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PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE OF WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.

WITH SEVERAL OF HIS MOST INITIMATE FRIENDS.

Now first published from the Originals in the possession of his kinsman John Johnson, LL. D.

PERHAPS no poet of modern times excites a more perfect sympathy in the reader than Cowper-there is no one with whom we cherish, and desire to cherish, so purely personal a feeling. But this feeling, though created and called forth by means of his writings, does not point at them, or even seem to have any necessary connexion with or dependence upon them. It is not with his writings that we sympathize; so far from it, there are many portions of these which we peruse with pain, and turn away from not without indignation. And the parts which we do admire, and which unquestionably include a large proportion of the whole, do not lay hold of our affections, or fix themselves upon our memory, as those of many other poets do. We do not dwell and harp upon them, and repeat them to ourselves, and quote them to others, and dream of them, and recur to them in the midst of other things, without being able to avoid it. He has no passages that haunt us like a strain of music, and will not be got rid of. We are able to lay his poetry down, and take it up again, just as we please-to put it on and off like a garment. But it is not so with our abstract notion of the man. In him, and in all that seems to concern him, we feel a personal interest and after a time we read his writings, not so much for their own sake, as for his, and because we desire to know all his feelings, and the causes and consequences of them; we read them as a means, not as an end-as a means of reading him.

This was strikingly the case even before the publication of Hayley's Life of the poet. But when that took place, the feelings of personal regard which had before been called forth by Cowper's poetry, became encreased to a pitch of almost painful interest by means of the letters which his biographer, with a kind of unconscious judgment and good taste, substituted in the place of any other detail of the writer's life for "Hayley's Life of Cow

:

per" is luckily to be found no where but in the title-page of his volumes-the poet being permitted to tell his own story, so far as it suited the views of his friends to let that story appear. The letters to which we now refer, were, almost immediately on their appearance, allowed to take their station beside the most distinguished productions of any time or country, in the class to which they belong. And they in fact deserve that station; a very great proportion of them being models of the epistolary style, in point of ease, grace, and unaffected simplicity; and being, moreover, the pure effusions of as gentle and tender a heart as ever beat within a human bosom. But Cowper's letters as they appeared in the publication alluded to, were calculated to engender other feelings than those of admiration towards themselves, and affectionate regard towards the writer of them.

Previously to this

time, certain parts of his poetry, which need not now be particularly referred to, had raised suspicions that something was at work in the writer's mind which ought not to have been there. There was occasionally a tone of feeling, and a turn of expression, which seemed to indicate, either that the writer's views on the subjects which he treated were unsettled and utterly at variance among themselves, or (what is scarcely possible to believe) that they were not put forth to the world with that thorough good faith, without which one of their chief charms would have been wanting. Now, the letters published by Hayley in 1806 were pretty generally supposed to have explained this apparent inconsistency. They discovered to us, in the poet of The Task, a being with natural qualities and disposition, both of mind and body, calculated to render him blest in himself, and a delight and blessing to all around him-with an eye prone to discover all natural and moral beauty wherever it existed—a heart ever open to receive that beauty, and to leap with joy at the acquisition of it

and a mind gifted with the almost magical power of multiplying that beauty, and spreading it abroad upon all other minds and hearts within its reach. But in discovering to us these natural qualities and dispositions, they also discovered that, from some source or other, a fatal taint had found its way among them-a plague spot was every now and then visible, which, if it did not spread over and disfigure all. at least announced the presence of an influence which was likely to do so during every moment that it lasted. In plainer language, if it be needed, the letters of Cowper, as published by Mr. Hayley, discovered to us that, during the whole long period in which they, as well as his poetry, were written, the writer of them was labouring under an intellectual malady, complicated in its nature, and in its effects more fatal to the sufferer and more pitiable to the beholder than perhaps any other of the kind on record;—that in fact Cowper, at those periods when he was not actually in a state of mental darkness or aberration, was perpetually dreading the immediate approach of such a state, and was at the same time perpetually taking the very surest means of bringing that state upon him, by pampering the growth of certain religious views which had taken entire and exclusive possession of his active and susceptible, but somewhat timid imagination; and which views were utterly at variance with the perceptions of his quick and penetrating intellect, and the impulses and suggestions of his pure and gentle heart.

This is what the letters in question disclosed to the sympathizing reader. But, if we remember them rightly, this is all that they disclosed; thus leaving the matter still involved in a painful and perplexing mystery-leaving us still in doubt as to the relation between the innate and the external source of Cowper's malady, or whether the one had any necessary connexion with the other: in short, giving us no clue by which to find our way to the beginning of that malady, or to trace its progress; -but only permitting us to see a few of its wretched consequences, and to weep over its fatal end.

It is not our present intention to enquire minutely into the question, wheth

er Hayley was justified in withholding from the world the clue above alluded to-supposing that he possessed it; or whether, on the other hand, those persons were so justified who afterwardr, in 1815 and 1816, furnished the world with something of the kind, in the shape of a Posthumous memoir of Cowper's early life, written by his own hand. We conceive that these are matters in which the public have little or no concern. They, the public, may be perfectly justified in receiving and applying to their own purposes, what the persons who supply them may have been imprudent or impolitic, or even grossly unjustifiable, in placing at their disposal. And on the other hand, we do not know that they have any right to complain of an editor who prefers his views, of letting them know no more than he wishes them to know, to theirs, of knowing all that is to be known. Certain it is, however, that, in the case more immediately before us, the public are anxious to know the real truth; and it is equally certain that they have not hitherto received the clue which will lead them to it. Whether that clue has not at last been placed in their hands, is a question which we shall not absolutely determine, except for ourselves—since it involves matters almost too delicate and at the same time too dangerous for a public jour nalist to handle; but we are greatly mistaken if the unprejudiced reader will find any difficulty in making the decision for himself, after he has perused some of the interesting and affecting matter to which we now call his particular attention.

The work before us consists of two additional volumes of the private letters of Cowper to his most intimate friends; and it is ushered into the world by a Preface explaining the views of the editor, Dr. J. Johnson, the poet's kinsman, in putting it forth, and the sources from whence it had been obtained; and adding, what will perhaps be considered as unnecessary at least, the testimony of two of the editor's friends as to the merit and interest of the matter: though we can so easily excuse the said editor for printing the elegant eulogy of one of those friends, that we shall follow his example, and

insert it here, as well in justification of what we may hereafter have to say in favour of the work, as to furnish the reader with an opinion which he may safely accept as worth more than any anonymous one that is likely to be offered to him.

"It is quite unnecessary that I perused the letters with great admiration and delight. I have always considered the letters of Mr. Cowper as the finest specimen of the epistolary style in our language; and these appear to me of a superior description to the former, as much beauty with more piety and pathos. To an air of inimitable ease and carelessness, they unite a high degree of correctness, such as would result only from the clearest intellect, combined with the most finished taste. I have scarcely found a single word which is capable of being exchanged for a better.

"Literary errors I can discern none. The selection of the words and the structure of periods are inimitable; they present as striking a contrast as can well be conceived, to the turgid verbosity which passes at present for fine writing, and which bears a great resemblance to the degeneracy which marks the style of Ammianus Marcellinus, as compared to that of Cicero or

latter end of October, I know, generally puts an end to your relaxations; such as reading upon sunshiny banks, and contemplating the clouds,as you lie upon your back. "Permit it to be one of the aliena negotio centum, which are now beginning to buzz in your ears, to send me a twenty pound note by the first opportunity. I beg my affectionate respects to my friends in Cook's-court."

Here is another equally short, and interesting from the literary opinions it One of those opinions will

includes.

sound a little startling to the admirers of Milton.

"I have been reading Gray's Works, and think him the only poet since Shakspeare entitled to the character of sublime. Perhaps you will remember that I once had a different opinion of him. I was prejudiced. He did not belong to our Thursday society, and was an Eton man, which lowered him prodigiously in our esteem. I once thought Swift's Letters the best that could be written; but I like Gray's better. His humour, or his wit, or whatever it is to be called, is never ill-natured or offensive, and yet, I think, equally poignant with the Dean's."

pressed with a sweet simplicity :

There is something very touching in of Livy. A perpetual effort and struggle the following reflections on Mr. Newis made to supply the place of vigour, garton's quitting Olney; and they are exish and dazzling colours are substituted for chaste ornament, and the hideous distortions of weakness for native strength. In my humble opinion, the study of Cowper's prose may, on this account, be as useful in forming the taste of young people as his poetry."-Extract of a letter to the Editor from the Rev. R. Hall, of Leicester.

The first volume commences with several short, but most agreeable letters to Mr. Joseph Hill, of the Temple; the only male friend, except Hayley, not decidedly devoted to religious pursuits, with whom Cowper kept up any connexion or correspondence after his retirement into the country. Some of these letters are delightful specimens of that easy gayety of heart which, notwithstanding all the adventitious gloom with which it was so fatally blended, was, after all, the only natural turn of Cowper's disposition. There are many others throughout the volumes addressed to the same person, and of the same character. For the sake of variety, however, we shall extract as we go. Was there ever seen so graceful a mode of asking for a remittance, as the following short note presents ?

"By this time, I presume, you are returned to the precincts of the law. The

"You have observed in common conversation, that the man who coughs the oftenest, (I mean if he has not a cold) does it because he has nothing to say. Even so it is in letter-writing: a long preface such as bodes great sterility in the following pages. mine, is an ugly symptom, and always fore

"The vicarage-house became a melancholy object, as soon as Mr. Newton had melancholy: now it is actually occupied by left it; when you left it, it became more another family, even I cannot look at it without being shocked. As I walked in the garden this evening, I saw the smoke issue from the study chimney, and said to Newton was there; but it is so no longer. myself, That used to be a sign that Mr. The walls of the house know nothing of the change that has taken place; the bolt of the chamber-door sounds just as it used to

do; and when Mr. P

goes up stairs,

These reflec

for aught I know, or ever shall know, the
fall of his foot could hardly, perhaps, be
distinguished from that of Mr. Newton.
But Mr. Newton's foot will never be heard
tions, and such as these, occurred to me
upon that staircase again.
upon the occasion; * * *'
in a condition to leave Olney too, I cer-
tainly would not stay in it. It is no at-
tachment to the place that binds me here,
but an unfitness for every other. I lived
in it once, but now I am buried in it, and
have no business with the world on the

**. If I were

outside of my sepulchre; my appearance would startle them, and theirs would be shocking to me."

The first part of the following is admirably expressed. It seems to refer to a solicitation which he had received from his friend Mr. Newton, to reply to some pamphlet which had just appeared on a religious controversy in which his friend was engaged. But we give the extract chiefly on account of the last passage, which is full of a wild pathos that is affecting in the highest degree.

"If I had strength of mind, I have not strength of body for the task which, you say, some would impose upon me. I cannot bear much thinking. The ineshes of that fine net-work, the brain, are composed of such mere spinners' threads in me, that when a long thought finds its way into them, it buzzes, and twangs, and bustles about at such a rate as seems to threaten the whole contexture. No-I must needs refer it again to you.

"My enigma will probably find you out, and you will find out my enigma, at some future time. I am not in a humour to transcribe them now. Indeed I wonder that a sportive thought should ever knock at the

door of my intellects, and still more that it

should gain admittance. It is as if harlequin should intrude himself into the gloomy chamber where a corpse is deposited in state. His antic gesticulations would be unseasonable at any rate, but more especially so if they should distort the features of the mournful attendants into laughter. But the mind long wearied with the sameness of a dull, dreary prospect, will gladly fix its eyes on any thing that may make a little variety in its contemplations, though it were but a kitten playing with her tail."

The following passages are exceeding ly interesting one on account of the sight it gives us into the use to which the poet applied his art; and the other as explaining his own views on one of his principal works :—

"At this season of the year, and in this gloomy uncomfortable climate, it is no easy matter for the owner of a mind like mine, to divert it from sad subjects, and fix it upon such as may administer to its amusement. Poetry, above all things, is useful to me in this respect. While I am held in pursuit of pretty images, or a pretty way of expressing them, I forget every thing that is irksome, and like a boy that plays truant, determine to avail myself of the present opportunity to be amused, and to put by the disagreeable recollection that I must,after all, go home and be whipt again." "I send you Table Talk. It is a medley of many things, some that may be useful, and some that, for aught I know, may be

very diverting. I am merry that I may decoy people into my company, and grave that they may be the better for it. Now

and then I put on the garb of a philosopher, and take the opportunity that disguise 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 seems 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 expense of my own approbation: nor serious than I have been, lest I should forhas a difficult part to act: One minute feit theirs. A poet in my circumstances

more

obliged 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 dulness. If this be not violent exercise for the mind, I know not what is; and if any man doubt it, let him try. Whether all this management and contrivance be necessary, I do not know, but am inclined to suspect that if my Muse was to go forth clad in Quaker colour, without one bit of riband to enliven ber appearance, she might walk from one end of Loudon to the other, as little noticed as if she were one of the sisterhood indeed."

one of the preceding :Here is another passage similar to

"If a Board of Enquiry were to be es tablished, at which no poets were to under go an examination respecting the motives that induced them to publish, and I were to be summoned to attend, that I might give an account of mine, I think I could truly say, 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 gepossibly be your motive? I answer with a nius. What then, says Mr. President, can bow-Amusement. There is nothing but this no occupation within the compass of my small sphere, Poetry excepted—that can do much towards diverting that train of melancholy thoughts, which, when I am not thus employed, are for ever pouring themselves in upon me. And if I did not publish what I write, I could not interest myself sufficiently in my own success, to make an amusement of it."

We have hinted that Cowper's natural disposition was of a joyous character. It was so to a pitch of boyishness. He was, in fact, as pure and innocent as a child, and might have been as happy-sporting away bis pleasant hours like a bird. How he delighted to make little riddles, and send them to his friends, and listen to their wrong solutions of them, and then send them

the right! We have several instances of this in these volumes, and most af fecting ones they are, occurring as they do in the midst of a gloom deep and deadly as that of the grave!

"I have at last read the second volume of Mr.'s work, and had some hope that I should prevail with myself to read the first likewise. I began this book at the latter end,because the first part of it was engaged when I received the second; but I had not so good an appetite as a soldier of the Guards, who, as I was informed when I lived in London, would for a small matter eat up a cat alive, beginning at her tail and finishing with her whiskers."

"I send a cucumber, not of my own raising, and yet raised by me.

Solve this enigma, dark enough
To puzzle any brains

That are not downright puzzle-proof,
And eat it for your pains.

were good for nothing. They contained nothing but a putrid liquor with a round much resembled tallow, and was of the size white lump, which in taste and substance of a small walnut. Nor am I the less indebted to your kindness for the fish, though none is yet come. - -

Cocoa-nut naught
Fish too dear,

None must be brought
For us that are here.
No lobster on earth,
That ever I saw,
To me would be worth
Sixpence a claw.

So, dear Madam, wait
Till fish can be got
At a reas'nable rate,
Whether lobster or not;

Till the French and the Dutch
Have quitted the seas,
And then send as much
And as oft as you please."

"I forgot to mention that Johnson uses the discretion my poetship has allowed him, with much discernment. He has suggested several alterations, or rather marked several defective passages, which I have corrected much to the advantage of the poems. In the last sheet he sent me, he noted three such, all which I have reduced into sented to his criticisms in some instances, better order. In the foregoing sheet, I asThus we jog on together and chose to abide by the original expres

"It is worth while to send you a riddle, you make such a variety of guesses, and turn and tumble it about with such an industrious curiosity. The solution of that question is-let me see; it requires some consideration to explain it, even though I made it. I raised the seed that produced the plant that produced the fruit, that produced the seed that produced the fruit Ision in others. sent you. This latter seed I gave to the gardener of Terningham, who brought me the cucumber you mention. Thus you see I raised it-that is to say I raised it virtually, by having raised its progenitor; and yet I did not raise it, because the identical seed from which it grew was raised at a distance. You observe I did not speak rashly, when I spoke of it as dark enough to pose an Edipus; and have no need to call your own sagacity in question for falling short of the discovery."

"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 quick-sighted 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 these twenty years will say, It may 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

me

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 felt ourselves not the less obliged to you for the cocoa-nuts, though they

comfortably enough; and perhaps it would
be as well for authors in general, if their
booksellers, when men of some taste, were
allowed, though not to tinker the work
themselves, yet to point out the flaws, and
humbly to recommend an improvement.” -
"To MRS. NEWTON.

"September 16, 1781.
A noble theme demands a noble verse,
In such I thank you for your fine oysters.
The barrel was magnificently large,
But being sent to Olney at free charge,
Was not inserted in the driver's list,
And therefore overlook'd, forgot or miss'd;
For when the messenger whom we dispatch'd
Enquir'd for oysters, Hob his noddle scratch'd;
Denying that his waggon or his wain
Did any such commodity contain.
In consequence of which, your welcome boon
Did not arrive till yesterday at noon;
In consequence of which some chanced to die,
And some, though very sweet, were very dry.
Now Madam says (and what she says must still
Deserve attention, say she what she will.)
That which we call the Diligence, be-case
It goes to London with a swifter pace,
Would better suit the carriage of your gift,
Returning downward with a pace as swift;
And therefore recommends it with this aim-
To save at least three days,-the price the same;
For though it will not carry or convey
For less than twelve pence, send whate'er you may,
For oysters bred upon the salt sea shore,
Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more.

News have I none that I can deign to write,
Save that it rain'd prodigiously last night;
And that ourselves were, at the seventh hour,
Caught in the first beginning of the show'r;
But walking, running, and with much ado,
Got home-just time enough to be wet through.
Yet both are well, and, wond'rous to be told,
And wishing just the same good hap to you,
Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold;
We say, good Madam, and good Sir, Adieu!"

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