COWPER. In the gallery of the English poets, we linger with peculiar emotion before the portrait of Cowper. We think of him as a youth, 'giggling and making giggle' at his uncle's house in London, and indulging an attachment destined to be sadly disappointed; made wretched by the idea of a peculiar destiny; transferred from a circle of literary roysterers to the gloomy precincts of an Insane Asylum; partially restored, yet shrinking from the responsibilities incident to his age; restless, undecided, desponding even to suicidal wretchedness, and finally abandoning a world for the excitement and struggles of which he was wholly unfit. We follow him into the bosom of a devoted family; witness with admiration the facility he exhibits in deriving amusements from trifling employments-gathering every way-side flower even in the valley of despair, finding no comfort but in 'self-deception,' and finding this in 'self-discipline.' We behold his singular re-appearance in the world in the caracity of an author,-genius reviving the ties that misfortune had broken. We trace with delight his intellectual career in his charming correspondence with Hayley, Hill, and his cousin, the vividness of his affections in his poem to his mother's picture, the play of his fancy in John Gilpin, his reflective ingenuity in the Task. We recall the closing scene-the failing faculties of his faith ful companion,* his removal from endeared scenes, his sad walks by the sea-shore, his patient, but profound melancholy and peaceful death--with the solemn relief that ensues from the termination of a tragedy. And when we are told that an expression of "holy surprise" settled on the face of the departed, we are tempted to exI claim with honest Kent O, let him pass! he hates him That would upon the rack of this rude world, Stretch him out longer. At an age when most of his countrymen are confirmed in prosaic habits, William Cowper sat down to versify. No darling theory of the art, no restless thirst for fame, no bardic frenzy prompted his devotion. He sought in poetic labour oblivion of consciousness. He strove to make a Lethé of the waters of Helicon. The gift of a beautiful mind was marred by an unhappy temperament; the chords of a tender heart proved too delicate for the winds of life; and the unfortunate youth became an intellectual hypochondriac. In early manhood, when the first cloud of insanity had dispersed, he took, as it were, monastic vows-and turned aside from the busy metropolis, where his career began, to seek the solace of rural retirement. There, the tasteful care of a conservatory, the exercise of mechanical ingenuity, repose, seclusion and kindness, gradually restored his spirit to calmness; and then the intellect demanded exercise, and this it found in the service of the muse. Few of her votaries afford a more touching instance of suffering than the bard of Olney. In the records of mental disease, his case has a melancholy prominence-not that it is wholly isolated, * Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream, Yet me they charm, whate'er their theme, but because the patient tells his own story, and hallows the memory of his griefs by uniform gentleness of soul and engaging graces of mind. To account for the misery of Cowper, is not so important as to receive and act upon the lesson it conveys. His history is an evereloquent appeal in behalf of those, whose delicate organization and sensitive temper expose them to moral anguish. Whether his gloom is ascribable to a state of the brain as physiologists maintain, to the ministry of spirits as is argued by the Swedenborgians, or to the influence of a creed as sectarians declare, is a matter of no comparative moment-since there is no doubt the germs of insanity existed in his very constitution. "I cannot bear much thinking," he says. "The meshes of the brain are composed of such mere spinner's threads in me, that when a long thought finds its way into them, it buzzes and twangs and bustles about at such a rate as seems to threaten the whole contexture." Recent discoveries have proved that there is more physiological truth in this remark, than the unhappy poet could ever have suspected. The ideas about which his despair gathered, were probably accidental. His melancholy naturally was referred to certain external causes, but its true origin is to be sought among the mysteries of our nature. The avenues of joy were closed in his heart. He tells us, a sportive thought startled him. "It is as if a harlequin should intrude himself into the gloomy chamber where a corpse is deposited." In reading his productions, with a sense of his mental condition, what a mingling of human dignity and woe is present to the imagination! A mind evolving the most rational and virtuous conceptions, yet itself the prey of absurd delusions; a heart overflowing with the truest sympathy for a sick hare, yet pained at the idea of the church-honours paid to Handel; a soul gratefully recognizing the be nignity of God, in the fresh verdure of the myrtle, and the mutual attachment of doves, and yet incredulous of his care for its own eternal destiny! What a striking incongruity between the thoughtful man, expatiating in graceful numbers upon the laws of Nature and the claims of Religion, and the poor mortal deferring to an ignorant school-master, and "hunted by spiritual hounds in the night-season;" the devout poet celebrating his Maker's glory, and the madman trembling at the waxing moon; the affectionate friend, patient and devoted, and the timid devotee deprecating the displeasure of a clergyman, who reproved his limited and harmless plea sures! It has been objected to Hamlet, that the sportiveness of the prince mars the effect of his thoughtfulness. It is natural when the mind is haunted and oppressed by any painful idea which it is necessary to conceal, to seek relief, and at the same time increase the deception, by a kind of playfulness. This is exemplified in Cowper's letters."Such thoughts," he says, "as pass through my head when I am not writing, make the subject of my letters to you." One overwhelming thought, however, was gliding like a dark, deep stream beneath the airy structures he thus reared to keep his mind from being swept off by its gloomy current. To this end, he surrendered his pen to the most obvious pleasantry at hand, and dallied with the most casual thoughts of the moment, as Hamlet talks about the "old true-penny in the cellerage," when the idea of his father's spirit is weighing with awful mysteriousness upon his heart, and amuses himself with joking Old Polonius, when the thought of filial revenge is swaying the very depths of his soul. Cowper speculates on baloons, moralizes on politics, chronicles the details of his home-experience, even to the accidents resulting from the use of a broken table, with the charming air of play fulness that marks the correspondence of a lively girl. How often are these letters the proofs of rare heroism! How often were those flowers of fancy watered by a bleeding heart! By what an effort of will was his mind turned from its forebodings, from the dread of his wretched anniversary, from the one horrible idea that darkened his being, to the very trifles of common-life, the every-day circumstances which he knew so well how to array with fresh interest and agreeable combination! Cowper's story indicates what a world of experience is contained in one solitary life. It lifts the veil from a single human bosom, and displays all the elements of suffering, adventure and peace, which we are apt to think so dependant upon out ward circumstances! There is more to be learned from such a record than most histories afford. They relate things en masse, and battles, kings and courts pass before us, like mists along a mountain-range; but in such a life as that of Cowper, we tremble at the capacity of woe involved in the possession of sensibility, and trace with awe and pity the mystery of a "mind diseased." The anatomy of the soul is, as it were, partially disclosed. Its conflicting elements, its intensity of reflection, its marvellous action, fill us with a new and more tender reverence. Nor are the darker shades of this remarkable mental portrait unrelieved. To the reader of his life, Cowper's encounter with young Unwin, under the trees at Huntingdon, is as bright a gleam of destiny as that which visited his heart at Southampton. At the very outset of his acquaintance with this delightful family, he calls them "comfortable people." This term may seem rather humble compared with such epithets as brilliant,' gifted' and interesting;' but to a refined mind it is full of significance. Would there were more comfortable people in the world! Where there is rare talent in a companion, there is seldom repose. Enthusiasm is apt to make very uncom |