Chapter C (5)

In 1746 his father died, and when the household broke up, he went to
live with his two unmarried sisters at Plymouth. It was here he made
the acquaintance of Commodore Keppel, whose portrait is so well known
and so justly admired. This gallant sailor had been appointed to the
command of the Mediterranean Fleet, and intrusted with a diplomatic
mission, before he had completed his twenty-fourth year. He met Joshua
at Mount Edgecumbe, and proposed to take him for a cruise, an offer
that was gladly accepted. After visiting Portugal, the Balearic Isles,
and different portions of the Italian coast, the young painter took
leave of the Commodore, and proceeded on a prolonged tour through all
the principal towns of Italy, carefully admiring, studying, copying,
and writing essays on all the treasures of art in his progress. His
long and patient worship of Raphael, in the chambers of the Vatican,
cost him one of his senses, for the extreme cold of those vast
apartments brought on a chill, which deprived him of hearing, even at
that early age. Returning to London, he established himself in St.
Martin’s Lane, in a house formerly occupied by Sir James Thornhill,
immediately behind which stood the school for drawing and design. He
now wrote to his sister Frances to come up from Devonshire, and keep
house for him,—a proceeding which, judging from the character given of
that lady by Madame D’Arblay (whose testimony we are always inclined
to take _cum grano_), appeared to be of questionable advantage, for
Miss Fanny, though a person of worth and understanding, lived in a
perpetual state of irresolution of mind and perplexity of
conduct,—what in these days we should call a chronic fuss; added to
which, she insisted on being an artist, and her admiration for her
brother’s works induced her to make what she called ‘copies,’ and
Joshua ‘caricatures.’ ‘Indeed,’ said he wofully, ‘Fanny’s copies make
me cry, and other people laugh.’ She had also a knack of taking
offence on the slightest provocation, and one day, being displeased
with her brother for some imaginary slight put upon her, she deputed
Samuel Johnson to compose an expostulatory letter for her to write to
Joshua. Dr. Johnson was a warm admirer of Miss Fanny and her talent
for tea-making,—to which he did full justice,—and could deny her
nothing; but when the copy of the letter was read and discussed, the
style was so unmistakably masculine and Johnsonian, that it was deemed
advisable not to send it.

Our painter’s hands were now full. Men and women of all classes,
denominations, and reputations, thronged his studio; his pocket-book
was a perfect record of all the illustrious and celebrated names of
the period. He determined to change his quarters, first to Newport
Street, and finally to far more commodious apartments in Leicester
Square. He raised his prices, charging twelve guineas for a head, and
forty-eight for a full-length. He set up a magnificent coach, which
caused a great sensation. Northcote flippantly describes it as an
advertisement; but it would appear more likely that Reynolds wished to
do Catton a good turn. Catton had begun life as a decorator, and ended
as an R.A. The vehicle was splendid in colour and gorgeous in gilding,
and Catton soon received orders to paint royal and municipal
carriages. Joshua was far too busy to take the air in his new
equipage, and it was in vain he entreated Miss Fanny to do so. She was
much too shy, she said, to attract the eyes of the whole town.

We do not require to be told that Sir Joshua was a friend and
playfellow of children. None but a lover could have painted in all
their winning varieties, not merely the comeliness, but the roguish
grace, the dimpled smiles, the ‘beautifully shy’ glances, of
childhood. It is easy to picture him paying court to these juvenile
charmers, and entering into delightful small flirtations. But the
history of one of these tender passages will suffice to give an idea
of the course he usually pursued. The parents of the beautiful little
Miss Bowles, with whose sweet face we are all familiar, had settled
that their darling should sit to Romney. But Sir George Beaumont
recommended Reynolds for the privilege. The little lady was shy and
coy. ‘Invite him to dinner,’ said Sir George. The President came, and
sat at table by the daughter of the house. He paid her the most
assiduous court; no end of stories; no end of tricks; her plate was
juggled away and brought back from unexpected quarters. Her senses
were dazzled; the conquest was complete; she thought him the most
captivating of men, and was only too ready to be taken to his house
next day. There, seated on the floor in an ecstasy of expectation and
delight, she gave herself up to Sir Joshua’s fascinations. He seized
his opportunity, caught the radiant expression, fastened it on the
canvas, and made his little friend immortal! No one gloried more in
the success of the young painter than Samuel Johnson, for between
these two great men, so essentially different in pursuits, in
character, intellect, and appearance, a tender friendship had sprung
up. Reynolds’s heart, home, and purse were always at the service of
the Doctor, who was often in pecuniary difficulties, and who wrote
_Rasselas_ under the pressure of great sorrow, paying the expenses of
his mother’s funeral out of the proceeds of the book. He puts these
touching words into the mouth of Imlac: ‘I have neither mother to
delight in the reputation of her son, or wife to share in the honours
of her husband.’

Many a delightful summer excursion did Johnson and Reynolds make
together, where the eccentricities and caustic humour of the former
made him as welcome a guest at the country houses they visited as the
refined qualities and polished manners of the latter.

If the peculiarities, the sayings, and doings of the great ‘leviathan
of literature’ have been made familiar to us by the pen of Boswell,
surely the pencil of Reynolds has stamped his image on our minds, as
if the living Samuel had ever stood before us. Boswell recognised the
Doctor when he saw him first through a glass door in Tom Davies’s
coffee-house from his exact resemblance to the portrait which the
painter afterwards gave the biographer, who had it engraved for one of
the first editions of Johnson’s Life. What can be more charming than
‘The Infant Johnson,’ one of the chief glories of the Bowood
collection? Was ever a joke so wonderfully delineated?

The question being raised one evening at a convivial meeting, Could
the Doctor ever have been a baby? ‘No doubt about it,’ said Reynolds;
‘I know exactly what he looked like, and I will show you some day.’

The painter was a great admirer of Johnson’s powers of conversation,
and it was chiefly at his instigation that the Literary Club was
formed, with a view ‘of giving the Doctor the opportunity of talking,
and us, his friends, of listening.’ The meetings were held in Gerrard
Street, Soho, and were at first confined to twelve members, but ere
long included all the wit and literature of the town.

Sir Joshua liked cards, masquerades, and theatres. Neither did he
disdain the illegitimate drama, for we find him accompanying the
sapient Samuel and the rollicking Oliver (Goldsmith) to a performance
of the Italian Fantoccini; and, still more surprising, we have the
account of the supper which crowned this convivial evening, when
Goldsmith and the Doctor jumped over sticks, in imitation of the
frolics of the wooden puppets, and the latter nearly broke his leg in
these elephantine gambols!

In 1769 the Royal Academy was founded. Joshua did not join the
deputation that waited on the King; in fact, he kept aloof from the
whole undertaking, interested as he was at heart in the cause; but the
slights put upon him at Court formed a sufficient reason for his
non-appearance. From the moment that he found himself elected
President by the unanimous voice of his brother artists, his zeal
never slackened, and knew no bounds. He drew up Regulations, wrote and
revised the Catalogue, and began a regular course of lectures, which
gained him as much literary, as his paintings had secured for him
pictorial, fame. As long as Reynolds could hold a brush he contributed
his most splendid portraits to the Exhibitions. As in duty bound, he
went to the levee, where the King knighted him. ‘His very name,’ says
his friend Edmund Burke, an undoubted master of euphony, ‘seemed made
for knightly honours.’

George III. sat to him for the presentation picture to the Royal
Academy. Sir Joshua had not as much time now as formerly for his
summer excursions, whether in England or abroad. He spent most of the
day in his painting-room, or in attending to his numerous duties as
P.R.A. In the evening he gave himself up more or less to social
enjoyment, dining out constantly at clubs or private houses, or
presiding at his own table at those convivial banquets, where
oftentimes half a dozen guests were expected and a dozen appeared, and
where verily the feast of reason and the flow of soul made up for the
scarcity of the servants, knives, forks, plates, and such minor
details.

In that dining-room were gathered all the intellect and wit of the
town; and its noble master presided calmly, taking an interest in all
that came within the range of his ear-trumpet. Leicester Square was in
the centre of the disturbed district at the time of the Gordon Riots,
and the noise and hubbub were painfully audible to the painter’s
impaired hearing, and for a time interfered with the visits of his
fair sitters. On St. George’s Day 1770, Sir Joshua presided at the
first Royal Academy banquet, a festivity which was spoiled for many of
the guests by the announcement that the boy-poet Chatterton had
committed suicide.

In the ensuing year Reynolds was summoned to Windsor Castle to witness
the installation of nine Knights of the Garter, all of whom (with the
exception of two foreign Princes) had been immortalised by his pencil.
Northcote tells us that on this occasion Sir Joshua lost his laced hat
and gold watch in the crowd close to the Royal precincts,—a
circumstance which excited little astonishment in days when a boat
containing ladies and gentlemen from Vauxhall was boarded by masked
highwaymen!

A delightful addition was made in 1771 to the Leicester Square
household, in the person of his pretty niece, Theophila Palmer; and
two years later she was joined by her sister, Mary, adding that
element of youth, beauty, and good spirits which were most acceptable
to Sir Joshua himself and to all his guests. A sad blow was in store
for him in the death of his valued friend David Garrick, who was taken
ill when on a visit to Lord Spencer at Althorp, and only returned to
London to die. The whole Faculty put forth their skill to save this
darling of the public, this cherished member of private society; but
in vain. Garrick’s humour never forsook him; when almost at the point
of death, he drew a friend near him, and, pointing to the crowd of
doctors in the room, whispered these words from the ‘Fair Penitent’—

‘Another and another still succeeds,
And the last fool is welcome as the former.’

David Garrick’s funeral was a pageant. The procession included every
name remarkable for talent, rank, celebrity of all kinds and classes.
But amidst that crowd of mourners few could have grieved more deeply
than the actor’s fast friend, Joshua Reynolds.

He was indeed a good friend, and was much interested in the unhappy
Angelica Kauffmann, whom he assisted in the dissolution of her
marriage with her first husband, a swindler and an impostor. We find
by his pocket-book that she sat twice to him, and in exchange she
afterwards painted the P.R.A. for Mr. Parker of Saltram. There was a
rumour that the painter’s heart was touched by the charms of the
paintress. But Joshua was evidently not very susceptible; he was an
inveterate club man, and was immensely popular, from the geniality and
cordiality of his manners, as also (it was whispered) from the badness
of his whist-playing. He was elected for the Dilettanti Club in 1766,
and his picture of the assembled members was greatly admired, and
added considerably to his fame.

In 1782 the great painter had a paralytic seizure, though of a mild
nature, and he soon recovered sufficient energy to continue his
labours, with, if possible, increased diligence, finishing and
exhibiting some of his noblest works after this premonitory warning.
In 1784 Samuel Johnson was stricken down by the same terrible disease,
but in a much more aggravated form, leaving little hope of his
recovery. He had lost the power of speech for a time, and his first
efforts at returning articulation were to repeat the Lord’s Prayer,
and an earnest supplication that his intellect might be spared to the
last, together with a summons to his dear Joshua,—the loved companion
of so many pleasant excursions, of so many jovial and intellectual
gatherings,—of whom he took a tender farewell. The dying man made
three requests in that solemn moment: that Reynolds would paint no
more on Sundays; that he would invariably read his Bible on that day,
and other days besides; and that he would cancel the debt of £30 which
he (Johnson) owed him.

The relations between Gainsborough and Reynolds had never been very
friendly; but when the first-mentioned painter was on his deathbed, he
also sent for Sir Joshua, who says: ‘In those solemn moments all
little jealousies were forgotten, and he recognised in me one whose
tastes and pursuits were in common with his own, and of whose works he
approved.’ It should be remembered that when Gainsborough heard some
one disparaging Sir Joshua’s talent, he spoke up gallantly, and said,
‘For myself, I consider his worst pictures superior to the best of any
other painter;’ and words nearly to the same effect, on the same
subject, are recorded of Romney. Reynolds himself, being attacked on
the score of his portraits fading, laughed, and said good-humouredly,
‘Well, you must confess at all events that I have come off with
_flying_ colours.’ On the death of Ramsay, the Court painter, the post
was offered to Sir Joshua, but it required the united persuasions of
his friends to induce him to accept the office.

Reynolds had a great deal to contend with in these latter days. He had
entirely lost the sight of one eye, and was under grave apprehensions
for the safety of the other; while the conduct of many of the Royal
Academicians towards their noble President was such as to determine
him to resign his post. The King (who had just recovered from an
attack of insanity) exerted himself to persuade Reynolds to take back
his resignation. But it was not until he had received a deputation
from the Council, accompanied by apologies from some of the offenders,
that Sir Joshua consented to resume the Chair. In December 1790 he
delivered his last discourse at the Royal Academy, which he commenced
by alluding slightly and delicately to the causes which had nearly
prevented his ever occupying that place again, and assuring his
hearers that he should always remember with pride, affection, and
gratitude the support with which he had almost uniformly been honoured
since the commencement of their intercourse. He enjoined, for the last
time, the enforcement of those rules which he considered conducive to
the wellbeing of the institution.

Every eye was fixed on the speaker, every ear open to his charming,
when suddenly a loud crash plunged the whole assembly (with the
exception of the President) into alarm and confusion. There was a
general rush to the door, but when order was restored, and assurance
of safety believed, it was ascertained that a beam, which helped to
support the flooring, had given way.

Alas for the omen! The greatest prop to the grandeur of the Royal
Academy was soon to fall away in truth.

Sir Joshua remained calm and unmoved during the perturbation, and
concluded by these words: ‘I reflect, not without vanity, that these
discourses bear testimony to my admiration of a truly divine man, and
I desire that the last words I pronounce in this Academy should be the
name of Michael Angelo.’

As Reynolds descended from the Chair, Edmund Burke stepped forward,
and, taking his hand, addressed him in the words of Milton:—

‘The angel ended, and in Adam’s ear
So charming left his voice, that he a while
Thought him still speaking, and stood fixed to hear.’

‘Such a tribute, from such a man,’ says Leslie, ‘was a fitting close
to the life-work of Joshua Reynolds.’

Neither his impaired sight, his deficient hearing, or his increasing
weakness, could entirely damp the warmth of his social affections. The
last time he wielded his brush was at the request of some schoolboys,
who entreated him to paint them a flag for ‘breaking up.’

Reynolds had that love for children and domestic pets which seems
inseparable from great and good natures. He would pay the most
assiduous court, and make the most gallant advances, to some of the
exquisite little models who sat to him, till they became spellbound.
And one day, his canary having escaped from its cage, nothing would
content the P.R.A. but he must go out into the glaring sunshine, with
his weak eyes, and the green shade over them, to spend hours in
seeking and whistling for his lost favourite.

The end was approaching. His spirits became depressed, his appetite
failed, and on the evening of February 23, 1792, he concluded a
blameless life by a calm and peaceful end. The manuscript of Burke’s
obituary notice still exists, blotted with the writer’s tears. It was
written in the very house where the friends had spent so many happy
hours together. Beautiful in its touching eloquence, we regret we have
only space for a short extract:—

‘From the beginning Sir Joshua contemplated his dissolution with a
composure which nothing but the innocence, integrity, and usefulness
of his life, and his entire submission to the will of Providence,
could bestow. In the full affluence of foreign and domestic fame,
admired by the expert in art, by the learned in science, caressed by
sovereign powers, and celebrated by distinguished poets, his native
humility, modesty, and candour never forsook him. He had too much
merit ever to excite jealousy, too much innocence ever to provoke
enmity. The loss of no man of his time can be felt with so much
sincere, general, and unmixed sorrow.’ And these words were confirmed
by the crowds of every calling, position, and class which followed him
to the grave.

The body lay in state at Somerset House. There were ninety-one
carriages followed, so that, before the first in the line had reached
St. Paul’s, the last was still at the entrance of Somerset House. The
Annual Register for that year gives a detailed account of the funeral.
The pall-bearers were ten Peers, Reynolds’s personal friends, the
greater part of whom had been his sitters. And the procession included
three Knights of the Garter, two of St. Patrick, and one of the
Thistle; three Dukes and four Lords-Lieutenant of Ireland; the whole
body of Academicians, painters, authors, actors,—every name
distinguished for literature, art, and science. Sir Joshua left
numerous legacies; many of his finest pictures were bequeathed to
private friends.

He left the bulk of his fortune, for her life, to his sister, Frances
Reynolds, with reversion to his niece, Mary Palmer, afterwards Lady
Thomond, together with a large collection of his paintings, which were
sold and dispersed at her death.

The number of his paintings seems miraculous when the list is read. He
was a large contributor to the Exhibitions of the Royal Academy. At
the first of these he sent four; at the last (as far as he was
concerned, in 1790) he sent but six, only two years before his death.
But in the interim his pictures often numbered fourteen, sixteen, and,
on one occasion, seventeen, for his talent was only equalled by his
industry, and he was a workman as well as an artist, to which fact all
his contemporaries bear witness.

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_No. 4._

THE NIECE OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, MARY, OR THEOPHILA PALMER.

_Sitting. White gown. Blue sash. Hair falling on her shoulders._

BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, P.R.A.

WE give a sketch of both sisters, not being quite certain as to the
identity of the portrait. They were the daughters of Mrs. Palmer, who
was sister of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and wife of John Palmer of
Torrington, county Devon. Theophila, their youngest daughter, had been
residing some time with her uncle in Leicester Square, but came home
for change of air; and when she returned to London in 1779, her elder
sister, Mary, accompanied her. Miss Burney tells us that the two
sisters ‘added to the charm of the President’s table and his evening
parties by their pleasing manners and the beauty of their persons.’

They both served as occasional models. Mary appears to have been the
more staid and demure of the two. She had the keenest admiration and
appreciation of her uncle’s talent, and never tired of describing his
works to her frequent correspondent and cousin, William Johnson, at
Calcutta. In 1786 she says: ‘Uncle seems more than ever bewitched by
his palette and pencil. He paints from morning till night, and, truth
to say, each picture appears better than the last. The Empress of
Russia has ordered an historical painting; his choice is still
undecided.’

This was the ‘Infant Hercules,’ which made such a noise at the time,
and the merits of which were the subject of so much controversy.
Romney’s verdict was ‘that, whatever fault might be found with it, no
other painter in Europe could have produced that picture.’ Sir Joshua
was one of those who did not disdain criticism, even from young lips.
He had painted a captivating portrait of Mary’s little niece, Polly
Gwatkin, and when Miss Palmer saw it she told the President boldly
that the little fingers, which were clasped on the child’s lap, with
their very red tips, suggested the idea of a dish of prawns! Sir
Joshua, no ways offended, laughed, and set to work immediately,
turning the prawns into roseate buds, which he placed in the little
chubby hand. Mary was at Torrington when she heard of her uncle’s
sudden failure of sight and loss of one eye. She hastened back to his
side, to read, to write, to minister to him in every possible way, for
he was not allowed to read, or write, or paint for some time. ‘You may
believe,’ Mary writes, ‘what the loss of an eye is to him. But his
serenity never forsook him. One of his early axioms was not to fuss
about trifles,—if the loss of an eye could be considered as such. ‘The
ruling passion continues. He amuses himself by mending or cleaning a
picture. In the meantime he enjoys company as much as ever, and loves
a game at cards.’

Mary Palmer lived with her uncle till his death. He left her a
considerable fortune and a large collection of his pictures, which
were sold by auction at her death, in 1821. The same year that Sir
Joshua died she married Murrough, first Marquis of Thomond, as his
second wife. She made a present of one of his historical paintings to
George IV. Theophila, or Offy, as her uncle usually called her, was
his favourite, although much attached to both sisters. She was only
thirteen when she first went to live in Leicester Square. She was very
pretty, and full of fun and playful spirits. She frequently sat to the
President, especially for his arch and sprightly models,—his
‘Strawberry Girl,’ his ‘Mouse Girl,’ and ‘Reflections on reading
_Clarissa Harlowe_.’ But Miss Offy’s dignity was much hurt on the
exhibition of the last-named picture, because it was entered into the
Catalogue as ‘A Girl reading:’ ‘You might have put “a young lady,”
uncle’! Another time the President was scolded because he made the
portrait look too young, when the original was nearly fourteen! But
for all these differences, the great man and the little lady were the
dearest friends, and we find in one of his long letters that he will
not tell her how much he loves her lest she should grow saucy over it;
and again he says he has two presents for her and Mary,—a ring, and a
bracelet of his hair. She is to have her choice, but she is not to let
her sister know of this mark of preference.

Offy was married in her twentieth year, from her mother’s house at
Torrington, to Richard Lovell Gwatkin, a man of fortune, and of a good
Cornish family. Her uncle writes her a most affectionate letter of
congratulation, with a postscript by Edmund Burke, who came in at the
moment, wishing her every possible happiness. The wish was fulfilled.
There never was a happier wife or mother than little Offy. She came to
London and sat for a conjugal picture to Sir Joshua, who also painted
her little daughter, as we have said before. Mrs. Gwatkin lived to be
ninety years of age, surrounded by her children’s children.

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_No. 5._

A YOUNG WOMAN.

_Dark green gown, open at the throat. Shady hat. Landscape in
background._

BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

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_No. 6._

KATRINE, COUNTESS COWPER.

_Red gown. Diamond necklace._

BY POYNTER.

KATRINE CECILIA COMPTON, eldest daughter of the fourth Marquis of
Northampton, by Eliza, second daughter of Admiral the Honourable Sir
George Elliot, K.C.B.

She married in 1870 the present and seventh Earl Cowper.

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_No. 7._

WILLIAM COWPER, THE POET.

_Loose gown, trimmed with fur. White cap. Table with books and
papers._

BORN 1731, DIED 1800.

BY JACKSON, AFTER A CHALK DRAWING FROM LIFE.

THE grandson of Spencer Cowper, Attorney-General, and great-nephew of
Lord Chancellor Cowper, the first peer of the name. His father was Dr.
John Cowper, chaplain to King George II., who married the daughter of
Roger Donne, of Lidham Hall, county Norfolk. William, the eldest of
two sons, was born at his father’s rectory of Great Berkhamstead.

Mrs. Cowper died in giving birth to a second son. She was an amiable
and pretty woman, and much more deserving of the flattering epitaph
(by her niece, Lady Walsingham) than most objects of elegiac praise,
in the days when it might well be asked ‘where all the naughty people
were buried.’

Even in these times when ‘The Task’ and the Homer lie unopened on the
table, few readers of poetry are surely unacquainted with the ‘Address
to my Mother’s Picture,’ written half a century after her death. The
portrait was a present to William Cowper, from his cousin, Mrs.
Bodham, and he writes her an enthusiastic letter of thanks ‘for the
most acceptable gift the world could offer;’ sending her at the same
time the lines to which we have alluded. ‘I have placed the painting
so as to meet my eye the first thing in the morning, and the last at
night, and I often get up from my bed to kiss it.’

But we must not anticipate by so many years. When only six, William
went to a large school at Markgate Street, where he had to undergo a
fierce ordeal. Many a stout-hearted boy, possessing the germs of
future heroism, might have quailed before the bully who marked the
little sensitive, tender-hearted Willie (ready to burst into tears at
the first harsh word) as his victim. He tells us himself that he
scarcely ever dared to lift his eyes above the level of his tyrant’s
shoe-buckle; and, alluding to those days in later life, he said he
could not dwell on the cruelty practised on him, but he hoped God
would forgive his tormentor, and that they might meet in heaven.

‘Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun.’

It is easy to see how the memory of those days suggested his
‘Tyrocinium.’ Mr. Cowper, finding that the boy was suffering from
inflammation of the eyes, sent him to board with an oculist in London,
and afterwards to Westminster School, where William improved in
health, and took bodily exercise, cricket and football, which proved
beneficial to him in more ways than one, making him popular in the
school.

He was diligent in his study of the Classics, and wrote good Latin
verses. Warren Hastings was his contemporary and friend, and Cowper
would never listen in after days to a word against his old
school-fellow.

On leaving Westminster, he became articled clerk to an attorney, in
obedience to his father’s wishes, he himself disliking the profession
of the law. He confesses that at this period he spent most of his time
‘in giggling and making giggle’ his two favourite cousins, Theodora
and Harriet, daughters of Ashley Cowper. He ‘feared some day that
worthy gentleman would be picked up for a mushroom, being a diminutive
man, nearly hidden under the shadow of a white broad-brimmed hat,
lined with yellow.’ His fellow-clerk and ally in these giggling
matches was the afterwards famous Lord Thurlow, of whom it was said,
‘No man could possibly be as wise as Lord Thurlow looked.’ At all
events he was wise enough at this period to combine legal study with
flirtation. Cowper prophesied he would one day sit on the Woolsack,
and Thurlow promised to do something handsome for his friend whenever
that time should come. He redeemed his pledge by the gift of a few
strictures and criticisms on the poet’s translation of Homer.

Cowper removed from the attorney’s office to chambers in the Temple,
where he studied literature rather than law, and became a member of
the Nonsense Club, which was the resort of authors, journalists,
editors, and the like. Here he formed many friendships which lasted
through life, became a contributor to several periodicals, kept up his
classical reading, translated many amatory and sentimental poems, and
wrote odes to Delia of a very tender character,—Delia otherwise
Theodora Cowper.

The cousins had fallen in love, but the lady’s father would not hear
of the marriage, which was a bitter disappointment. The lady remained
faithful to her first love, and Cowper, as we know, never married.

A cousin of William’s, Major Cowper, had the patronage of the
Clerkship of Journals in the House of Lords; and the future poet,
whose finances were very low at the time, one day expressed a hope
that the holder of the office might die, in order to make way for him.
This uttered wish was afterwards the subject of due remorse to this
sensitive spirit: ‘God gave me my heart’s desire, and sent leanness
withal into my soul.’ The man died, the office was offered to, and
accepted by, Cowper. ‘I was so dazzled,’ he said, ‘by the idea, that I
did not reflect on my incapacity for the appointment;’ but as he
answered in the affirmative, he felt ‘a dagger strike at his heart.’
He fell a prey to nervous fears and terrors of all kinds, and, even
while preparing himself for the duties of his office, began to
contemplate with horror the prospect of being examined as to his
proficiency at the bar of the House of Lords.

By degrees he became quite mad, and in that state meditated
self-destruction. He bought laudanum, he drove to the river-side to
drown himself, he pointed a knife at his throat; but his courage
always failed him, or, as he thought, some particular interposition
saved his life. Twice he suspended himself by the neck long enough to
occasion insensibility, but so insecurely as to fall each time, the
shock bringing back consciousness. After this last incident he sent
for a relative, to whom he confessed everything, and who,
comprehending the state of the case, returned the nomination to Major
Cowper.

Several of his friends, unacquainted with these sad circumstances,
called upon him on the day appointed for his appearance at the House
of Lords, but one and all acquiesced in the sad decision that he must
be placed under restraint. The asylum chosen was that of Dr. Cotton, a
religious and well-educated man, who was of much service to the
sufferer by his judicious treatment. William laboured under terrible
despondency, fear of eternal punishment, and the deepest feelings of
remorse. By the gentle, friendly care of Dr. Cotton, the patient
gradually regained his health, both mental and bodily, and took much
comfort in reading the Bible,—the very book which, in his fits of
madness, he would dash to the ground. One morning, studying the third
chapter of Romans, he experienced ‘comfort and strength to believe,
feeling the full beams of the Sun of Righteousness shining on me, and
relying on the full justification by faith in the blood of Jesus. In a
moment I believed, and received the Gospel.’

The seeds of religion, which bore fruit in Cowper’s after life, had
been in some measure sown by the hand of the good physician Dr.
Cotton, and, after eleven months’ sojourn at St. Albans, William
Cowper went forth in his right mind.

After much consultation between the brothers, an abode was fixed upon
for William Cowper at what one of his biographers designates as ‘dull,
fenny Huntingdon,’ which appeared an Elysium to one who had just
recovered his senses and his liberty. He had not been there long
before an incident occurred which changed the whole tenor of his after
life. Leaving church one morning, he began pacing up and down under
the shade of the trees, before returning to his solitary lodging, when
he was accosted by a young man of prepossessing appearance, who craved
pardon for addressing ‘a perfect stranger,’ and asked leave to
accompany him in his walk. Such an unconventional proceeding was
doubtless calculated to please a man of so imaginative a turn of mind,
and Cowper warmly responded. The young man announced himself as
William Unwin, a student of Cambridge, the son of the Rev. Mr. Unwin,
who lived in the town, and boarded pupils for the Huntingdon school.
Young Unwin went on to confess that, for some time past, he had been
attracted by Cowper’s appearance, and longed to speak to him, but
to-day he could no longer resist doing so. He ended by requesting his
new friend to accompany him home, that he might make acquaintance with
his parents. No time was lost, the visit was paid; the liking proved
reciprocal, and it was not long before William Cowper left his lonely
apartments to occupy a room, lately vacated, under the roof of the
Rev. Mr. Unwin. Thus began that lifelong friendship, the annals of
which are indissolubly connected with the poet’s history. ‘Verily
there is One who setteth the solitary in families.’ Writing to his
dear cousin and constant correspondent, Lady Hesketh (the sister of
Theodora), he described ‘the most comfortable and sociable folk he had
ever met,—the son, destined for the Church, most frank and unreserved;
the girl pretty, bashful, taciturn; the father a kind of Parson Adams,
and the mother.’ Mrs. Unwin was some years younger than her husband,
comely in appearance, strongly imbued with evangelical views in
religion, well read, particularly in the English poets, with a vein of
cheerfulness and humour tempering the strictness of her religious
tenets, and an invaluable critic. Cowper describes a two hours’ walk
and conversation with her, which did him ‘more good than an audience
with a prince could have done. Her society is a real blessing to me.’
The manner of life in the Unwin establishment proved most congenial to
Cowper’s tastes, for he both contemned and condemned ‘the frivolous
gaieties, the balls, routs, and card-parties of the Huntingdon _beau
monde_.’ ‘After early breakfast,’ he says, ‘we occupy ourselves in
reading passages from Scripture, or the works of some favourite
preacher; at eleven, Divine service, which is performed twice a day; a
solitary ride, walk, or reading; and after dinner a sociable walk in
the garden with mother or son, the conversation usually of a religious
character.’ Mrs. Unwin was a good walker, and the friends often
rambled beyond the home precincts, and did not return till tea-time;
at night, reading or singing hymns till supper; family prayers
concluded the order of the day. This was the description by William
Cowper of a day of perfect cheerfulness. With all our admiration for
the man who was thus spiritually minded, it is almost a relief to find
him confessing to some slight shade of human weakness in a letter to
his cousin, Mrs. Cowper. He had given young Unwin an introduction to
‘the Park,’ and—after a lengthened rhapsody of self-accusation, not
without a spice of humour, as of one who is laughing at himself,—he
allows that ‘it was not alone friendship for the youth which prompted
the introduction, but a desire that Unwin should receive some
convincing proof of “my _sponsibility_,” by visiting one of my most
splendid connections, so that, when next he hears me called “that
fellow Cowper” (which has happened before now), he may be able to bear
witness to my gentlemanhood.’

About this time he seems to have revolved in his mind the idea of
taking orders, which he wisely abandoned. He had spent but two
peaceful years under his friends’ roof, when the home was broken up by
the death of Mr. Unwin, who fell from his horse and fractured his
skull, riding home after church. ‘This event necessitates a change of
residence,’ Cowper remarks. But the possibility of a separation from
Mrs. Unwin never appears to have struck either of them; they merely
commenced making inquiries and taking advice as to whither they should
flit. The poet’s biographers are at variance respecting this epoch in
his life, some asserting, others denying, that the friends ever
contemplated marriage. There must have been some rumour to this
effect, as, in a postscript to one of his letters he says laconically,
‘I am not married.’ He frequently remarked that the affection Mrs.
Unwin bore him was that of a mother for a son; nevertheless, the lady
was only his senior by seven years.

To the eye of watchful affection, it was evident that Cowper’s mental
recovery would not prove permanent, and such a consideration doubtless
weighed in the devoted woman’s resolution to remain at her friend’s
side. Her son, a religious and high-principled man, offered no
objection; her daughter was married; and so William Cowper and Mary
Unwin took up their abode together in the melancholy little town of
Olney, in Buckinghamshire. They were attracted to this unpromising
locality by one of those hasty friendships to which they were both
prone. The Rev. Mr. Newton, at that time esteemed a shining light in
Methodist circles—well known by his _Cardiphonia_ and many evangelical
works, and still better, perhaps, by his collection of ‘Olney
Hymns’—had visited the Unwins at Huntingdon, and had held discussions
with them on religious matters, in a strain much appreciated by the
whole household. He was now curate at Olney, and invited his new
friends to settle near him. This remarkable man had passed a stormy
and eventful youth. He had been a sailor in all parts of the world;
had endured shipwreck, slavery, imprisonment, and perils of all kinds,
by land and by sea. He had become a minister of the Gospel, and was
one of those enthusiasts who, after a sudden conversion (generally
brought about by a lightning flash of conviction), take delight in
reviling their former selves, painting their own portraits in colours
so black as to bring out in stronger relief the subsequent brightness.
He was a zealot, and had the reputation of ‘preaching people mad.’
Alas! such a man, however conscientious and well-intentioned, was one
of the worst influences that could have crossed Cowper’s path. But so
it was. Mr. Newton hired a house for the new-comers next door to the
Vicarage where he lived,—damp, dark, and dreary; even the
easily-contented and far from luxurious poet described it as a ‘well’
and an ‘abyss.’ Then the life prescribed by this spiritual pastor and
master,—prayer-meetings at all hours of the day and evening; rigid
self-examinations and upbraidings; scarcely any leisure allowed for
wholesome exercise or cheerful correspondence.

Mrs. Unwin, usually watchful and judicious, was herself so completely
under Newton’s influence, that she did not interfere to arrest the
progress of a system which was helping to hurry her poor friend back
into his former miserable state. Before the malady returned in its
most aggravated form, Cowper used to take violent fancies, and one day
suddenly insisted on leaving his own house and removing to the
Vicarage,—a most inconvenient resolution, as far as the curate was
concerned. John Cowper’s death, about this time, helped to agitate his
brother’s mind, and ere long he was again insane.

When the dark hour came, the devoted woman and the benevolent though
mistaken friend were unremitting in their care; and it was in allusion
to the tenderness with which his gentle-hearted nurse ministered to
him on this and subsequent occasions that Cowper wrote:—

‘There is a book
By seraphs writ in beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look;
A chronicle of actions just and bright.
Here all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine.’

Mr. Newton was soon to leave Olney, which he did under circumstances
that appear, at this time of writing, rather comic. He had a great
dread of fire, and strictly prohibited every species of bonfire,
illumination, or firework in the locality on Gunpowder Plot Day. Such
an inroad on a time-honoured institution could not be tolerated. The
parish rose _en masse_, and his reverence narrowly escaped with his
life. Disgusted by the ingratitude and rebellion of his flock, the
curate removed to London.

Cowper had before this returned to his own house, and gradually his
bodily health improved and his mind regained its equilibrium; he now
began to resume out-of-doors pursuits, walking and gardening, and the
like. He was much addicted to reading out of doors, and said that
external objects fixed the subject of his lecture on his memory. He
wrote to William Unwin about this time, requesting him to procure a
diamond for cutting glass, and expatiating at length on the joys of a
glazier’s trade. He hardly knows a business in which a gentleman might
more successfully employ himself. ‘Possibly the happy time may come,’
he goes on to say, ‘when I may be seen trudging off to the
neighbouring towns, with a shelf of glass hanging at my back. A
Chinese of ten times my fortune would avail himself of such an
opportunity,—and why not I, who want money as much as any mandarin in
China?’ He recommends the notion to his clerical friend, who, by
mending the church windows, might increase his income, and his
popularity in the parish into the bargain. How acceptable must these
jocose passages in his letters have been to those who loved him, after
the terrible period of gloomy hallucinations; but a bright vein of
humour was generally interwoven with the darkest threads of Cowper’s
life. He had always evinced a passion for animals, and had a fancy for
pets; and besides the hares (whose lives and deaths, if we may be
permitted a Hibernianism, he has rendered immortal), Cowper was the
proprietor of a flock of pigeons, which perched every morning on the
garden wall, awaiting the moment when their gentle master should
appear to give them breakfast. Still writing to Unwin, he says: ‘If
your wish should ever be fulfilled, and you obtain the wings of a
dove, I shall assuredly find you some fine morning among my flock;
but, in that case, pray announce yourself, as I am convinced your crop
will require something better than tares to feed upon.’

There is something very refreshing in his outburst of indignation at
the manner in which Dr. Johnson handles Milton, ‘plucking the
brightest feathers’ (or at least so Cowper thought) ‘from the Muse’s
wing, and trampling them under his great foot. I should like to thrash
his old jacket till his pension jingled in his pockets.’ He gives a
most amusing description of an unwelcome visitor at Olney, in which he
carefully draws the line between a ‘travelled man’ and a ‘travelled
gentleman.’ He speaks of the intruder’s long and voluble talk, which
set their favourite robins twittering through rivalry, neither the
birds nor the talker inclining to give in; but, ‘I am thankful to say
the robins survived it, and so did we.’

A delightful ray of human sunshine crossed the monotonous path of
Cowper’s life about this time, and for a period cheered and relieved
its grey and sombre colouring. Looking out of the window one
afternoon, he saw Mrs. Jones (the wife of a neighbouring clergyman)
entering the opposite shop, in company with a being (no other word
could be applicable), whose appearance riveted him to the spot. He
summoned Mrs. Unwin to his side, and requested she would ask both
ladies to tea. The stranger proved to be Mrs. Jones’s sister, a widow,
Lady Austen by name, lately returned from a lengthened sojourn in
France, where she appeared, by all accounts, to have become imbued
with a large portion of French vivacity, without losing any of those
sterling qualities or earnestness of purpose, for which we (at least)
give our fair countrywomen credit. The sisters accepted the
invitation, and, as they entered the room, Cowper, with his
characteristic timidity, made his escape at the other door. But the
attraction was too great; he soon stole back to the tea-table, plunged
headlong into conversation, and, when the ladies rose to take leave,
craved permission to accompany them part of the way home. In fact, he
had fallen in (Platonic) love at first sight. Lady Austen was soon in
the receipt of poems and letters, addressed to ‘Sister Anna.’ Mrs.
Jones having gone to join her husband in London, Lady Austen, finding
herself lonely, and surrounded, she said, by burglars, was easily
persuaded to settle at Olney, and at first under the same roof as
Cowper and Mrs. Unwin. It was a large rambling house. ‘She has taken
that part of the building formerly occupied by Dick Coleman, his wife,
child, and a thousand rats.’

We confess to sharing the opinion of the author of a charming sketch
of Cowper’s life, lately published, when he says, ‘That a woman of
fashion, accustomed to French _salons_, should choose such an abode,
with a couple of Puritans for her only society, surely proves that one
of the Puritans, at least, possessed some great attraction for her.’

The Vicarage was too large for the requirements of Mr. Scott (Newton’s
successor), whose sermons Lady Austen admired, though it was said he
scolded rather than preached the Gospel; and so it was settled she
should take rooms in his house, and the door of communication between
the Scott and Cowper gardens was opened. Cowper writes to Unwin on the
subject of the charming widow, and expatiates on the delightful change
wrought in their daily life by her advent. ‘Our society,’ he says, ‘is
not much increased, but the presence of one individual has made the
whole difference. Lady Austen and we pass the day alternately at each
other’s château. In the morning I walk with one or other of the
ladies; in the evening I wind thread;—so did Hercules, and so, I
opine, did Samson! Were either of these heroes living, I should not
fear challenging them to a trial of skill.’

Lady Austen became as watchful as his older associate in marking the
different phases of Cowper’s moods, and as assiduous in her endeavours
to cheer and amuse him. She would sit by his side for hours, and tax
her memory for anecdotes of foreign life, and the chequered scenes
through which she had passed; and while Mrs. Unwin set him to work on
moral satires, on ‘The Progress of Error,’ ‘Table-Talk,’ and, if we
may so express it, sermons in verse, his younger companion suggested
more lively themes for his Muse. One eventful evening, bent on
cheering the drooping spirits of the invalid, Lady Austen related to
him the wonderful adventures of John Gilpin. The poet laughed, laughed
immoderately, went to bed, woke in the night and laughed again and
again; and the next morning at breakfast he produced the immortal
poem. How many generations, how many children of all ages have laughed
since! how many artists have striven to portray their conception of
that famous ride, till it was reserved for the pencil of Caldecott to
embody (who can doubt it?) the very ideal of the poet’s fancy! Gilpin
became widely known, even while the author continued unknown.
Henderson, the popular actor, recited the ballad on the stage, and far
and near it was read and re-read with delight. Cowper now frequently
turned to Lady Austen for subjects, and followed her injunctions to
the letter when she playfully bade him ‘sing the sofa,’ on which she
sat. This poem swelled into ‘The Task’ and ‘The Task’ it was that made
Cowper famous. There is no doubt that the first stone of his future
fame was laid by the fair hand of that friend from whom he was so soon
to be separated. ‘The Task,’ while inculcating piety and morality (the
absence of which ingredients would have been impossible in any of
Cowper’s lengthened writings), abounded in exquisite descriptions of
life at home and abroad, paintings of Nature, of the quiet, homely,
lovely, loveable nature of his own native land, some passages of which
can scarcely be surpassed for calm beauty and musical rhythm. Let
those readers unacquainted with ‘The Task’ turn to the lines where the
poet stands, with the friend ‘whose arm has been close locked in his
for twenty years,’ on the eminence, when their ‘pace had slackened to
a pause,’ and judge for themselves of Cowper’s talents as a landscape
painter. His interiors are as perfect in their way. How irresistible
is the invitation to

‘Stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, draw the sofa round’!

We feel, as we read, a glow of comfort and snugness, and would gladly
make a fourth beside the table, on which stand the cups that cheer
without inebriating.

The success of ‘The Task’ was immediate and complete; the author
suddenly found himself famous and popular. The postmaster at the
little office at Olney had double work: acquaintances who had
neglected him for years now boasted of their intimacy with the lion of
the day; visitors arrived at Olney to stare at him; anonymous letters
and presents poured in on all sides. An amusing incident occurred one
day, when the clerk of All Saints’ Church, Northampton, was ushered
into Cowper’s presence. He had come, he said, with a petition to the
new poet: Would he consent to contribute the mortuary verses, annually
appended to the bills of mortality, in the capital of England’s most
midland county?

Cowper advised the messenger to apply to Mr. Cox, a statuary in the
town, who wrote verses. ‘Alas!’ replied the clerk, ‘I have already got
help from him; but he is a gentleman of so much reading that our
townspeople cannot understand him.’ The very doubtful compliment thus
implied amused our poet into compliance, and he became a contributor
to the lugubrious periodical.

It was characteristic of William Cowper that, a few years later, he
forbade Lady Hesketh to apply in his behalf for the office of
Poet-Laureate to the Court, yet he willingly accepted the office thus
proposed to him by the clerk of Northampton!

We are now approaching one of the many sad episodes in Cowper’s sad
life; we allude to his estrangement from Lady Austen,—she who had been
for some time a vision of delight to his eye, and heart. Not long
before he had written some most unprophetic lines to his ‘dear Anna.’
We do not quote them from any admiration for the verses, but because
they bear painfully on the subject:—

‘Mysterious are His ways, whose power
Brings forth that unexpected hour,
When minds that never met before
Shall meet, unite, and part no more.’

Further on, after describing the suddenness of their friendship, he
says:—

‘And placed it in our power to prove,
By long fidelity and love,
That Solomon has wisely spoken,
A _threefold cord_ cannot be broken!’

It appears that even the wisdom of Solomon is sometimes at fault, for
it was but a few weeks after that the threefold cord was rudely
snapped asunder. ‘I enclose,’ writes Cowper to Mr. Unwin, ‘a letter
from Lady Austen, which pray return. We are reconciled. She seized the
first opportunity to embrace your mother, with tears of the tenderest
affection, and I, of course, am satisfied.’