procures me, to drop a word in favour of religion. In short, there is some froth, and here and there a bit of sweetmeat, which seem to entitle it justly to the name of a certain dish the ladies call a trifle. I did not choose to be more

facetious, lest I should consult the taste of my readers at the

more serious than I

A poet, A poet, in my cirone minute obliged

expense of my own approbation; nor have been, lest I should forfeit theirs. cumstances, has a difficult part to act; to bridle his humour, if he has any; and the next, to clap a spur to the sides of it: now ready to weep, from a sense of the importance of his subject; and, on a sudden, constrained to laugh, lest his gravity should be mistaken for distress. If this be not violent exercise for the mind, I know not what is; and if any man doubt it, let him try."

The act of trying, however, has been made so arduous a task by the brilliant success of Cowper's experiment, that few would be willing to take him at his word. The line of composition which he had struck out, was, in its application at least, perfectly original, and promised to be-a promise which has been abundantly realized-pre-eminently useful. This, indeed, was the object nearest to the writer's heart. "I think I can truly say," he wrote to Mr. Newton, "what, perhaps, few poets could, that, though I have no objection to lucrative consequences, if any such should follow, they are not my aim; much less is it my ambition to exhibit myself to the world as a genius. My sole drift is to be useful, at which, however, I knew I should in vain aim, unless I could be entertaining. I have, therefore, fixed these two strings to my bow; and, by the help of both, have done my best to send my arrow to the mark. My readers will hardly have begun to laugh, before they will be called upon to correct that levity, and peruse me with a more serious air. I cast a sidelong glance at the good liking of the world at large, more for the sake of their advantage, and their

instruction, than their praise. They are children: if we give them physic, we must sweeten the rim of the cup with honey."

It would be an act of injustice to the memory of Cowper, and a want of due regard to the moral benefit of his readers, did we omit to bring together these familiar communications, which constitute a far better introduction to the "Poems," than the most elaborate criticism could do; because they develope, in the most pleasing, natural, and forcible manner, the motives and intentions of the writer. Not only so, but they explain a mixture which might otherwise have seemed incongruous, and account for transitions which might otherwise have appeared abrupt. If the pupil is to be profited, the moral teacher must be read. "If," said Cowper himself, "my Muse were to go forth, clad in Quaker colour, without one bit of riband to enliven her appearance, she might walk from one end of London to the other, as little noticed as if she were one of the sisterhood indeed." The "bits of riband," indeed, were not always in unison with the graver taste of Mr. Newton (who yet could be as innocently jocular as any christian man ought to be); and on one occasion he objected to a passage which Cowper had intended "merely by way of catch:" the poet showed the strength of his principles, as well as the sincerity of his regard, by expunging it, though he confesses he thought it not unlikely to answer the purpose. Those only can appreciate the difficulty of such a sacrifice, who have been called upon to make it. After a more than usual endurance of this mental discipline, for even his bookseller, Johnson, perused editorially the proof-sheets,— and Cowper was so well satisfied with the use that he had made of this liberty, as to recommend future authors to admit this licence for a precedent;—and after a more than usual prolongation of the torturing interval of suspense,-for proof-sheets then followed each other, not as now, in course

of post, but at intervals of a month or six weeks,—the work was at length published, in the early part of 1782. For a time the success of the volume fell short of its extraordinary merit but, though poetry had become an unsaleable commodity in the literary market, it was not such poetry as Cowper's. The Critical Reviewers, indeed, denounced his verses as, "in general, weak and languid, having neither novelty, spirit, nor animation to recommend them. He never rises to anything that we can commend or admire: he says nothing new, sprightly, or entertaining; travelling on a plain, level, flat road, with great composure, drawn through the dull, dry, and tedious volume, which is little better than a dull sermon in indifferent verse." Dr. Southey characterizes this as one of those defunct criticisms that deserve to be disinterred, and gibbeted, for the sake of example. Happily, it is now of little importance. The ungentle craft of reviewing is no longer, as in those days, either a mystery or a monopoly; not even the heavy broadside of quarterly, much less the lighter discharge of monthly criticism, can now sink the most fragile skiff that is launched upon the ocean of literature, provided she is but sea-worthy; and we smile involuntarily when we find such a man as Cowper saying, in sportive seriousness, "The Monthly Review,' the most formidable of my judges, is still behind. What will this critical Rhadamanthus say, when my shivering genius shall appear before him? Still he keeps me in hot water, and I must wait another month for his award." It came at lastif not to damn with faint praise, yet with just enough of eulogy to save its own credit, without extending Cowper's. The critic did find out that Mr. Cowper was a poet sui generis; that his style of composition, as well as modes of thinking, were entirely his own. "Mr. Cowper's predominant turn of mind," he said, "though serious and devotional, is at the same time dryly humorous and sarcastic. Hence his very religion

has a smile that is arch, and his sallies of humour an air that is religious; and yet, motley as is the mixture, it is so contrived as to be neither ridiculous nor disgusting." At least it must be acknowledged, that, if this be so, the poetry is very little like the criticism.

Criticism, however, in relation to poems which have taken, and will retain, a high place among the standards of our literature, must now be of little avail. Men need not be told what they are to admire, or what they are to prefer. The banquet is spread out before them-each must choose for himself.

"Where acknowledged merits reign,

Praise is impertinent, and censure vain."

To point out wherein Cowper has excelled his predecessors—or wherein his successors, if he can be said to have had any, in the same walk of composition, have improved upon him, might extend the limits, but could hardly increase the interest, of an introduction like this. We would rather take a hint from the Reviewers, of whom he who rejoices in the misapplied epithet of "Critical" can find nothing to commend or to admire; and he of the "Monthly" looks in vain for language strikingly humorous or strikingly elegant. Yet we think the following epigrammatic strokes well worthy to be commended for their humour; and the loftier passages that follow, not less deserving to be admired for their elegance :

THE TRAVELLER UNIMPROVED BY TRAVEL.

"Returning, he proclaims, by many a grace,
By shrugs and strange contortions of his face,
How much a dunce that has been sent to roam
Excels a dunce that has been kept at home."

THE HERMIT.

Wearing out life in his religious whim,

Till his religious whimsey wears out him."

THE DRAWER WITH A LONG BOW.-CAPTAIN BOUNCE.

"Can this be true?-an arch observer cries:

Yes (rather moved), I saw it with these eyes.
Sir, I believe it on that ground alone;
I could not, had I seen it with my own."

THE IDLER.

"An idler is a watch that wants both hands;
As useless when it goes as when it stands."

HYPOCHONDRIACS.

"And now, alas-for unforeseen mishaps!
They put on a damp nightcap, and relapse.
They thought they must have died, they were so bad;
Their peevish hearers almost wish they had."

THE MAN OF PLEASURE.

"He likes the country; but, in truth, must own,
Most likes it, when he studies it in town."

MAUDLIN NOVELS.

"Books-the scandal of the shelves

In which lewd sensualists print out themselves."

If these be not striking specimens of genuine humour, they are something better. We know not where to seek for anything parallel, except in Crabbe. And now for language, in which one of these arbiters of taste can find nothing "strikingly elegant," and the other, "nothing to admire."

"Poor England! thou art a devoted deer,

Beset by every ill but that of fear.

Thee nations hunt; all mark thee for a prey;

They swarm around thee, and thou stand'st at bay:

Undaunted still, though wearied and perplex'd,

Once Chatham saved thee; who shall save thee next?"

The following extracts combine all the majesty of Dryden with all the melody of Pope :