a prisoner; both he and Mrs. Unwin were feeling the want of exercise tell upon their health and spirits,—their house was not very convenient, and it was tumbling down, and Lady Hesketh urged them to change. A house at Weston Underwood, belonging to Mr. Throckmorton, was vacant; there would be pleasant society in their friends; the house was offered to them on very liberal terms, and Lady Hesketh furnished the means of removal. In November 1786 they left Olney, after a residence of nineteen years. Will it be believed that Newton again interfered in a most intolerable manner, accusing him of deviating into forbidden paths, and leading a life so unbecoming the Gospel as to grieve his London friends and amaze the people of Olney? He doubted more than ever, he said, whether he would ever be restored to Christian privileges again, and added that there was still intercourse between London and Olney, and that he should be sure to hear of any fresh evil doings. The sins which called forth this solemn warning were that he was, of course, more intimate with the Throckmortons, and that he sometimes even took a walk with Lady Hesketh, or by himself, on Sunday evenings.* It is only fair to Newton to suppose that some slanderous tongue had spread false reports; but he might at least have inquired before writing. Even Mr. Bull thinks that in this he "might have been a little precipitate." + They had only been a fortnight at Weston when a sore trial fell upon them. William Unwin, while on a tour through the southern counties with Henry Thornton, the son of their kind friend, sickened and died of typhus fever at Winchester. Of all Cowper's friends he had been the dearest, Of all the affectionate letters which Cowper wrote, those to Unwin are the most affectionate. He deserved to In be loved. From the day that they met under the trees at Huntingdon, his affection had never known change. He is buried in the south aisle of Winchester Cathedral. Cowper's grief was great, not only for his own loss, but for the mother, the widow, and the orphans. But he was perfectly assured of his friend's gain, and the habitual composure of Mrs. Unwin also taught him to control his sorrow. His letters to his cousin, after the first outburst of sorrow, were as playful as ever, and he worked at Homer with unabated zeal. But the clouds were gathering again. A month later he had "had a little nervous feeling lately." two months he had only done thirty lines of Homer. He fought hard against his terror, as his letters show, but in vain; and for a while-from January to June 1787-he was again in a terrible state. He again attempted self-destruction, and very nearly succeeded. He would see no one, nor have any one near him but Mrs. Unwin. He recovered almost suddenly, and immediately resumed his correspondence. His first letter was to a new friend, from that time onward a regular and valued one. This was Samuel Rose, a young man of twenty, who, being on his way from Glasgow University to London, turned aside to Olney, * Cowper to Unwin, September 24, 1786. + Memorials, p. 285. partly to gratify his curiosity, partly to bring him the thanks of some Scotch professors. This was on the very eve of his mental attack. On his recovery, Cowper hastened to acknowledge the attention. This visit is noteworthy, because Rose took occasion of it to present him with the Poems of Burns. When he wrote to Rose he had read them all twice, and though the Scotch tongue had been somewhat troublesome to him, he was satisfied that the work was very extraordinary production.' Rose was invited to Weston, and the more Cowper saw of him the better he liked him, and the feeling was entirely reciprocated, as is shown by Rose's own letters to his sister, still in existence. He proved very useful, for he was never better pleased than in transcribing the translation of Homer from Cowper's rough copy. Cowper's mind seemed now at ease again. He still suffered a good deal from headache and giddiness, but was in great hopes of ultimate recovery. He stood godfather to one of Rose's children, who was accordingly christened "William Cowper." Another point which was noticed by Lady Hesketh was that he said grace at his dinner. In his darkest moods he used, while grace was being said, to play with his knife and fork ostentatiously, as proving that he had no part nor lot in worshipping God. Mr. Throckmorton gave him the run of his library, and seeing, as he often said, that he had no books of his own,‡ this was a great benefaction. It is remarkable that the only letters of his at this time which are dark and sad are those to Newton. Though he esteemed him as highly as ever, many of his former illusions had been connected with him, and, conscious of that, Cowper always dreaded the time when friendship required him to write. Lady Hesketh was to visit him in the spring of 1788, but the continued illness of her father, now eighty-six years old, forced her to put off the visit from time to time. In one of his letters to her Cowper enclosed a poem, which he entitled "Benefactions; a poem in Shenstone's manner. Addressed to my dearest Coz, April 14, 1788." This poem he afterwards altered into the form in which it will be found in p. 357 of this volume. But the two last stanzas as they stood originally, bearing so entirely on his present condition, ought not to be lost. They ran thus: *July 24, 1787. "These items endear my abode, By whom they were kindly bestowed, The jarrings make my skull feel like a broken egg-shell.. I have a perpetual din in my head, and though I am not deaf, hear nothing aright, neither my own voice, nor that ofthers. I am under a tub, from which tub accept my best love.-Yours, W.C."-To Lady Hesketh, Sept. 29, 1787. He says in one letter that he has bought a Latin dictionary, and now, perhaps, will buy more Latin books to make it useful, for that at present he has only a Virgil. "Then willingly want her awhile, On feathers renown'd from the first The letters of consolation which 66 The old man died in the following June. Cowper wrote to Lady Hesketh are very beautiful. He says in one : 'I often think what a joyful interview there has been between him and some of his contemporaries who went before him. The truth of the matter is, my dear, that they are the happy ones, and that we shall never be such ourselves until we have joined the party." It is sad after reading this to come upon a letter to Mr. Newton, written after a visit from him in the following August, marked by the old despair. The beginning of 1790 found him still renewing old acquaintances and making fresh ones. This time it was his mother's relatives, of whom he had heard nothing since his childhood. John Johnson was the grandson of his mother's brother, Roger Donne, rector of Catfield, in Norfolk. He was a Cambridge undergraduate, who had written a poem, and brought it to his relative for his opinion. It was not very favourable,* but the youth still rejoiced in his visit, for Cowper's heart yearne towards him. He went back quite delighted, with an introduction to Lady Hesketh, and much Homer to transcribe. On telling his aunt, Mrs. Bodham, how Cowper had received him, and how warmly he had expressed his affection for her (for they had been playfellows as children), she sent him an affectionate letter, and with it a portrait of his mother. He acknowledged the gift in one of the most charming of his letters, and wrote upon it the beautiful elegy of which we have already spoken. We see in it how the memory of the touch of her vanished hand, of the sound of her stilled voice, almost gave him peace of mind. Had anything earthly been able to do so, it would have been the memory of his mother's love. But his desire was unto that which is eternal and immortal, and until this desire was fulfilled, even until mortality was swallowed up of life, darkness rested upon his soul. This poem will always testify, not only the earnestness of his love and the strength of his faith in God, but also the truth that "Nor man, nor nature, satisfy whom only God created." Another correspondent was Clotworthy Rowley, of Stoke-by-Nayland, with whom he had been intimate in the Temple, but whom he had not seen since. Rowley opened correspondence on the occasion of returning half a dozen books, which *Cowper's advice to him is worth repeating, whether sound or not: "Remember that in writing, perspicuity is always more than half the battle. The want of it is the ruin of more than half the poetry that is published. A meaning that does not stare you in the face is as bad as no meaning, because nobody will take the pains to poke for it." Cowper had lent him twenty-five years before. A Mrs. King also, wife of a friend of his brother, introduced herself on the strength of that, and was kindly received. Last, not least, Thurlow, whom Lady Hesketh had found means to reach, interested himself in the subscription to his Homer (August 1788), and they exchanged some letters on the relative merits of rhyme and blank verse. It is noticeable that Cowper, who wrote the first letter, begins "My Lord," and Thurlow with "Dear Cowper." But Cowper sticks to his original form of address. Whilst engaged busily on Homer, he was constantly throwing off small pieces, as relaxations. Amongst them were the poems on the slave trade,* which Lady Hesketh asked him to write. He also composed a few review articles. The poem on the Queen's visit to London (p. 370) was written at Lady Hesketh's request, she probably hoping that he would succeed Warton as Poet Laureate. But when the latter died in the following year Cowper begged her not to think of it. "He should never," he said, "write anything more worth reading if he were appointed.' So the honour was not asked for, and Pye + was appointed. The Homer was published in the summer of 1791. His illness and long-continued intervals of incapacity for work had occasioned the delay. Johnson took all expenses, and paid him £1,000, the copyright remaining Cowper's. It was pub * Pp. 363 – 365. + I cannot resist the temptation of laying a specimen of his productions before the reader : "AN ODE ON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTHDAY. "Britannia hail the blessed day, Ye smiling seasons sing the same, Ye songsters of the ærial tribe, AIR. "The heavens to ease a monarch's care, As claim no wonder from mankind, The lished in two volumes, quarto, at three guineas. I do not feel competent to criticize it. It seems to me dreary and dull, but not more so than other translations of Homer. He was qualified by his scholarship, which Pope was not. translation, therefore, is probably as accurate as any translation can be. But he had no sympathy for the wars and battles. Arthur Clough's commentary on it is, after all, the most exhaustive-"Where is the man who has ever read it?" His undertaking it at all seems to me one of the misfortunes arising from the breach with Lady Austen. She might have suggested something better than the wasting of five years in such profitless labour. What next? For both he and his friends had learned that continual occupation was necessary to his well-being. Lady Hesketh was for another long poem, and proposed to him "The Mediterranean" as a subject. He replied, truly, that he did not know history enough, and that, moreover, it seemed a subject not for one poem, but for twenty. A neighbouring clergyman, Mr. Buchanan, proposed “The Four Ages of Man." He liked the idea extremely, and began upon it. He began also "Yardley Oak," keeping it apparently as a secret with which to surprise his friends when it was finished. But Johnson invited him to undertake an edition of Milton, as a match for Boydell's Shakespeare, Cowper to write notes and translate the Latin and Italian poems, and Fuseli to do the illustrations. He undertook this, and did the work of translation with great pleasure, as well as success. But the RECITATIVO. "Britons, with heart-felt joy, with decent mirth, AIR. "See envy's self is fain to own Those virtues which adorn the throne; While home-bred faction droops her head, See liberty and justice spread Their happy influence around, The land where plenteous stores abound, Of wealth and grain, where arts and science To every nation bid defiance. RECITATIVO. "Fly hence, ye gloomy cares, For you here's no employ ; Here sweetest ease appears, With real love and joy. CHORUS. "While George and Charlotte rule the land, Their names our seas and coasts defend, And drive our foes afar; Each season, and each year, shall roll Their fame and power from pole to pole.' |