obliged to him for his kind though unsue-
cessful attempt in my favor at Oxford. It
seems not a little extraordinary that persons
so nobly patronised themselves on the score
of literature should resolve to give no en-
couragement to it in return. Should I find
a fair opportunity to thank them hereafter, I
will not neglect it.

Could Homer come himself, distress'd and poor,
And tune his harp at Rhedicine's door,
The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear)
"Begone! no tramper gets a farthing here."

I have read your husband's pamphlet through and through. You may think perhaps, and so may he, that a question so remote from all concern of mine could not interest me; but if you think so, you are both mistaken. He can write nothing that will not interest me: in the first place, for the writer's sake, and in the next place, because he writes better and reasons better than anybody; with more candor, and with more sufficiency, and, consequently, with more satisfaction to all his readers, save only his opponents. They, I think, by this time, wish that they had let him alone.

Tom is delighted past measure with his wooden nag, and gallops at a rate that would kill any horse that had a life to lose.

Certainly I had not deserved much favor at
their hands, all things considered. But the
cause of literature seems to have some weight
with them, and to have superseded the resent-
ment they might be supposed to entertain on
the score of certain censures that you wot of.
It is not so at Oxford.
W. C.

TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ.

Weston, April 29, 1791 My dear Friend,-I forget if I told you that Mr. Throckmorton had applied through the medium of to the university of Ox ford. He did so, but without success. Their answer was," that they subscribe to nothing."

Pope's subscriptions did not amount I think, to six hundred; and mine will not fall very short of five. Noble doings, at a time of day when Homer has no news to tell us, and when, all other comforts of life having risen in price, poetry has of course fallen. I call it a "comfort of life;" it is so to others, but to my self it is become even a necessary.

The holiday times are very unfavorable to the printer's progress. He and all his demons are making themselves merry and me sad, for I mourn at every hinderance. W. C.

TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, May 2, 1791. My dear Friend,-Monday being a day in which Homer has now no demands upon me, 1 shall give part of the present Monday to you. But it this moment occurs to me that the proposition with which I begin will be obscure to you, unless followed by an explanation. You are to understand, therefore, that Monday being no post-day, I have consequently no proof-sheets to correct, the correction of which is nearly all that I have to do with Homer at present. I say nearly all, because I am likewise occasionally employed in reading over the whole of what is already printed, that

My dear Johnny,-A thousand thanks for your splendid assemblage of Cambridge luminaries! If you are not contented with your collection, it can only be because you are unreasonable; for I, who may be supposed more covetous on this occasion than anybody, am highly satisfied, and even delighted with it. If indeed you should find it practicable to add still to the number, I have not the least objection. But this charge II may make a table of errata to each of the give you:

Αλλο δὲ τοι ερέω, σὺ δ' ἐνὶ φρεσὶ βάλλεο σῇσι. Stay not an hour beyond the time you have mentioned, even though you should be able to add a thousand names by doing so! For I cannot afford to purchase them at that cost. I long to see you, and so do we both, and will not suffer you to postpone your visit for any such consideration. No, my dear boy! In the affair of subscriptions, we are already illustrious enough, shall be so at least, when you shall have enlisted a college or two more; which, perhaps, you may be able to do in the course of the ensuing week. I feel myself much obliged to your university, and much disposed to admire the liberality of spirit which they have shown on this occasion.

poems. How much is already printed say you: I answer-the whole Iliad, and almost seventeen books of the Odyssey.

About a fortnight since, perhaps three weeks, I had a visit from your nephew, Mr. Bagot, and his tutor, Mr. Hurlock, who came hither under conduct of your neice, Miss Barbara. So were the friends of Ulysses conducted to the palace of Antiphates the Læstrigonian by that monarch's daughter. But mine is no palace, neither am I a giant, neither did I devour one of the party. On the contrary, I gave them chocolate, and per mitted them to depart in peace. I was much pleased both with the young man and his tutor. In the countenance of the former I saw much Bagotism, and not less in his manner. I will leave you to guess what I mean

me.

by that expression. Physiognomy is a study of which I have almost as high an opinion as Lavater himself, the professor of it, and for this good reason, because it never yet deceived But perhaps I shall speak more truly if I say, that I am somewhat an adept in the art, although I have never studied it; for whether I will or not, I judge of every human creature by the countenance, and, as I say, have never yet seen reason to repent of my judgment. Sometimes I feel myself powerfully attracted, as I was by your nephew, and sometimes with equal vehemence repulsed, which attraction and repulsion have always been justified in the sequel.

I have lately read, and with more attention than I ever gave to them before, Milton's Latin poems. But these I must make the subject of some future letter, in which it will be ten to one that your friend Samuel Johnson gets another slap or two at the hands of your humble servant. Pray read them your

self, and with as much attention as I did;
then read the Doctor's remarks if you have
them, and then tell me what you think of
both. It will be pretty sport for you on
such a day as this, which is the fourth that
we have had of almost incessant rain. The
weather, and a cold, the effect of it, have con-
fined me ever since last Thursday. Mrs. Un-
win however is well, and joins me in every
good wish to yourself and family. I am, my
good friend,
W. C.

Most truly yours,

TO THE REV. MR. BUCHANAN,

Weston, May 11, 1791. My dear Sir,-You have sent me a beautiful poem, wanting nothing but metre. I I would to heaven that you could give it that requisite yourself; for he who could made the sketch cannot but be well qualified to finish. But if you will not, I will; provided always, nevertheless, that God gives me ability, for it will require no common share to do justice to your conceptions.†

I am much yours,
W. C.
Your little messenger vanished before
could catch him.

Lation of the ancient writers, by the purity of the diction

TO LADY HESKETH.

The Lodge, May 18, 1791. ters fallen short of its destination; or whereMy dearest Coz.,-Has another of my letfore is it, that thou writest not? One letter in five weeks is a poor allowance for your friends at Weston. One, that I received two or three days since from Mrs. Frog, has not at all enlightened me on this head. But I wander in a wilderness of vain conjecture.

from a Doctor Cogswell of that place, to thank I have had a letter lately from New York, me for my fine verses, and to tell me, which pleased me particularly, that, after having his hands, which he read also, and was equally read "The Task," my first volume fell into pleased with. This is the only instance I can effusions: for I am sure, that in point of exrecollect of a reader doing justice to my first pression they do not fall a jot below my for the most part superior. But enough, and second, and that in point of subject they are too much of this, The Task" he tells me has been reprinted in that city.

66

Adieu! my dearest coz.

We have blooming scenes under wintry skies, and with icy blasts to fan them.

Ever thine,

TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.

W. C.

Weston, May 23, 1791 My dearest Johnny,-Did I not know that you are never more in your element than when you are exerting yourself in my cause, I should congratulate you on the hope there seems to be that your labor will soon have an end.*

You will wonder, perhaps, my Johnny, that Mrs. Unwin, by my desire, enjoined you to secrecy concerning the translation of the Frogs and Mice. Wonderful it may well seem to you, that I should wish to hide for a short time from a few what I am just going to pub

lish to all. But I had more reasons than one

for this mysterious management; that is to say, I had two. In the first place, I wished to surprise my readers agreeably; and secondly, II wished to allow none of my friends an opportunity to object to the measure, who might think it perhaps a measure more bountiful than prudent. But I have had my sufficient reward, though not a pecuniary one. It is a poem of much humor, and accordingly I found the translation of it very amusing. It struck me too, that I must either make it part of the present publication, or never publish it at all; it would have been so terribly out of its place in any other volume.

⚫ Johnson's remark on Milton's Latin poems is as follows: The Latin pieces are lusciously elegant; but the delight which they afford is rather by the exquisite imiand the harmony of the numbers, than by any power of invention or vigor of sentiment. They are not all of equal value; the elegies excel the odes; and some of the exercises on gunpowder treason might have been spared."

He, however, quotes with approbation the remark of Flampton. the translator of Polybius, that "Milton was the first Englishman who, after the revival of letters, wrote Latin verses with classic elegance."--See Johnson's Life of Muton.

↑ We are indebted to Mr. Buchanan for having suggested to Cowper the outline of the poem called "The Four Ages," viz., infancy, youth, middle age, and old age. The writer was acquainted with this respectable clergy

I long for the time that shall bring you

man in his declining years. He was considered to be a man of cultivated mind and taste.

The labor of transcribing Cowper's version.

† See his version of Homer.

PART THE THIRD.

HAVING now arrived at that period in the history of Cowper when he had brought to a close his great and laborious undertaking, his version of Homer, we suspend for a moment the progress of the correspondence, to afford room for a few observations.

We have seen in many of the preceding letters, with what ardor of application and liveliness of hope he devoted himself to this favorite project of enriching the literature of his country with an English Homer, that might justly be esteemed a faithful yet free translation; a genuine and graceful representative of the justly admired original.

After five years of intense labor, from which nothing could withhold him, except the pressure of that unhappy malady which reLarded his exertions for several months, he published his complete version in two quarto volumes, on the first of July, 1791, having inscribed the Iliad to his young noble kinsman, Earl Cowper, and the Odyssey to the dowager Countess Spencer-a lady for whose virtues he had long entertained a most cordial

and affectionate veneration.

surpassed either in harmony or richness? The two competitors, who are alone entitled to be contrasted with each other, are Pope and Cowper. We pass over Ogilby, Chapman, and others. It is Hector alone that is worthy to contend with Achilles. To the version of Pope must be allowed the praise of melody of numbers, richness of poetic dietion, splendor of imagery and brilliancy of effect; but these merits are acquired at the expense of fidelity and justness of interpretation. The simplicity of the heroic ages is exchanged for the refinement of modern taste, and Homer sinks under the weight of ornaments not his own. Where Pope fails, Cowper succeeds; but, on the other hand, where Pope succeeds, Cowper seems to fail. Cowper is more faithful, but less rich and spirited. He is singularly exempt from the defects attributable to Pope. There is nothing extraneous, no meretricious ornament, no labored elegance, nothing added, nothing omitted. The integrity of the text is happily preserved. But though it is in the page of Cowper that we must seek for the true interpretation of Homer's meaning-though there are many passages distinguished by much grace and beauty-yet, on the whole, the lofty spirit, the bright glow of feeling, the "thoughts that breathe, the words that burn," are not sufficiently sustained. Each of these distin

He had exerted no common powers of genius and of industry in this great enterprise, yet, we lament to say, he failed in satisfying the expectations of the public. Hayley as signs a reason for this failure, which we give in his own words. "Homer," he observes, "is so exquisitely beautiful in his own lan-guished writers, to a certain extent, has failed, guage, and he has been so long an idol in every literary mind, that any copy of him, which the best of modern poets can execute, must probably resemble in its effect the portrait of a graceful woman, painted by an excellent artist for her lover: the lover indeed will acknowledge great merit in the work, and think himself much indebted to the skill of such an artist, but he will never admit, as in truth he never can feel, that the best of resemblances exhibits all the grace that he discerns in the beloved original."

This illustration is ingenious and amusing, but we doubt its justness; because the painter may produce a correct and even a flattering likeness of the lover's mistress, though it is true that the lover himself will think otherwise. But where is the translator that can do justice to the merits of Homer? Who can exhibit his majestic simplicity, his sententious force, the lofty grandeur of his conceptions, and the sweet charm of his imagery, embellished with all the graces of a language never

not from any want of genius, but because
complete success is difficult, if not unattaina
ble. Two causes may perhaps be assigned
for this failure; first, no copy can equal the
original, if the original be the production of
a master artist. The poet who seeks to
transfuse into his own page the meaning and
spirit of an author, endowed with extraordi-
nary powers, resembles the chemist in his
laboratory, who, in endeavoring to condense
the properties of different substances, and to
extract their essence, has the misfortune to
see a great portion of the volatile qualities
evaporate in the process, and elude all the
efforts of his philosophic art. Secondly, Ho-
mer still remains untranslated, because of all
poets he is the most untranslateable.
seems to claim the lofty prerogative of stand-
ing alone, and of enjoying the solitary gran-
deur of his own unrivalled genius; allowing
neither to rival nor to friend, to imitator nor
to translator, the honors of participation: but
exercising the exclusive right of interpreting

He