continued his friendship and intercourse with his severe censor. Mr.
and Mrs. Newton were his guests after he had left Olney, and was
settled in his new house; and though the correspondence between the
two men slackened in some measure, and lost some of its unreserved
character, it was not discontinued. Neither did the poet refer to the
difference which had arisen, unless we accept such a passage as this,
as an allusion to Mr. Newton’s censoriousness. Speaking of the narrow
escape which Mrs. Unwin had run of being burned to death, he says:
‘Had I been bereft of her, I should have had nothing left to lean on,
for all my other spiritual props have long since broken down under
me.’ It did indeed seem strange and cruel, that the only hand found to
throw a stone at the marble shrine of Cowper, and his Mary, should be
that of his own familiar friend.
When Lady Hesketh came to investigate the resources of Olney, she
decided in her own mind that it was a most unfit place for her cousin
to inhabit,—cold, damp, and dreary; and she was not long in arranging
that her two friends should change their abode for a pretty little
house called Weston, belonging to Sir John Throckmorton, and standing
in a picturesque neighbourhood on the skirts of his park. Lady Hesketh
took all the trouble and expense of the removal on herself; furnished
and embellished the little house; and on the day she left Olney for
London, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin drove over to settle at Weston. But they
had not been there above a fortnight, before a sad blow fell upon them
both. News came that William Unwin was no more,—‘the only son of his
mother, and she was a widow;’ the dearly loved friend and constant
correspondent of Cowper. William Unwin was travelling with a friend,
whom he nursed to recovery through a dangerous attack of typhus; but,
catching the disease himself, he died in the hotel at Winchester. The
mother bore her irreparable loss, ‘with her accustomed submission to
the Divine will.’ Cowper dared not give way to emotion, but the shock
was none the less severe. His letters began to show signs of returning
illness and dejection; he marks down for his intimate friends all the
variations of the mental barometer. Alas! the storm signal was already
hoisted, and the tempest was at hand. He complained of sleeplessness:
‘It is impossible, dear cousin,’ he writes, after explaining how
heavily the task of translation (he was busy on Homer) weighed on his
mind, ‘for a man who cannot sleep, to fight Homer’s battles.’
Religious despondency once more took possession of his distracted
mind. Speaking of a visit to his old home at Olney, he says: ‘Dreary,
dark, cold, empty—it seemed a fit emblem of a God-forgotten,
God-forsaken creature.’ Insanity returned in all its distressing
symptoms; he again attempted self-destruction. Poor Mrs. Unwin came
into the room one day, just in time to cut him down. He would scarcely
let her out of his sight for a moment, and would allow no other person
to enter his presence.
It is not our intention to dwell longer than necessary on these dark
passages in the sufferer’s life; suffice it to say, that, as on a
former occasion, the cure was instantaneous; and, after an interval of
several months, he once more took up the thread of his work and
correspondence. He tells Lady Hesketh he is mending in health and
spirits, speaks enthusiastically of the Throckmortons’ kindness, and
says that he has promised them she will soon be at Weston. ‘Come then;
thou art always welcome; all that is here is thine, together with the
hearts of those who dwell here.’ Alluding to her father’s declining
health, he ‘is happy not to have grown old before his time. Trouble
and anguish do that for some, which longevity alone does for others. A
few months ago I was older than he is now; and though I have lately
recovered, as Falstaff says, “some snatch of my youth,” I have but
little confidence, and expect, when I least expect it, to wither
again.’ In the midst of some melancholy reflections he breaks out
with: ‘Oh how I wish you could see the gambols of my kitten! They are
indescribable; but time, that spoils all, will, I fear, sooner or
later, make a cat of her.’ Then he relates, for his cousin’s
amusement, how a lady in Hampshire had invited him to her house,
bribing him with the promise of erecting a temple in her grounds ‘to
the best man in the world.’ Not only that, but, would she believe it,
a Welsh attorney has sent him his verses to revise and criticise! a
lady had stolen his poem of
‘A rose had been washed, just washed by a shower,
Which Mary (Mrs. Unwin) to Anna (Lady Austen) conveyed.’
‘You must excuse it, if you find me a little vain, for the poet whose
works are stolen, and who can charm an attorney, and a Welsh one into
the bargain, must be an Orpheus, if not something greater.’ He was at
work again on Homer, and, when urged not to overtax his mind in so
doing, says he considers employment essential to his wellbeing. But
writing was irksome to him, and he found innumerable volunteers for
the office of secretary,—Lady Hesketh, Mrs. Throckmorton, young Mr.
Rose—a new but true friend,—and his favourite kinsman John, or Johnny,
Johnson, of Norfolk.
Cowper and Mrs. Unwin had a succession of guests at The Hermitage, as
he sometimes called Weston; among others, Mr. Rose, an agreeable young
man, a great admirer of the poet’s, who writes his sister an account
of their life, and speaks of Lady Hesketh, ‘A pleasant and agreeable
woman, polite without ceremony;’ of Mrs. Unwin, ‘A kind angel;’ of
their amusing breakfasts, ‘which take an hour or more, to satisfy the
sentiment, not the appetite, for we talk, O heavens! how we talk!’
Cowper was much attached to Rose. Speaking of his departure: ‘When a
friend leaves me, I always feel at my heart a possibility that perhaps
we have met for the last time, and that before the return of summer,
robins may be whistling over the grave of one of us.’
Our poet was very fond of mere rhyming, and did not despise doggerel,
for we can call the Lines to his ‘dearest Coz,’ after the manner of
Shenstone, by no other name,—being an inventory of all his goods and
chattels, including the cap, so thoroughly identified with his image
in our minds. It was the fashion of the day, more especially for
literary men, to lay aside the heavy periwig, and don this most
unbecoming but, we imagine, more comfortable head-gear.
‘The cap which so stately appears,
With ribbon-bound tassel, on high,’
was the gift of his Harriet, and so were the bookshelves, the chairs,
tables,—all enumerated in verse—‘endearing his abode,’ by recalling
the memory of her, from whom he daily expects a visit, only she is in
attendance on
‘The oldest and dearest of friends,
Whose dial-plate points to eleven,...
And who waits but a passage to heaven.’
And the hour struck very shortly after, for Lady Hesketh’s father,
Ashley Cowper.
In the sylvan glades of Yardley Chase, rich in fine old timber, stood
an ancient oak, the frequent goal of the poet’s rambles, to which he
wrote an address. The tree still bears his name, and ‘Cowper’s Oak’ is
the meeting-place of two packs of hounds. Many a bright morning since
our poet’s time have the woods of old Yardley echoed to the sound of
the huntsman’s horn and the baying of the deep-mouthed ‘beauties.’
One of his letters contains a most graphic description of how he and
Mrs. Unwin, returning from a ramble, fell in with the hounds, and,
climbing the broad stump of an elm in order to have a better view of
the proceedings, were actually in ‘at the death.’ It is delightful to
think of the poet and his Mary in such unexpected circumstances, for
they seem both to have been much excited. ‘And thus, dear cousin,’ as
Virgil says, ‘what none of the gods would have ventured to promise me,
time, of its own accord, has presented me with.’
A letter to his friend Mr. Hill proves how much pleasure a visit from
the Dowager Lady Spencer had afforded him. This remarkable woman, the
daughter of Stephen Poyntz, a distinguished diplomate, was the widow
of the first Earl Spencer, and mother of the beautiful Duchess of
Devonshire. She had made a long _détour_ to call on the poet, whose
works she much admired. And he says: ‘She is one of the first women in
the world; I mean in point of character and accomplishments. If my
translation prove successful, I may perhaps receive some honours
hereafter, but none I shall esteem more highly than her approbation.
She is indeed worthy to whom I should dedicate, and may my _Odyssey_
prove as worthy of her.’
At length the happy hour arrived: Homer was translated and ready for
the press. The _Iliad_ was dedicated to his young relative, Earl
Cowper, and the _Odyssey_ to the Dowager Countess Spencer.
He expressed himself well satisfied with his publisher, Johnson. ‘I
verily believe that, though a bookseller, he has the soul of a
gentleman! Such strange combinations sometimes happen.’ We give an
extract from a letter which he wrote on the conclusion of his Homeric
labours to his amanuensis, Johnny Johnson: ‘Dearest Johnny: now I can
give you rest and joy,—joy of your resting from all your labours, in
my service. But I can foretell that, if you go on serving your friends
at this rate, your life will indeed be one of labour. Yet persevere;
your rest will be all the sweeter hereafter; in the meantime I wish
you (whenever you need him) just such a friend as you have been to
me.’
He was very much attached to Johnny, and it was in allusion to his
young kinsman that he said: ‘I agree with Lavater, “Looks are as
legible as books, take less time to peruse, and are less likely to
deceive.”’ Johnny did the poet a good turn, for it was he who
suggested to his aunt, Mrs. Bodham, what a welcome present it would be
if she sent Cowper his mother’s picture,—a subject to which we have
already alluded.
When Homer was concluded, Mrs. Unwin was most anxious that he should
undertake some new work, which would occupy his thoughts for some
considerable time. She dreaded the effect of idleness, or of the mere
desultory composition of occasional poems. And therefore she rejoices
that he has been prevailed upon to edit a magnificent edition of
Milton, to translate all his Latin and Italian poems, to select the
best notes of former commentators, and to add annotations of his own.
It was a wholesome task, though occasionally, under the pressure of
nervous dejection, Cowper cavilled at what he called the ‘Miltonic
trap.’ Mrs. Unwin, who had lately become enfeebled, had had a bad
fall, but fortunately escaped with some bruises, when one day she was
seized with giddiness, and would have again fallen to the ground, had
not Cowper saved her. There could be little doubt the attack was of a
paralytic nature, though her companion would not allow himself to
utter the fearful word. In this hour of utmost need an invaluable
friend was raised up in the person of William Hayley, whom Southey
designates as one of the most generous of men. We will let him speak
for himself, by giving an extract of his first letter to Cowper,
enclosing some complimentary lines. ‘Although I resisted the idea of
professing my friendship and admiration, from a fear of intrusion, I
cannot resist that of disclaiming an idea which I have heard has been
imputed to me, of considering myself your antagonist. Allow me to say,
I was solicited to write a Life of Milton before I had the least idea
that you and Mr. Fuseli were engaged on a similar project.’ He
concludes a most amiable letter to the man ‘whose poems have so often
delighted him,’ by saying, ‘If, in the course of your work, I have any
opportunity of serving and obliging you, I shall seize it with that
friendly spirit which has impelled me, both in prose and rhyme, to
assure you that I am your most cordial admirer.’ And thus, out of what
might have proved a misunderstanding, began that intercourse which
lasted Cowper’s life, and soothed his latter days.
Speaking of Hayley’s visit to Weston, he says: ‘Everybody here has
fallen in love with him—and everybody must. We have formed a
friendship which will, I hope, last for life, and prove an edifying
example to all future poets.’ Hayley, on his part, writing to his
friend Romney, the painter, describes at length the welcome he had
received at Weston, his delight in Cowper’s society; and then as to
the grand article of females,—‘for what is a scene without a woman in
it? Here is a Muse of seventy, whom I perfectly adore; the woman who,
for so many years, has devoted her time and fortune to the service of
this tender and sublime genius. Not many days after this letter was
written, the two authors were returning from a morning ramble, when
the news met them that Mrs. Unwin had had a second paralytic stroke.
Cowper rushed forward into the house, and returned in such a state of
agitation as made Hayley tremble for his reason; ‘but, by the blessing
of God, I was able to quiet him in a great measure, and from that
moment he rested on my friendship, and regards me as providentially
sent to support him in a season of deepest affliction.’
Cowper will not accept his cousin’s proposal to come to Weston; for he
wishes his dear Harriet’s visits thither to be made for pleasure. Mrs.
Unwin’s health improved. ‘It is a blessing to us both, that, poor
feeble thing as she is, she has an invincible courage. She always
tells me she is better, and probably will die saying so; and then it
will be true, for then she will be best of all.’ Hayley, before, and
since leaving Weston, had urged Cowper to pay him a visit at what his
friends called his ‘little paradise’ at Eartham, on the south coast,
as soon as Mrs. Unwin’s state would allow her to travel. It must have
seemed a tremendous undertaking for those who had not strayed further
than a thirteen miles’ drive for upwards of thirteen years! But Cowper
believed the change of air might benefit his invalid; and that
determined him.
In the interim he writes to his friend, Mr. Bull: ‘How do you think I
have been occupied the last few days? In sitting, not on cockatrice’s
eggs, but for my picture. Cousin Johnny has an aunt who is seized with
a desire to have my portrait, and so the said Johnny has brought down
an artist.’
To Hayley he writes:—
‘Abbot is painting me so true,
That, trust me, you would stare,
And hardly know, at the first view,
If I were here, or there!’
It was much to be regretted that, with no lack of kind and judicious
friends—and Hayley in particular, with his good sense and true
affection,—Cowper should have fallen about this time under the baneful
influence of a fanatic, one Teedon, a schoolmaster, who had long been
a pensioner on his and Mrs. Unwin’s bounty, at Olney. Cowper
constantly spoke of him in his letters to William Unwin and others as
foolish Mr. Teedon’s ridiculous vanity and strange delusions, who
prided himself on the immediate answers to any prayer he might
consider it advisable to put up, as also on wonderful spiritual and
audible communications. This empty-headed man became an object of
reverence rather than contempt in the eyes of Cowper, and of poor Mrs.
Unwin herself, in her debilitated state of health. Cowper began to
believe in Teedon, and to bend beneath his influence. Had Mr. Newton
not strained the spiritual curb too tightly, he would, in all
probability, have retained his hold over the minds of his two friends,
and not exposed them to the subjugation of one uneducated as Samuel
Teedon. But enough of this contemptible man. The friends now began to
prepare for the great enterprise, and we are not surprised to hear
Cowper say, ‘A thousand lions, monsters, and giants, are in the way;
but I suppose they will vanish if I have the courage to face them.
Mrs. Unwin, whose weakness might justify such fears, has none.’ A
coach, with four steeds, is ordered from London to convey them on
their desperate way; the journey is to be a species of royal progress.
‘General Cowper, who lives at Ham—is Ham near Kingston?—is to meet me
on the road, ditto my friend Carwardine and others. When other men
leave home, they make no disturbance; when _I_ travel, houses are
turned upside down, people turned out of their beds at unearthly
hours, and every imaginable trouble given. All the counties through
which _I_ pass appear to be in an uproar. What a change for a man who
has seen no bustle, and made none for twenty years together!’ He is
scrupulous respecting the numbers that will accompany him,—‘for Johnny
of Norfolk, who is with us, would be broken-hearted if left behind.’
It would be the same with his dog Beau, who paid a wonderful tribute
to Abbot’s portrait of his master, by going up to it, and wagging his
tail furiously; while Sam, the gardener’s boy, made a low bow to the
same effigy.
The travellers reached Eartham at last, Hayley’s home, about six miles
from Chichester, and five from Arundel. ‘Here,’ writes Cowper on his
arrival, ‘we are as happy as it is possible for terrestrial good to
make us.’ He looked from the library window on a fine landscape,
bounded by the sea, a deep-wooded valley, and hills which we should
call mountains in Buckinghamshire. Hayley and Cowper were both very
busy with their several works in the morning, and Johnny, as usual,
was his cousin’s transcriber. The kind host, thinking to do honour to
his guest, invited the ex-Chancellor Thurlow to meet his old
acquaintance, but his Lordship would not come. There were, however,
pleasant visitors at Eartham, with whom Cowper fraternised,—Charlotte
Smith the novelist, and Romney the admirable painter. ‘Hayley has
given me a picture of himself by this charming artist, who is making
an excellent portrait of me in pastel.’
‘Mrs. Unwin,’ he says, ‘has benefited much by the change, and has many
young friends, who all volunteer to drag her chair round the pretty
grounds.’ In spite of all these pleasant surroundings, the two friends
became home-sick, and returned to Weston, where they found (after the
manner of less gifted mortals) that chaos had reigned in their
absence. Cowper resumed his Miltonic labours, and began preparing
Homer for a new edition. ‘I play at push-pin with Homer every morning
before breakfast, furbishing and polishing, as Paris did his armour.’
Speaking of his assurance in having undertaken works of such
importance, he quotes Ranger’s observation in the _Suspicious
Husband_: ‘There is a degree of assurance in your modest men, which we
impudent fellows never arrive at.’
Poor Cowper! He was again gradually sinking back into despondency,
though he combated the advances of the enemy as far as in him lay. ‘I
am cheerful on paper sometimes when I am actually the most dejected of
creatures. I keep melancholy out of my letters as much as I can, that
I may, if possible, by assuming a less gloomy air, deceive myself, and
improve fiction into reality.’ He is to sit for his portrait once more
to Lawrence, and he only wishes his face were moveable, to take off
and on at pleasure, so that he might pack it in a box, and send it to
the artist. On Hayley’s second visit to Weston, he found Cowper
tolerably well in appearance. Young Mr. Rose was there, the bearer of
an invitation from Lord Spencer, who wished Cowper to meet Gibbon. ‘We
did all we could to make him accept, urging the benefit he would
derive from such genial society, and the delight he would experience
from revelling in the treasures of the magnificent library. But our
arguments were all in vain; Cowper was unequal to the exertion.’ So
Rose and Hayley were his ambassadors to Althorp, laden with his
excuses. It is our intention to dwell as briefly as is consistent with
the narrative on the sad scenes now enacting at Weston. A fearful
relapse had befallen Cowper; Mrs. Unwin’s state bordered on
imbecility; and Lady Hesketh, who had lately taken up her abode with
her two afflicted friends, seemed powerless to cheer them, and Hayley,
whom she summoned to their aid, was shocked to find that Cowper
scarcely recognised him, and manifested no pleasure in his society. It
was with the greatest difficulty that he could now be induced to taste
food, and this system of course increased his malady, by reducing his
strength. One morning a letter arrived from Lord Spencer, announcing
that the long-looked-for pension had at length been granted,—a
circumstance which was a great relief to his friends, but, alas!
brought no satisfaction to the sufferer’s bewildered mind. Change of
air and scene were recommended. Lady Hesketh, whose own health was
greatly impaired, went to London, and Cowper and Mrs. Unwin were
conveyed into Norfolk under the kind charge of ‘Johnny’ Johnson. They
went first to a village called Tuddenham, and afterwards to Mundsley,
on the coast. Johnson accompanied Cowper in all his rambles, and one
day, calling on Mrs. Bodham, their cousin, to whom we have already
alluded, Cowper saw the portrait of himself painted by Abbot; he
looked at it for some time, and then, wringing his hands, uttered a
vehement wish that he were now as happy as when he sat for that
picture.
He had always been very fond of coast scenery; and in one of his early
letters to William Unwin he speaks of his astonishment at the number
of people who can look on the sea without emotion, or, indeed,
reflection of any kind. ‘In all its various forms, it is an object of
all others most calculated to affect us with lasting impressions of
that awful Power which created and controls it. Before I gave my mind
to religion, the waves used to preach to me, and I always listened.
One of Shakespeare’s characters, Lorenzo, says: “I am never merry when
I hear sweet music.” The sight and the sound of the ocean, produces
the same effect on me that harmony did on Jessica.’ He began to write
again to Lady Hesketh, but his letters were most gloomy, and must have
been painful in the extreme for the recipient.