University of Virginia Library

COWPER.

In the gallery of the English poets, we linger with
peculiar emotion before the portrait of Cowper. We
think of him as a youth, `gigling and making giggle' at
his uncle's house in London, and indulging an attachment
destined to be sadly disappointed; made wretched by the
idea of a peculiar destiny; transferred from a circle of
literary roysterers to the gloomy precincts of an Insane
Asylum; partially restored, yet shrinking from the responsibilities
incident to his age; restless, undecided,
desponding even to suicidal wretchedness, and finally
abandoning a world for the excitement and struggles of
which he was wholly unfit. We follow him into the
bosom of a devoted family; witness with admiration the
facility he exhibits in deriving amusements from trifling
employments—gathering every way-side flower even in
the valley of despair, finding no comfort but in `self-deception,'
and finding this in `self-discipline.' We behold
his singular re-appearance in the world in the capacity
of an author,—genius reviving the ties that misfortune
had broken. We trace with delight his intellectual

career in his charming correspondence with Hayley, Hill,
and his cousin, the vividness of his affections in his
poem to his mother's picture, the play of his fancy in
John Gilpin, his reflective ingenuity in the Task. We
recall the closing scene—the failing faculties of his faithful
companion,[1] his removal from endeared scenes, his sad
walks by the sea-shore, his patient, but profound melancholy
and peaceful death—with the solemn relief that
ensues from the termination of a tragedy. And when
we are told that an expression of “holy surprise” settled
on the face of the departed, we are tempted to exclaim
with honest Kent—

At an age when most of his countrymen are confirmed
in prosaic habits, William Cowper sat down to versify.
No darling theory of the art, no restless thirst for fame,
no bardic frenzy prompted his devotion. He sought in
poetic labor oblivion of consciousness. He strove to
make a Lethe of the waters of Helicon. The gift of a
beautiful mind was maried by an unhappy temperament;
the chords of a tender heart proved too delicate for the
winds of life; and the unfortunate youth became an intellectual
hypochondriac. In early manhood, when the

first cloud of insanity had dispersed, he took, as it were,
monastic vows—and turned aside from the busy metropolis,
where his career began, to seek the solace of rural retirement.
There, the tasteful care of a conservatory, the
exercise of mechanical ingenuity, repose, seclusion and
kindness, gradually restored his spirit to calmness; and
then the intellect demanded exercise, and this it found in
the service of the muse. Few of her votaries afford a
more touching instance of suffering than the bard of
Olney. In the records of mental disease, his case has a
melancholy prominence—not that it is wholly isolated,
but because the patient tells his own story, and hallows
the memory of his griefs by uniform gentleness of soul
and engaging graces of mind. To account for the misery
of Cowper, is not so important as to receive and act upon
the lesson it conveys. His history is an ever-eloquent
appeal in behalf of those, whose delicate organization
and sensitive temper expose them to moral anguish.
Whether his gloom is ascribable to a state of the brain as
physiologists maintain, to the ministry of spirits as is
argued by the Swedenborgians, or to the influence of a
creed as sectarians declare, is a matter of no comparative
moment—since there is no doubt the germs of insanity
existed in his very constitution. “I cannot bear much
thinking,” he says. “The meshes of the brain are composed
of such mere spinner's 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.” Recent discoveries have proved that
there is more physiological truth in this remark, than the
unhappy poet could ever have suspected. The ideas
about which his despair gathered, were probably accidental.
His melancholy naturally was referred to certain
external causes, but its true origin is to be sought among
the mysteries of our nature. The avenues of joy were
closed in his heart. He tells us, a sportive thought startled
him. “It is as if a harlequin should intrude himself
into the gloomy chamber were a corpse is deposited.”
In reading his productions, with a sense of his mental
condition, what a mingling of human dignity and woe is
present to the imagination! A mind evolving the most
rational and virtuous conceptions, yet itself the prey of
absurd delusions; a heart overflowing with the truest
sympathy for a sick hare, yet pained at the idea of the
church-honors paid to Handel; a soul gratefully recognizing
the benignity of God, in the fresh verdure of the
myrtle, and the mutual attachment of doves, and yet incredulous
of his care for its own eternal destiny! What
a striking incongruity between the thoughtful man, expatiating
in graceful numbers upon the laws of Nature
and the claims of Religion, and the poor mortal deferring
to an ignorant school-master, and “hunted by spiritual
hounds in the night-season;” the devout poet celebrating
his maker's glory, and the madman trembling at the waxing
moon; the affectionate friend patient and devoted,
and the timid devotee deprecating the displeasure of a
clergyman, who reproved his limited and harmless pleasures!

It has been objected to Hamlet, that the sportiveness of
the prince mars the effect of his thoughtfulness. It is

natural when the mind is haunted and oppressed by any
painful idea which it is necessary to conceal, to seek relief,
and at the same time increase the deception, by a kind
of playfulness. This is exemplified in Cowper's letters.
“Such thoughts,” he says, “as pass through my head
when I am not writing, make the subject of my letters to
you.” One overwhelming thought, however, was gliding
like a dark, deep stream beneath the airy structures he
thus reared to keep his mind from being swept off by its
gloomy current. To this end, he surrendered his pen to
the most obvious pleasantry at hand, and dallied with the
most casual thoughts of the moment, as Hamlet talks
about the “old true-penny in the cellerage,” when the
idea of his father's spirit is weighing with awful mysteriousness
upon his heart, and amuses himself with joking
Old Polonius, when the thought of filial revenge is swaying
the very depths of his soul. Cowper speculates on
baloons, moralizes on politics, chronicles the details of
his home-experience, even to the accidents resulting from
the use of a broken table, with the charming air of playfulness
that marks the correspondence of a lively girl.
How often are these letters the proofs of rare heroism!
How often were those flowers of fancy watered by a
bleeding heart! By what an effort of will was his mind
turned from its forebodings, from the dread of his wretched
anniversary, from the one horrible idea that darkened
his being, to the very trifles of common-life, the every-day
circumstances which he knew so well how to array with
fresh interest and agreeable combination! Cowper's
story indicates what a world of experience is contained in
one solitary life. It lifts the veil from a single human
bosom, and displays all the elements of suffering, adventure
and peace, which we are apt to think so dependant
upon outward circumstances! There is more to be
learned from such a record than most histories afford.
They relate things en masse, and battles, kings and courts
pass before us, like mists along a mountain-range; but
in such a life as that of Cowper, we tremble at the capacity
of woe involved in the possession of sensibility, and
trace with awe and pity the mystery of a “mind diseased.”
The anatomy of the soul is, as it were, partially
disclosed. Its conflicting elements, its intensity of reflection,
its marvellous action fill us with a new and more
tender reverence. Nor are the darker shades of this remarkable
mental portrait unrelieved. To the reader of
his life, Cowper's encounter with young Unwin, under
the trees at Huntingdon, is as bright a gleam of destiny
as that which visited his heart at Southampton. At the
very outset of his acquaintance with this delightful family,
he calls them “comfortable people.” This term may
seem rather humble compared with such epithets as `brilliant,'
`gifted' and `interesting;' but to a refined mind
it is full of significance. Would there were more comfortable
people in the world! Where there is rare talent
in a companion, there is seldom repose. Enthusiasm is
apt to make very uncomfortable demands upon our sympathies,
and strong-sense is not infrequently accompanied
by a dogmatical spirit. Erudite society is generally devoid
of freshness, and poetical spirits have the reputation
of egotism. However improving such companions may
be, to sensitive persons they are seldom comfortable.
There is a silent influence in the mere presence of every
one, which, whether animal magnetism is true or not,
makes itself felt, unless the nerves are insensible; and
then there is a decided character in the voice and manner,
as well as in the conversation. In comfortable people,
all these are harmonized. The whole impression is
cheering. We are at ease, and yet gratified; we are
soothed and happy. With such companionship was Cowper
blessed in the Unwins. No `stricken deer' that ever
left the herd of men, required such a solace more. We
cannot wonder it proved a balm. The matronly figure
of Mrs. Unwin and her `sweet, serene face,' rise before
the fancy as pictures of actual memory. We see her knitting
beside the fire on a winter day, and Cowper writing
opposite; hear her friendly expostulation when he overtasked
his mind, and see the smile with which she `restored
his fiddle,' when rest made it safe to resume the
pen. We follow them with a gaze of affectionate respect
as they walk at noon along the gravel-walk, and honor the
maternal solicitude that sustains her patient vigils beside
the sick-bed of the bard. In imagination we trace her demeanor,
as with true female tact she contrived to make the
people regard her charge only with reverence. Like a
star of peace and promise, beams the memory of this excellent
woman upon Cowper's sad history; and Lady
Hesketh and `Sister Anne' are the lesser, but still benignant
luminaries of that troubled sky. Such glimpses of
woman vindicate her true rights more than all the rhetoric
of Mary Wolstonecraft. They prove her claim to
higher respect than can attach to the trophies of valor or
genius. They exhibit her in all the dignity of pure affection,
in the discharge of duties and the exercise of sentitiment
more exalted than the statesman or soldier can ever
boast. They throw around Olney more sacred associations
than those which consecrate Vaucluse. Not to a
selfish passion, not to ambitious display, not to petty triumphs
did these women minister, but to a kindred nature
whose self-sustaining energies had been weakened, to a
rare spirit bereft of a hope, to a noble heart over-shadowed
by despair. It was an office worthy of angels; and
even on earth was it thus fulfilled.

It is not surprising that Byron denied to Cowper the
title of poet. To an impassioned imagination, the tone
of his writings cannot but appear subdued even to absolute
tameness. There are, however, in his poems flights
of fancy, fine comparisons and beautiful descriptive sketches,
enough to quicken and impart singular interest to the
`still life' so congenial to his muse. He compared her
array not inaptly to a quaker-costume. Verse was deliberately
adopted by Cowper at a mature age, as a medium
of usefulness. His poetry is not therefore the overflowing
of youthful feeling, and his good judgment probably warned
him to avoid exciting themes, even had his inclination
tended in that direction. He became a lay-preacher in
numbers. His object was to improve men, not like the
bard of Avon by powerfully unfolding their passions, nor
like Pope by pure satire; but rather through the quiet
teachings of a moralist. He discourses upon hunting,
cards, the abuses of the clerical profession and other prevailing

follies, like a man who is convinced of the vanity
of worldly pleasure and anxious to dispel its illusions from
other minds. His strain is generally characterized by
good-sense, occasionally enlivened by quiet humor, and
frequently exhibits uncommon beauties of style and imagery.
It is almost invariably calm. Moral indignation is
perhaps the only very warm sentiment with which it
glows. It may be questioned whether Cowper's previous
experience was the best adapted to educate a reformer.
He was a member of a society of wits, called the `Nonsense
Club;' and from what we can learn of his associates,
it is highly probable that the moderate pursuit of pleasure
was a spectacle very unfamiliar to his youth. Hence,
perhaps, the severe light in which he viewed society, and
the narrow system upon which he judged mankind.

It is obvious that the poet's observation was remarkably
nice and true in certain departments of life, but his early
diffidence, few companions and retiring habits must have
rendered his view of social characteristics, partial and imperfect.
His pictures of spiritual pride and clerical foppery
are indeed life-like, but prejudice blinded him to
many of the redeeming traits of human nature, and the
habit of judging all men by the mere light of his own consciousness
prevented him from realizing many of their
real wants, and best instincts. His notions on the subject
of music, the drama, life in cities, and some other
subjects, were one-sided and unphilosophical. He generally

unfolds the truth, but it is not always the whole
truth. There is, too, a poetic remedy for human error,
that his melancholy temper forbade his applying. It is derived
from the religion of hope, faith in man—the genial
optimism which some later bards have delightfully
advocated. To direct men's thoughts to the redeeming
aspects of life, to celebrate the sunshine and the flower as
types of Eternal goodness and symbols of human joy, to
lead forth the sated reveller and make him feel the glory
of the stars and the freshness of the breeze, to breathe into
the ear of toil the melodies of evening, to charm the votary
of fashion by endearing portraitures of humble virtue—
these have been found moral specifics, superior to formal
expostulation or direct appeal. Cowper doubtless exerted
a happy influence upon his contemporaries, and there is
and order of minds to which his teachings are peculiarly
adapted. He speaks from the contemplative air of rural
retirement. He went thither “to muse on the perishing
pleasures of life,” to prove that
In favor of these principles he addressed his countrymen,
and the strain was worthier than any that had long struck
their ears. Gradually it found a response, confirmed the
right intentions of lowly hearts, and carried conviction to
many a thoughtful youth. There was little, however, in
this improved poetry, of the “richest music of humanity,”
or of the electrifying cheerfulness of true inspiration, and
hence, much of it has lost its interest, and the bard of
Olney is known chiefly by a few characteristic gems of
moral meditation and graphic portraiture. Our obligations
then to Cowper as a teacher, are comparatively limited.
He was conscious of a good design, and felt himself
a sincere advocate.

The most truly poetic phases of Cowper's verse, are the
portions devoted to rural and domestic subjects. Here he
was at home and alive to every impression. His disposition
was of that retiring kind that shrinks from the world,
and is free and at ease only in seclusion. To exhibit
himself, he tells us, was `mortal poison,' and his favorite
image to represent his own condition, was drawn from
the touching instinct which leads a wounded deer to quit
the herd and withdraw into lonely shades to die. He desired
no nearer view of the world than he could gain from
the `busy map of life'—a newspaper; or through the `loop-holes
of retreat, to see the stir of the great Babel and not
feel the crowd.' I knew a lady whose feelings in this
respect strongly resembled those of Cowper, who assured
me, she often wished herself provided like a snail, that she
might peep out securely from her shell, and withdraw in a
moment from a stranger's gaze behind an impenetrable
shield. Such beings find their chief happiness in the sacred
privacy of home. They leave every public shrine to
keep a constant vigil at the domestic altar. There burns

without ceasing, the fire of their devotion. They turn
from the idols of fashion to worship their household gods.
The fire-side, the accustomed window, the familiar garden
bound their desires. To happy domestic influences
Cowper owed all the peace of mind he enjoyed. He eulogized
the blessing with grateful sincerity.

“Constant occupation without care,” was his ideal of
existence. Even winter was endeared by its home-enjoyments.

It was here that the poet struck a responsive chord in the
hearts of his countrymen. He sung of the sofa—a memorial
of English comfort; of home the castle of English
happiness and independence;—of the newspaper—the
morning and evening pastime of Englishmen;—of the
`hissing urn' and `the cups that cheer, but not inebriate'—
the peculiar luxury of his native land;—of the `parlor-twilight,'
the `winter evening,' the `noon-day walk'—all
subjects consecrated by national associations. Goldsmith
and Thompson are the poets of rural life, and Cowper
completes the charming triumvirate. The latter's love for
the country was absolute.

His description of the pursuits of horticulture, winter
landscapes and rustic pleasures, eloquently betray this
peculiar fondness for the scenery and habits of rural life.
Many of these pictures are unique, and constitute Cowper's
best title to poetic fame.