PART THE THIRD. Οι αρετης εφιεμένοι πάντες ότι και YUY διατελούσι παντων μάλιστα ποθοῦντες εκείνον, ως ωφελιμώτατον οντα προς αρετης επιμελειαν. XENOPHON. THE active and powerful mind of Cowper wanted no long interval of rest after finishing the work of five laborious years. On the contrary, he very soon began to feel that regular hours of mental exertion were essentially requisite to his comfort and welfare. If That extraordinary proficient in the knowledge of human nature, Lord Bacon, has inserted in his list of articles conducive to health (for his own use) one article that may appear, at first sight, little suited to such a purpose-"heroic desires!" we understand by this expression, what he probably intended,— a constant inclination and care to employ our faculties fervently and steadily on some grand object of laudable pursuit, perhaps the whole Materia Medica could have furnished him with nothing so likely to promote the preservation of health; especially in a frame distinguished by nerves of the most delicate and dangerous sensibility. Cowper was himself aware of this truth, and he was looking deliberately around him for some new literary object of magnitude and importance, when his thoughts were directed to Milton, by an unexpected application from the literary merchant, with whom he had corresponded occasionally for some years; and with whom his acquaintance, though confined to letters of business, had ripened into a cordial esteem. The great author of the Rambler' (intimately acquainted with all the troubles that are too apt to attend the votaries of literature) has said, "That a bookseller is the only Mecanas of the modern world." Without assenting to all the eulogy and all the satire implied in this remarkable sentiment, we may take a pleasure in observing, that in the class of men so magnificently and sportively commended, there are several individuals, each of whom a writer of the most delicate manners and exalted mind may justly esteem as a pleas ing associate, and as a liberal friend. In this light Cowper regarded his bookseller, Mr. Johnson, to whom he had literally given the two volumes of his poems, with that modest and generous simplicity of spirit which formed a striking part of his character. He entertained no presumptuous ideas of their pecuniary value; and when the just applause of the world had sufficiently proved it, he nobly declined the idea of resuming a gift, which the probity of his merchant would have allowed him to recall. He was, however, so pleased by this, and by subsequent proofs of liberality in the conduct of Mr. Johnson, that on being solicited by him to embark in the adventure of preparing a magnificent edition of Milton, he readily entered into the project, and began his admirable Translations from the Latin and Italian poetry of that illustrious author. As it is to Milton that I am in a great measure indebted for what I must ever regard as a signal blessing, the friendship of Cowper, the reader will pardon me for dwelling a little on the circumstances that produced it; circumstances which often lead me to repeat those sweet verses of my friend, on the casual origin of our most valuable attachments. Mysterious are his ways, whose power That guides and governs our affections, And plans and orders our connexions. These charming verses strike with peculiar force on my heart, when I recollect, that it was an idle endeavour to make us enemies which gave rise to our intimacy; and that I was providentially conducted to Weston, at a season when my presence there afforded peculiar comfort to my affectionate friend, under the pressure of a domestic affliction, which threatened to overwhelm his very tender spirits. The entreaty of many persons, whom I wished to oblige, had engaged me to write a Life of Milton,' before I had the slightest suspicion that my work could interfere with the projects of any man; but I was soon surprised and concerned in hearing that I was represented in a newspaper as an antagonist of Cowper. I immediately wrote to him on the subject, and our correspondence soon endeared us to each other in no common degree. The series of his letters to me I value not only as memorials of a most dear and honourable friendship, but as exquisite examples of epistolary excellence. My pride might assuredly be gratified by inserting them all, as I have been requested to do, in this publication; but I trust I am influenced by a proper sense of duty towards my departed friend, in withholding many of them at present from the eye of the public. The truth is, I feel that the extreme sensibility of my affectionate correspondent led him very frequently to speak of me in such terms of tender partiality, that the world must not be expected to forgive him for so overrating even the merit of a friend, till that friend is sharing with him the hallowed rest of the grave. In the mean time my readers, I hope, will approve my confining myself to such a selection from them, as appears to me necessary for the completion of this narrative; which I seize every opportunity of embellishing with numerous letters to his other correspondents. It is time to resume the series of such letters, and in doing so I embrace with a melancholy gratification an opportunity of paying tender respect to the memory of a scholar and a poet, who in 1791 solicited and obtained the regard of Cowper, and saw him for the first time at Eartham in the following year.-I speak of the late professor of poetry, the Reverend James Hurdis; a man whose death must be lamented as peculiarly unseasonable, did not piety suggest to the persons most deeply afflicted by a loss so little expected, that it is irrational and irreligious to repine at those decrees of Heaven which summon to early beatitude the most deserving of its servants. This exemplary divine was tenderly idolized by several accomplished sisters; and since the first appearance of these volumes, they have republished his collected works, with a memorial of the learned, elegant, and moral writer, adapted to the extent and variety of his merit. My intercourse with him was brief indeed, but terminated with expressions of kindness, when every kind syllable derives an affecting power from the approach of death. I had applied to him, requesting the sight of letters that I knew he had been long in the habit of receiving from Cowper. My application, to my surprise and concern, found him sinking into a fatal illness; but he kindly intimated to a beloved sister a wish to comply with my request. To the fidelity of her affection towards a deserving brother I am indebted for the papers which I wished to see, and from which I have made such a selection as I deem most consistent with the regard I owe to both the departed poets. Their reciprocal esteem will reflect honour on both; and it is particularly pleasing to observe the candid and liberal spirit with which Cowper attended to the wishes and encouraged the exertions of a young and modest writer, who was justly ambitious of his applause. The date of his first letter to the author of the 'Village Curate' appears to claim an earlier place in this Work, but a variety of circumstances conspired to fix it here. SIR, CCCLVI. TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. Weston, March 6, 1791. I have always entertained, and have occasionally avowed, a great degree of respect for the abilities of the unknown author of the Village Curate,' unknown at that time, but now well-known, and not to me only, but to many. For before I was favoured with your obliging letter, I knew your name, your place of abode, your profession, and that you had four sisters; all which I neither learned from our bookseller, nor from any of his connexions; you will perceive, therefore, that you are no longer an author incognito. The writer, indeed, of many passages that have fallen from your pen could not long continue so. Let genius, true genius, conceal itself where it may, we may say of it, as the young man in Terence of his beautiful mistress," Diu latere non potest.' I am obliged to you for your kind offers of service, and will not say that I shall not be troublesome to you hereafter; but at present I have no need to be so. I have within these two days given the very last stroke of my pen to my long Translation, and what will be my next career I know not. At any rate we shall not, I hope, hereafter be known to each other as poets only, for your writings have made me ambitious of a nearer approach to you. Your door, however, will never be opened to me. My fate and fortune have combined with my natural disposition to draw a circle round me which I cannot pass; nor have I been more than thirteen miles from home these twenty years, and so far very seldom. But you are a younger man, and therefore may not be quite so immovable; in which case, should you choose at any time to move Westonward, you will always find me happy to receive you, and in the mean time I remain, with much respect, Your most obedient servant, critic, and friend, W. C. P. S. I wish to know what you mean to do with Sir Thomas*. For though I expressed doubts about his theatrical possibilities, I think him a very respectable person, and, with some improvement, well worthy of being introduced to the public. CCCLVII.-TO THE REV. MR. HURDIS. MY DEAR SIR, Weston, June 13, 1791. I ought to have thanked you for your agreeable and entertaining letter much sooner, but I have many correspondents who will not be said Nay; and have been obliged of late to give my last attentions to Homer. The very last indeed, for yesterday I dispatched to town, after revising them carefully, the proof sheets of the subscribers' names, among which I took special notice of yours, and am much obliged to you for it. We have contrived, or rather my bookseller and printer have contrived (for they have never waited a moment for me) to publish as critically at the wrong time, as if my whole interest and success had depended upon it. March, April, and May, said Johnson to me, in a letter that I received from him in February, are the best months for publication. Therefore now it is determined that Homer shall come out on the first of July; that is to say, exactly at the moment when, except a few lawyers, not a creature will be left in town, who will ever care one farthing about him. To which of these two friends of mine I am indebted for this management I know not. It does not please; but I would be a philosopher as well as a poet, and therefore make no complaint, or grumble at all about it. You, I presume, have had dealings with them bothhow did they manage for you? And if as they have for me, how did you behave under it? Some who love me complain that I am too passive; and I should be glad of an opportunity to justify myself * Sir Thomas More, a Tragedy. by your example. The fact is, should I thunder ever so loud, no efforts of that sort will avail me now; therefore like a good economist of my bolts, I choose to reserve them for more profitable occasions. I am glad to find that your amusements have been so similar to mine; for in this instance too I seemed in need of somebody to keep me in countenance, especially in my attention and attachment to animals. All the notice which we lords of the creation vouchsafe to bestow on the creatures, is generally to abuse them: it is well, therefore, that here and there a man should be found a little womanish, or perhaps a little childish in this matter, who will make some amends, by kissing, and coaxing, and laying them in one's bosom. You remember the little ewe lamb mentioned by the prophet Nathan; the prophet, perhaps, invented the tale for the sake of its application to David's conscience; but it is more probable that God inspired him with it for that purpose. If he did, it amounts to a proof that he does not overlook, but on the contrary much notices such little partialities and kindness to his dumb creatures, as we, because we articulate, are pleased to call them. Your Sisters are fitter to judge than I whether assembly-rooms are the places of all others in which the ladies may be studied to most advantage. I am an old fellow, but I had once my dancing days, as you have now; yet I could never find that I learned half so much of a woman's real character by dancing with her, as by conversing with her at home, where I could observe her behaviour at the table, at the fireside, and in all the trying circumstances of domestic life. We are all good when we are pleased, but she is the good woman who wants not a fiddle to sweeten her. If I am wrong, the young ladies will set me right; in the mean time I will not tease you with graver arguments on the subject, especially as I have a hope that years, and the study of the Scripture, and His Spirit, whose word it is, will, in due time, bring you to my way of thinking. I am not one of those sages who require that young men should be as old as themselves before they have had time to be so. With my love to your fair Sisters, I remain, dear Sir, most truly yours, CCCLVIII.-TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. W. C. MY DEAR FRIEND, Weston, Aug. 2, 1791. I was much obliged, and still feel myself much obliged, to Lady Bagot, for the visit with which she favoured me. Had it been possible that I could have seen Lord Bagot too, I should have been completely happy. For as it happened, I was that morning in better spirits than usual, and though I arrived late, and after a long walk, and extremely hot, which is a circumstance very apt to disconcert me, yet I was not disconcerted half so much as I generally am at the sight of a stranger, especially of a stranger lady, and more especially at the sight of a stranger lady of quality. When the |