Poetry began now to be sedulously cultivated by Mr. Cowper: but, like Milton, he felt his genius more vigorous in winter than in summer. Writing to Mr. Hill, in May 1781, he says; 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 they are, and crowns me with a winter garland.' His female friend and companion encouraged him to court the Muse, with the view of promoting his health; and at her instigation," the Progress of Error" (the 2d piece in vol. 1. of his Poems) was undertaken. Having pleased himself, he was induced to give this composition to the public;-a composition which, though not immediately successful, yet in the opinion of his biographer 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.' Mr. C.'s acquaintance with Lady Austen, widow of Sir Robert Austen, Bart. is considered as opening a new era in his life. The circumstances which led to it are here detailed; and his poetical Epistle and Billet to that lady, with three songs written for her harpsichord, are transcribed. To her the public are indebted for the humorous ballad of John Gilpin, and for the poet's chef-d'œuvre, "the Task," which originated in the following circumstance: 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 promised her, if she would furnish the subject, to comply with her request.—"Ọ," she replied, "you can never be in want of a subject:-you can write upon any:-write upon this Sofa!" The Poet obeyed her cominand, and from the lively repartee of familiar conversation arose a Poem of many thousand verses, unexampled perhaps both in its origin, and its excellence! a Poem of such infinite variety, that it seems to include every subject, and every style, without any dissonance or disorder; and to have flowed, without effort, from inspired philanthropy, eager to impress upon the hearts of all Readers what, ever may lead them most happily to the full enjoyment of human life, and to the final attainment of Heaven.' This poem was composed in 1783 and 1784. Who could wish that a friendship so congenial, as that which subsisted between Lady Austen and Cowper, should ever have been broken but by the hand of death? Jealousy, however, severed this golden cord. As this appears to have been the only blot in the character of Mary, the biographer passes it over with all possible brevity, and suppresses the farewell letter of Cowper to Lady A. In recording the circumstance, which the fidelity of an historian would not allow him to omit, he suggests as good an apology as any advocate could have produced: Mrs. Unwin, though by no means destitute of mental accomplishments, was eclipsed by the brilliancy of the Poet's new Friend, and naturally became uneasy under the apprehension of being so; for to a woman of sensibility, 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?" The summer of 1795 was not only distinguished by the publication of Cowper's 2d Volume of Poems, but recompensed him for the loss of Lady Austen, by the kindness of his relation Lady Hesketh; who was then a widow, who honored him. with her friendship, and whose correspondence appears to have formed one of the Poet's greatest amusements. Many of his letters to this Lady are given in this work, and from them we shall make some extracts: To Lady Hesketh. My dearest Cousin, Olney, Nov. 9, 1785. "Whose last most affectionate letter has 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 new friends, not being alto. gether sure that I fhould 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, either while I was writing it, or since its publication, as I have derived from yours, and my uncle's opinion of it. I make certain allowances for partiality, and for that peculiar quickness of taste, with which you both relish what you like, and after all draw-backs upon those accounts duly made, find myself rich in the measure of your approbation that still remains. But above all I honour John Gilpin, since it was he who first encouraged you to write. I made him on purpose to laugh at, and he served his purpose well; but I am now in debt to him for a more valuable acquisition than all the laughter in the world amounts to, the recovery of my intercourse with you, which is to me inestimable. My benevolent and generous cousin; when I was once asked if I wanted any thing, and given delicately enough to understand that the enquirer was ready to supply all my occasions, I thankfully and civilly, but positively declined the favour. I neither suffer, nor have 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 know you thoroughly, and the liberality of your disposition; and have that consummate confidence in the sincerity of your wish to serve me, that delivers me from all awkward constraint, and from all fear of trespas sing by acceptance. To you, therefore, I reply, yes. Whensoever, and whatsoever, and in what manuer soever you please; and add moreover, that my affection for the giver is such, as will encrease to me tenfold the satisfaction that I shall have in receiving. It is necessary however that I should let you a little into the state of my nances, that you may not suppose them more narrowly circumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Unwin and I have lived at Olney, we have had but one purse; although during the whole of that time, till lately, her income was nearly double mine. Her revenues indeed are now in some measure reduced, and do not much exceed my own; the worst consequence of this is, that we are forced to deny ourselves some things which hitherto we have been better able to afford, but they are such things as neither life, nor the well being of life depend upon. My own income has been better than it is, but when it was best, it would not have enabled me to live as my connexions demanded that I should, had it not been combined with a better than itself, at least at this end of the kingdom. Of this I had full proof during three months that I spent in lodgings at Huntingdon, in which time by the help of good management, and a clear notion of œconomical matters, I contrived to spend the income of a twelvemonth. Now, my beloved cousin, you are in possession of the whole case as it stands. Strain no points to your own inconvenience or hurt, for there is no need of it; but indulge yourself in communicating (no matter what) that you can spare without missing it, since by so doing you will be sure to add to the comforts of my life, one of the sweetest that I can enjoy, a token and proof of your affection.'- I am making a new translation of Homer, and am upon the point of finishing the twenty-first book of the Iliad. The reasons upon which I undertake this Herculean labour, and by which I justify an enterprize in which I seem so effectually anticipated by Pope, although in fact, he has not anticipated me at all, I may possibly give you, if you wish for them, when I can find nothing more interesting to say. A period which I do not conceive to be very near! I have not an swered many things in your letter, nor can do it at present for want of room. I cannot believe but that I should know you, notwithstanding all that time may have done. There is not a feature of your face, could I meet it upon the road by itself, that I should not instantly recollect. I should say, that is my cousin's nose, or those are her lips and her chin, and no woman upon earth can claim them but herself. As for me, 'I am a very smart youth of my years. I am not indeed grown grey so much as I am grown bald. No matter. There was more hair in the world than ever had the honour to belong 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 headdress, not easily distinguished from my natural growth; which being worn 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 P. S. That the view 1 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.' In another letter, dated Olney, Feb. 9, 1786, he thus writes: My dear, I will not let you come till the end of May, or begin. ning 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 foor 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 which lodges Puss at present. But he, poor fellow, is worn out with age, and promises to die before you can see him. On the right hand, stands a cupboard, the work of the same author. It was once a dove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table which I also made, but a merciless servant having scrubbed it until it became paralytic; it serves no purpose now but of ornament, and all my clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the farther end of this superb vestibule, you will find the door of the parlour into which I will conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs. Unwin, (unless we should meet her before), and where we will be as happy as the day is long. Order yourself, my cousin, to the Swan at Newport, and there you shall find me ready to conduct you to Olney.' A subsequent letter exhibits a farther delineation of himself: I am not naturally insensible, and the sensibilities that I had by nature, have been wonderfully enhanced by a long series of shocks, given to a frame of nerves that was never very athletic. I feel ac cordingly, whether painful or pleasant, in the extreme. Am easily elevated, and easily cast down. The frown of a critic freezes my poetical powers, and discourages me to a degree that makes me ashamed of my own weakness. Yet I presently recover my confidence again : The half of what you so kindly say in your last, would at any time restore my spirits, and being said by you, is infallible. I am not ashamed to confess, that having commenced an author, I am most abundantly desirous to succeed as such. I have (what perhaps you little suspect me of) in my nature, an infinite share of ambition. But with it, I have at the same time, as you well know, an equal share of diffidence. To this combination of opposite qualities it has been owing, that till lately, I stole through life without undertaking any thing, yet always wishing to distinguish myself. At last I ventured, ventured too in the only path that, at so late a period, was yet open to me, and am determined, if God have not determined otherwise, to work my way through the obscurity that has been so long my portion, into notice. Every thing, therefore, that seems to threaten this, my favourite favourite purpose, with disappointment, affects me nearly. I suppose that all ambitious minds are in the same predicament. He who seeks distinction must be sensible of disapprobation exactly in the same proportion as he desires applause. And now, my precious cousin, I have unfolded my heart to you in this particular, without a speck of dissimulation. Some people, and good people too, would blame me, but you will not, and they I think would blame without just cause. We certainly do not honour God when we bury, or when we neglect to improve as far as we may, whatever talent he may have bestowed on us, whether it be little or much. In natural things, as well as in spiritual, it is a never failing truth, that to him who bath, that is to him who occupies what he hath diligently, and so as to increase it, more shall be given. Set me down therefore, my dear, for an industrious rhymer, so long as I shall have the ability, for in this only way is it possible for me, so far as I can see, either to honour God, or to serve man, or even to serve myself.' Modestly as Cowper speaks of himself as an industrious rhymer, the public know and feel that he was much more; and the poem, which we are about to transcribe, will reflect equal honour on his talents and his feelings, and will be acknowleged as an exquisite gem by all those who can relish the beauties of verse. Its merits will supersede all apology for its length. ON FRIENDSHIP*. ♦ Amicitia nisi inter bonos esse non potest. CICERO. • What virtue can we name, or grace, But men unqualified and base, Will boast it their possession? Profusion apes the noble part And dulness of discretion. Therefore, that censure scorning, See a brief mention of these lines, when formerly printed, Rev. vol. xxxvi. N. S. p. 99. An |