Poet perhaps, but I might by this time have acquired a character of more importance in society ; and a situation in which my friends ^vould have been better pleased to see me. But three years mis-spent in an Attor- ney's office, were almost of course followed by several more equally mis-spent in the Temple ; and the consequence has been, as the Italian Epitaph says, " Sto qui." — The only use I can make of my- self now, at least the best, is to serve in terrorem to others, when occasion may happen to offer, that they may escape (so far as my admonitions can have any weight with them) my folly and my fate. When you feel yourself tempted to relax a little of the stri6lness of your present discipline, and to indulge in amusement incompatible with your future interests, think on your friend at Weston. Having said this, I shall next, with my whole heart invite you hither, and assure you that I look forward to approaching August with great pleasure ; because it promises me your company. After a little time (which we shall wish longer) spent with us, you will return invigorated to your studies, and pursue them with the more ad- vantage. In the mean time you have lost little, in point of season 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 LIFE OF COWPER. 335 our subject. This is the third meeting that my Cousin and we have had in this country ; and a great instance of good fortune I account it m such a world as this, to have expefted such a pleasure thrice ^vlthout being once disappointed. Add to this wonder as soon as you can, by making yourself of the party. W. C. LETTER CXV. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, August 8, 1789. MY DEAR FRIEND, Come when you will, or when you can, you cannot come at a wrong time, but we shall expe6l you on the day mentioned. If you have any book that 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 fashion, I understand, to condemn them. But we, who make books our- selves, are more merciful to book-makers. I would that every fastidious judge of authors, were, himself, obliged to write ; there goes more to the composition of a volume than many critics ima- gine. 33^ LIFE OF COWPER. gine. I have often wondered that the same Poet who wrote the Dunciad should have, written these lines. The mercy I to others show. That mercy show to me. Alas ! for Pope, if the mercy he showed to others, was the measure of the mercy he received! he was the less pardonable too, because experienced in all the difficulties of composition. I scratch this between dinner and tea; a time Avhen I cannot write much without disordering my noddle, and bringing a flush into my face. You will excuse me, therefore, if through respeft for the two important considerations of health and beauty, I conclude myself. Ever yours, W. C. , LETTER CXVI. V • To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, Sept. 24, 1789. MY DEAR FRIEND, You left us exaclly at the wrong time. Had you stay'd till now, you would have had the pleasure of hearing even my Cousin say — " I am cold'' — And the still greater pleasure of LIFE OF COWPER. 337 of being warm yourself ; for I have had a fire in the study ever since you Avent. It is the fault of our summers that they are hardly ever warm or cold enough. Were they warmer we should not ^vant a fire, and were they colder we should have one. I have t\vice seen and con\'ersed ^vith Mr. J . He is witty, intelligent, and agreeable beyond the common measure of men who are so. But it is the constant effe61; of a spirit of party to make those hateful to each other, Avho are truly amiable in themselves. Beau sends his love ; he was melancholy the whole day after your departure. W. C. LETTER CXVII. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, Sept. ii, 1788. MY DEAR FRIEND, The hamper is come, and come safe ; and the contents I can affirm on my own knowledge, are excellent. It chanced that another hamper and a box came by the same convey- ance, all which I unpacked and expounded in the hall; my Cousin sitting mean time on the stairs, sj^eclatrcss of the business. We vol.. I. X X diverted 338 LIFE OF COWPER. diverted ourselves widi imagining the manner in ^vhich Homer would have described the scene. Detailed in his circumstantial way, it would have furnished materials for a paragraph of considera- ble length in an Odyssey. The straw-stuff' d hamper xvith his ruthless steel He open'd, cutting sheer tK inserted cords Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth came The rustling package Jirst, 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 well, all love you, down to the veiy 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 ; Vil- loisson's LIFE OF COWPER. 339 loisson's edition of the Iliad, elegantly bound by Edwards. If I live long enough, by the contributions of my friends, I shall once more be possessed of a library. W. C. LETTER CXVIIi; To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Dec, 18, 1789. MY DEAR FRIEND, The present appears to me a wonderful period in the history of mankind. That nations so long contentedly slaves should on a sudden become enamoured of liberty, and understand, as suddenly, their own natural right to it, feeling them- selves at the same time inspired with resolution to assert it, seems difficult to account for from natural causes. With respeft 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. XX2 LETTER 340 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTKRCXIX. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, Jan. 3, 1 -jgo. MY 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 been obliged to give my early mornings to the re- visal and correftion of a little volume of Hymns for Children, writ- ten by I know not Avhom. This task I finished but yesterday, and while it was in hand, wrote only to my Cousin, and to her rarely. From her, however^ I kncAv that you Avould hear of my well-being, 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 liave enjoyed tolerable health this Avinter. In your next Letter give us some account of your OAvn state of health, for I have had my anxieties 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 heart a perhaps 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 eniployed in my last revisal ; and to give you some idea of the in- tenseness LIFE OF COWPER. 341 tenseness of my toils, I will inform you that it cost me all the morn- ing yesterday, and all the evening, to translate a single simile to my mind. The transitions from one member of the subjed to another, tliougheasy and natural in the Greek, turn out often so intolerably a^s'kward in an English version, that almost endless labour and no little address are requisite to give them grace and elegance. I for- get if I told you that your German Clavis has been of considerable use to me. I am indebted to it for a right understanding 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 de- puted by Agamemnon to negociate a reconciliation. A passage of which nobody in the world is perfectly master, myselFonly and Schaufelbergerus excepted, nor e\er was, except 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 her modesty feels more for me than mine for myself, and she would blush to let even you know the degree of my self-conceit on that subjeft. I will tell you, however, expressing myself as decently as vanity will permit, that it has undergone such a change for the bet- ter in this last revisal, that I have much warmer hopes of success than formerly. W. C. LETTER 342 LIFE OF COWPER 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 affedion. It was just such a Letter as I Hke, 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 his Lordship's request, that I would revise it. It is in the form of a Pastoral, and is intituled the " Tale of the Lute, or, the beauties of Audley End." I read it attentively ; was much 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 some- what more thoughtful and silent, but occasionally as pleasant as usual ; and in Kilwick-wood, where we walked the next day, the truth came out ; that he was himself the author, and that Lord Howard not approving it altogether, and several friends of his own a^e, to whom he had shewn it, differing from his Lordship in opi- nion, and being highly pleased with it, he had come at last to a resolution to abide by my judgment ; a measure to which Lord Howard LIFE OF COWPER. 343 Howaid by all means advised him. He accordingly brought it, and •will bring it again in the summer, ^vhen we shall lay our heads to- gether and try to mend it. I have lately had a Letter also from Mrs. King, to whom in- deed I hud written to inquire whether she were living or dead, she tells me the critics expeft from my Homer every thing in some parts, and that in others I shall fall short. These are the Cambridge critics ; and she has her intelligence from the botanical professor, Martyn. That gentleman in reply, answers them, that I shall fall short in nothing, but shall disappoint them all. It shall be my endeavour to do so, and I am not without hope of succeeding. W. C. LETTER CXXI. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, Feb. 2, 1790. MY DEAR FRIEND, Should Heyne's Homer appear be- fore 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 contradift both him and the Doclor. 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 persuaded, convinced, and sure (can I be more positive ?) that ex- cept 344 LIFE OF COWPER, cept from the moment when the Ithacans begin to meditate an at- tack on the cottare of Laertes, and dicnce 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 himself alone excepted, the Greek Poet never existed who could have written the speeches made by the shade of Agamemnon ; in which there is more insight into the human heart discovered, than I ever sa^v in any other work, unless in Shak- speare's. I am equally disposed to fight for the whole passage that describes Laertes, and the interview between him and Ulysses. Let Bentley grant these to Homer, and I will shake hands with him as to all the rest. The battle with which the book concludes is, I think, a paltry battle, and there is a huddle in the management of it altogether unworthy of my favourite, and the favourite of all ages. If you should happen to fall into company with Dr. Warton again, you will not, I dare say, forget to make him my respectful compliments, and to assure him that I felt myself not a little flattered by the favourable mention he was pleased to make of me, and my labours. The Poet who pleases a man like him, has nothing left to wish for. I am glad that you ^vere pleased with my young cousin Johnson ; he is a boy, and bashful, but has great merit in respect both of character and intellect. So far at least as in a week's know- ledge LIFE OF COWPER. ' 345 ledge of him I could possibly learn, he is very amiable, and very sensible, and inspired mc with a \\'arm wish to know him better. W. C. LETTER CXXII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, Feb. g, 1790. I have sent you lately scraps instead of Letters, having had occasion to answer immediately on the re- ceipt, ^\^hich ahvays happens while I am deejj in Homer. I knew when I recommended Johnson to you, that you would fmd some way to serve him, and so it has happened, for notwith- standing your own apprehensions to the contrary, you have already procured him a chaplainship. This is pretty well, considering that it is an early day, and that you have but just begun to know that there is such a man under heaven. I had rather myself be patro- nized by a }:)erson of small interest, with a heart like yours, than by the Chancellor himself, if he did not care a farthing for me. If I did not desire you to make my acknowledgments to Anonymous, as I believe I did not, it \vas because I am not aware that I am warranted to do so. But the omission is of less conse- quence, because whoever he is, though he has no objection to doing the kindest things, he seems to have an aversion to the thanks they merit. VOL. I. Y Y You ;546 LIFE OF COWPER. You must know that two Odes composed by Horace, have lately been discovered at Rome ; I wanted them transcribed into the blank leaves of a little Horace of mine, and Mrs. Throckmorton, performed that service for me ; in a blank leaf, therefore, of the same book, I wrote the following. w. c. To Mrs. THROCKMORTON, On her beautiful Transcript of Horace's Ode, Ad librum suum. Maria, could Horace have guess' d What honours awaited his Ode, To his own little volume address' d, The honour which you have bestow'd ; Who have traced it in charaBers 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 welt. LETTER LIFE OF COWPER. 347 LETTER CXXItl. To Lady HESKETIL Feb. 26, 1790. You have set my heart at ease, my Cousin, so far as you were yourself the objcft of its anxieties. What other troubles it feels can be cured by God alone. But you are never silent a week longer than usual, \v'ithout gi^'ing 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 less to do with it: were you under the same roof with me, I should kno\\r you to be safe, and should never distress you with melancholy Letters. I feel myself v/ell enough inclined to the measure you propose, and will shew 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 charafler than the Iliad, and as I purpose to carry her by a Coup de main, I shall employ Achilles, Agamemnon, and the two armies of Greece and Troy in my ser- vice. I will, accordingly, send you in the box that I received from you last night, the ttvo first Books of the Iliad, for that lady's perusal : to those I have given a third revival ; for them, therefore, Y Y 2 I will 34S LIFE OF COWPER. I will be answerable, and am not afraid to stake the credit of my ■work upon than with her, or with any living wight, especially one \vho understands the original. I do not mean that even they are finished; for I shall examine, and cross-examine them yet again, and so you may tell her; but I know that they will not disgrace me; whereas it is so long since I have looked at the Odyssey, that I know nothing at all about it. They shall set sail from Olney on Monday morning in the Diligence, and will reach you, I hope, in the even- ing. As soon as she has done with them, I shall be glad to have them again ; for the time draws near when I shall want to give them the last touch. I am delighted with Mrs. Bodham's kindness in giving me the only piflure of my own Mother that is to be found I suppose in all the world. I had rather possess it than the richest jcAvcl 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 charafter so impressed on all her features, every body Avas sure to do so. I have a very affeclionate, and a very clever Letter from Johnson, who promises me the transcript of the books entrusted to him in a few days. I have a great love for that young man, he has some LIFE OF COWPER. 349 some drops of the same stream in his \eins that once animated the original of that dear picture. W. C. LETTER CXXIV. To Mrs. BODHAM. Weston, Feb. 27, 1790. MY DEAREST ROSE, Whom I thought withered, and fallen from the stalk, but whom I find still alive : nothing could give me greater pleasure than to know it, and to learn it from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were a child, and love you not a jot the less for having ceased to be so. Every creature that bears any affinity to my own Mother is dear to me, and you die Daughter of her Brother, are but one remove distant from her : I love you, therefore, and lo\'e you much, both for her sake, and for your Own. The \vorld could not have furnished you with a present So acceptable to me, as the picture which you have so kindly sent me. I received it the night before last, and viewed it \vith a trepi- dation of nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I should have felt, had the dear original presented herself to my embraces. I kissed it, and hung it, where it is the last object, that I see at night, and of course, the fust on which I open my eyes in tlic morning. Slie died when I liad completed my sixth year, yet I remember her 350 LIFE OF COWPER. ]ior 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 the Donne than of the Cowper, and though I love all of both names, and have a thousand reasons to love those of my own name, yet I feel the bond of nature draw me vehemently to your side I was thought in the days of my childhood much to resemble my Mother, and in my natural temper, of which, at the age of fifty-eight, I must be supposed a competent judge, can trace both her, and my late Uncle, your Father. Somewhat of his irritability, and a Httle, I would hope, both of his, and of her, , I know not what to call it, without seeming to praise myself, which is not my intention, but speaking to you, I will even speak out, and say good-nature. Add to all this, I deal much in Poetry, as did our venerable ancestor,, the Dean of St. Paul's, and I think I shall have proved myself a. Donne at all points. The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you all. I account it a happy event, that brought the dear boy, your Nephew, to my knowledge, and that breaking through all the re- straints which his natural bashfulness imposed on him, he deter- mined to find me out. He is amiable to a degree, that I have seldom seen, and I often long with impatience to see him again. My LIFE OF COWPER. ' 351 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 bring you, and you arc 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, Balls, or Johnson, or by whatever name distinguished. Mrs. Hewitt has particular claims upon me ; she was my play-fellow at Berkham- gtead, and has a share in my warmest affections. Pray tell her so ! Neither do I at all forget my Cousin Harriet, She and I have been many a time merry at Catfield, and have made the Parsonage ring with laughter. Give my love to her. Assure yourself, my dearest Cousin, that I shall receive you as if you were my Sister, and Mrs. Unwin is, for my sake, prepared to do the same. When she has seen you, she will love you for your own. I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham, for his kindness to my Homer, and with my love to you all, and with Mrs. Unwin's kind res}:)e^s, am. My dear, dear Rose, Ever yours, W. C. P. S. I mourn 352 LIFE OF COWPER. P. S. I mourn the death of your poor Brother Castres, whom I should have seen had he ]i\'ed, and should have seen with the greatest pleasure. He Avas an amiable boy, and I was very fond of him. Stili 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 NephcAv 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, Esqr. Weston, Feb. 28, 1790. MY DEAR COUSIN JOHN, I have much wished to hear from you, and though you are ^velcome to write to Mrs. Unwin as often as you please, I wish myself to be numbered among your correspondents. I shall find time to answer you, doubt it not! be as busy as we may. LIFE OF CO\\TER. 353 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 Avitness 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 charafter, ^vhen a child, she would have done it effcclually 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, the truth of the resemblance. Amiable and elegant as the coun- tenance is, such exaftly Avas her own ; she Avas one of the tenderest parents, and so just a copy of her is, therefore, to me invaluable. I wrote yesterday to my Rose, to tell her all this, and to thank her for her kindness in sending it ! neither do I forget your kind- ness who intimated to her that I should be happy to possess it. She invites me into Norfolk, but alas ! she might as well in- vite the house in Avhich I dwell ; for ail other considerations and impediments apart, how is it possible that a translator of Homer should lumber to such a distance ? But though I cannot comply VOL. I. Z z with * Mrs. Ann Bodham. 354 LIFE OF COVvPER. with her kind invitation, I ha\e made myself the best amends in my po\vcr, by inviting lier, and all the family of Donne's, 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 live, three of them being females, and one a married one. You are a mathe- matician; tell me then how five persons can be lodged in three beds ? (two males and three females), and I shall have good hope that you will proceed a senior optime. It would make me happy to see our house so furnished. As to yourself, whom I know to be a sub- scalarian, or, a man that sleeps under the stairs, I should have no objeftion at all, neither could you, possibly, have any yourself, to the garret, as a place in which you might be disposed of with great felicity of accommodation. I thank you much for your services in the transcribing way, and would by no means have you despair of an opportunity to serve 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, put 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 than half LIFE OF COWPER. 355 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 Avill never live to be another Sir Isaac. Mrs. Un^vin's affcclionatc remembrances attend you : Lady Hcsketh is much disposed to love you ; perhaps most who know you have some little tendency the same way. \V. C. LETTER CXXVI. To Lady HESKETH, The Lodge, March 8, 1790. MY DEAREST COUSIN, I thank thee much, and oft, for nego- ciating so ^vell this poetical concern with Mrs. , and for sending me her opinion in her own hand. I should be unreasona- ble indeed, not to be highly gratified by it ; and I like it the bet- ter 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 cxpeftations answered. 1 am glad also that thou didst send her the Z z 2 sixteenth 356 LIFE OF COWPER. sixteenth Odyssey, though, as I said before, I know not at all at present, whereof it is made ; but I am sure that thou wouldst not have sent it, hadst thou not conceived a good opinion of it thyself, and thought that it \vouId do me credit. It was very kind in thee to sacrifice to. this Minerva on my account. For my sentiments on the subjeft of the Test A6t, I cannot do better than refer thee to my Poem intituled and called " Expostula- tion." I have there expressed myself not much in its favour ; con- sidering it in a religious view ; and in a political one, I like it not a jot the better. I am neither Tory, nor High Churchman, but an old Whig, as my Father was before me ; and an enemy, consequently, to all tyrannical impositions. Mrs. Unwin bids me return thee many thanks for thy inqui- ries so kindly made concerning her health. She is a little better than of late, but has been ill continually ever since last November. Every thing that could try patience, and submission, she has had, and her submission and patience have answered in the trial, though mine, on her account, have often failed sadly. I have a Letter from Johnson, who tells me 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 hnn that you aie disposed to love him a little. Anew LIFE OF COWPER. 357 A new Poem is born on the receipt of my Mother's pifture. Thou shalt have it. W. C. LETTER CXXVII. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, March ii, 1790. I \vas glad to hear from you, for a line from you gives me always much pleasure, but \vas not much gladdened by the contents of your Letter, The state of your health, 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 collefled her information upon that subje6l more from your looks, than from your own acknowledge- ments. 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 secret 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 praftices any dissimulation at all; the consequence is, that when she is much indi<^posed.. I never believe myself 358 LIFE OF COWPER, myself in possession of the whole truth, live in constant expe6la- 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 Avhole to appear what we are, not to lay the fears of our friends asleep by cheerful looks ^vhich do not properly belong to us, or by Letters written as if we were well, when in fa6l we are very much otherwise. On condition however, that you aft differently toward me for the future, I will pardon the past, and she may gather from my clemency shewn to you, some hopes, on the same conditions, of similar clemency to herself. w. c. LETTER CXXVIII. To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. The Lodge, March 21,1 790. MY DEAREST MADAM, I shall only observe on the subjeft of your absence, that you have stretched it since you went, and have made it a week longer. Weston is sadly unked 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 pleasure, nor to meet with LIFE OF COWPER. 359 with any avocations of business, while Weston shall continue to be your home, it will not often want you. The two first books of my Iliad have been submitted to the inspection and scrutiny of a great Critic of your sex, at the instance of my Cousin, as you may suppose. The lady is mistress of more tongues than a few ; (it is to be hoped she is single) and particu- larly she is mistress of the Greek. She returned them with ex- pressions, that if any thing could make a Poet prouder than all Poets naturallv are, would have made me so. I tell you this, because I kno\v that you all interest yourselves in the success of the said Iliad. My peri^vig is arrived, and is the very perfeftion of all peri- Avigs, having only one fault; which is, that my head will only go into the first half of it, the other half, or the upper part of it, continuing still unoccupied. My artist in this way at Olney has however undertaken to make the whole of it tcnantable; and then I shall be twenty years younger dian you have ever seen me. I heard of your birdi-day very early in the morning; the news came from the steeple. W. C. LETTER 3^0 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER CXXIX. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, March 22, 1790. I rejoice, my dearest Cousin, that my Mss. have roamed the earth so successfully, and have met with no disaster. The single book excepted, that went to the bottom of the Thames, and rose again, they have been 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 loss of a fine fish, which he had no sooner laid on the bank, than it flounced into the water again. This, he tells us himself, he always considered as a type of his future dis- appointments ; and why may I not as well consider the marvellous recovery of my lost book from the bottom of the Thames, as typi- cal of its future prosperity ? To say the truth, I have no fears now about the success of my Translation, though in time past I have had many. I knew there was a style 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 the fifteenth century. In the course of many revisals I have delivered myself from LIFE OF COWPER. ^61 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 predile6i.ion in fax-our of this style, at lirst, that I was crazed toiind that others \vere not as much enamoured \vith it as myself. At every passage of diat sort which I obliterated, I groaned bitterly, and said to myself, I am spoiling my work to please those who have no taste for the simple graces of antiquity. But in mea- sure, as I adopted a more modern phraseology, I became a convert to their opinion ; and in the last revisal, which I am no\v making, am not sensible of having spared a single expression of the obsolete kind. I see my Work so much improved by this alteration, that I am filled with xvondcr at my own backxvardness to assent to the necessity of it ; and the more when I consider that Milton, ^vith whose manner I account myself intimately acquainted, is never quaint, never twangs through the nose, but is every where grand and elegant, \vithout resorting to musty antiquity for his beauties. On the contrary, he took a long stride forward, left the language of his own day far behind him, and anticipated the expressions of a century yet to come. I have now, as I said, no longer any doubt of the event, but I will give thee a shilling if thou wilt tell me xvhat I shall say in my 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. VOL. 1. A A A Send 362 LIFE OF COWPER Send my mss. and thine when thou wilt. In a day or two I shall enter on the last Iliajd, when I have finished it I shall give the Odyssey one more reading, and shall, therefore, shortly have occa- sion 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 be- lieve, to occupy it, and am evermore thine most truly. W. C. Postcript in the hand of Mrs. Unwin. You cannot imagine how much your Ladyship would oblige your unworthy 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, that I will readily sacrifice my own opinion, unless I can give you a sub- stantial reason for adhering to it. LETTER CXXX. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr. • Weston, March 23, 1790. Your Mss. arrived safe in New Norfolk Street, and I am much obliged to you for your labours. Were you now at Weston I could furnish you Avith employment for some LIFE OF COWPER, 363 some ^veeks, and shall perhaps be equally able to do it in summer, lor I have lost my best Amanuensis in this place, Mr. George Throck- morton, Avho IS gone to Bath. You are a man to be envied, who have never read the Odyssey, which is one of the most amusing story-books in the world. There is also much of the finest poetry in ihe world to be found in it, notwithstanding all that Longinus has insinuated to the contrary. His comparison of the Iliad 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 effcfts 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 instead of written 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 affeflion 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 'A A A 2 beloved 3^4 LIFE OF COWPER. beloved makes no part of the consideration. There is nothing that I touch with so much tenderness as the vanity of a young man ; because, I know how extremely susceptible he is of impressions that might hurt him in that particular part of his composition. If you should ever prove a coxcomb, from which charafter 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 hves, 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 subjeft when you write to either of us, every thing is subjecl enough from those we love. W. C. LETTER CXXXI. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr. Weston, April 17, 1790. Your Letter, that now lies before me, is almost three weeks old, and therefore of full age to receive an answer, which it shall have without delay, if the interval between the LIFE OF COWPER. 365 the present moment and that of breakfast should prove sufficient for the purpose. Yours to Mrs. Unwin was received yesterday, for which she will thank you in due tnne. I have also seen, and have now in my desk, your Letter to Lady Hesketh ; she sent it thinking d:iat it would divert me ; in \vhich she was not mistaken, I shall tell her when I write to her next, that you long to receive a line from her. Give yourself no trouble on the subje6l of the politic device you sdw good to rccui" to, when you presented me with your Manuscript ; it ^vas an innocent deception, at least it could harm nobody save yourself; an effecl which it did not fail to produce : and since the punishment followed it so closely, by me at least, it may very ^vell be forgiven. You ask, how I can tell that you are not addifted to practices of the deceptive kind ? And certainly, if 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 Avho reaches my years, finds that " Long experience does attain " To something like prophetic strain." I am very much of Lavatcr'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 favoura- ble impression of you the moment I beheld it ; and though I shall not 366 LIFE OF COWPER; 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 ia\'our. In faft, 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 read Homer, and the other Greek Classics, with ease, but the Greek Testament and the Greek Fathers also. Thus qualified, and by the aid of your fiddle into the bargain, together with some por- tion 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 \vill make a very different figure from most of your fraternity. Ever yours. W. C. LETTER CXXXII. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, April 19, 1790. MY DEAREST COZ. I thank thee for my Cousin Johnson's Letter, which diverted me. I had one from him lately, in which he LIFE OF COWPER. 3^7 he expressed an ardent desire of a line from you, and the delight he would feel on receiving it. I know not whether you will have the charity to satisfy his longings, but mention the matter, think- ing 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. This may remind you, perhaps, of a certain Poet's prisoner in the Bastile (thank Heaven! in the Bastile now no more) counting the nails in the door, for variety sake, in all direftions- I find so little to do in the last revisal, that I shall soon reach the Odyssey, and soon want those books of it which are in thy posses- sion ; but the two first of the Iliad, which are also in thy possession, much sooner ; thou mayst, therefore, send them by the first fair opportunity. I am in high spirits on this subject, and think that I have at last licked the clumsy cub into a shape that will secure to it the 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 pr priety. I rejoice at the General's recovery ; may it prove a perfcft one. W. C. LETTER 368 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER C XXXI 1 1. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, April 30, 1790. To my old friend, Dr. Madan, diou couldst hot not have spoken better than thou didst. Tell him, I beseech you, that I have not forgotten him ; tell him also, that to my heart and home he will be always welcome ; nor he only, but all that are his. His judgment of my Translation gave me the highest satisfaftion, because I know him to be a rare old Grecian. The General's approbation of my Piflure Verses gave me also much pleasure. I wrote them not without tears ; therefore, I pre- sume it may be that they are felt by others. Should he offer me my Father's pifture, I shall gladly accept it. A melancholy pleasure 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 with more tenderness. The death of the unfortunate young man reminded me of those lines in Lycidas, " It -was that fatal and perjidious bark. Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd xoith curses dark. That sunk so low that sacred head of thine /" — How beautiful ! W. C. J.ETTER LIFE OF COWPER. 36^ LETTER CXXXIV. To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. The Lodge, May 10, 1790. My dear Mrs. Frog*, you have by diis time (I presume) heard from the Doctor ; whom I desired to pre- sent to you our best affeclions, and to tell you that we arc 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) expecling 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: 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 Avriting. 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 ; and when the Doftor gave him his direftion to Buck- land's, he asked, very naturally, if that place was in England. So, what has become of him. Heaven knows. VOL. I. B B B I do * The sportive title generally bestowed by Cowper on his amiable friends the Throckmortons. 370 LIFE OF COWPER. I do not know, that any adventures have presented them- selves since your departure, worth mentioning, except, that the Rabbit, that infested your Wildnerness, has been shot for devour- ing your Carnations ; and that I myself have been in some danger of being devoured in like manner by a great Dog, viz. Pearson's. But I wrote him a Letter on Friday (I mean a Letter to Pearson, not to his Dog, which I mention to prevent mistakes — for the said last antecedent might occasion them in this place also) informing him, that unless he tied up his great Mastiff in the day-time, I would send him a worse thing, cominonly called and known by the name of an Attorney. When I go forth to ramble in the fields, I do not sally, like Don Quixote, with a purpose of encountering monsters, if any such can be found ; but am a peaceable, poor Gentleman, and a Poet, who 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 ignoramusses sur- rounded. But if I know little else, this at least I know, that I love you, and Mr. Frog ; that I long for your return, and that I am, with Mrs. Unwin's best affedions, Ever yours, W. C. LETTER LIFE OF COWPER. 371 LETTER CXXXV. To Lady HESKETH. The Lodge, May 28, 1790. MY DEAREST COZ. I thank thee for the offer of thy best services on this occasion, but Heaven guard my brows from the wreath you mention, ^vhatever wreath beside may hereafter adorn them ! It would be a leaden extinguisher, clapped on all the fire of my genius, and I should never more produce a line worth reading. To speak seriously, it would make me miserable, and therefore I am sure that thou, of all my friends, ^vouldst least wish me to wear it. Adieu, ever thine — in Homer — huriy. W. C. LETTER CXXXVI. To Lady HESKETH. June 3, 1 790. You will wonder when I tell you, that I, even I, am considered by people, who live at a great dis- tance, as having interest and influence sufficient to procure a place at Court, for those who may happen to want one. I have accord- ingly been applied to within these few days by a Welchman, with B B B 2 a wife 372 LIFE OF COWPER, 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 year, thou canst not do better than procure the office for him. I will promise thee that he shall aiford thee a hearty laugh in return every birth- dciy, and every new-year. He is an honest man. Adieu, W. C. LETTER. CXXXVII. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr. Weston, June 7, 1790. MY DEAR JOHN, You know my engagements, and are consequently able to account for my silence ; I will not therefore waste time and paper in mentioning them, but will only say, that added to those with which you are acquainted, I have had other hinderances, such as business, and a disorder of my spirits, to which I have been all my life subjeft. At present I am, thank God! perfectly well, both in mind and body. Of you I am always mind- ful, whether I write or not, and very desirous to see you. You ^vi]\ 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 LIFE OF COWPER. 373 You never pleased mc more, than when you told rue 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 renown should thrive no \vhere 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 already, as you obscr\'e, acquired sufficient information in that science to enable you to pass creditably such examinations as I suppose you must hereafter imdergo. Keep what you have gotten, and be content. More is needless. You could not apply to a worse than I am to advise you con- cerning your studies. I \vas never a regular student myself; but lost the most v^aluable years of my life in an Attorney's office, and in the Temple. I ^\'ill not therefore give myself airs, and affefl to know \vhat I kno\r not. The affair is of great imjx)rtance to you, and you should be direfted in it by a wiser than I. To speak however, in \'ery general terms on the subjeft, it seems to me, that your chief concern is with History, Natural Philosophy, Logic, and Divinity. As to Metaphysics I know little about them, but the very little that I do know, has not taught me to admire them. Life is too short to afford time even for serious trifles ; pursue what you know to be attainable, make truth your objeft , and your studies will make you a wise man. Let your Divinity, if I may advise, be the 374 LIf'E OF COWPER. the Divinity of the glorious Reformation : I mean in contradistinc- tion to Arminianism, and all the isms that were ever broached in this world of error and iojnorance. The Div^inity of the Reformation is called Calvinism, but in- juriously ; it has been that of the Church of Christ in all ages ; it is 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 around you. W. C. LETTER CXXXVIII. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, June 8, 1 790. 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 you much for conne6ling yourself, young as you arc, with a well chosen companion for life. Entering on the state with uncontaminated morals, you have the best possible prosp€6l of happiness, and will be secure against a thousand and ten thousand LIFE OF COWPER. 375 thousand temptations to which, at an eaily period of life, in such a Babylon as you must necessarily inhabit, you would othsr^vise ha\'e been exposed. I see it too in the light you do, as likely to be advantageous to you in your profession. Men of business 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 him- self, for diligence, industry, and attention. It is altogether there- fore a subjeft of much congratulation, and mine (to which I addd Mrs Unwin's) is very sincere. Samson, at his marriage, proposed a riddle to the Philistines. I am no Samson, neither are you a Philis- tine, yet expound to me the following, if you can. What are they, which stand at a distance from each other, and vieet without ever moving? Should you be so fortunate as to guess it, you may propose it to the company, when you 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 ho}x,\ forget your way to Weston, in conse- quence of your marriage, \vhere you, and yours, \v'ill be always Ave 1 come. W. C. LETTER 37^ LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER CXXXIX. To Mrs. BODHAM. Weston, June 29, 1 jgo. MY DEAREST COUSIN, It is true that I did sometimes com- plain 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 myself at all inclined to be angry, nor even much to wonder. There is an awkwardness, and a difficulty in writing to those whom distance, and length of time, have made in a manner new to us, that naturally give us a check when we would otherwise be glad to address them. But a time, I hope, is near at hand, when you and I shall be effeftually 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 have lived many years with a pen in my hand, I am myself altogether 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 sub- ^e6l indeed presents itself, the pleasant prospeft that opens upon me of our coming once more together, but that once exhausted, with what shall I proceed ? Thus I questioned myself ; but find- ing neither end nor profit of such questions, I bravely resolved to dismiss LIFE OF COWPER. 377 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 Diydcn's, I know not which, who makes an enamoured youth say to his mistress. And Nonsense shall be Eloquence in Love. For certain it is that they who truly love one another, are not very nice examiners of each other's style or matter; if an epistle comes, it is ahvays 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 thcc, how much I feel my- self obliged to Mr. Bodham, 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 with open arms, because he is your husband, and loves you dearly. That consideration alone will endear him tome, V and I dare say that I shall not find it his only recommendation to my best affections. May the health of his relation (his Mother I suppose) be soon restored, and long continued, and may nothing melancholy of what kind soever, interfere to prc\'cnt our joyful meeting. Between the present moment and Sc-ptember, our iiouse is clear for your reception, and you have nothing to do buL to give us a day or twos notice of your coming. In September we expecl Lady Hesketh, and I only regret that our house is not large VOL. I. C c c enough 3/8 LIFE OF COWPER. enough to hold all together, for were it possible that you could meet, you ^vould love each other. Mrs. Unwin bids me offer you her best love. She is never well, but always patient, and always cheerful, and feels before- hand, that she shall be loth to part with you. My love to all the dear Donne's of every name — Write soon, no matter about what. W. C. LETTER CXL. To Lady HESKETH, July 7, 1790. Instead of beginning with the saffron- vested morning to which Homer invites me, on a morning that has no saffron vest to boast, I shall begin with you. It is irksome to us both to wait so long as we must for you, but we are willing to hope, that by a longer stay, you will make us amends for all this tedious procrastination. Mrs. Unwin has made known her whole case to Mr. Gregson, whose opinion of it has been very consolatory to me. He says indeed it is a case perfeftly out of the reach of all physical aid, but at the same time not at all dangerous. Constant pain is a sad grievance whatever LIFE OF COWPER. 379 whatever part is afFecled, 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 ■w-ho like all lively folks, are extreme in every thing, are such in their 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 gentlemanship, and gentles reduced to a level ^vith their own lacqueys, are excesses of which they will repent hereafter. Difference of rank and subor- dination, are, I believe of God's appointment, and consequently essential to the well being of society : but what we mean by fana- ticism in religion is exactly that which animates their politics, and unless time should sober them, they will, after all, be an unhappy people. Perhaps it deserves not much to be \vondered at, that at their first escape from tyrannic shackles, they should a£l extrava- gantly, and treat their kings, as they have sometimes treated their idols. To these however they are reconciled in due time again, but their respect for monarchy is at an end. They want nothing now but a little English sobriety, and that they want extremely; I heartily Avish them some wit in their anger, for it were great pity that so many millions should be miserable for M'ant of it. W. C. CCC2 LETTER 38o LIFE OF COWPER: LETTER CXLI. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr. Weston, July 8, 1790. MY DEAR JOHNNY, You do well to perfeft yourself on the Violin. Only beware that an amusement so very bewitching as Music, espe- cially when we produce it ourselves, do not steal from you all those hours that should be given to study. I can be well content that it should serve you as a refreshment after severer exercises, but not that it should engross you wholly. Your own good sense will most probably diftate to you this precaution, and I might have spared you the trouble of it, but I have a degree of zeal for your profici- ency in more important pursuits, that would not suffer me to sup- press it. Having delivered my conscience by giving you this sage ad- monition, 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 tIFE OF COWPER. 381 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 another from her till you have earned it. LETTER CXLir. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr. Weston, July 31, 1790. You have by this time, I presume ans-^vered Lady Hesketh's Letter ? if not, answer it without delay, and this injunction I give you, judging that it may not be entirely unnecessaiy, 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 insu- perable shyness has also deprived mc of many. And here again there 382 LIFE OF COWPER there is a resemblance between us. You will do well to guard against boih, for of both, 1 believe, you have a considerable share as well as myself. We long to see you again, and are only concerned at the short stay you propose to make with us. If time should seem to you as short at Weston, as it seems to us, your visit here will 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 httle 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 a Gardener's, the other a Taylor's, terrible performers both! W. C. LETTER LIFE OF COWPER. 383 LETTER CXLIII. Mrs. BODHAM. Weston, Sept. 9, 1790. MY DEAR COUSIN, I am truly sony to be forced after all to resign the hope of seeing you and Mr. Bodham at Weston this year ; the next may possibly be more propitious, and I heartily wish it may. Poor Catharine's unseasonable indisposition has also cost us a disappointment which we much regret; and were it not that Johnny has made shift to reach us, we should think ourselves com- pletely unfortunate. But him we have, and him we will hold as long as we can, so expe61; not very soon to sec him in Norfolk. He is so harmless, cheerful, gentle, and good-tempered, and I am so entirely at my case with him, that I cannot surrender him without a needs must, even to those who have a superior claim upon him. He left us yesterday morning, and whither do you think he is gone, and on what errand ? Gone, as sure as you arc alive, 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. Suspefl 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 \vc chatted by the fire-side, I expressed a wish, that I could hear of some trusty body going to London, to \s'hose care I migUt 384 LIFE OF COWPER. 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-coachman. Johnny had no sooner heard my wish, than offering himself to the service, he ful- filled it ; and his offer was made in such terms, and accompanied with a countenance and manner expressive of so much alacrity, that unreasonable as I thought it at first, to give him so much trou- ble, I soon found that I should mortify him by a refusal. He is gone, therefore, with a box full of Poetry, of which I think nobody will plunder him. He has only to say what it is, and there is no commodity I think a free-booter would covet less. W. C. LETTER CLXIV. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, Sept. 13, 1790. Your Letter was particularly welcome to me, not only because it came after a long silence, but because it brought me good news — news of your marriage, and conse- quently, I trust, of your happiness. May that happiness be dura- ble as your lives, and may you be the Felices ter et amplius of whom Horace sings so sweetly! This is my sincere wish, and though expressed in prose, shall serve as your Epithalamium. You comfort LIFE OF COWPER. 385 comfort 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 opportunit)^ 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 nay work as perfeft as I wish it. I shall not therefore be long-time destitute of employment, but shall have sufficient to keep me occu- pied all the winter, and part of the ensuing spring, for Jolmson purposes to publish either in March, April, or May — my very Pre- face is finished. It did not cost me much trouble, being neither long nor learned. I ha\'e spoken my mind as freely as decency would permit, on the subjecl of Pope's version, allowing him, at the same time, all the merit to \vhich I think him entitled. I have given my reasons for translating in blank verse, and hold some discourse on the mechanism of it, chiefly with a view to ob- viate the prejudices of some people against it. I expatiate a little on the manner in which I think Homer oui^ht to be rendered, and in Av'hich I have endeavoured to render him myself, and antici- pated two or three cavils to which I foresee that I shall be liable from the ignorant, or uncandid, in order, if possible, to prevent VOL. I. D D D diem. SS6 LIFE OF COWPER. 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 \vant 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 occasion. My Cousin was the bearer of my mss. to London. He went on purpose, and returns to-morrow. Mrs. Unwin's affec- tionate felicitations added to my own, conclude me, dear friend, sin- cerely yours. The trees of a Colonade will solve my Riddle. W, C. LETTER CXLV. To Mrs. BODHAM. Weston, Nov. 21, 1790. 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 warm place in the affections of all who know him. The advice I gave respeding his Poem on Audley End, was diftated by my love of LIFE OF COWPER. 387 of him, and a sincere desire of his success. It is one diing to write what may please our friends, ^v•ho, because they are such, are apt to be a Httle biassed in our favour ; and another to write what may please every body : because they who have no conneclion, or even knowledge of the Author, \vi\\ be sure to find fault if they can. My advice, however salutary and necessary as it seemed to me, Avas 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 only one I ever kncAv ^vho seems to have no spark of that fire about him. He has left us about a fortnight, and sorry we were to lose him ; but had he been my son, he must have gone, and I could not have re- gretted him more. If his Sister be still with you, present my love to her, and tell her how much I Avish to see them at Weston together. Mrs. Hewitt probably remembers more of my childhood than I can rccollefl either of hers or my own ; but this I recolleft, that the days of that period, were happy days compared with most I have seen since. There are few perhaps in the world -who have not cause to look back with regret on the days of infancy ; yet, to say the truth, I suspecl some deception in this. For infancy itself has its cares, and though we cannot now conceive how trifles could affecl us much, it is certain that they did. Trifles they appear now, but such they were not then. W. C. D D D 2 LETTER ;j88 LIFE OF COWPER. LETTER CXLVI. To JOHN JOHNSON, Eqrs. My Birth-day. Friday, Nov. 26, 1 790. MY DEAREST JOHNNY, I am happythat you have escaped from the claws of Euclid into the bosom of Justinian. It is useful, I sup- pose, to every man to be well grounded in the principles of juris- prudence, and I take it to be a branch of science that bids much fairer to enlarge the mind, and give an accuracy of reasoning, thaa all the mathematics in the world. Mind your studies, and you will soon be wiser than I can hope to be. We had a visit on Monday from one of the first women in the world ; in point of chara6lcr, I mean, and accomplishments, the Dowager Lady Spencer ! I may receive, perhaps, some honours hereafter, should my Translation speed according to my \vishes, and the pains I have taken with it ; but shall never receive any that I shall esteem so highly. She is indeed worthy to whom I should dedicate, and may but my Odyssey prove as worthy of her, I shall have nothing to fear from the critics. Yours, my dear Johnny, with much aflfeftion, W. C. LETTER t LIFE OF COWPER. 389 LETTER CXLVII, To SAiVlUEL ROSE, Esqr. Weston, Nov. 30, 1790. MY DEAR FRIEN'D, 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 conjeclure. I could not guess that your silence was occasioned by your being occupied with either thieves or thief- takers. Since, however, the cause was such, I rejoice that your labours \\'cre not in vain, and that the free -hooters who had plun- dered 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 objeft not to be reached but at the expence of inhnite trouble, and that must have led you into an acquaintance with scenes and characters the most horrible to a mind like yours. I see in this conduct the zeal and finnness of your friendship to whomsoever professed, 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 woi^st and most obstinate cold that I ever caught. This was one reason why it 390 LIFE OF COWPER. 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 atten- tion truly admirable ; and set an example, which if other Poets could be apprized of, they would do Avell to follow. Miscarriages in authorship I am persuaded are as often to be ascribed 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 much that you could change our trio into a quartetto. W, C. LETTER CXLVIII. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr. Weston, Dec. 1 8, i ygo. I perceive myself so flattered by the instances of illustrious success mentioned in your Letter, that I feel all the amiable modesty for which I was once so famous, sensibly giving way to a spirit of vain glory. The King's College subscription makes me proud — the effe£l that my Verses have had on your two young friends, the mathe- maticians, LIFE OF COWPER. 391 maticians, makes me proud, and I am, if possible, prouder still of the contents of the Letter that you inclosed. You complained of being stupid, and sent me one of the cleverest Letters. I have not complained of being stupid, and have sent you one of the dullest. But it is no matter ; I never aim at any thing above the pitch of every day's scribble, when I write to those I love. Homer proceeds, my boy We shall get through it in time, and I hope by 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 I should feel were I in the midst of them. W. C. LETTER CXLIX. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr. Weston, Jan. 21, 1791. I know that you have already been catechized by Lady Hesketh on the subjetl of your return hither before 39^ LIFE OF COWPER. before the winter shall be over, and shall therefore only say that if you can come we shall be happy to receive you. Remember also that nothing can excuse the non-performance of a promise, but ab- solute necessity. In the mean time my faith in your veracity is such, that I am persuaded you will suffer nothing less than neces- sity 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 subjeft. Yours, my dear Johnny, are vagaries that I shall never sec pra£lised 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 cha- rafteristic of yourself, and therefore to me delightful. I have hinted to you indeed, sometimes, that you should be cautious of indulging antic habits and singularities of all sorts, and young men in general have need enough of such admonition ; but yours are a sort of fairy habits such as might belong to Puck or Robin Goodfellow, and therefore good as the advice is, I should be half sorry should you take it. This allowance at least I give you — Continue to take your walks, if walks they may be called, exaftly in their present fashion, till you have taken Orders. Then, indeed, for as much as a skip- ping, curvetting, bounding Divine, might be a speftacle not alto- gether seemly, I shall consent to your adoption of a more grave demeanour. LETTER LIFE OF COWPER. 393 LETTER CL. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, Feb. 5, 1791. MY DEAR FRIEND, My Letters to you are all either peti- tionary, or in the style of acknowledgements and thanks, and such nearly in an alternate order. In my last I loaded you with com- missions, 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 wish for from that country, for my hst is no\v, I believe, graced with the subscription of all its learned bodies, I regret only that some of them arri\'ed too late to do honour to my present publication of names, but there arc 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 with him : Po{oe was in consequence rolled in the dnt, but being well coated got no damage. If augurs and soothsayers were not out of fiishion, I should have consulted one or two of that order, in hope of learning from ^hem that this fall was ominous. I have found a place for him in tlic parlour, wlicrc ho makes a splen- VOL. I. E K r. (lid 394 LIFE OF COWPER. did 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. a LETTER CLI. To Lady HESKETH. Feb. 1^, 1791. I can no^v send you a full and true account of this business ; having learned that your Inn at Woburn was the George, we sent Samuel thither yesterday. Mr. Martin, master of the George, told hnn ************* +. W. C. P. S. I cannot help adding a circumstance that will divert you. Martin having learned from Sam whose servant he was, told him, that he had never seen Mr. Cowper, but he had heard him fre- quently spoken of by the companies that had called at his house ; and t NOTE BY THE EDITOR. This Letter contained the history of a Servant's cruelty to a post-horse, which a reader of humanity could not wish to see in print. — But the Postcript describes so pleasantly, the signal influence of a Poet's reputation, on the spirit of a liberal Inn-keeper, that it surely ought not to be supprest. LIFE OF COWPER, 395 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 CLII. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr. Feb. 27, 1791- Now my dearest Johnny I must tell thee in few words, how much I love and am obliged to thee for thy affectionate 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 bargain, \vho 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 wjth much employment, for I have so dealt with your fair mss. in the course of my polishing and improving, that I have almost blotted out the Avholc ; such, however, as it is, I nmst now send it to the Printer, and he must be content ^vith it, for there is not time to make a fresh copy. We are now printing the second book of the Odyssey. E E £ -2 Should 396 LIFE OF COWPER. Should the Oxonians bestow none of their notice on me on this occasion, it x'.iU happen singularly enough, that as Pope re- ceived all his University honours, in the subscription 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 occa- sion either of those learned bodies thinks fit to move, the other al- ways makes it a point to sit still. — Thus proving its superiority. Tshall send up your Letter to Lady Heskcth 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 subcribed, none excepted. We are all as well as usual ; that is to say, as well as reasona- ble folks expeft to be on the crazy side of this frail existence. I rejoice that we shall so soon have you again at our fire- side. W. C. LETTER CLIII. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. Weston, March 6, 1791. After all this ploughing and sow- ing on the plains of Troy, once fruitful, such at least to my translating LIFE OF COWPER. 397 translating predecessor, some harvest, I hone, will arrise for me also. My long V* ork 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 expe6l 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 " Viruvi " voii tare per or a" as swiftly as they through the air, I shall account myself well requited. W. C. LETTER. CLIV. To JOSEPH HILL, Esqr. March 10, 1791. Give my affectionate remembrances to your Sisters, and tell them I am iinpatient to entertain them \vith my old story new dressed. I have two French prints hanging in my study, both on Iliad subjefts ; and I ha\'e 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 the latter, the figures are plain, and the attitudes plain als }. This is, in some considerable measure, I believe, the difference between my Translation and Pope's -, and will serve as an 398 LIFE OF COWPER an exemplification of ^vhat I am going to lay before you, and the public. W. C. LETTER CLV. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr. Weston, March 19, 1791. MY DEAREST JOHNNY, 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 very 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 poesy of this maiden, Elizabeth Bentley, of Norwich, is likely to prove. Not that I am myself inclined to expeft in general, great mat- ters in the poetical way from persons whose ill-fortune it has been to want the common advantages of education -, neidaer do I account O it in fjeneral a kindness to such to encourasre them in the indul- gence of a propensity more likely to do them harm in the end, than to advance their interest. Many such phenomena have arisen ^vithin my remembrance, at which all the world has wondered for a season, and has then forgot them. The LIFE OF COWPER. 399 The faft is, that though strong natural genius is always accom- panied with strong natural tendency to its objecl, yet it often happens that the tendency is found where the genius is wanting. In the pre- sent instance howe\'er (the Poems of a certain Mrs. Leapor excepted, who published some forty years ago) I discern, I think, more marks of a true poetical talent than I remember to ha\'e observed in the verses of any otlier male or female, so disadvantageously circumstanced. I Avish her therefore good speed, and subscribe to her with all mv heart. You will rejoice when I tell you, that I have some hopes, after all, of a harvest from Oxford also : Mr. Throckmorton has -written to a person of considerable influence there, Avhich he has desired 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, Esqr. Weston March 24, 1791. MY DEAR FRIEND, 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 wliicli I Avould even be accessary myself, and ^voukl increase 40.0 LIFE OF COWPER. increase yours by any means, except by a law-suit of my own, at the expence of all your opportunities of writing oftener than thrice in a twelve-month. r Your application to Dr. Dunbar, reminds me of two lines to be found somewhere in Dr. Young. " And now a Poet's gratitude you see, " Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three." In this particular therefore I perceive that a poet, and a poet's friend, bear a striking resemblance to each other. The Doclor will bless himself that the number of Scotch Universities is not larger, assured that if they equalled those in England in number of col- leges, 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 with 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 Avhat it may, even at the lo^vest 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 purchaser less than the seventh part of a farthing per line. Yet there are Imes among them that have cost me the labour of hours, and none that have not cost me some labour. W. C. I.FTTER LIFE OF COWPER. 401 LETTER CLVII. To Mrs. THROCKMORTON. April 1, 1791. My dear Mrs. Frog, a Avord or t^vo before breakfast ; which is all that I shall have time to send you ! You have not, I hope, forgot to tell Mr. Frog, ho^v much I am obliged to him for his kind, though unsuccessful, attempt in my favour at Oxford, It seems not a little extraordinary, that persons so nobly patronized themselves, on the score of litera- ture, should resolve to give no encouragement to it in return. Should I find a fair opportunity to thank them hereafter, I will not neglefl it. Could Homer come himself, distress' d and poor And tune his harp at Rhedicina's door. The rich old Vixen would exclaim (I fear) " Begone ! no tramper gets a farthing here." I have read your Husband's Pamphlet through and through. You may think, perhaps, and so may he, that a question so remote from all concern of mine, could not interest mc ; 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 writes better and reasons better than any body, VOL. I. F F r with 402 LIFE OF COWPER. with more candour, and with more sufficiency ; and, consequently, with more satisfaftion to all his readers, save only his opponents. They, I think, by this time wish that they had let him alone. Tom is delighted past measure with his wooden nag, and gallops at a rate that would kill any horse that had a life to lose. W. C- LETTER CLVIII, To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr. Weston, April 5, 1791. MY DEAR JOHNNY, A thousand thanks for your splendid assemblage of Cambridge luminaries. If you are not contented with your colleftion, it can only be because you are unreasonable ; for I, who may be supposed more covetous on this occasion than any body, am highly satisfied, and even delighted with it. If in- deed you should find it prafticable to add still to the number, I have not the least objeftion ; but this charge I give you, AXXo 5e TOL epeu, a-v 8' fvj (p^aa-i (ixXXeo (r\^(n. Stay not an hour beyond the time you have mentioned, even though you should be able to add a thousand names by doing so ; for I cannot afford to purchase them at that cost. I long to see you, and so do we both, and will not suffer you to postpone your visit LIFE OF COWPER. 403 visit for any such consideration. No, my dear boy, in the affair ol" subscriptions, we are already illustrious enough ; shall be so at least when you shall have inlisted a College or two more, 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 shewn on this occasion. Certainly I had not deserved much favour of their hands, all thino-s 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, Esqr. April, 29, 1791. I forget if I told you that Mr. Throck- morton had applied through the medium of to the Univer- sity 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 when Homer has no news to tell us, and when all other F F F 2 comfcjits 404 LIFE OF COWPER; 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 eyen a nccessaiv. These holiday times are \'ery unfavourable to the Printer's progress. He and all his Demons are making themseh'cs merry^ and me sad, for I mourn at every hindcrance. W. C. LETTER CLX. To JOHN JOHNSON, Esqr. Weston, May 23, 1791. MY DEAREST JOHNNY, Did I not know that you are never more in your element than when you are exerting yourself in my cause, I should congratulate you on the hope there seems to be that your labour will soon have an end. You will wonder perhaps, my Johnny, that Mrs. Unwin by my desire, enjoined you to secrecy concerning the Translation of the Frogs and Mice. Wonderful it may well seem to you, that I should wish to hide for a short time, from a few, what I am just going to publish to all. But I had more reasons than one for this mysterious management ; that is to say, I had two. In the first place, I wished to surprise my readers agreeably ; and secondly, I Avished to allow none of my friends an opportunity to objed; to the measure. LIFE OF COWPER. 405 measure, 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 Weston, and all your et cetera s with you. Oh ! what a month of May has this been ! Let never Poet, English Poet at least, give himself to the praises of May again. W. C. THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. Two Nymphs, both nearly of an age. Of numerous charms possessed, A warm dispute once chanc'd to wage, Whose temper was the best. The worth of each had been complete. Had both alike been mild ; But one, although her smile was sweet, Froton'd ojt'ner than she smil'd. And 4o6 LIFE OF COWPER. And in her humour, when shefroxvn'd. Would raise her voice, and roar ; And shake with fury, to the ground. The garlayid that she wore. The other was of gentler cast. From all such frenzy clear ; Her frowns were seldom known to last, And never proved severe. To Poets of renown in song. The Nymphs referred the cause. Who, strange to tell, alljudg'd it wrong. And gave misplac'd applause. They gentle call'd, and kind, and soft. The fippant, 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, whom fondly they. Their great inspirer call. Was heard, one genial summer's dayt To reprimand them all. ♦' Since LIFE OF COWPER. 4^7 " Since thus ye have combin'd" he said, " Myfav'rite Nymph to slight, " Adorning May, that peevish Maid ! " With June's undoubted right ; " The Minx shall, for your folly's sake, " Still prove herself a shrew ; " Shall make your soibbling jingers ache, " And pinch your noses blue." LETTER CLXI. To SAMUEL ROSE, Esqr. The Lodge, June 15, 1791. MY DEAR FRIEND, If it will afFord you any comfort that you have a share in my affeclions, of that comfort you may avail yourself at all times. You have acquired it by means which, un- less I should become worthless myself, to an uncommon degree, v^ill always 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 4o8 LIFE OF COWPER. may thank God for it, there are some exceptions. He leaves this peccant principle to ojxrate, in some degree against himself, in all, for our humiliation, I suppose ; and because the pernicious efFefts of it cannot, in reality, injure him ; he cannot suffer by them ; but he knows, that unless he should restrain its influence on the deal- ings of mankind with each other, the bonds of society -would be dissolved, and all charitable intercourse at an end amongst us. 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 attentions, so lately occupied by the Chiefs of Greece and Troy. His Aunt and I have spent many a merry day together, when Ave were some forty years younger ; and we make shift to be merry together still. His Sister is a sweet young "vvoman, graceful, good- natured, and gentle, just what I had imagined her to be before I had seen her. Farewell ! W. C. The LIFE OF COWPER. 409 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 ending with the remarkable asra, 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 sus- pefted it." /he second division may conclude with the publica- tion of his Homer ; comprising the incidents of ten splendid and fruitful years, that may be regarded as the meridian of his poetical career. The subsequent period extends to that awful event which terminates every labour of the Poet and the Man. We have seen in many of the preceding Letters, with what ardour of application and liveliness of hope, he devoted himself to his favourite projeft of enriching the literature of his country \\'ith an English Homer, that might be jiistly esteemed as a faithful, yet free Translation; a genuine and graceful representative of the justly idolized original. After five years of intense and affcciionate labour, in Avhich nothing could withold him from his interesting work, except that oppressive and cruel malady, which suspended his jxjwers of ap- plication for several months, he published his complete Version in VOL. I. G GG two 410 LIFE OF COWPER. t^vo Quarto Volumes, on the first of July 1791'. having inscrib- ed the Iliad to his young noble kinsman, Earl Cowper ; and the Odyssey to the Dowager Countess Spencer ; a Lady, for whose virtues he had long entertained a most cordial and affectionate veneration. 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 satisfaftion 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 effeft 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 with the admirers of Homer ; his very Translators themselves feel so perfeftly the power of this predominant affec- 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 what may almost be called his LIFE OF COWPER. 411 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 ^vith the most frank and mgcnuous A'-eracity. 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 simplicity which forms one of the most attractive features in the great prince and father of Poets. Cowj:)cr 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 severity, re- proved him for expefting from others what he, of all men living, was best qualified to accomplish himself ; and her solicitations on the subjeft, excited him to the arduous undertaking ; though it seems not to have been aftually begun till after her departure from Olney. If he was not at first completely successful in this long and mighty work, the continual and voluntary 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, Avith which Dr. Currie has closed his instrudive and pleas- ing 412 LIFE OF COWPER. ing " Life of Burns," that accomplished Physician has justly point- ed to a rer^ular and constant occupation, as the true remedy for an inordinate sensibility, which may prove so perilous an enemy to the peace and happiness of a Poet. His remark appears to be par- ticularly verified in the striking, and I may say, medicinal influence which a daily attachment of his thoughts to Homer produced, for a long time, on the tender spirits of my friend ; an influence suf- ficiently proved by his frequent declarations, that he should be sorry to find himself at the end of his labour. — The work was cer- tainly beneficial to his health ; it contributed a little to his fortune ; and ultimately, I am persuded, 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 perfeft 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 Avhich Cow- per derived from this extensive labour, for it is an advantage %v'hich reflefts great honour on his sensibility as a man. I mean a con- stant flow of affedionate pleasure, that he felt in the many kind offices which he received, from several friends, in tlie course of this laborious occupation. I cannot more clearly illustrate his feelings on this subjeft, than by introducing a passage from one of his Letters to his most asidu- ous LIFE OF COWPER. 41JJ ous and affectionate amanuensis, his young kinsman of Norfolk ! — ■ It breathes all the tender moral spirit of Cowper, and shall, therefore, 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 ^vhich 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, University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 305 De Neve Drive - Parking Lot 17 • Box 951388 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90095-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. OCT 6 Z0l)8 UCLA CO' ■■ RECEIv^. I ? ... V.J. V»l-X l/Xllgjii V ■,Vir..Cowper i^?T?- .PR v.l UNIVBB64TY of CALIFORNIA AT LOS an(;eles TIHKaRY >s