bodily health improved and his mind regained its equilibrium; he now
began to resume out-of-doors pursuits, walking and gardening, and the
like. He was much addicted to reading out of doors, and said that
external objects fixed the subject of his lecture on his memory. He
wrote to William Unwin about this time, requesting him to procure a
diamond for cutting glass, and expatiating at length on the joys of a
glazier’s trade. He hardly knows a business in which a gentleman might
more successfully employ himself. ‘Possibly the happy time may come,’
he goes on to say, ‘when I may be seen trudging off to the
neighbouring towns, with a shelf of glass hanging at my back. A
Chinese of ten times my fortune would avail himself of such an
opportunity,—and why not I, who want money as much as any mandarin in
China?’ He recommends the notion to his clerical friend, who, by
mending the church windows, might increase his income, and his
popularity in the parish into the bargain. How acceptable must these
jocose passages in his letters have been to those who loved him, after
the terrible period of gloomy hallucinations; but a bright vein of
humour was generally interwoven with the darkest threads of Cowper’s
life. He had always evinced a passion for animals, and had a fancy for
pets; and besides the hares (whose lives and deaths, if we may be
permitted a Hibernianism, he has rendered immortal), Cowper was the
proprietor of a flock of pigeons, which perched every morning on the
garden wall, awaiting the moment when their gentle master should
appear to give them breakfast. Still writing to Unwin, he says: ‘If
your wish should ever be fulfilled, and you obtain the wings of a
dove, I shall assuredly find you some fine morning among my flock;
but, in that case, pray announce yourself, as I am convinced your crop
will require something better than tares to feed upon.’
There is something very refreshing in his outburst of indignation at
the manner in which Dr. Johnson handles Milton, ‘plucking the
brightest feathers’ (or at least so Cowper thought) ‘from the Muse’s
wing, and trampling them under his great foot. I should like to thrash
his old jacket till his pension jingled in his pockets.’ He gives a
most amusing description of an unwelcome visitor at Olney, in which he
carefully draws the line between a ‘travelled man’ and a ‘travelled
gentleman.’ He speaks of the intruder’s long and voluble talk, which
set their favourite robins twittering through rivalry, neither the
birds nor the talker inclining to give in; but, ‘I am thankful to say
the robins survived it, and so did we.’
A delightful ray of human sunshine crossed the monotonous path of
Cowper’s life about this time, and for a period cheered and relieved
its grey and sombre colouring. Looking out of the window one
afternoon, he saw Mrs. Jones (the wife of a neighbouring clergyman)
entering the opposite shop, in company with a being (no other word
could be applicable), whose appearance riveted him to the spot. He
summoned Mrs. Unwin to his side, and requested she would ask both
ladies to tea. The stranger proved to be Mrs. Jones’s sister, a widow,
Lady Austen by name, lately returned from a lengthened sojourn in
France, where she appeared, by all accounts, to have become imbued
with a large portion of French vivacity, without losing any of those
sterling qualities or earnestness of purpose, for which we (at least)
give our fair countrywomen credit. The sisters accepted the
invitation, and, as they entered the room, Cowper, with his
characteristic timidity, made his escape at the other door. But the
attraction was too great; he soon stole back to the tea-table, plunged
headlong into conversation, and, when the ladies rose to take leave,
craved permission to accompany them part of the way home. In fact, he
had fallen in (Platonic) love at first sight. Lady Austen was soon in
the receipt of poems and letters, addressed to ‘Sister Anna.’ Mrs.
Jones having gone to join her husband in London, Lady Austen, finding
herself lonely, and surrounded, she said, by burglars, was easily
persuaded to settle at Olney, and at first under the same roof as
Cowper and Mrs. Unwin. It was a large rambling house. ‘She has taken
that part of the building formerly occupied by Dick Coleman, his wife,
child, and a thousand rats.’
We confess to sharing the opinion of the author of a charming sketch
of Cowper’s life, lately published, when he says, ‘That a woman of
fashion, accustomed to French _salons_, should choose such an abode,
with a couple of Puritans for her only society, surely proves that one
of the Puritans, at least, possessed some great attraction for her.’
The Vicarage was too large for the requirements of Mr. Scott (Newton’s
successor), whose sermons Lady Austen admired, though it was said he
scolded rather than preached the Gospel; and so it was settled she
should take rooms in his house, and the door of communication between
the Scott and Cowper gardens was opened. Cowper writes to Unwin on the
subject of the charming widow, and expatiates on the delightful change
wrought in their daily life by her advent. ‘Our society,’ he says, ‘is
not much increased, but the presence of one individual has made the
whole difference. Lady Austen and we pass the day alternately at each
other’s château. In the morning I walk with one or other of the
ladies; in the evening I wind thread;—so did Hercules, and so, I
opine, did Samson! Were either of these heroes living, I should not
fear challenging them to a trial of skill.’
Lady Austen became as watchful as his older associate in marking the
different phases of Cowper’s moods, and as assiduous in her endeavours
to cheer and amuse him. She would sit by his side for hours, and tax
her memory for anecdotes of foreign life, and the chequered scenes
through which she had passed; and while Mrs. Unwin set him to work on
moral satires, on ‘The Progress of Error,’ ‘Table-Talk,’ and, if we
may so express it, sermons in verse, his younger companion suggested
more lively themes for his Muse. One eventful evening, bent on
cheering the drooping spirits of the invalid, Lady Austen related to
him the wonderful adventures of John Gilpin. The poet laughed, laughed
immoderately, went to bed, woke in the night and laughed again and
again; and the next morning at breakfast he produced the immortal
poem. How many generations, how many children of all ages have laughed
since! how many artists have striven to portray their conception of
that famous ride, till it was reserved for the pencil of Caldecott to
embody (who can doubt it?) the very ideal of the poet’s fancy! Gilpin
became widely known, even while the author continued unknown.
Henderson, the popular actor, recited the ballad on the stage, and far
and near it was read and re-read with delight. Cowper now frequently
turned to Lady Austen for subjects, and followed her injunctions to
the letter when she playfully bade him ‘sing the sofa,’ on which she
sat. This poem swelled into ‘The Task’ and ‘The Task’ it was that made
Cowper famous. There is no doubt that the first stone of his future
fame was laid by the fair hand of that friend from whom he was so soon
to be separated. ‘The Task,’ while inculcating piety and morality (the
absence of which ingredients would have been impossible in any of
Cowper’s lengthened writings), abounded in exquisite descriptions of
life at home and abroad, paintings of Nature, of the quiet, homely,
lovely, loveable nature of his own native land, some passages of which
can scarcely be surpassed for calm beauty and musical rhythm. Let
those readers unacquainted with ‘The Task’ turn to the lines where the
poet stands, with the friend ‘whose arm has been close locked in his
for twenty years,’ on the eminence, when their ‘pace had slackened to
a pause,’ and judge for themselves of Cowper’s talents as a landscape
painter. His interiors are as perfect in their way. How irresistible
is the invitation to
‘Stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, draw the sofa round’!
We feel, as we read, a glow of comfort and snugness, and would gladly
make a fourth beside the table, on which stand the cups that cheer
without inebriating.
The success of ‘The Task’ was immediate and complete; the author
suddenly found himself famous and popular. The postmaster at the
little office at Olney had double work: acquaintances who had
neglected him for years now boasted of their intimacy with the lion of
the day; visitors arrived at Olney to stare at him; anonymous letters
and presents poured in on all sides. An amusing incident occurred one
day, when the clerk of All Saints’ Church, Northampton, was ushered
into Cowper’s presence. He had come, he said, with a petition to the
new poet: Would he consent to contribute the mortuary verses, annually
appended to the bills of mortality, in the capital of England’s most
midland county?
Cowper advised the messenger to apply to Mr. Cox, a statuary in the
town, who wrote verses. ‘Alas!’ replied the clerk, ‘I have already got
help from him; but he is a gentleman of so much reading that our
townspeople cannot understand him.’ The very doubtful compliment thus
implied amused our poet into compliance, and he became a contributor
to the lugubrious periodical.
It was characteristic of William Cowper that, a few years later, he
forbade Lady Hesketh to apply in his behalf for the office of
Poet-Laureate to the Court, yet he willingly accepted the office thus
proposed to him by the clerk of Northampton!
We are now approaching one of the many sad episodes in Cowper’s sad
life; we allude to his estrangement from Lady Austen,—she who had been
for some time a vision of delight to his eye, and heart. Not long
before he had written some most unprophetic lines to his ‘dear Anna.’
We do not quote them from any admiration for the verses, but because
they bear painfully on the subject:—
‘Mysterious are His ways, whose power
Brings forth that unexpected hour,
When minds that never met before
Shall meet, unite, and part no more.’
Further on, after describing the suddenness of their friendship, he
says:—
‘And placed it in our power to prove,
By long fidelity and love,
That Solomon has wisely spoken,
A _threefold cord_ cannot be broken!’
It appears that even the wisdom of Solomon is sometimes at fault, for
it was but a few weeks after that the threefold cord was rudely
snapped asunder. ‘I enclose,’ writes Cowper to Mr. Unwin, ‘a letter
from Lady Austen, which pray return. We are reconciled. She seized the
first opportunity to embrace your mother, with tears of the tenderest
affection, and I, of course, am satisfied.’
Lady Austen went away for a time; and later on, Cowper again writes to
Unwin, under the seal of profound secrecy: ‘When persons for whom I
have felt a friendship disappoint and mortify me, by their conduct, or
act unjustly by me, although I no longer esteem them, I feel that
tenderness for their character that I would conceal the blemish if I
could.’ Then, naming the lady to whom he alluded, he goes on: ‘Nothing
could be more promising, however sudden in its commencement, than our
friendship. She treated us with as much unreserve as if we had been
brought up together. At her departure she proposed a correspondence
with me, as writing does not agree with your mother.’
He then proceeds to tell how, after a short time, he perceived, by the
tenor of Lady Austen’s letters that he had unintentionally offended
her, and, having apologised, the wound seemed healed; but finding, on
repeated occasions, that she expressed ‘a romantic idea of our merits,
and built such expectations of felicity on our friendship, as we were
sure that nothing human could possibly answer, I wrote to remind her
that we were mortal, and to recommend her not to think too highly of
us, intimating that, when we embellish a creature with colours taken
from our own fancy, and extol it above its merits, we make it an
idol,’ etc.
The reader, even if he be no poet, can supply the rest of this homily;
and if he be of our way of thinking, he will smile at the frequent use
of the plural pronoun. Neither will he be surprised to hear that the
letter in question ‘gave mortal offence,’ even though the writer had
read it aloud, before posting it, ‘to Mrs. Unwin, who had honoured it
with her warmest approbation.’ We still quote the correspondence with
William Unwin. ‘If you go to Bristol, you may possibly fall in with a
lady who _was_ here very lately. If you should meet, remember that we
found the connection on some accounts an inconvenient one, and we do
not wish to renew it; so pray conduct yourself accordingly. A
character with which we spend all our time should be made on purpose
for us, and in this case the dissimilitude was felt continually, and
consequently made our intercourse unpleasant.’ Now the strain of this
letter helps us to understand that the one written not long before to
Lady Austen was no sooner read than she flung it indignantly into the
fire.
But so it was, and, for our part, we are loath to see the bright
vision, which had cast a halo over dull little Olney, vanish from the
horizon. Cowper’s biographers are all at issue as to the cause of this
estrangement, ‘it is so difficult to solve the mystery.’ To us the
only difficulty appears in the choice of solutions. Hayley, who
handles the matter with delicacy and discretion, says, ‘Those
acquainted with the poet’s _innocence and sportive piety_ would agree
that the verses inscribed to Anna might assuredly have been inspired
by a real sister.’ To him they appeared ‘the _effusions of a gay and
tender gallantry_, quite distinct from any amorous attachment.’ At the
same time, he sees the possibility of a lady, only called by that
endearing name, mistaking all the attentions lavished upon her, as ‘a
mere prelude to a closer alliance.’
The good-hearted, high-flown Hayley concludes by expressing his
sympathy with Cowper, as being ‘perplexed by _an abundance of
affection in a female associate_‘—surely he should have said a couple!
The Rev. Mr. Scott, for some time Lady Austen’s landlord at Olney, is
reported to have said: ‘Who can wonder that two women, who were
continually in the society of one man, should quarrel, sooner or
later?’
Southey (an evident partisan of Mrs. Unwin’s), while acquitting Lady
Austen of any ‘matrimonial designs,’ urges that it would be impossible
for a woman of threescore to feel any jealousy in the matter of
Cowper’s affections. Now it strikes us that the woman of threescore
could herself have had no ‘matrimonial intentions,’ or she would have
carried them out long before. But is it likely that Cowper’s ‘Mary’
would have tolerated a wife under the same roof, or tamely given the
_pas_ to an ‘Anna’? Cowper indeed called Mrs. Unwin his mother, and
Lady Austen his sister; but the former lady may have distrusted the
ambiguity of the latter elective relationship, knowing how frequently
the appellation of brother and sister has been used as a refuge from
the impending danger, of a nearer tie.
Southey goes on to observe, in contradistinction, we suppose, to Mr.
Scott’s remark, that two women were shortly afterwards living
constantly in the society of the identical man, without one shade of
jealousy. Now Lady Austen and Lady Hesketh differed in all respects—in
age, in character, in discipline of mind. The former had been Cowper’s
early friend, and the _confidante_ of his love for her sister
Theodora; they had corresponded with each other for years; and in one
of his letters he says: ‘It seems wonderful, that, loving you as much
as I do, I should never have fallen in love with you. I am so glad I
never did, for it would have been most inconvenient,’ etc.
Lady Hesketh now returned from a lengthened residence on the
Continent, her husband was dead, and the intercourse of old days was
renewed, in all its happy freedom, between the cousins. A few more
words respecting poor Lady Austen, and then her name shall be heard no
more. Cowper writes to Lady Hesketh a long letter on the subject, in
which he describes the rise, decline, and fall of the friendship, and
goes on in this strain: ‘At first I used to pay my _devoirs_ to her
ladyship every morning at eleven. Custom soon became law. When I began
“The Task,” I felt the inconvenience of this daily attendance; long
usage had made that which was at first optional, a point of good
manners. I was compelled to neglect “The Task,” for the Muse that had
inspired it.’
Hayley speaks in most flattering terms of Lady Austen, in his Life of
Cowper, and wrote one of the long-winded epitaphs of the day on her
death, which took place before he had completed the poet’s biography,
in the compilation of which she had given him much assistance. After
her estrangement from the Olney household, Lady Austen married a
Frenchman, one Monsieur de Tardif, who wrote verses to her in his own
language; she accompanied her husband to Paris in 1802, where she
died.
As regards Cowper, one thing is certain: he did not subscribe to the
common error, that ‘two is company, and three none,’ but rather to the
German proverb, ‘Alle gute ding, sind drey;’ for he now summons Lady
Hesketh to his side. He entreats her to come and reside under his
roof, painting, in the most glowing colours, the happiness that her
society will afford them. He addresses her in the most tender, the
most affectionate terms—‘Dearly beloved cousin,’ ‘Dearest,
dearest,’—and often in the middle of his epistles he breaks forth
again into similar endearing epithets. Southey assures us that Mrs.
Unwin never felt a shade of jealousy for Lady Hesketh; but no one
tells us if such letters as these were read aloud to Mary, or
‘honoured by her warmest approbation. Among the anonymous presents
which Cowper was now in the habit of receiving, was one more
acceptable than all others, and that not only because it enclosed a
cheque for fifty pounds, with a promise that the donation should be
annual, as he writes to Lady Hesketh (whom he appoints his ‘Thanks
Receiver-General,’ ‘seeing it is so painful to have no one to thank’),
but because the letter was accompanied by ‘the most elegant gift, and
the most elegant compliment, that ever poet was honoured with,’—a
beautiful tortoise-shell snuff-box, with a miniature on the lid,
representing a landscape, with the three hares frolicking in the
foreground; above and below two inscriptions, ‘Bess, Puss, Tiny,’ and
‘The Peasant’s Nest.’ Southey had no doubt (neither would it appear
had Cowper himself, though he thinks it dishonourable to pry into the
incognito) that ‘Anonymous’ and Theodora were synonymous. He was now
hard at work translating Homer, and he longed to read what he had done
to Lady Hesketh, as well as to Mrs. Unwin. ‘The latter,’ he says, ‘has
hitherto been my touchstone, and I have never printed a line without
reference to her. With one of you at each elbow, I shall be the
happiest of poets.’
To the same: ‘I am impatient to tell you how impatient I am to see
you. But you must not come till the fine weather, when the greenhouse,
the only pleasant room in the house, will be ready to receive us, for
when the plants go out, we go in. There you shall sit, my dear, with a
bed of mignionette by your side, and a hedge of roses, honeysuckle,
and jasmine, and I will make you a bouquet of myrtle every day. Come,
come then, my beloved cousin, for I am resolved, whatever king may
reign, you shall be vicar of Olney.’ He hopes their friendship will be
perpetuated for ever; ‘For I should not love you half so well if I did
not believe you would be my friend to all eternity. There is not room
for friendship to unfold itself in full bloom, in such a nook of life
as this; therefore I am, and must, and always will be yours for
ever.—W. COWPER.’
In another letter he prepares her for the aspect of his peculiar
abode: ‘The entrance hall: opposite you, stands a cupboard, once a
dove-cot, and a paralytic table, both the work of the same author.
Then you come to the parlour door, which we will open, and I will
present you to Mrs. Unwin; and we shall be as happy as the day is
long.’
Lady Hesketh preferred separate lodgings, and, following in the
footsteps of Lady Austen, became a tenant of the Vicarage, and
inhabited the rooms so lately vacated by her predecessor. ‘All is
settled, dear cousin, and now I only wish for June; and June, believe
me, was never so much wished for, since it was first made. To meet
again, after so long a separation, will be like a resurrection; but
there is no one in the other world whose reappearance would cause me
so much pleasure.’ He prepares her for the possible recurrence of his
fits of dejection, but is sure he will be cheerful when she comes. In
a letter to Unwin, speaking of the long-looked-for arrival, he says:
‘I have always loved the sound of church bells; but none ever seemed
to me so musical, as those which rang my sweet cousin into her new
habitation.’ Lady Hesketh, writing a description of Mrs. Unwin, says
she ‘is a very remarkable woman. She is far from being always grave;
on the contrary, she laughs _de bon cœur_ on the smallest provocation.
When she speaks on grave subjects, it is in a Puritanical tone, and
she makes use of Puritanical expressions; but otherwise she has a fund
of gaiety; indeed, but for that, she could not have gone through all
she has done. I do not like to say she idolises William, for she would
disapprove of the word; but she certainly has no will but his. It is
wonderful to think how she has supported the constant attendance and
responsibility for so many years.’ She goes on to describe the calm,
quiet, dignified old lady, sitting knitting stockings for her poet,
beside his chair, with ‘the finest needles imaginable.’
Cowper used to work in a little summer-house (which is still standing,
or was a few years since) of his own construction, where there were
two chairs indeed, but Lady Hesketh did not often intrude. He says of
himself about this time, that he was happier than he had been for
years. But there are some excellent people in the world, who consider
peace unwholesome, and like to throw stones into their neighbours’
lakes, as schoolboys do, for the pleasure of ruffling the surface.
Cowper writes to William Unwin: ‘Your mother has received a letter
from Mr. Newton, which she has not answered, and is not likely to
answer. It gave us both much concern; but it vexed her more than me,
because I am so much occupied with my work that I have less leisure to
browse on the wormwood. It contains an implied accusation, that she
and I have deviated into forbidden paths, and lead a life unbecoming
the Gospel; that many of our friends in London are grieved; that many
of our poor neighbours are shocked; in short, I converse with people
of the world, and take pleasure therein. Mr. Newton reminds us that
there is still intercourse between Olney and London, implying that he
hears of our doings. We do not doubt it; there never was a lie hatched
in Olney that waited long for a bearer. We do not wonder at the lies;
we only wonder he believes them. That your mother should be suspected
(and by Mr. Newton, of all people) of irregularities is indeed
wonderful.’
The extent of their crimes, the head and front of their offending,
were drives with Lady Hesketh in her carriage, and visits to the
Throckmortons. We suspect that was an unpardonable offence (on account
of their being Roman Catholics) in Mr. Newton’s eyes.
‘Sometimes, not often, we go as far as Gayhurst, or to the turnpike
and back; we have been known to reach as far as the cabinetmaker’s at
Newport!’ And, O crowning horror! Cowper confesses to having once or
twice taken a Sunday walk in the fields with his cousin, for Mrs.
Unwin had never been led so far into temptation. Speaking of Lady
Hesketh, who came in for her share of censure, he says: ‘Her only
crime in Olney has been to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and
nurse the sick.’ The letters to Mr. Newton were in the same strain,
but modified in their expressions; for it was evident Cowper feared
his spiritual adviser, and, like some of our Roman Catholic friends,
subscribed to the infallibility of his Pope, even while harbouring
some secret misgivings on the subject. He ventures to observe: ‘As to
the opinion of our poorer neighbours, uneducated people are seldom
well employed when judging one another, but when they undertake to
scan the motives, and estimate the behaviour, of those whom Providence
has placed a little above them, they are utterly out of their depth.’