suppression of some lines, which I am more than ever convinced would at least have done me no honour,

W. C.

The immediate success of his first volume was very far from being equal to its extraordinary merit. For some time it seemed to be neglected by the public; though the first poem in the collection contains such a powerful image of its author as might be thought sufficient not only to excite attention, but to secure attachment: for Cowper had undesignedly executed a masterly portrait of himself in describing the true poet: I allude to the following verses in "Table Talk."

Nature, exerting an unwearied power,

Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower;
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads
The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads:
She fills profuse ten thousand little throats
With music, modulating all their notes;

And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds unknown,
With artless airs and concerts of her own:

But seldom (as if fearful of expense)
Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence—
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,

Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought;
Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky
Brings colours dipp'd in Heaven, that never die;
A soul exalted above Earth, a mind
Skill'd in the characters that form mankind;
And as the sun, in rising beauty drest,
Looks from the dappled orient to the west,
And marks, whatever clouds may interpose,
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close,
An eye like his, to catch the distant goal,
Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll,
Like his to shed illuminating rays
On every scene and subject it surveys:
Thus graced, the man asserts a poet's name,
And the world cheerfully admits the claim.

may

The concluding lines be considered as an omen of that celebrity which such a writer, in the process of time, could not fail to obtain. Yet powerful as the claims of Cowper were to instant admiration and applause, it must be allowed (as an apology for the inattention of the public) that he hazarded some sentiments in his first volume, which were very likely to obstruct its immediate success in the world. I particularly allude to his bold eulogy on Whitfield, whom the dramatic satire of Foote, in his comedy of The Minor,' had induced the nation to deride as a mischievous fanatic. I allude also to a little acrimonious censure in which he had indulged himself against one of Whitfield's devout rivals, Mr. Charles Wesley, for allowing sacred music to form a part of his occupation in a Sunday evening. Such praise, and such reproof,

K

130

Life of Cowper.

might easily induce many careless readers, unacquainted with the singular mildness and purity of character that really belonged to the new poet, to reject his book, without giving it a fair perusal, as the production of a recluse inflamed with the fierce spirit of bigotry. No supposition could have been wider from the truth, for Cowper was indeed a rare example of true Christian benevolence: yet, as the best of men have their little occasional foibles, he allowed himself sometimes with his pen, but never I believe in conversation, to speak rather acrimoniously of several pursuits and pastimes that seem not to deserve any austerity of reproof. Of this he was aware himself, and confessed it in the most ingenuous manner on the following occasion. One of his intimate friends had written in the first volume of his poems the following passage from the younger Pliny, as descriptive of the book: "Multa tenuiter, multa sublimiter, multa venuste, multa tenere, multa dulciter, multa cum bile." (Many passages are delicate, many sublime, many beautiful, many tender, many sweet, many acrimonious.) Cowper was pleased with the application, and said with the utmost candour and sincerity, "The latter part is very true indeed. Yes, there yes, many acrimonious!" are multa cum bile,

These little occasional touches of austerity would naturally arise in a life so sequestered: but how just a subject of surprise and admiration is it to behold an author starting under such a load of disadvantages, and displaying on the sudden such a variety of excellence! For, neglected as it was for a few years, the first volume of Cowper exhibits such a diversity of poetical powers as have been given very rarely indeed to any individual of the modern or of the ancient world. He is not only great in passages of pathos and sublimity, but he is equally admirable in wit and humour. After descanting most copiously on sacred subjects, with the animation of a prophet and the simplicity of an apostle, he paints the ludicrous characters of common life with the comic force of Molière; particularly in his poem on Conversation,' and his exquisite portrait of a fretful temper; a piece of moral painting so highly finished, and so happily calculated to promote good humour, that a transcript of the verses shall close the first part of these memoirs.

Some fretful tempers wince at every touch,
You always do too little or too much :
You speak with life, in hopes to entertain;
Your elevated voice goes through the brain:
You fall at once into a lower key;

That's worse; the drone-pipe of an humble-bee!
The southern sash admits too strong a light;
You rise and drop the curtain:-now 'tis night.
He shakes with cold:-you stir the fire, and strive
To make a blaze;-that's roasting him alive.
Serve him with ven'son, and he chooses fish;
With sole, that's just the sort he would not wish,
He takes what he at first profess'd to loath,
And in due time feeds heartily on both;

Yet, still o'erclouded with a constant frown,
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down;
Your hope to please him vain on ev'ry plan,
Himself should work that wonder, if he can.
Alas! his efforts double his distress;
He likes yours little, and his own still less.
Thus always teazing others, always teazed,
His only pleasure is to be displeased.

1

132

PART THE SECOND.

Ανηρ ήδιστος αοιδων.

A NEW æra opens in the history of the poet, from an incident that gave fresh ardour and vivacity to his fertile imagination. In 1781 he became acquainted with a lady, highly accomplished herself, and singularly happy in animating and directing the fancy of her poetical friends. The world will perfectly agree with me in this eulogy, when I add, that to this lady we are primarily indebted for the poem of the 'Task,' for the ballad of John Gilpin,' and for the translation of Homer. But in my lively sense of her merit, I am almost forgetting my immediate duty, as the biographer of the poet, to introduce her circumstantially to the acquaintance of my reader.

A lady, whose name was Jones, was one of the few neighbours admitted in the residence 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, Bart., came to pass some time with her in the summer of 1781; and as the two ladies chanced to call at 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 reanimated by 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 very rapidly 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 of December, 1781.

DEAR ANNA-Between friend and friend,
Prose answers every common end;

Serves in a plain and homely way

T'express th' occurrence of the day;

Our health, the weather, and the news;
What walks we take, what books we choose;
And all the floating thoughts we find

Upon the surface of the mind.

But when a poet takes the pen,
Far more alive than other men,
He feels a gentle tingling come
Down to his finger and his thumb,
Derived from nature's noblest part,
The centre of a glowing heart:
And this is what the world, who knows
No flights above the pitch of prose,
His more sublime vagaries slighting,
Denominates an itch for writing.
No wonder I, who scribble rhyme
To catch the trifiers of the time,
And tell them truths divine and clear,

Which couch'd in prose, they will no thear,-
Who labour hard to allure and draw

The loiterers I never saw,

Should feel that itching, and that tingling,

With all my purpose intermingling,

To your intrinsic merit true,

When call'd t' address myself to you.

Mysterious are His ways, whose power

Brings forth that unexpected hour,
When minds, that never met before,
Shall meet, unite, and part no more:
It is th' allotment of the skies,
The hand of the supremely Wise,
That guides and governs our affections,
And plans and orders our connexions;
Directs us in our distant road,

And marks the bounds of our abode.
Thus we were settled when you found us,'
Peasants and children all around us,
Not dreaming of so dear a friend
Deep in the abyss of Silver-End.*
Thus Martha e'en against her will
Perched on the top of yonder hill;
And you, though you must needs prefer
The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,+
Are come from distant Loire to choose
A cottage on the banks of Ouse.
This page of Providence, quite new,
And now just op'ning to our view,
Employs our present thoughts and pains
To guess, and spell, what it contains:
But day by day, and year by year,
Will make the dark enigma clear;
And furnish us, perhaps, at last,
Like other scenes already past,

An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the residence of Cowper, which faced the market-place.

Lady Austen's residence in France.