from a man suffering by despair as I do. I could not sing the Lord's song were it to save my life, banished as I am, not to a strange land, but to a remoteness from his presence, in comparison with which the distance from east to west is no distance, is vicinity and cohesion. I dare not, either in prose or verse, allow myself to express a frame of mind which I am conscious does not belong to me; least of all can I venture to use the language of absolute resignation, lest, only counterfeiting, should for that very reason be taken strictly at my word, and lose all my remaining comfort. Can there not be found among those translations of Madame Guion somewhat that might serve the purpose? I should think there might. Submission to the will of Christ, my memory tells me, is a theme that pervades them all. If so, your request is performed already; and if any alteration in them should be necessary, I will with all my heart make it. I have no objection to giving the graces of the foreigner an English dress, but insuperable ones to all false pretences and affected exhibitions of what I do not feel. superior judgment; I am now reading, and have reached the middle of her Essay on the Genius of Shakspeare; a book of which, strange as it may seem, though I must have read it formerly, I had absolutely forgot the existence.* The learning, the good sense, the sound judgment, and the wit displayed in it, fully justify not only my compliment, but all compliments that either have been already paid to her talents, or shall be paid hereafter. Voltaire, I doubt not, rejoiced that his antag onist wrote in English, and that his countrymen could not possibly be judges of the dis pute. Could they have known how much she was in the right, and by how many thousand miles the bard of Avon is superior to all their dramatists, the French critic would have lost half his fame among them. I saw at Mr. Chester's a head of Paris; an antique of Parian marble. His uncle, who left him the estate, brought it, as I understand, from the Levant: you may suppose I viewed it with all the enthusiasm that belongs to a translator of Homer. It is in reality a great curiosity, and highly valuable, Our friend Sephust has sent me two Hoping that you will have the grace to be resigned most perfectly to this disappoint-prints; the Lace-maker and Crazy Kate. ment, which you should not have suffered had it been in my power to prevent it, I remain, with our best remembrances to Mr. Thornton, Ever affectionately yours, TO LADY HESKETH. W. C. The Lodge, May 27, 1788. My dear Coz.,-The General, in a letter which came yesterday, sent me inclosed a copy of my sonnet; thus introducing it. "I send a copy of verses somebody has written for the Gentleman's Magazine for April last. Independent of my partiality towards the subject, I think the lines themselves are good." Thus it appears that my poetical adventure has succeeded to my wish, and I write to him by this post, on purpose to inform him that the somebody in question is myself.* I no longer wonder that Mrs. Montagu stands at the head of all that is called learned, and that every critic vails his bonnet to her *Mr. Henry Cowper, who was reading-clerk in the House of Lords, was remarkable for the clearness and melody of his voice. This qualification is happily alluded to by the poet, in the following lines:"Thou art not voice alone, but hast besides Both heart and head, and couldst with music sweet Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers,* far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised, not for utterance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own." Lord-Chancellor Cowper, and Spencer Cowper, ChiefJustice of Chester. These also I have contemplated with pleas ure, having, as you know, à particular interest in them. The former is not more beautiful than a lace-maker once our neighbor at Olney; though the artist has assembled as many charms in her countenance as I ever saw in any countenance, one excepted. Kate is both younger and handsomer than the original from which I drew, but she is in good style, and as mad as need be. How does this hot weather suit thee, my dear, in London? as for me, with all my colonnades and bowers, I am quite oppressed by it. TO LADY HESKETH. W. C. The Lodge, June 3, 1788. My dearest Cousin,-The excessive heat of these last few days was indeed oppressive; but, excepting the languor that is occasioned both in my mind and body, it was far from being prejudicial to me. It opened ten thou sand pores, by which as many mischiefs, the effects of long obstructions, began to breathe themselves forth abundantly. Then came an east wind, baneful to me at all times, but fol *This essay contributed very much to establish the literary character of Mrs. Montagu, as a woman of taste and learning; and to vindicate Shakspeare from the sallies of the wit of Voltaire, who comprehended his genius as little as the immortal poem of the Paradise Lost." It is well known how Young replied to his frivolous raillery on the latter work: "Thou art so witty, profligate, and thin, At once we think thee Milton's Death and Sin." † Mr. Hill. lowing so closely such a sultry season, un-relieved. The last sudden change of the commonly noxious. To speak in the seaman's weather, from heat almost insupportable to a phrase, not entirely strange to you, I was cold as severe as is commonly felt in midwintaken all aback; and the humors which would ter, would have disabled me entirely for all have escaped, if old Eurus would have given sorts of scribbling, had I not favored ine weak them leave, finding every door shut, have part a little, and given my eyes a respite. fallen into my eyes. But, in a country like this, poor miserable mortals must be content to suffer all that sudden and violent changes can inflict; and if they are quit for about half the plagues that Caliban calls down on Prospero, they may say, "We are well off," and dance for joy, if the rheumatism or cramp will let them. Did you ever see an advertisement by one Fowle, a dancing-master of Newport-Pagnel? If not, I will contrive to send it to you for your amusement. It is the most extravagantly ludicrous affair of the kind I ever saw. The author of it had the good hap to be crazed, or he had never produced anything half so clever; for you will ever observe, that they who are said to have lost their wits have more than other people. It is therefore only a slander, with which envy prompts the malignity of persons in their senses to asperse those wittier than themselves. But there are countries in the world where the mad have justice done them, where they are revered as the subjects of inspiration, and consulted as oracles. Poor Fowle would have made a figure there. W. C. In the next letter Cowper declines writing further on the subject of the slave trade: the horrors connected with it are the reasons as signed for this refusal. His past efforts in that cause are the best evidence of his ability to write upon it with powerful effect. The sensitive mind of Cowper shrunk with terror from these appalling atrocities. a man. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* It is certain that we do not live far from Olney, but small as the distance is, it has too often the effect of a separation between the Beans and us. He is a man with whom, when I can converse at all, I can converse on terms perfectly agreeable to myself; who does not distress me with forms, nor yet disgust me by the neglect of them; whose manners are easy and natural, and his observations always sensible. I often, therefore, wish them nearer neighbors. We have heard nothing of the Powleys since they left us, a fortnight ago, and should be uneasy at their silence on such an occasion, did we not know that she cannot write, and that he, on his first return to his parish after a long absence, may possibly find it difficult. Her we found much improved in her health and spirits, and him, as always, affectionate and obliging. It was an agreeable visit, and, as it was ordered for me, I happened to have better spirits than I have enjoyed at any time since. General I shall rejoice if your friend Mr. Philips, influenced by what you told him of my present engagements, shall waive his applicatoin to me for a poem on the slave-trade. I account myself honored by his intention to solicit me refuse him, which inevitably I shall be conon the subject, and it would give me pain to strained to do. The more I have considered it, the more I have convinced myself that it is not a promising theme for verse. avail nothing. The world has been overcensure on the iniquity of the practice will whelmed with such remarks already, and to particularize all the horrors of it were an employment for the mind both of the poet and his readers, of which they would necessarily soon grow weary. For my own part, I cannot contemplate the subject very nearly, without a degree of abhorrence that affects my spirits, and sinks them below the pitch requisite for success in verse. Lady Hesketh recommended it to me some months since, and then I declined it for these reasons, and for others which need not be mentioned here. Weston Lodge, June 5, 1788. My dear Friend, It is a comfort to me that you are so kind as to make allowance for me, in consideration of my being so busy The truth is that, could I write with both hands, and with both at the same time, verse with one and prose with the other, I should not even so be able to despatch both my poetry and my arrears of correspondence faster than I have need. The only opportunities that I can find for conversing with distant friends are in the early hour (and that sometimes reduced to half a one) before breakfast. Neither am I exempt from hindrances, which, while they last, are insurmountable; especially one, by which I have been occasionally a sufferer all my life. I mean an inflammation of the eyes; a malady under which I have lately labored, and from which I am at this moment only in a small degree perusal of Mr. Newton's works had been made eminently * Private correspondence. I return you many thanks for all your intelligence concerning the success of the gospel in far countries, and shall rejoice in a sight of Mr. Van Lier's letter, which, being so voluminous, I think you should bring with you, when you take your flight to Weston, rather than commit to any other conveyance. Remember that it is now summer, and that *Mr. Van Lier was a Dutch minister, to whom the useful. We shall have occasion to allude to this subject in its proper place. the summer flies fast, and that we shall be happy to see you and yours as speedily and for as long a time as you can afford. We are sorry, truly so, that Mrs. Newton is so frequently and so much indisposed. Accept our best love to you both, and believe me, my dear friend, Affectionately yours, W. C. After what I have said on the subject of my writing engagements, I doubt not but you will excuse my transcribing the verses to Mrs. Montagu,* especially considering that my eyes are weary with what I have written this morning already. I feel somewhat like an impropriety in referring you to the next "Gentleman's Magazine," but at the present juncture I know not how to do better. The death of Ashley Cowper, the father of Lady Hesketh and of Miss Theodora Cowper, the object of the poet's fond and early attach ment, occurred at this period, and is the subject of the following letters. His reflections on this occasion are interesting and edifying. the TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. Weston, June 8, 1788. My dear Friend,-Your letter brought me very first intelligence of the event it mentions. My last letter from Lady Hesketh gave me reason enough to expect it, but the certainty of it was unknown to me till learned it by your information. If gradual decline, the consequence of great age, be a sufficient preparation of the mind to encounter such a loss, our minds were certainly prepared to meet it; yet to you I need not say, that no preparation can supersede the feelings of the heart on such occasions. While our friends yet live inhabitants of the same world with * These verses, "On Mrs. Montagu's Feather Hang Strong genius, from whose forge of thought All these to Montagu's repair, ourselves, they seem still to live to us; we are sure that they sometimes think of us; and, however improbable it may seem, it is never impossible that we may see each other once again. But the grave, like a great gulf, swallows all such expectations, and, in the moment when a beloved friend sinks into it, a thousand tender recollections awaken a regret that will be felt in spite of all reasonings, and let our warnings have been what they may. Thus it is I take my last leave of poor Ashley, whose heart towards me was ever truly parental, and to whose memory I owe a tenderness and respect that will never leave me. TO LADY HESKETH. W. C. The Lodge, June 10, 1788. My dear Coz.,-Your kind letter of precaution to Mr. Gregson, sent him hither as soon as chapel service was ended in the evening. But he found me already apprized of the event that occasioned it, by a line from Sephus, received a few hours before. My flections, which for a time sunk my spirits, dear uncle's death awakened in me many re A man like him would have been mourned Let it comfort us now, that we have lost him ness that he still lived was a comfort to me. less, so was his death without anguish, and to us no longer; that, as his life was blamethat he is gone to heaven. I know not that human life, in its most prosperous state, can present anything to our wishes half so desir able as such a close of it. Not to mingle this subject with others that would ill suit with it, I will add no more at present than a warm hope, that you and your sister* will be able effectually to avail your selves of all the consolatory matter with which it abounds. You gave yourselves, while he lived, to a father, whose life was doubtless prolonged by your attentions, and whose tenderness of disposition made him always deeply sensible of your kindness in this respect, as well as in many others. His old age was the happiest that I have ever known, and I give you both joy of having had so fair an opportunity, and of having so well used it, t approve yourselves equal to the calls of such a duty in the sight of God and man. W. C. much occupied on the present most affecting occasion, yet, not hearing from you, I began to be very uneasy on your account, and to fear that your health might have suffered by the fatigue both of body and spirits that you must have undergone, till a letter that reached me yesterday from the General* set my heart at rest, so far as that cause of anxiety was in question. He speaks of my uncle in the tenderest terms, such as show how truly sensible he was of the amiableness and excellence of his character, and how deeply he regrets his loss. We have indeed lost one who has not left his like in the present generation of our family, and whose equal, in all respects, no future of it will probably produce. My memory retains so perfect an impression of him, that, had I been painter instead of poet, I could from those faithful traces have perpetuated his face and form with the most minute exactness; and this I the rather wonder at, because some with whom I was equally conversant five-and-twenty-years ago have almost faded out of all recollection with me. But he made impressions not soon to be effaced, and was in figure, in temper, in manner, and in numerous other respects, such as I shall never behold again. I often think what a joyful interview there has been between him and some of his contemporaries who went before him. The truth of the matter is, my dear, that they are the happy ones, and that we shall never be such ourselves till we have joined the party. Can there be anything so worthy of our warmest wishes as to enter on an eternal, unchangeable state, in blessed fellowship and communion with those whose society we valued most, and for the best reasons, while they continued with us? A few steps more through a vain, foolish world, and this happiness will be yours. But be not hasty, my dear, to accomplish thy journey! For of all that live thou art one whom I can least spare; for thou also art one, who shalt not leave thy equal behind thee. W. C. like our animals, of a hardier and bolder nature than those of other countries. In France and Italy flowers blow because it is warm, but here in spite of the cold. The season however is somewhat mended at present, and my eyes with it. Finding myself this morning in perfect ease of body, I seize the welcome opportunity to do something at least towards the discharge of my arrears to you. I am glad that you liked my song, and, if I liked the others myself so well as that I sent you, I would transcribe for you them also. But I sent that, because I accounted it the best. Slavery, and especially negro slavery, because the cruellest, is an odious and disgusting subject. Twice or thrice I have been assailed with entreaties to write a poem on that theme. But, besides that it would be in some sort treason against Homer to abandon him for any other matter, I felt myself so much hurt in my spirits the moment I entered on the contemplation of it, that I have at last determined absolutely to have nothing more to do with it. There are some scenes of horror on which my imagination can dwell not without some complacence. But, then, they are such scenes as God, not man, produces. In earthquakes, high winds, tempestuous seas, there is the grand as well as the terrible. But, when man is active to disturb, there is such meanness in the design and such cruelty in the execution, that I both hate and despise the whole operation, and feel it a degradation of Poetry to employ her in the description of it. I hope also that the generality of my countrymen have more generosity in their nature than to want the fiddle of verse to go before them in the performance of an act to which they are invited by the loudest calls of humanity. Breakfast calls, and then Homer. W. C. charity enough for me to suppose that I have met with other hindrances than those of indolence and inattention. With these I cannot charge myself, for I am never idle by choice; and inattentive to you I certainly have not been, but, on the contrary, can safely affirm that every day I have thought on you. My silence has been occasioned by a malady to which I have all my life been subject an inflammation of the eyes. The last sudden change of weather from excessive heat to a wintry degree of cold occasioned it, and at the same time gave me a pinch of the rheumatic kind; from both which disorders I have but just recovered. I do not suppose that our climate has been much altered since the days of our forefathers, the Picts; but certainly the human constitution in this country has been altered much. Inured as we are from our cradles to every vicissitude in a climate more various than any other, and in possession of all that modern refinement has been able to contrive for our security, we are yet as subject to blights as the tenderest blossoms of spring; and are so well admonished of every change in the atmosphere by our bodily feelings as hardly to have any need of a weather-glass to mark them. For this we are, no doubt, indebted to the multitude of our accommodations; for it was not possible to retain the hardiness that originally belonged to our race, under the delicate management to which for many years we have now been accustomed. I can hardly doubt that a bull-dog or a game-cock might be made just as susceptible of injuries from weather as myself, were he dieted and in all respects accommodated as I am. Or, if the project did not succeed in the first instance, (for we ourselves did not become what we are at once,) in process of time, however, and in a course of many generations, it would certainly take effect. Let such a dog be fed in his infancy with pap, Naples biscuit, and boiled chicken; let him be wrapt in flannel at night, sleep on a good feather-bed, and ride out in a coach for an airing; and if his posterity do not become slight-limbed, puny, and valetudinarian, it will be a wonder. Thus our parents, and their parents, and the parents of both were managed; and thus ourselves; and the consequence is, that instead of being weatherproof, even without clothing, furs and flannels are not warm enough to defend us. It is observable, however, that though we have by these means lost much of our pristine vigor, our days are not fewer. We live as long as those whom, on account of the sturdiness of their frame, the poets supposed to have been the progeny of oaks. Perhaps too they had little feeling, and for that reason also might be imagined to be so de *The Picts were not our ancestors. scended. For a very robust athletic habit seems inconsistent with much sensibility. But sensibility is the sine quá non of real happiness. If, therefore, our lives have not been shortened, and if our feelings have been rendered more exquisite as our habit of body has become more delicate, on the whole perhaps we have no cause to complain, but are rather gainers by our degeneracy. Do you consider what you do when you ask one poet his opinion of another? Yet I think I can give you an honest answer to your question, and withont the least wish to nibble. Thomson was admirable in description: but it always seemed to me that there was somewhat of affectation in his style, and that his numbers are sometimes not well harmonized. I could wish too, with Dr. Johnson, that he had confined himself to this country; for, when he describes what he never saw, one is forced to read him with some allowance for possible misrepresentation. He was, however, a true poet, and his lasting fame has proved it. Believe me, my dear madam, with my best respects to Mr. King, most truly yours, W. C. P. S.-I am extremely sorry that you have been so much indisposed, and hope that your next will bring me a more favorable account of your health. I know not why, but I rather suspect that you do not allow yourself sufficient air and exercise. The physicians call them non-naturals, I suppose to deter their patients from the use of them. The providence of God and the brevity of human life are subjects of profitable remark in the following letter. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. Weston, June 23, 1788. When I tell you that an unanswered letter troubles my conscience in some degree like a crime, you will think me endued with a most heroic patience, who have so long submitted to that trouble on account of yours not answered yet. But the truth is, that I have been much engaged. Homer (you know) affords me constant employment; besides which, I have rather what may be called, considering the privacy with which I have long lived, a numerous correspondence: to one of my friends, in particular, a near and much loved relation, I write weekly, and sometimes twice in a week; nor are these my only excuses: the sudden changes of the weather have much affected me, and especially with a disorder most unfavorable to letter-writing, an inflammation in my eyes. With all these apologies, I approach you once more, not altogether despairing of forgiveness. |