LIFE OF COWPER. You must understand this to be a soliloquy. I wrote my thoughts without recolW. C. lecting that I was writing a letter, and to you. TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN. "Just hints a fault, or hesitates dislike." These last, for aught that appears by your letter, he threw in of his own mere bounty. I beg that my share of thanks may not be wanting on this occasion, and that, when you write to him next, you will assure him of the sense I have of the obligation, which is the more flattering, as it includes a proof of his predilection in favor of the poems his franks are destined to enclose. May they not forfeit his good opinion hereafter, nor yours, to whom I hold myself indebted in the first place, and who have equally given me credit for their deservings! Your mother says that, although there are passages in them containing opinions which will not be universally subscribed to, the world will at least allow what my great modesty will not permit me to subjoin. I have the highest opinion of her judgment, and know, by having experienced the soundness of them, that her observations are always worthy of attention and rerard. Yet, strange as it may seem, I do Least of all would I give way to such an unnot feel the vanity of an author, when she seasonable ebullition, merely because a civcommends me; but I feel something better, il question is proposed to me, with such a spur to my diligence, and a cordial to my gentleness, and by a man whose concern for spirits, both together animating me to de- my credit and character I verily believe to be serve, at least not to fall short of, her expect- sincere. I reply therefore, not peevishly, but ations. For I verily believe, if my dulness with a sense of the kindness of your intenshould earn me the character of a dunce, the tions, that I hope you may make yourself When censure would affect her more than me; not very easy on a subject, that I can perceive that I am insensible of the value of a good has occasioned you some solicitude. name, either as a man or an author. With- I wrote the poem called "Truth," it was inout an ambition to attain it, it is absolutely dispensably necessary that I should set forth unattainable under either of those descrip- that doctrine which I know to be true, and tions. But my life having been in many that I should pass what I understood to be a respects a series of mortifications and disap-just censure upon opinions and persuasions pointments, I am become less apprehensive and impressible, perhaps, in some points, than I should otherwise have been; and, though I should be exquisitely sorry to disgrace my friends, could endure my own share of the affliction with a reasonable measure of tranquillity. that differ from or stand in direct opposition These seasonable showers have poured floods upon all the neighboring parishes, but have passed us by. My garden languishes, and, what is worse, the fields too languish, and the upland-grass is burnt. These discriminations are not fortuitous. But if they are providential, what do they import? I can only answer, as a friend of mine once answered a mathematical question in the schools-"Prorsus nescio." Perhaps it is that men who will not believe what they cannot understand may learn the folly of their conduct, while their very senses are made to witness against them; and them-ity of that notion, which includes a solecism selves, in the course of providence, become the subjects of a thousand dispensations they eannot explain. But the end is never answered. The lesson is inculcated, indeed, frequently enough, but nobody learns it. Well Instruction, vouchsafed in vain, is (I suppose) a debt to be accounted for hereafter. in the very terms of it, that man by repentof his Maker: I call it a solecism, because ance and good works may deserve the mercy mercy deserved ceases to be mercy, and must take the name of justice. This is the opinion which I said in my last the world would not acquiesce in, but except this I do not re to furnish yourself with a little more assur ance or always to eat in the dark. collect that I have introduced a syllable into any of my pieces that they can possibly object to; and even this I have endeavored to We sympathize with Mrs. Unwin, and, if it deliver from doctrinal dryness, by as many will be any comfort to her to know it, can pretty things in the way of trinket and play-assure her, that a lady in our neighborhood thing as I could muster upon the subject. So that, if I have rubbed their gums, I have taken care to do it with a coral, and even that coral embellished by the ribbon to which it is tied, and recommended by the tinkling of all the bells I could contrive to annex to it. You need not trouble yourself to call on Johnson; being perfectly acquainted with the progress of the business, I am able to satisfy your curiosity myself-the post before the last, I returned to him the second sheet of "Table Talk," which he had sent me for correction, and which stands foremost in the volume. The delay has enabled me to add a piece of considerable length, which, but for the delay, would not have made its appearance upon this occasion: it answers to the name of Hope. I remember a line in the Odyssey, which, literally translated, imports that there is nothing in the world more impudent than the belly. But, had Homer met with an instance of modesty like yours, he would either have suppressed that observation, or at least have qualified it with an exception. I hope that, for the future, Mrs. Unwin will never suffer you to go to London without putting some victuals in your pocket; for what a strange article would it make in a newspaper, that a tall, well-dressed gentleman, by his appearance a clergyman, and with a purse of gold in his pocket, was found starved to death in the street. How would it puzzle conjecture to account for such a phenomenon! some would suppose that you had been kidnapped, like Betty Canning, of hungry memory; others would say the gentleman was a Methodist, and had practised a rigorous selfdenial, which had unhappily proved too hard for his constitution; but I will venture to say that nobody would divine the real cause, or suspect for a moment that your modesty had occasioned the tragedy in question. By the way, is it not possible that the spareness and slenderness of your person may be owing to the same cause? for surely it is reasonable to suspect that the bashfulness which could prevail against you on so trying an occasion may be equally prevalent on others. I remember having been told by Colman, that, when he once dined with Garrick, he repeatedly pressed him to eat more of a certain dish that he was known to be particularly fond of; Colman as often refused, and at last declared he could not, "But could not you," says Garrick, "if you was in a dark closet by yourself? The same question might perhaps be put to you, with as much or more propriety and therefore I recommend it to you, either is always, on such occasions, the most mis- Among the occurrences that deserve to be recorded in the life of Cowper, the commencement of his acquaintance with Lady Austen, from its connexion with his literary history, is entitled to distinct notice. This lady possessed a highly cultivated mind, and the power, in no ordinary degree, to engage and interest the attention. This acquaintance soon ripened into friendship, and it is to her that we are primarily indebted for the poem of "The Task," for the ballad of "John Gilpin," and for the translation of Homer. The occasion of this acquaintance was as follows. A lady, whose name was Jones, was one of the few neighbors admitted in the resi dence of the retired poet. She was the wife of a clergyman, who resided at the village of Clifton, within a mile of Olney. Her sister the widow of Sir Robert Austen, Baronet, came to pass some time with her in the summer of 1781; and, as the two ladies 'ntered a shop in Olney, opposite to the house of Mrs. Unwin, Cowper observed them from his window. Although naturally shy, and now rendered more so by his very long illness, he was so struck with the appearance of the stranger, that, on hearing she was sister to Mrs. Jones, he requested Mrs. Unwin to invite them to tea. So strong was his reluctance to admit the company of strangers, that, after he had occasioned this invitation, he was for a long time unwilling to join the little party; but, having forced himself at last to engage in conversation with Lady Austen, he was so delighted with her colloquial talents, that he attended the ladies on their return to Clifton; and from that time continued to cultivate the regard of his new acquaintance with such assiduous attention. that she soon received from him the familiar and endearing title of Sister Ann. The great and happy influence which an incident that seems at first sight so trivial produced on the imagination of Cowper, will best appear from the following epistle, which, soon after Lady Austen's return to London for the winter, the poet addressed to her, on the 17th December, 1781. Dear Anna,-between friend and friend, Our health, the weather, and the news; But when a poet takes the pen, And this is what the world, who knows Should feel that itching and that tingling, Mysterious are his ways, whose power And marks the bounds of our abode. Say, Anna, had you never known Or guess with a prophetic power, The works of man tend, one and all, The monuments of human strength. Not that I deem or mean to call That Solomon has wisely spoken; "A three-fold cord is not soon broken." In this interesting poem the author seems prophetically to anticipate the literary efforts that were to spring, in process of time, from a friendship so unexpected and so pleasing. Genius of the most exquisite kind is sometimes, and perhaps generally, so modest and ditfident as to require continual solicitation and encouragement from the voice of sympathy and friendship to lead it into permanent and successful exertion. Such was the genius of Cowper; and he therefore considered the cheerful and animating society of his new and accomplished friend as a blessing conferred on him by the signal favor of Providence. We shall find frequent allusions to this lady in the progress of the following correspondence. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Olney, July 7, 1781. My dear Friend,-Mr. Old brought us the acceptable news of your safe arrival. My sensations at your departure were far from pleasant, and Mrs. Unwin suffered more upon the occasion than when you first took leave of Olney. When we shall meet again, and in what circumstances, or whether we shall An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the residence meet or not, is an article to be found no of Cowper, which faced the inarket-place. Lady Austen's residence in France. * Private correspondence. where but in that volume of Providence which belongs to the current year, and will not be understood till it is accomplished. This I know, that your visit was most agree able here. It was so even to me, who, though I live in the midst of many agreeables, am but little sensible of their charms. But, when you came, I determined, as much as possible, to be deaf to the suggestions of despair; that, if I could contribute but little to the pleasure of the opportunity, I might not dash it with unseasonable melancholy, and, like an instrument with a broken string, interrupt the harmony of the concert. Lady Austen, waving all forms, has paid us the first visit; and, not content with showing us that proof of her respect, made handsome apologies for her intrusion. We returned the visit yesterday. She is a lively, agreeable woman; has seen much of the world, and accounts it a great simpleton, as it is. She laughs and makes laugh, and keeps up a conversation without seeming to labor at it. I had rather submit to chastisement now than be obliged to undergo it hereafter. If Johnson, therefore, will mark with a marginal Q, those lines that he or his object to as not sufficiently finished, I will willingly retouch them, or give a reason for my refusal. I shall moreover think myself obliged by any hints of that sort, as I do already to somebody, who, by running here and there two or three paragraphs into one, has very much improved the arrangement of my matter. I am apt, I know, to fritter it into too many pieces, and, by doing so, to disturb that order to which all writings must owe their perspicuity, at least in a considerable measure. With all that carefulness of revisal I have exercised upon the sheets as they have been transmitted to me, I have been guilty of an oversight, and have suffered a great fault to escape me, which I shall be glad to correct, if not too late. In the "Progress of Error," a part of the Young Squire's apparatus, before he yet enters upon his travels, is said to be --Memorandum-book to minute down or hereafter. I rather wish he may choose the present time, because it will be a proper sequel to "Hope," and because I am willing to think it will embellish the collection. Whoever means to take my phiz will find himself sorely perplexed in seeking for a fit occasion. That I shall not give him one, is certain; and if he steals one, he must be as cunning and quicksighted a thief as Autolycus himself. His best course will be to draw a face, and call it mine, at a venture. They who have not seen me these twenty years will say, It may possibly be a striking likeness now, though it bears no resemblance to what he was: time makes great alterations. They who know me better will say, perhaps, Though it is not perfectly the thing, yet there is somewhat of the cast of his countenance. If the nose was a little longer, and the chin a little shorter, the eyes a little smaller, and the forehead a little more protuberant, it would be just the man. And thus, without seeing me at all, the artist may represent me to the public eye, with as much exactness as yours has bestowed upon you, though, I suppose, the original was full in his view when he made the attempt. We are both as well as when you left us. Our hearty affections wait upon yourself and Mrs. Newton, not forgetting Euphrosyne, the laughing lady. Yours, my dear Sir, W. C. The playfulness of Cowper's humor is amusingly exerted in the following letter: TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON. Olney, July 12, 1781. My very dear Friend,-I am going to send, what when you have read, you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows whether what I have got be verse or not;-by the tune and the time, it ought to be rhyme, but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of yore, such a ditty before? I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but as well as I could, in hopes to do good; and if the Reviewer should say "to be sure the The several posts, and where the chaise broke gentleman's Muse wears Methodist shoes, down. Here, the reviewers would say, is not only "down," but "down derry down" into the bargain, the word being made to rhyme to itself. This never occurred to me till last night, just as I was stepping into bed. I should be glad, however, to alter it thus With memorandum-book for every town, I have advanced so far in "Charity," that I have ventured to give Johnson notice of it, and his option whether he will print it now you may know by her pace and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard for the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoidening play, of the modern day; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and then wear a tittering air, 'tis only her plan to catch, if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a new construction: she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap all that may come with a sugar-plum."-His opinion in this will not be amiss; 'tis what I intend, my principal end, and, if I succeed, and folks should read, till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall think I am paid for all I have said and all I have done, though I have run many a time, after a rhyme, as far as from hence to the end of my sense, and by hook or crook, write another book, if I live and am here, another year. I have heard before, of a room with a floor laid upon springs, and such like things, with so much art in every part, that when you went in you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace, swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, without pipe, or string, or any such thing; and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and as you advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I have penn'd, which that you may do, ere Madam and you are quite worn out with jigging about, I take my leave, and here you receive a bow profound, down to the ground, from your humble me— TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* W. C. Olney, July 22, 1781. My dear Friend,-I am sensible of your difficulties in finding opportunities to write; and therefore, though always desirous and sometimes impatient to hear from you, am never peevish when I am disappointed. Johnson, having begun to print, has given me some sort of security for his perseverance; else the tardiness of his operations would almost tempt me to despair of the end. He bas, indeed, time enough before him; but that very circumstance is sometimes a snare, and gives occasion to delays that cannot be remedied. Witness the hare in the fable, who fell asleep in the midst of the race, and waked not till the tortoise had won the prize. Taking it for granted that the new marriage-bill would pass, I took occasion, in the Address to Liberty, to celebrate the joyful era; but in doing so afforded another proof that poets are not always prophets, for the House of Lords have thrown it out. I am, however, provided with four lines to fill up the gap, which I suppose it will be time enough to insert when the copy is sent down. I am in the middle of an affair called "Conversation," which, as “Table Talk" serves in the present volumes by way of introductory riddle to the band that follows, I design shall perform the same office in a second. Sic brevi fortes jaculamur ævo. You cannot always find time to write, and I cannot always write a great deal; not for want of time, but for want of something equally requisite ; perhaps materials, perhaps • Private correspondence. spirits, or perhaps more frequently for want of ability to overcome an indolence that I have sometimes heard even you complain of. Yours, my dear Sir, and Mrs. Newton's, W. C. TO THE REV WILLIAM UNWIN. Olney, July 29, 1781. My dear Friend,-Having given the case you laid before me in your last all due consideration, I proceed to answer it; and, in order to clear my way, shall, in the first place, set down my sense of those passages in Scripture, which, on a hasty perusal, seem to clash with the opinions I am going to give"If a man smite one cheek, turn the other ""If he take thy cloak, let him take thy coat also." That is, I suppose, rather than on a vindictive principle avail yourself of that remedy the law allows you, in the way of retaliation, for that was the subject immediately under the discussion of the speaker. Nothing is so contrary to the genius of the gospel as the gratification of resentment and revenge; but I cannot easily persuade myself to think, that the Author of that dispensation could possibly advise his followers to consult their own peace at the expense of the peace of society, or inculcate a universal ab stinence from the use of lawful remedies, to the encouragement of injury and oppression. St. Paul again seems to condemn the practice of going to law-" Why do ye not rather suffer wrong," &c. But if we look again we shall find that a litigious temper had obtained, and was prevalent, among the professors of the day. This he condemned, and with good reason; it was unseemly to the last degree that the disciples of the Prince of Peace should worry and vex each other with injurious treatment and unnecessary disputes, to the scandal of their religion in the eyes of the heathen. But surely he did not mean, any more than his Master, in the place above alluded to, that the most harmless members of society should receive no advantage of its laws, or should be the only persons in the world who should derive no benefit from those institutions without which society cannot subsist. Neither of them could mean to throw down the pale of property, and to lay the Christian part of the world open, throughout all ages, to the incursions of unlimited violence and wrong. By this time you are sufficintly aware that I think you have an indisputable right to recover at law what is so dishonestly withheld from you. The fellow, I suppose, has discernment enough to see a difference between you and the generality of the clergy, and cunning enough to conceive the purpose of turning your meekness and forbearance to |