Chapter LIX: Book II: As when from mountain tops, &c (5)

Besides the documents already inserted, Cowper translated the narrative of Mr. Van Lier, a minister of the Reformed Church, at the Cape of Good Hope. Mr. Van Lier was born in Holland, in the year 1764; his mother was pious, and brought him up in the principles of true religion, endeavouring from his early youth to direct his mind to the ministry. After the usual course of education, he entered at the University, where, though he did not neglect his studies, he forgot his God. His talents seem to have been considerable, his imagination ardent, but his passions not under sufficient control; and, with all the elements that might have formed a great character, by the misapplication of his time, opportunities, and faculties, he became vicious, and subsequently a sceptic. God, in mercy, exercised him with a series of trials, but the impression was always ultimately effaced--till at length the blow reached him which lacerated his heart, extinguished all his hopes of earthly happiness, and thus finally brought him to God. Among the excellent books that contributed to dispel his errors, he specified the "Cardiphonia" of Newton with grateful acknowledgment. It is justly considered the best of all his works, and has been made eminently useful. Mr. Van Lier subsequently wrote a narrative, in Latin, containing an account of his conversion, and of all the remarkable events of his life. This narrative he addressed to Newton, at whose request it was translated by Cowper. It was published under the title of "The Power of Grace illustrated." Interesting as are its contents, yet, as they comprise nearly two hundred pages, we find it impossible to allow space for its insertion, though it is well entitled to appear in a separate form.

He concludes his narrative in these words: "O happy and glorious hour, when I shall be delivered from all trouble and sin, from this body of death, from the wicked world, and from the snares of Satan! when I shall appear before my Saviour without spot, and shall so behold his glory, and be filled with his presence, as to be wholly and for ever engaged in adoration, admiration, gratitude, and love!"

* * * * *

As we are now drawing towards the conclusion of this undertaking, some reference is due to names once honoured by Cowper's friendship, and perpetuated in his works. A distinguished place is due to the Rev. William Cawthorne Unwin. His death has been recorded in a former volume, as well as his burial in the cathedral at Winchester. A Latin epitaph was composed on this occasion by Cowper, but objected to by a relative of the family, because it adverted to his mother's early prayers that God might incline his heart to the ministry. We subjoin the epitaph which replaced the pious and classical composition of Cowper.

IN MEMORY OF THE
REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN, M.A.
RECTOR OF STOCK, IN ESSEX.

He was educated at the Charter-house, in London, under the Rev. Dr. Crusius; and, having gone through the education of that school, he was at an early period admitted to Christ's College, Cambridge. He died in this city, the 29th of Nov. 1786, aged forty-one years, leaving a widow and three young children.

(The above is on a flat stone in the cathedral.)

* * * * *

And is this the memorial of the interesting and pious Unwin? Shall no monumental tablet record that he was "the endeared and valued friend of Cowper?" We have seldom seen so cold and _jejune_ an epitaph to commemorate a man distinguished by so many virtues, and associated with such interesting recollections. We are happy in being enabled to furnish a testimony more worthy of him in the following letter, addressed by Cowper to the present Lord Carrington.

TO ROBERT SMITH, ESQ.[775]

[775] Afterwards created Lord Carrington.

Weston-Underwood, near Olney, Dec. 9, 1786.

My dear Sir,--We have indeed suffered a great loss by the death of our friend Unwin; and the shock that attended it was the more severe, as till within a few hours of his decease there seemed to be no very alarming symptoms. All the account that we received from Mr. Henry Thornton, who acted like a true friend on the occasion, and with a tenderness toward all concerned that does him great honour, encouraged our hopes of his recovery; and Mrs. Unwin herself found him on her arrival at Winchester so cheerful, and in appearance so likely to live, that her letter also seemed to promise us all that we could wish on the subject. But an unexpected turn in his distemper, which suddenly seized his bowels, dashed all our hopes, and deprived us almost immediately of a man whom we must ever regret. His mind having been from his infancy deeply tinctured with religious sentiments, he was always impressed with a sense of the importance of the great change of all; and, on former occasions, when at any time he found himself indisposed, was consequently subject to distressing alarms and apprehensions. But in this last instance his mind was from the first composed and easy; his fears were taken away, and succeeded by such a resignation as warrants us in saying, "that God made all his bed in his sickness." I believe it is always thus, where the heart, though upright toward God, as Unwin's assuredly was, is yet troubled with the fear of death. When death indeed comes, he is either welcome, or at least has lost his sting.

I have known many such instances, and his mother, from the moment that she learned with what tranquillity he was favoured in his last illness, for that very reason expected it would be his last. Yet not with so much certainty, but that the favourable accounts of him at length, in a great measure, superseded that persuasion.

She begs me to assure you, my dear sir, how sensible she is, as well as myself, of the kindness of your inquiries. She suffers this stroke, not with more patience and submission than expected, for I never knew her hurried by any affliction into the loss of either, but in appearance at least, and at present, with less injury to health than I apprehended. She observed to me, after reading your kind letter, that, though it was a proof of the greatness of her loss, yet it afforded her pleasure, though a melancholy one, to see how much her son had been loved and valued by such a person as yourself.

Mrs. Unwin wrote to her daughter-in-law, to invite her and the family hither, hoping that a change of scene, and a situation so pleasant as this, may be of service to her, but we have not yet received her answer. I have good hope, however, that, great as her affliction must be, she will yet be able to support it, for she well knows whither to resort for consolation.

The virtues and amiable qualities of our friends are the things for which we most wish to keep them; but they are, on the other hand, the very things that in particular ought to reconcile us to their departure. We find ourselves sometimes connected with, and engaged in affection, too, to a person of whose readiness and fitness for another life we cannot have the highest opinion. The death of such men has a bitterness in it, both to themselves and survivors, which, thank God! is not to be found in the death of Unwin.

I know, my dear sir, how much you valued him, and I know also, how much he valued you. With respect to him, all is well; and of you, if I should survive you, which perhaps, is not very probable, I shall say the same.

In the meantime, believe me, with the warmest wishes for your health and happiness, and with Mrs. Unwin's affectionate respects,

Yours, my dear sir,
Most faithfully,
W. C.

* * * * *

Joseph Hill, Esq., survived Cowper many years, and lived to an advanced age. He formerly resided in Great Queen Street, and afterwards in Saville Row, and was eminent in his profession. His widow survived him, and died in the year 1824. The letters addressed to him by Cowper were arranged by Dr. Johnson, and ornamented with a suitable binding. They were finally left as an heir-loom at Wargrave, near Henley. Joseph Jekyll, Esq., the barrister, once celebrated for his wit and humour, succeeded to that property, and still survives at the moment in which we are writing.

Samuel Rose, Esq., after a comparatively short career of professional eminence, was seized with a rheumatic fever, which he caught at Horsham, in attending the Sussex sessions, in 1804. He died in the thirty-eighth year of his age, declaring to those around him, "I have lived long enough to review my grounds for confidence, and I have unspeakable comfort in assuring those I love that I am daily more reconciled in leaving the world now than at a later period."

Cowper's sentiments of him are expressed in the following letter.

TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

Weston-Underwood, Dec. 2, 1788.

My dear Friend,--I told you lately, that I had an ambition to introduce to your acquaintance my valuable friend, Mr. Rose. He is now before you. You will find him a person of genteel manners and agreeable conversation. As to his other virtues and good qualities, which are many, and such as are not often found in men of his years, I consign them over to your own discernment, perfectly sure, that none of them will escape you. I give you joy of each other, and remain, my dear old friend, most truly yours,

W. C.

* * * * *

In recalling the name of Lady Austen, it is sufficient to entitle her to grateful remembrance, that it is to her we are indebted for the first suggestion of the poem of "The Task," that lasting monument of the fame of Cowper. It has also been recorded that she subsequently furnished the materials for the story of John Gilpin.

Her maiden name was Richardson; she was married very early in life to Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, and resided with him in France, where he died. After this event, she lived with her sister Mrs. Jones, the wife of the Rev. Mr. Jones, minister of Clifton, near Olney. It was thus that her intercourse commenced with Cowper. In a subsequent period, she was married to a native of France, M. de Tardif, a gentleman, and a poet, who has expressed, in some elegant French verses, his just and deep sense of her accomplished, endearing character. In visiting Paris with him in the course of the summer of 1802, she sank under the fatigue of the excursion, and died in that city on the 12th of August. It is due to the memory of this lady to rescue her name from a surmise injurious to her sincerity and honour; and the Editor rejoices that he possesses the means of affording her, what he conceives to be an ample justification. In the published correspondence of the late respected Alexander Knox, Esq., a doubt is expressed how far she is not chargeable with endeavouring to supplant Mrs. Unwin in the affections of Cowper. It is already recorded that a breach occurred between the two ladies, and that the poet, with a sensitiveness and delicacy that reflect the highest credit on his feelings and judgment, relinquished the society of Lady Austen from that period. They never met again. There is no direct charge conveyed by Mr. Knox, but there is evidently expressed the language of doubt and surmise. Local impressions are often the best interpretation of questionable occurrences. With this view the Editor has endeavoured to trace the nature of the rupture, on the spot, by a communication with surviving parties. From these sources of inquiry it appears that Lady Austen was a woman of great wit and vivacity, and possessed the power of exciting much interest by her manner and conversation--that Mrs. Unwin, who was of a more sedate and quiet character, seeing the ascendency that Lady Austen thus acquired, became jealous, and that a rupture was the consequence. Mr. Andrews, an intelligent inhabitant of Olney, who is my informant, assured me that such was the substance of the case, and that the rest was mere surmise and conjecture. On my asking him whether he knew the impressions on Mr. Scott's mind with regard to this event, he added, "that he himself asked Mr. Scott the question, and that his reply was, 'Who can be surprised that two women should be continually in the society of one man, and quarrel sooner or later with each other?'" The blunt and honest reply of Mr. Scott we apprehend to be the best commentary on the transaction. There may be jealousies in friendship as well as in love; and the possibility of female rivalship is sufficient to account for the rupture, without the intervention of either friendship or love.

From Mrs. Livius, of Bedford, formerly Miss Barham,[776] and intimate with Newton, Cowper, and Lady Austen, I learn that, though the vivacity and manner of Lady Austen weakened the belief of the depth of her personal religion, yet Mrs. Livius never entertained any doubt of its reality. Her own deep personal piety during a long life, and her just discrimination of character, are sufficient to give weight and authority to her judgment.

[776] Sister of the late Joseph Foster Barham, Esq. I cannot
mention this endeared character, with whom I have the privilege
of being so nearly connected, without recording my affectionate
regard, and high estimation of her piety and virtues.

I take this opportunity of expressing her conviction that the loss of Lady Austen's society was a great privation to Cowper; that she both enlivened his spirits and stimulated his genius, and that the jealousy of Mrs. Unwin operated injuriously by compelling him to relinquish so innocent a source of gratification. Hayley, in some lines written on the occasion of her death, speaks of her as one who

Wak'd in a poet inspiration's flame;
Sent the freed eagle in the sun to bask,
And from the mind of Cowper--call'd "The Task."

Of the Rev. Walter Bagot, who departed in the year 1806; aged seventy-five, the poet always spoke in the language of unfeigned esteem and affection.

Sir George Throckmorton's death has been already recorded, and with this event the genius of the place may be said to have deserted its hallowed retreats, for the mansion exists no longer. His surviving estimable widow the Catharina of Cowper, resides at Northampton.

Lady Hesketh, whose affectionate kindness to the poet must have endeared her to every reader, died in the year 1807, aged seventy-four.

To the Editor's brother-in-law, the Rev. Dr. Johnson, several testimonies have already been borne in the course of this work. He was cousin to the poet, by one remove, which was the reason why he was usually designated as Cowper's _kinsman_, his mother having been the daughter of the Rev. Roger Donne, rector of Catfield, Norfolk, own brother to Cowper's mother. His unremitting and watchful care over the poet, for several successive years, and during a period marked by a painful and protracted malady, his generous sacrifice of his time, and of every personal consideration, that he might administer to the peace and comfort of his afflicted friend--his affectionate sympathy, and uniform forgetfulness of self, in all the various relations of life--these virtues have justly claimed for Dr. Johnson the esteem and love of his friends, and the honourable distinction of being ever identified with the endeared name of Cowper. He was rector of the united parishes of Yaxham and Welborne, in the county of Norfolk, where he preached the doctrines of the gospel with fidelity, and adorned them by the Christian tenor of his life and conduct. He married Miss Livius, daughter of the late George Livius, Esq., formerly at the head of the commissariat, in India, during the government of Warren Hastings. The Editor was connected with him by marrying the sister of Mrs. Johnson. He departed in the autumn of the year 1833, after a short illness, and was followed to the grave by a crowded assemblage of his parishioners, to whom he was endeared by his virtues. He left his estimable widow and four surviving children to lament his loss. Cowper was engraved on his heart, and his Poems minutely impressed on his memory. Both, therefore, became a frequent theme of conversation; and it is to these sources of information, that the writer is indebted for the knowledge of many facts and incidents that are incorporated in the present edition.

* * * * *

The value which Cowper attached to the esteem of the Rev. W. Bull, the friend and travelling companion of John Thornton, Esq., may be seen in the following letter. It alludes to the approbation expressed by Mr. Bull on the publication of his first volume of poems.

TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.

March 24, 1782.

Your letter gave me great pleasure, both as a testimony of your approbation and of your regard. I wrote in hopes of pleasing you, and such as you; and though I must confess that, at the same time, I cast a sidelong glance at the good liking of the world at large, I believe I can say it was more for the sake of their advantage and instruction than their praise. They are children; if we give them physic, we must sweeten the rim of the cup with honey--if my book is so far honoured as to be made the vehicle of true knowledge to any that are ignorant, I shall rejoice, and do already rejoice that it has procured me a proof of your esteem.

Yours, most truly,
W. C.

* * * * *

Mr. Bull was distinguished by no common powers of mind, brilliant wit, and imagination. It was at his suggestion that Cowper engaged in translating the poems of Madame Guion. He died, as he lived, in the hopes and consolations of the Gospel, and left a son, the Rev. Thomas Bull, who inherits his father's virtues.

* * * * *

Wherever men have acquired celebrity by those powers of genius with which Providence has seen fit to discriminate them, a curiosity prevails to learn all the minuter traits of person, habit, and real character. We wish to realize the portrait before our eyes, to see how far all the component parts are in harmony with each other; or whether the elevation of mind which raises them beyond the general standard is perceptible in the occurrences of common life. Tell me, said an inquirer, writing from America, what was the figure of Cowper, what the character of his countenance, the expression of his eye, his manner, his habits, the house he lived in, whether its aspect was north or south, &c. This is amusing, but it shows the power of sympathy with which we are drawn to whatever commands our admiration, and excites the emotions of esteem and love.

The person and mind of Cowper seem to have been formed with equal kindness by nature; and it may be questioned if she ever bestowed on any man, with a fonder prodigality, all the requisites to conciliate affection and to inspire respect.

He is said to have been handsome in his youth. His features strongly expressed the powers of his mind and all the sensibility of his heart; and even in his declining years, time seemed to have spared much of its ravages, though his mind was harassed by unceasing nervous excitement.

He was of a middle stature, rather strong than delicate in the form of his limbs; the colour of his hair was a light brown, that of his eyes a bluish grey, and his complexion ruddy. In his dress he was neat, but not finical; in his diet temperate, and not dainty.

He had an air of pensive reserve in his deportment, and his extreme shyness sometimes produced in his manners an indescribable mixture of awkwardness and dignity; but no person could be more truly graceful, when he was in perfect health, and perfectly pleased with his society. Towards women, in particular, his behaviour and conversation were delicate and fascinating in the highest degree.

There was a simplicity of manner and character in Cowper which always charms, and is often the attribute of real genius. He was singularly calculated to excite emotions of esteem and love by those qualities that win confidence and inspire sympathy. In friendship he was uniformly faithful; and, if the events of life had not disappointed his fondest hopes, no man would have been more eminently adapted for the endearments of domestic life.

His daily habits of study and exercise are so minutely and agreeably delineated in his letters, that they present a perfect portrait of his domestic character.

His voice conspired with his features to announce to all who saw and heard him the extreme sensibility of his heart; and in reading aloud he furnished the chief delight of those social, enchanting, winter evenings, which he has described so happily in the fourth book of "The Task."

Secluded from the world, as he had long been, he yet retained in advanced life singular talents for conversation; and his remarks were uniformly distinguished by mild and benevolent pleasantry, by a strain of delicate humour, varied by solid and serious good sense, and those united charms of a cultivated mind, which he has himself very happily described in drawing the character of a venerable friend:

Grave without dullness, learned without pride,
Exact, yet not precise: though meek, keen-eyed;
Who, when occasion justified its use,
Had wit, as bright as ready, to produce;
Could fetch from records of an earlier age,
Or from philosophy's enlightened page,
His rich materials, and regale your ear
With strains, it was a privilege to hear.
Yet, above all, his luxury supreme,
And his chief glory, was the gospel theme:
Ambitious not to shine or to excel,
But to treat justly what he lov'd so well.

But the traits of his character are nowhere developed with happier effect than in his own writings, and especially in his poems. From these we shall make a few extracts, and suffer him to draw the portrait for himself.

His admiration of the works of Nature:

I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan,
That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss
But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice
Had found me, or the hope of being free,
My very dreams were rural; rural too
The first-born efforts of my youthful muse,
Sportive and jingling her poetic bells,
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs.
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'd
To Nature's praises.

_Task_, book iv.

The love of Nature's works
Is an ingredient in the compound man,
Infus'd at the creation of the kind.
This obtains in all,
That all discern a beauty in his works,
And all can taste them. Minds, that have been form'd
And tutor'd with a relish more exact,
But none without some relish, none unmov'd.
It is a flame that dies not even there
Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,
Nor habits of luxurious city-life,
Whatever else they smother of true worth
In human bosoms, quench it or abate.
The villas with which London stands begirt,
Like a swarth Indian with his belt or beads,
Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air,
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer
The citizen, and brace his languid frame.

Book iv.

God seen, and adored, in the works of Nature:

Not a flow'r
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,
In grains as countless as the sea-side sands,
The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth.

Book vi.

His fondness for retirement:

Since then, with few associates, in remote
And silent woods I wander, far from those
My former partners of the peopled scene;
With few associates, and not wishing more.
Here much I ruminate, as much I may,
With other views of men and manners now
Than once, and others of a life to come.
I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray,
Each in his own delusions; they are lost
In chace of fancied happiness, still woo'd
And never won. Dream after dream ensues;
And still they dream that they shall still succeed,
And still are disappointed. Rings the world
With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,
And add two-thirds of the remaining half,
And find the total of their hopes and fears
Dreams, empty dreams.

Book iii.

His love for his country:

England, with all thy faults I love thee still--
My country! and, while yet a nook is left,
Where English minds and manners may be found,
Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Tho' thy clime
Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd
With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
And fields without a flower, for warmer France
With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs.

Book ii.

His humane and generous feelings:

I was born of woman, and drew milk
As sweet as charity from human breasts.
I think, articulate, I laugh and weep,
And exercise all functions of a man.
How then should I and any man that lives
Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein,
Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there,
And catechise it well; apply thy glass,
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood
Congenial with thine own.

Book iii.

His love of liberty:

Oh Liberty! the prisoner's pleasing dream,
The poet's muse, his passion and his theme;
Genius is thine, and thou art fancy's nurse;
Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse;
Heroic song from thy free touch acquires
Its clearest tone, the rapture it inspires:
Place me where winter breathes his keenest air,
And I will sing, if liberty be there;
And I will sing at liberty's dear feet,
In Afric's torrid clime, or India's fiercest heat.

_Table Talk._

'Tis liberty alone, that gives the flow'r
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume;
And we are weeds without it.

_Task_, book v.

His depressive malady, and the source of its cure:

I was a stricken deer, that left the herd
Long since; with many an arrow deep infix'd
My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by One, who had himself
Been hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore,
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.[777]
With gentle force soliciting the darts
He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live.

Book iii.

[777] The Saviour.

The employment of his time, and design of his life and writings:

Me therefore studious of laborious ease,
Not slothful, happy to deceive the time,
Not waste it, and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
When He shall call his debtors to account,
From whom are all our blessings; business finds
E'en here: while sedulous I seek t' improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd,
The mind he gave me; driving it, though slack
Too oft, and much impeded in its work
By causes not to be divulg'd in vain,
To its just point--_the service of mankind_.

Book iii.

But all is in his hand, whose praise I seek.
In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,
If he regard not, though divine the theme.
'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime
And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,
To charm his ear whose eye is on the heart,
Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,
Whose approbation prosper--even mine.

Book vi.

The office of doing justice to the poetical genius of Cowper has been assigned to an individual so well qualified to execute it with taste and ability, that the Editor begs thus publicly to record his acknowledgements and his unmingled satisfaction. The bowers of the Muses are not unknown to the Rev. John Cunningham, and, in contemplating the poetical labours of others, he might, with a small variation, justly apply to himself the well-known exclamation, "Ed anch'io son pittore."[778]

[778] Attributed to Correggio, after contemplating the works of
Raphael.

All therefore that seems necessary, is simply to illustrate the beauties of Cowper's poetry in the same manner as we have exhibited his personal character. We shall present a brief series of poetical portraits.

* * * * *

The following portrait of Lord Chatham is drawn with great force and spirit:

In him Demosthenes was heard again;
And freedom taught him her Athenian strain.
She clothed him with authority and awe,
Spoke from his lips, and in his books gave law.
His speech, his form, his action, full of grace,
And all his country beaming in his face,
He stood, as some inimitable hand
Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand.
No sycophant or slave, that dared oppose
Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose;
And every venal stickler for the yoke
Felt himself crushed at the first word he spoke.

_Table Talk._

Sir Joshua Reynolds:

There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes
A lucid mirror, in which Natures sees
All her reflected features.

Bacon the sculptor:

Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.[779]

[779] Alluding to the monument of Lord Chatham, in Westminster
Abbey.

John Thornton, Esq.:

Some men make gain a fountain, whence proceeds
A stream of liberal and heroic deeds;
The swell of pity, not to be confined
Within the scanty limits of the mind,
Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands,
A rich deposit, on the bordering lands:
These have an ear for his paternal call,
Who make some rich for the supply of all;
God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ,
And Thornton is familiar with the joy.

_Charity._

The martyrs of the Reformation:

Their blood is shed
In confirmation of the noblest claim,
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,
To walk with God, to be divinely free,
To soar, and to anticipate the skies.
Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown,
Till persecution dragg'd them into fame,
And chas'd them up to heav'n. Their ashes flew
--No marble tells us whither. With their names
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song:
And history, so warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this. She execrates indeed
The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire,
But gives the glorious suff'rers little praise.

_Task_, book v.

Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress:

O thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing
Back to the season of life's happy spring,
I pleas'd remember, and, while mem'ry yet
Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget;
Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale
Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail;
Whose hum'rous vein, strong sense, and simple style,
May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile;
Witty, and well-employ'd, and, like thy Lord,
Speaking in parables his slighted word:
I name thee not, lest so despis'd a name
Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame:
Yet, e'en in transitory life's late day,
That mingles all my brown with sober grey,
Revere the man, whose Pilgrim marks the road,
And guides the Progress of the soul to God.

_Tirocinium._

Brown, the rural designer:[780]

[780] Brown, in Cowper's time, was the great designer in the art
of laying out grounds for the nobility and gentry.

Lo! he comes--
Th' omnipotent magician, Brown appears.
Down falls the venerable pile, th' abode
Of our forefathers, a grave whisker'd race,
But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead,
But in a distant spot; where more expos'd
It may enjoy th' advantage of the north,
And agueish east, till time shall have transform'd
Those naked acres to a shelt'ring grove.
He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn,
Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise,
And streams, as if created for his use,
Pursue the track of his directing wand,
Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow,
Now murm'ring soft, now roaring in cascades,
E'en as he bids. Th' enraptur'd owner smiles.
'Tis finish'd. And yet, finished as it seems.
Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show,
A mine to satisfy the enormous cost.

_The Task_, book iii.

London:

Oh! thou resort and mart of all the earth,
Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind,
And spotted with all crimes; in whom I see
Much that I love and much that I admire,
And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair,
That pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh,
And I can weep, can hope, and yet despond,
Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee!
Ten righteous would have sav'd a city once,
And thou hast many righteous.--Well for thee--
That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else,
And therefore more obnoxious at this hour,
Than Sodom in her day had power to be,
For whom God heard his Abram plead in vain.

THE CONTRAST.

Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye,
With which she gazes at yon burning disk
Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots?
In London. Where her implements exact,
With which she calculates, computes, and scans,
All distance, motion, magnitude, and now
Measures an atom, and now girds a world?
In London. Where has commerce such a mart,
So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied,
As London--opulent, enlarg'd, and still
Increasing, London? Babylon of old
Not more the glory of the earth than she,
A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now.

Book i.

The gin-palace:

Behold the schools, in which plebeian minds
Once simple are initiated in arts,
Which some may practice with politer grace,
But none with readier skill. 'Tis here they learn
The road that leads from competence and peace,
To indigence and rapine, till at last
Society, grown weary of the load,
Shakes her incumber'd lap, and casts them out.
But censure profits little: vain th' attempt
To advertise in verse a public pest,
That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds
His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use.
Th' excise is fatten'd with the rich result
Of all this riot, and ten thousand casks,
For ever dribbling out their base contents,
Touch'd by the Midas finger of the state,
Bleed gold for ministers to sport away.
Drink, and be mad then; 'tis your country bids!
Gloriously drunk obey th' important call!
Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;
Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.

_Task_, book iv.

We add a few short passages:

How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude!
But grant me still a friend in my retreat
Whom I may whisper--solitude is sweet.

Not to understand a treasure's worth
Till time has stolen away the slighted good
Is cause of half the poverty we feel,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.

Not a year but pilfers as he goes
Some youthful grace, that age would gladly keep.

When one that holds communion with the skies
Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise,
And once more mingles with us meaner things,
'Tis even as if an angel shook his wings;
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.

We must not omit a most splendid specimen of Cowper's poetic genius, entitled the "Yardley Oak." It is an unfinished poem, and supposed to have been written in the year 1791, and laid aside, without ever having been resumed, when his attention was engrossed with the edition of Milton. Whatever may be the history of this admirable fragment, it has justly acquired for Cowper the reputation of having produced one of the richest and most highly finished pieces of versification that ever flowed from the pen of a poet. Its existence even was unknown both to Dr. Johnson and Hayley, till the latter discovered it buried in a mass of papers. We subjoin in a note a letter addressed by Dr. Johnson to Hayley, containing further particulars.[781]

[781]

"January 6, 1804.

"Among our dear Cowper's papers, I found the following memorandum:

YARDLEY OAK IN GIRTH, FEET 22, INCHES 6½.
THE OAK AT YARDLEY LODGE, FEET 28, INCHES 5.

As to Yardley Oak, it stands in Yardley Chase, where the Earls of
Northampton have a fine seat. It was a favourite walk of our dear
Cowper, and he once carried me to see that oak. I believe it is
five miles at least from Weston Lodge. It is indeed a noble tree,
perfectly sound, and stands in an open part of the Chase, with
only one or two others near it, so as to be seen to advantage.

"With respect to the oak at Yardley Lodge, that is quite in
decay--a pollard, and almost hollow. I took an excrescence from
it in the year 1791, and, if I mistake not, Cowper told me it
is said to have been an oak in the time of the Conqueror. This
latter oak is on the road to the former, but not above half
so far from Weston Lodge, being only just beyond Killick and
Dinglederry. This is all I can tell you about the oaks. They were
old acquaintance and great favourites of the bard. How rejoiced I
am to hear that he has immortalized one of them in blank verse!
Where could those one hundred and sixty-one lines lie hid? Till
this very day I never heard of their existence, nor suspected it."

Though this fragment is inserted among the poems, we extract the following passages, as expressive of the vigour and inspiration of true poetic genius.

Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball,
Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay,
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs,
And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp.
But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains
Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil,
Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer,
With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd
The soft receptacle, in which, secure,
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.
So Fancy dreams.

Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods;
And Time hath made thee what thou art--a cave
For owls to roost in! Once thy spreading boughs
O'erhung the champaign: and the numerous flocks,
That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample cope
Uncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm.
No flock frequents thee now.
While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd
Of treeship--first a seedling, hid in grass;
Then twig; then sapling; and as cent'ry roll'd
Slow after century, a giant bulk
Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root
Upheav'd above the soil, and sides imboss'd
With prominent wens globose--till, at the last,
The rottenness which time is charg'd to inflict
On other mighty ones found also thee.

Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly
Could shake thee to the root--and time has been
When tempests could not.[782]

[782] The late Samuel Whitbread, Esq., was an enthusiastic
admirer of the poetry of Cowper, and solicitous to obtain a relic
of the Yardley oak. Mr. Bull, of Newport Pagnel, promised to send
a specimen, but some little delay having occurred, Mr. Whitbread
addressed to him the following verses, which, emanating from such
a man, and not having met the public eye, will, we are persuaded,
be considered as a literary curiosity, and of no mean merit.

"Send me the precious bit of oak,
Which your own hand so fondly took
From off the consecrated tree,
A relic dear to you and me.
To many 'twould a bauble prove
Not worth the keeping.--Those who love
The teeming grand poetic mind,
Which God thought fit in chains to bind,
Of dreadful, dark despairing gloom;
Yet left within such ample room,
For coruscations strong and bright:
Such beams of everlasting light,
As make men envy, love, and dread,
The structure of that wondrous head,
Must prize a bit of Judith's stem,
That brought to light that precious gem--
The fragment: which in verse sublime
Records her honours to all time."

With these acknowledged claims to popular favour, it is pleasing to reflect on the singular moderation of Cowper amidst the snares of literary fame. His motives seem to have been pure and simple, and his main design to elevate the character of the age, and to glorify God. He was not insensible to the value of applause, when conferred by a liberal and powerful mind, but even in this instance it was a subdued and chastened feeling. A more pleasing evidence could not be adduced than when Hayley, in one of his visits to Weston, brought a recent newspaper containing a speech of Mr. Fox, in which that distinguished orator had quoted the following impressive verses on the Bastille, in the House of Commons.

Ye horrid tow'rs, the abode of broken hearts:
Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair,
That monarchs have supplied from age to age
With music, such as suits their sov'reign ears,
The sighs and groans of miserable men!
There's not an English heart that would not leap,
To hear that ye were fall'n at last; to know,
That e'en our enemies, so oft employ'd
In forging chains for us, themselves were free.[783]

[783] These lines were written prophetically, and previously to
the event.

Mrs. Unwin discovered marks of vivid satisfaction, Cowper smiled, and was silent.[784]

[784] The late Lord Erskine was a frequent reciter of passages
from Cowper's poems. The Editor is indebted to E. H. Barker, Esq.
of Thetford, for the following anecdote which was communicated to
him by Joseph Jekyll, Esq., the eminent counsellor.

Mr. Jekyll was dining with Lord Oxford, and among the company
were Dr. Parr, Horne Tooke, Lord Erskine, and Mr. W. Scott,
(brother to Lady Oxford.) Lord Erskine recited, in his admirable
manner, the verses of Cowper about the _Captive_, without
saying whose they were: Dr. Parr expressed great admiration of
the verses, and said that he had never heard of them or seen
them before; he inquired whose they were? H. Tooke said, "Why,
Cowper's." Dr. Parr said he had never read Cowper's poems. "Not
read Cowper's poems!" said Horne Tooke, "and you never will, I
suppose, Dr. Parr, till they are turned into Greek?" When the
company went into the drawing-room, Lady Oxford presented Dr.
Parr with a small edition of Cowper's Poems, and Mr. Jekyll was
desired by her ladyship to write in the book, "From the Countess
of Oxford to Dr. Parr." Horne Tooke wrote also underneath, "Who
never read the book," and signed his name to it: all present
signed their names and added some remark, and among the rest W.
Scott. At the sale of Dr. Parr's books, this volume fetched about
five pounds, being considered valuable and curious, as the W.
Scott signed was supposed to have been _Sir_ W. Scott (since Lord
Stowell.) Lord Stowell afterwards took great pains to contradict
the report.

We have mentioned how little Cowper was elated by praise. We shall now state how much he was depressed by unjust censure. His first volume of poems had been severely criticised by the Analytical Review. His feelings are recorded in the following (hitherto unpublished) letter to John Thornton, Esq.

Olney, May 21, 1782.

Dear Sir,--You have my sincere thanks for your obliging communication, both of my book to Dr. Franklin, and of his opinion of it to me. Some of the periodical critics, I understand have spoken of it with contempt enough; but, while gentlemen of taste and candour have more favourable thoughts of it, I see reason to be less concerned than I have been about their judgment, hastily framed perhaps, and certainly not without prejudice against the subjects of which it treats.

Your friendly intimation of the Doctor's sentiments reached me very seasonably, just when, in a fit of despondence, to which no man is naturally more inclined, I had begun to regret the publication of it, and had consequently resolved to write no more. For if a man has the fortune to please none but his friends and their connexions, he has reason enough to conclude that he is indebted for the measure of success he meets with, not to the real value of his book, but to the partiality of the few that approve it. But I now feel myself differently affected towards my favourite employment; for which sudden change in my sentiments I may thank you and your correspondent in France, his entire unacquaintedness with me, a man whom he never saw, nor will see, his character as a man of sense and condition, and his acknowledged merit as an ingenious and elegant writer, and especially his having arrived at an age when men are not to be pleased they know not why, are so many circumstances that give a value to his commendations, and make them the most flattering a poor poet could receive, quite out of conceit with himself, and quite out of heart with his occupations.

If you think it worth your while, when you write next to the Doctor, to inform him how much he has encouraged me by his approbation, and to add my respects to him, you will oblige me still further; for next to the pleasure it would afford me to hear that it has been useful to any, I cannot have a greater, so far as my volume is in question, than to hear that it has pleased the judicious.

Mrs. Unwin desires me to add her respectful compliments.

I am, dear sir,
Your affectionate and most obedient servant,
W. C.

To John Thornton, Esq.
Clapham, Surrey.

* * * * *

Through this harsh and unwarrantable exercise of criticism, the world might never have possessed the immortal poem of "The Task," if an American philosopher had not awarded that honourable meed of just praise and commendation, which an English critic thought proper to withhold.

But it is not merely the poetic claims of Cowper which have earned for him so just a title to public gratitude and praise. It would be unjust not to bestow particular notice on a talent, in which he singularly excelled, and one that friendship ought especially to honour, as she is indebted to it for a considerable portion of her happiest sources of delight--we mean the talent of writing letters.

Those of Pope are generally considered to be too laboured, and deficient in ease. Swift is frequently ill-natured and offensive. Gray is admirable, but not equal to Cowper either in the graces of simplicity, or in the warmth of affection.

The letters of Cowper are not distinguished by any remarkable superiority of thought or diction; it is rather the easy and graceful flow of sentiment and feeling, his enthusiastic love of nature, his touching representations of common and domestic life, and above all, the ingenuous disclosure of the recesses of his own heart, that constitute their charm and excellence. They form a kind of biographical sketch, drawn by his own hand. His poetry proclaims the author, his correspondence depicts the man. We see him in his walks, in the privacy of his study, in his daily occupations, amid the endearments of home, and with all the qualities that inspire friendship, and awaken confidence and love. We learn what he thought, what he said, his views of men and manners, his personal habits and history. His ideas usually flow without premeditation. All is natural and easy. There is no display, no evidence of conscious superiority, no concealment of his real sentiments. He writes as he feels and thinks, and with such an air of truth and frankness, that he seems to stamp upon the letter the image of his mind, with the same fidelity of resemblance that the canvass represents his external form and features. We see in them the sterling good sense of a man, the playfulness and simplicity of a child, and the winning softness and delicacy of a woman's feelings. He can write upon any subject, or write without one. He can embellish what is real by the graces of his imagination, or invest what is imaginary with the semblance of reality. He can smile or he can weep, philosophize or trifle, descant with fervour on the loveliness of nature, talk about his tame hares, or cast the overflowings of an affectionate heart at the shrine of friendship. His correspondence is a wreath of many flowers. His letters will always be read with delight and interest, and by many, perhaps, will be considered to be the rivals of his poems. They are justly entitled to the eulogium which we know to have been pronounced upon them by Charles Fox,--that of being "the best specimens of epistolary excellence in the English language."

Among men distinguished by classical taste and acquirements, his Latin poems will ever be considered as elegant specimens of composition, and formed after the best models of antiquity.

There is one exquisite little gem, in Latin hexameters, entitled "Votum," beginning thus:

O matutini rores, auræque salubres,

which we believe has never received an English dress. A gentleman of literary taste has kindly furnished us with a pleasing version, which we are happy to subjoin in a note.[785] We trust the author will excuse the insertion of his name.

[785] THE WISH.

"Ye verdant hills, ye soft umbrageous vales,
Fann'd by light Zephyr's health-inspiring gales;
Ye woods, whose boughs in rich luxuriance wave;
Ye sparkling rivulets, whose waters lave
Those meads, where erst, at morning's dewy prime,
(Reckless of shoals beneath the stream of Time,)
My vagrant feet your flowery margin press'd,
Whilst Heaven gave back the sunshine in my breast:--
O, would the powers that rule my wayward lot
Restore me to the lone paternal cot!

There, far from folly, fraud's ensnaring wiles,
The world's dark frown, or still more dangerous smiles,
Let peaceful duties peaceful hours engage;
Till, winding gently down the slope of age,
Tranquil I mark life's swift-declining day
Fling deeper shades athwart my lessening way;
And pleased, at last put off this mortal coil,
Again to mingle with its kindred soil
Beneath the grassy turf, or silent stone;
Unseen the path I trod, my resting-place unknown."

_T. Ostler._

We have thus endeavoured to exhibit the singular versatility of Cowper's genius, and the combination of powers not often united in the same mind. All that now remains is to consider the consecration of these faculties to high and holy ends; and the influence of his writings on the literary, the moral, and religious character of the age.

The great end and aim which he proposed to himself as an author, has already been illustrated from his writings; we add one more passage to show the sanctity of his character.

Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot,
And cut up all my follies by the root,
I never trusted in an arm but thine,
Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine.
My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled,
Were but the feeble efforts of a child;
Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part,
That they proceeded from a grateful heart.
Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood,
Forgive their evil, and accept their good.
I cast them at thy feet--my only plea
Is what it was--dependence upon thee:
While struggling in the vale of tears below,
_That_ never failed, nor shall it fail me now.

_Truth._

We confess that we are edified by this simple, yet sublime and holy piety.

It was from this source that Cowper drew the materials that have given to his writings the character of so elevated a morality. Too seldom, alas! have poets consecrated their powers to the cause of divine truth. In modern times, especially, we have witnessed a voluptuous imagery and appeal to the passions, in some highly-gifted writers, which have contributed to undermine public morality, and to tarnish the purity of female minds. But it is the honourable distinction of Cowper's poetry, that nothing is to be found to excite a blush on the cheek of modesty, nor a single line that requires to be blotted out. He has done much to introduce a purer and more exalted taste; he is the poet of nature, the poet of the heart and conscience, and, what is a still higher praise, the poet of Christianity. He mingled the waters of Helicon with the hallowed streams of Siloam, and planted the cross amid the bowers of the muses. Johnson, indeed, has remarked, that religion is not susceptible of poetry.[786] If this be true, it can arise only from the want of religious authors and religious readers. But we venture to deny the position, and to maintain that religion ennobles whatever it touches. In architecture, what building ever rivalled the magnificence of the temple of Jerusalem, St. Peter's in Rome, or the imposing grandeur of St. Paul's? In painting, what power of art can surpass the Transfiguration of a Raphael, the Ecce Homo of a Guido, or the Elevation and Descent of the Cross in a Rubens? In poetry, where shall we find a nobler production of human genius than the Paradise Lost? Again, let us listen to the language of the pious Fénelon: