ble of deserving. But, the same caution not having appeared to you to be necessary, I am very willing and ready to suppose that it is not so. I intended in my last to have given you my reasons for the compliment that I paid Bishop Bagot, lest, knowing that I have no personal connexion with him, you should suspect me of having done it rather too much at a venture.* In the first place, then, I wished the world to know that I have no objection to a bishop, quia bishop. In the second place, the brothers were all five my schoolfellows, and very amiable and valuable boys they were. Thirdly, Lewis, the bishop, had been rudely and coarsely treated in the Monthly Review, on account of a sermon which appeared to me, when I read their extract from it, to deserve the highest commendations, as exhibiting explicit proof both of his good sense and his unfeigned piety. For these causes, me thereunto moving, I felt myself happy in an opportunity to do public honor to a worthy man who had been publicly traduced; and indeed the reviewers themselves have since repented of their aspersions, and have travelled not a little out of their way in order to retract them, having taken occasion, by the sermon preached at the bishop's visitation at Norwich, to say everything handsome of his lordship, who, whatever might be the merit of the discourse, in that instance, at least, could himself lay claim to no other than that of being a hearer. Since I wrote, I have had a letter from Mr. Newton that did not please me, and returned an answer to it that possibly may not have pleased him. We shall come together again soon (I suppose) upon as amicable terms as usual: but at present he is in a state of mortification. He would have been pleased had the book passed out of his hands into yours, or even out of yours into his, so that he had previously had opportunity to advise a measure which I pursued without his recommendation, and had seen the poems in manuscript. But my design was to pay you a whole compliment, and I have done it. If he says more on the subject, I shall speak freely, and perhaps please him less than I have done already. Yours, with our love to you all, TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, Christmas-eve, 1784. My dear Friend, I am neither Mede nor Persian, neither am I the son of any such, but was born at Great Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, and yet I can neither find a new title for my book, nor please myself with any addition to the old one. I am, however, *Tirocinium. willing to hope, that when the volume shall cast itself at your feet, you will be in some measure reconciled to the name it bears, especially when you shall find it justified both by the exordium of the poem and by the conclusion. But enough, as you say with great truth, of a subject very unworthy of so much consideration. Had I heard any anecdotes of poor dying that would have bid fair to deserve your attention, I should have sent them. The little that he is reported to have uttered, of a spir itual import, was not very striking. That little, however, I can give you upon good authority. His brother, asking him how he found himself, he replied, "I am composed, and think that I may safely believe myself entitled to a portion." The world has had much to say in his praise, and both prose and verse have been employed to celebrate him in "The Northampton Mercury." But Christians, I suppose, have judged it best to be silent. If he ever drank at the fountain of life, he certainly drank also, and often too freely, of certain other streams, which are not to be bought without money and without price. He had virtues that dazzled the natural eye, and failings that shocked the spiritual one. But iste dies indicabit. W. C. In reviewing the events in Cowper's Life, recorded in the present volume, our remarks must be brief. His personal history continues to present the same afflicting spectacle of a man always struggling under the pressure of a load from which no effort, either on his own part, or on that of others, is able to extricate him. We know nothing more touching than some of the letters in the private correspondence in reference to this subject; and we consider them indispensable to a clear elucidation of the state of his mind and feelings. Their deep pathos, their ingenuous disclosure of all that he feels, and still more, of all that he dreads; the delusion under which the mind evidently labors, and yet the fixed and unalterable integrity of principle that reigns within, form a sublime scene. that awakens sympathy and commands admiration. That under circumstances of such deep trial, the powers of his mind should remain free and unimpaired; that he should be able to produce a work like "The Task," destined to survive so long as taste, truth, and nature shall exercise their empire over the heart, is not only a phenomenon in the history of the human mind, but serves to show that the greatest calamities are not without their alleviation; that God knows how to temper the wind to the shorn lamb, and that the bush may be on fire without being consumed. It is by dispensations such as these that the Moral Governor of the world admonishes and instructs us; and that we learn to adore his wisdom and overruling power and love. We also see the value of mental resources, and that literature, and art, and science, when consecrated to the highest ends, not only ennoble our existence, but are a solace under its heaviest cares and disquietudes. It was this divine philosophy, so richly poured over the pages of the Task, that strengthened and sustained the mind of Cowper. The Muse was his delight and refuge, but it was the Muse clad in the panoply of heaven, and soaring to the heights of Zion. He taught the school of poets a sublime moral lesson, not to debase a noble art by ministering to the corrupt passions of our nature, but to make it the vehicle of pure and elevated thought, the honorable ally of virtue, and the handmaid of true religion: that it is not sufficient to captivate the taste, and to lead through the regions of poetic fancy ;— "The still small voice is wanted." vice, It is this characteristic feature that consti- except in minds the most perverted or depraved. These rights are coeval with our birth: they grow with our growth, and yield only to that universal decree, which levels taste, perception, and every moral feeling with the dust; and which will finally dissolve the whole system of created nature, and merge time itself into eternity. Cowper's second volume, containing his " "Task," and " Tirocinium," to which some smaller pieces were afterwards attached, was ready for the press in November, 1784,* though its publication was delayed till June, 1785. The close of a literary undertaking is always contemplated as an event of great interest to the feelings of an author. It is the termination of his labors and the commencement of his hopes and fears. Gibbon the historian has thought proper to record the precise hour and day, in which he concluded his laborious work, of the "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," with feelings of a mingled and impressive character. last "I have presumed," he says, "to mark the moment of conception; I shall now commemorate the hour of my final deliverance. It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve that I wrote the last lines of the in page, a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on the recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the establishment of my fame. But my pride was soon humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over my mind, by the idea that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, and that, whatever might be the future fate of my history, the life of the historian might be short and pre carious." THE Completion of the second volume of Cowper's poems formed an important period in his literary history. It was the era of the establishment of his poetical fame. His first volume had already laid the foundation; the second raised the superstructure, which has secured for him a reputation as honorable as it is likely to be lasting. He was more parThese chastened feelings are implanted by ticularly indebted for this distinction to his a Divine Power, to check the pride and exulinimitable production, "The Task," a work tation of genius, and to maintain the mind in which every succeeding year has increasingly lowly humility. Nor is Pope's reflection less stamped with the seal of public approbation. just and affecting: "The morning after my If we inquire into the causes of its celebrity, exit," he observes, "the sun will rise as they are to be found not merely in the multi-bright as ever, the flowers smell as sweet, the tude of poetical beauties, scattered throughout the poem; it is the faithful delineation of nature, and of the scenes of real life; it is the vein of pure and elevated morality, the exquisite sensibility of feeling, and the powerfal appeals to the heart and conscience, which constitute its great charm and interest. The court, the town, and the country, all united in its praise, because conscience and nature never suffer their rights to be extinguished, plants spring as green, the world will proceed in its old course, and people laugh and marry as they were used to do." What then is the moral that is conveyed? If life be so evanescent, if its toils and labors, its sorrows and joys, so quickly pass away, it becomes us to leave some memorial behind, * See p. 166. ↑ See Life and Writings of Edward Gibbon, p. 30, prefixed to his " Decline and Fall," &c. + See Pope's Letters. that we have not lived unprofitably either to others or to ourselves; to keep the mind free from prejudice, the heart from passion, and the life from error; to enlighten the ignorant, to raise the fallen, and to comfort the depressed; to scatter around us the endearments of kindness, and diffuse a spirit of righteousness, of benevolence, and of truth; to enjoy the sunshine of an approving conscience, and the blessedness of inward joy and peace; that thus, when the closing scene shall at length arrive, the ebbings of the dissolving frame may be sustained by the triumph of Christian hope, and death prove the portal of immortality. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, Jan. 5, 1785. I have observed, and you must have had occasion to observe it oftener than I, that when a man who once seemed to be a Christian has put off that character and resumed his old one, he loses, together with the grace which he seemed to possess, the most amiable part of the character that he resumes. The best features of his natural face seem to be struck out, that after having worn religion only as a handsome mask he may make a more disgusting appearance than he did before he assumed it. According to your request, I subjoin my epitaph on Dr. Johnson; at least I mean to do it, if a drum, which at this moment announces the arrival of a giant in the town, will give me leave. Yours, EPITAPH ON Dr. JOHNSON. W. C. to wait for an accumulation of materials in a situation such as yours and mine, productive of few events. At the end of our expecta| tions we shall find ourselves as poor as at the beginning. I can hardly tell you with any certainty of information, upon what terms Mr. Newton and I may be supposed to stand at present. A month (I believe) has passed since I heard from him. But my friseur, having been in London in the course of this week, whence he returned last night, and having called at Hoxton, brought me his love and an excuse for his silence, which, he said, had been oc casioned by the frequency of his preachings. at this season. He was not pleased that may manuscript was not first transmitted to him, and I have cause to suspect that he was even mortified at being informed that a certain inscribed poem was not inscribed to himself But we shall jumble together again, as people that have an affection for each other at bottom, notwithstanding now and then a slight disagreement, always do. I know not whether Mr. has acted in consequence of your hint, or whether, not needing one, he transmitted to us his bounty before he had received it. He has however send us a note for twenty pounds; with which we have performed wonders in behalf of the ragged and the starved. He is a most extraordinary young man, and, though I shall probably never see him, will always have a niche in the museum of my reverential remembrance. The death of Dr. Johnson has set a thousand scribbers to work, and me among the rest. While I lay in bed, waiting till I could reasonably hope that the parlor might be ready for me, I invoked the Muse and composed the following epitaph.* It is destined, I believe, to the "Gentleman's Magazine," which I consider as a rewhen entrusted to a newspaper, can expect spectable repository for small matters, which, but the duration of a day. But, Nichols hav ing at present a small piece of mine in his hands, not yet printed, (it is called the Poplar Field, and I suppose you have it,) I wait till his obstetrical aid has brought that to light, before I send him a new one. In his last he published my epitaph upon Tiney which, I likewise imagine, has been long in your collection. Not a word yet from Johnson: I am easy however upon the subject, being assured that, so long as his own interest is at stake, he will not want a monitor to remind him of the proper time to publish. And the scene where his melody charm'd me You and your family have our sincere love. Forget not to present my respectful compliments to Miss Unwin, and, if you have not done it already, thank her on my part for the very agreeable narrative of Lunardi. He is a young man, I presume, of great good sense and spirit, (his letters at least and his enterprising turn bespeak him such,) a man quali-The change both my heart and my fancy employs; fied to shine not only among the stars,* but in the more useful though humbler sphere of terrestrial occupation. The incident connected with the Poplar Field, mentioned in the former part of the above letter, is recorded in the verses. The place where the poplars grew is called Lavendon Mills, about a mile from Olney; it was one of Cowper's favorite walks. After a long absence, on revisiting the spot, he found the greater part of his beloved trees lying prostrate on the ground. Four only survived, and they have recently shared the same fate. But poetry can dignify the minutest events, and convert the ardor of hope or the pang of disappointment into an occasion for pouring forth the sweet melody of song. It is to the above incident that we are indebted for the following verses, which unite the charm of simple imagery with a beautiful and affecting moral at the close. I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys; TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.* Olney, Jan. 22, 1785. My dear Friend,-The departure of the long frost, by which we were pinched and squeezed together for three weeks, is a most agreeable circumstance. The weather is now (to speak poetically) genial and jocund; and the appearance of the sun, after an eclipse, peculiarly welcome. For, were it not that I have a gravel walk about sixty yards long, where I take my daily exercise, I should be obliged to look at a fine day through the window, without any other enjoyment of it; a country rendered impassable by frost, that has been at last resolved into rottenness, keeps me so close a prisoner. Long live the inventors and improvers of balloons! It is always clear overhead, and by and by we shall use no other road. How will the Parliament employ themselves when they meet?-to any purpose, or to none, or only to a bad one? They are utterly out of my favor. I despair of them altogether. Will they pass an act for the cultivation of the royal wilderness? Will they make an effectual provision for a northern fishery? Will they establish a new sinking fund that shall infallibly pay off the na tional debt? I say nothing about a more equal representation, because, unless they bestow upon private gentlemen of no property the privilege of voting, I stand no chance of ever being represented myself. Will they achieve all these wonders or none of them? And shall I derive no other advantage from the great Wittena-Gemot of the nation, than merely to read their debates, for twenty folios of which I would not give one farthing? Yours, my dear friend, W. C. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. † Mr. Pitt had introduced, at this time, his celebrated bill for effecting a reform in the national representation; the leading feature of which was to transfer the elective franchise from the smaller and decayed boroughs to the larger towns. The proposition was, however, rejected by a considerable majority. such uninterrupted retirement, in which inci- wished for many things," he said, “which, at dents worthy to be recorded occur so seldom, the time when he formed these wishes, seemed that I always sit down to write with a dis- distant and improbable, some of them indeed couraging conviction that I have nothing to impossible. Among other wishes that he say. The event commonly justifies the pres- had indulged, one was that he might be conage. For, when I have filled my sheet, I nected with men of genius and ability-and, find that I have said nothing. Be it known in my connexion with this worthy gentleman,” to you, however, that I may now at least com- said he, turning to me," that wish, I am sure, municate a piece of intelligence to which you is amply gratified." You may suppose that will not be altogether indifferent; that I have I felt the sweat gush out upon my forehead received and returned to Johnson the two when I heard this speech; and if you do, you first proof-sheets of my new publication. will not be at all mistaken. So much was I The business was despatched indeed a fort- delighted with the delicacy of that incense. night ago, since when I have heard from him Thus far I proceeded easily enough; and no further. From such a beginning, how-here I laid down my pen, and spent some ever, I venture to prognosticate the progress, minutes in recollection, endeavoring to find and in due time the conclusion of the matter. some subject with which I might fill the little In the last Gentleman's Magazine my Pop-blank that remains. But none presents itself. lar Field appears. I have accordingly sent Farewell therefore, and remember those who up two pieces more, a Latin translation of it, are mindful of you! which you have never seen, and another on a rose-bud, the neck of which I inadvertently broke, which whether you have seen or not I know not. As fast as Nichols prints off the poems I send him, I send him new ones. They that read Greek with the accents, My remittance usually consists of two; and would pronounce the in pit as an . But he publishes one of them at a time. I may I do not hold with that practice, though eduindeed furnish him at this rate, without put-cated in it. I should therefore utter it just ting myself to any great inconvenience. For as I do the Latin word filio, taking the quanmy last supply was transmitted to him in tity for my guide. August, and is but now exhausted. I communicate the following at your mother's instance, who will suffer no part of my praise to be sunk in oblivion. A certain lord has hired a house at Clifton, in our neighborhood, for a hunting seat.* There he lives at present with his wife and daughter. They are an exemplary family in some respects, and (I believe) an amiable one in all. The Reverend Mr. Jones, the curate of that parish, who often dines with them by invitation on a Sunday, recommended my volume to their reading; and his lordship, after having perused a part of it, expressed an ardent desire to be acquainted with the author, from motives which my great modesty will not suffer me to particularize. Mr. Jones, however, like a wise man, informed his lordship that, for certain special reasons and causes, I had declined going into company for many years, and that therefore he must not hope for my acquaintance. His lordship most civilly subjoined that he was sorry for it. "And is that all?" say you. Now were I to hear you say so, I should look foolish and say, "Yes." But, having you at a distance, I snap my fingers at you and say, "No that is not all." Mr. who favors us now and then with his company in an evening as usual, was not long since discoursing with that eloquence which is so peculiar to himself, on the many providential interpositions that had taken place in his favor. "He had * Lord Peterborough. Present our love to all your comfortable fireside, and believe me ever most affectionately yours, W. C. η. Olney, Feb. 19, 1785. My dear Friend, I am obliged to you for apprising me of the various occasions of delay to which your letters are liable. Furnished with such a key, I shall be able to account for any accidental tardiness, without supposing anything worse than that you yourself have been interrupted, or that your messenger has not been punctual. Mr. Teedon has just left us. He came to exhibit to us a specimen of his kinsman's skill in the art of book-binding. The book on which he had exercised his ingenuity was your life. You did not indeed make a very splendid appearance; but, considering that you were dressed by an untaught artificer, and that it was his first attempt, you had no cause to be dissatisfied. The young man has evidently the possession of talents, by which he might shine for the benefit of others and for his own, did not his situation smother him. He can make a dulcimer, tune it, play upon it, and with common advantages would undoubtedly have been able to make a harpsicord. But unfortunately he lives where neither the one nor the other is at all in vogue. He can convert the shell of a cocoanut into a decent drinking-cup; but, when he * Private correspondence. ↑ He was an intelligent schoolmaster at Olney. |