THE LETTERS.
Southey, no mean judge in such a matter, calls Cowper the best of
English, letter-writers. If the first place is shared with him by any
one it is by Byron, rather than by Gray, whose letters are pieces of
fine writing, addressed to literary men, or Horace Walpole, whose
letters are memoirs, the English counterpart of St. Simon. The
letters both of Gray and Walpole are manifestly written for
publication. Those of Cowper have the true epistolary charm. They are
conversation, perfectly artless, and at the same time autobiography,
perfectly genuine, whereas all formal autobiography is cooked. They
are the vehicles of the writer's thoughts and feelings, and the mirror
of his life. We have the strongest proofs that they were not written
for publication. In many of them there are outpourings of wretchedness
which could not possibly have been intended for any heart but that to
which they were addressed, while others contain medical details which
no one would have thought of presenting to the public eye. Some, we
know, were answers to letters received but a moment before; and Southey
says that the manuscripts are very free from erasures. Though Cowper
kept a note-book for subjects, which no doubt were scarce with him, it
is manifest that he did not premeditate. Grace of form he never lacks,
but this was a part of his nature, improved by his classical training.
The character and the thoughts presented are those of a recluse who was
sometimes a hypochondriac; the life is life at Olney. But simple
self-revelation is always interesting, and a garrulous playfulness with
great happiness of expression can lend a certain charm even to things
most trivial and commonplace. There is also a certain pleasure in
being carried back to the quiet days before railways and telegraphs,
when people passed their whole lives on the same spot, and life moved
always in the same tranquil round. In truth it is to such days that
letter-writing, as a species of literature belongs, telegrams and
postal cards have almost killed it now.
The large collection of Cowper's letters is probably seldom taken from
the shelf; and the "Elegant Extracts" select those letters which are
most sententious, and therefore least characteristic. Two or three
specimens of the other style may not be unwelcome or needless as
elements of a biographical sketch; though specimens hardly do justice
to a series of which the charm, such as it is, is evenly diffused, not
gathered, into centres of brilliancy like Madame de Sevigne's letter on
the Orleans Marriage. Here is a letter written, in the highest spirits
to Lady Hesketh.
"Olney, _Feb. 9th_, 1786.
"MY DEAREST COUSIN,--I have been impatient to tell you that I am
impatient to see you again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in all my
feelings upon this subject, and longs also to see you. I should have
told you so by the last post, but have been so completely occupied by
this tormenting specimen, that it was impossible to do it. I sent the
General a letter on Monday, that would distress and alarm him; I sent
him another yesterday, that will, I hope, quiet him again. Johnson has
apologized very civilly for the multitude of his friend's strictures;
and his friend has promised to confine himself in future to a
comparison of me with the original, so that, I doubt not, we shall jog
on merrily together. And now, my dear, let me tell you once more, that
your kindness in promising us a visit has charmed us both. I shall see
you again. I shall hear your voice. We shall take walks together. I
will show you my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse and its
banks, everything that I have described. I anticipate the pleasure of
those days not very far distant, and feel a part of it at this moment.
Talk not of an inn! Mention it not for your life! We have never had
so many visitors, but we could easily accommodate them all; though we
have received Unwin, and his wife, and his sister, and his son all at
once. My dear, I will not let you come till the end of May, or
beginning of June, because before that time my greenhouse will not be
ready to receive us, and it is the only pleasant room belonging to us.
When the plants go out, we go in. I line it with mats, and spread the
floor with mats; and there you shall sit with a bed of mignonette at
your side, and a hedge of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine; and I will
make you a bouquet of myrtle every day. Sooner than the time I mention
the country will not be in complete beauty.
"And I will tell you what you shall find at your first entrance.
Imprimis, as soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a look
on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box of my
making. It is the box in which have been lodged all my hares, and in
which lodges Puss at present; but he, poor fellow, is worn out with
age, and promises to die before you can see him. On the right hand
stands a cupboard, the work of the same author, it was once a
dove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table, which
I also made; but a merciless servant having scrubbed it until it became
paralytic, it serves no purpose now but of ornament; and all my clean
shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the further end of this
superb vestibule, you will find the door of the parlour, into which I
will conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs. Unwin, unless
we should meet her before, and where we will be as happy as the day is
long. Order yourself, my cousin, to the Swan at Newport, and there you
shall find me ready to conduct you to Olney.
"My dear, I have told Homer what you say about casks and urns, and have
asked him whether he is sure that it is a cask in which Jupiter keeps
his wine. He swears that it is a cask, and that it will never be
anything better than a cask to eternity. So if the god is content with
it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be so too.
"Adieu! my dearest, dearest cousin.
W. C."
Here, by way of contrast, is a letter written in the lowest spirits
possible to Mr. Newton. It displays literary grace inalienable even in
the depths of hypochondria. It also shows plainly the connexion of
hypochondria with the weather. January was a month to the return of
which the sufferer always looked forward with dread as a mysterious
season of evil. It was a season, especially at Olney, of thick fog
combined with bitter frosts. To Cowper this state of the atmosphere
appeared the emblem of his mental state; we see in it the cause. At
the close the letter slides from spiritual despair to the
worsted-merchant, showing that, as we remarked before, the language of
despondency had become habitual, and does not always flow from a soul
really in the depths of woe.
TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.
"_Jan. 13th_, 1784.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--I too have taken leave of the old year, and parted
with it just when you did, but with very different sentiments and
feelings upon the occasion. I looked back upon all the passages and
occurrences of it, as a traveller looks back upon a wilderness through
which he has passed with weariness, and sorrow of heart, reaping no
other fruit, of his labour, than the poor consolation that, dreary as
the desert was, he has left it all behind him. The traveller would
find even this comfort considerably lessened, if, as soon as he had
passed one wilderness, another of equal length, and equally desolate,
should expect him. In this particular, his experience and mine would
exactly tally. I should rejoice, indeed, that the old year is over and
gone, if I had not every reason to prophesy a new one similar to it.
"The new year is already old in my account, I am not, indeed,
sufficiently second-sighted to be able to boast by anticipation an
acquaintance with the events of it yet unborn, but rest convinced that,
be they what they may, not one of them comes a messenger of good to me.
If even death itself should be of the number, he is no friend of mine.
It is an alleviation of the woes even of an unenlightened man, that he
can wish for death, and indulge a hope, at least, that in death he
shall find deliverance. But, loaded as my life is with despair, I have
no such comfort as would result from a supposed probability of better
things to come, were it once ended. For, more unhappy than the
traveller with whom I set out, pass through what difficulties I may,
through whatever dangers and afflictions, I am not a whit nearer the
home, unless a dungeon may be called so. This is no very agreeable
theme; but in so great a dearth of subjects to write upon, and
especially impressed as I am at this moment with a sense of my own
condition, I could choose no other. The weather is an exact emblem of
my mind in its present state. A thick fog envelopes everything, and at
the same time it freezes intensely. You will tell me that this cold
gloom will be succeeded by a cheerful spring, and endeavour to
encourage me to hope for a spiritual change resembling it;--but it will
be lost labour. Nature revives again; but a soul once slain lives no
more. The hedge that has been apparently dead, is not so; it will
burst into leaf and blossom at the appointed time; but no such time is
appointed for the stake that stands in it. It is as dead as it seems,
and will prove itself no dissembler. The latter end of next month will
complete a period of eleven years in which I have spoken no other
language. It is a long time for a man whose eyes were once opened, to
spend in darkness; long enough to make despair an inveterate habit; and
such it is in me. My friends, I know, expect that I shall see yet
again. They think it necessary to the existence of divine truth, that
he who once had possession of it should never finally lose it. I admit
the solidity of this reasoning in every case but my own. And why not
in my own? For causes which to them it appears madness to allege, but
which rest upon my mind with a weight of immovable conviction. If I am
recoverable, why am I thus?--why crippled and made useless in the
Church, just at that time of life when, my judgment and experience
being matured, I might be most useful?--why cashiered and turned out of
service, till, according to the course of nature, there is not life
enough left in me to make amends for the years I have lost,--till there
is no reasonable hope left that the fruit can ever pay the expense of
the fallow? I forestall the answer:--God's ways are mysterious, and He
giveth no account of His matters--an answer that would serve my purpose
as well as theirs to use it. There is a mystery in my destruction, and
in time it shall be explained.
"I am glad you have found so much hidden treasure; and Mrs. Unwin
desires me to tell you that you did her no more than justice in
believing that she would rejoice in it. It is not easy to surmise the
reason why the reverend doctor, your predecessor, concealed it. Being
a subject of a free government, and I suppose fall of the divinity most
in fashion, he could not fear lest his riches should expose him to
persecution. Nor can I suppose that he held it any disgrace for a
dignitary of the church to be wealthy, at a time when churchmen in
general spare no pains to become so. But the wisdom of some men has a
droll sort of knavishness in it, much like that of a magpie, who hides
what he finds with a deal of contrivance, merely for the pleasure of
doing it.
"Mrs. Unwin is tolerably well. She wishes me to add that she shall be
obliged to Mrs. Newton, if, when an opportunity offers, she will give
the worsted-merchant a jog. We congratulate you that Eliza does not
grow worse, which I know you expected would be the case in the course
of the winter. Present our love to her. Remember us to Sally Johnson,
and assure yourself that we remain as warmly as ever,
"Yours,
W. C.
M. U."
In the next specimen we shall see the faculty of imparting interest to
the most trivial incident by the way of telling it. The incident in
this case is one which also forms the subject of the little poem called
_The Colubriad_.
To THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.
"_Aug. 3rd_, 1782.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--Entertaining some hope that Mr. Newton's next letter
would furnish me with the means of satisfying your inquiry on the
subject of Dr. Johnson's opinion, I have till now delayed my answer to
your last; but the information is not yet come, Mr. Newton having
intermitted a week more than usual since his last writing. When I
receive it, favourable or not, it shall be communicated to you; but I
am not very sanguine in my expectations from that quarter. Very
learned and very critical heads are hard to please. He may perhaps
treat me with levity for the sake of my subject and design, but the
composition, I think, will hardly escape his censure. Though all
doctors may not be of the same mind, there is one doctor at least, whom
I have lately discovered, my professed admirer. He too, like Johnson,
was with difficulty persuaded to read, having an aversion to all
poetry, except the _Night Thoughts_; which, on a certain occasion, when
being confined on board a ship he had no other employment, he got by
heart. He was, however, prevailed upon, and read me several times
over; so that if my volume had sailed with him, instead of Dr. Young's,
I might perhaps have occupied that shelf in his memory which he then
allotted to the Doctor; his name is Renny, and he lives at Newport
Pagnel.
"It is a sort of paradox, but it is true: we are never more in danger
than when we think ourselves most secure, nor in reality more secure
than when we seem to be most in danger. Both sides of this apparent
contradiction were lately verified in my experience. Passing from the
greenhouse to the barn, I saw three kittens (for we have so many in our
retinue) looking with fixed attention at something, which lay on the
threshold of a door, coiled up. I took but little notice of them at
first, but a loud hiss engaged me to attend more closely, when
behold--a viper! the largest I remember to have seen, rearing itself,
darting its forked tongue, and ejaculating the afore-mentioned hiss at
the nose of a kitten, almost in contact with his lips. I ran into the
hall for a hoe with a long handle, with which I intended to assail him,
and returning in a few seconds missed him: he was gone, and I feared
had escaped me. Still, however, the kitten sat watching immovably upon
the same spot. I concluded, therefore, that, sliding between the door
and the threshold, he had found his way out of the garden into the
yard. I went round immediately, and there found him in close
conversation with the old cat, whose curiosity being excited by so
novel an appearance, inclined her to pat his head repeatedly with her
fore foot; with her claws, however, sheathed, and not in anger, but in
the way of philosophical inquiry and examination. To prevent her
falling a victim to so laudable an exercise of her talents, I
interposed in a moment with the hoe, and performed an act of
decapitation, which though not immediately mortal proved so in the end.
Had he slid into the passages, where it is dark, or had he, when in the
yard, met with no interruption from the cat, and secreted himself in
any of the outhouses, it is hardly possible but that some of the family
must have been bitten; he might have been trodden upon without being
perceived, and have slipped away before the sufferer could have well
distinguished what foe had wounded him. Three years ago we discovered
one in the same place, which the barber slew with a trowel.
"Our proposed removal to Mr. Small's was, as you suppose, a jest, or
rather a joco-serious matter. We never looked upon it as entirely
feasible, yet we saw in it something so like practicability, that we
did not esteem it altogether unworthy of our attention. It was one of
those projects which people of lively imaginations play with, and
admire for a few days, and then break in pieces. Lady Austen returned
on Thursday from London, where she spent the last fortnight, and
whither she was called by an unexpected opportunity to dispose of the
remainder of her lease. She has now, therefore, no longer any
connexion with the great city, she has none on earth whom she calls
friends but us, and no house but at Olney. Her abode is to be at the
vicarage, where she has hired as much room as she wants, which she will
embellish with her own furniture, and which she will occupy, as soon as
the minister's wife has produced another child, which is expected to
make its entry in October.
"Mr. Bull, a dissenting minister of Newport, a learned, ingenious,
good-natured, pious friend of ours, who sometimes visits us, and whom
we visited last week, has put into my hands three volumes of French
poetry, composed by Madame Guyon;--a quietist, say you, and a fanatic,
I will have nothing to do with her. It is very well, you are welcome
to have nothing to do with her, but in the meantime her verse is the
only French verse I ever read that I found agreeable; there is a
neatness in it equal to that which we applaud with so much reason in
the compositions of Prior. I have translated several of them, and
shall proceed in my translations, till I have filled a Lilliputian
paper-book I happen to have by me, which, when filled, I shall present
to Mr. Bull. He is her passionate admirer, rode twenty miles to see
her picture in the house of a stranger, which stranger politely
insisted on his acceptance of it, and it now hangs over his parlour
chimney. It is a striking portrait, too characteristic not to be a
strong resemblance, and were it encompassed with a glory, instead of
being dressed, in a nun's hood, might pass for the face of an angel.
"Our meadows are covered with a winter-flood in August; the rushes with
which our bottomless chairs were to have been bottomed, and much hay,
which was not carried, are gone down the river on a voyage to Ely, and
it is even uncertain whether they will ever return. Sic transit gloria
mundi!
"I am glad you have found a curate, may he answer! Am happy in Mrs.
Bouverie's continued approbation; it is worth while to write for such a
reader. Yours,
"W. C."
The power of imparting interest to commonplace incidents is so great
that we read with a sort of excitement a minute account of the
conversion of an old card-table into a writing and dining-table, with
the causes and consequences of that momentous event, curiosity having
been first cunningly aroused by the suggestion that the clerical friend
to whom the letter is addressed might, if the mystery were not
explained, be haunted by it when he was getting into his pulpit, at
which time, as he had told Cowper, perplexing questions were apt to
come into his mind.
A man who lived by himself could have little but himself to write
about. Yet in these letters there is hardly a touch of offensive
egotism. Nor is there any querulousness, except that of religious
despondency. From those weaknesses Cowper was free. Of his proneness
to self-revelation we have had a specimen already.
The minor antiquities of the generations immediately preceding ours are
becoming rare, as compared with those of remote ages, because nobody
thinks it worth while to preserve them. It is almost as easy to get a
personal memento of Priam or Nimrod as it is to get a harpsichord, a
spinning-wheel, a tinder-box, or a scratch-back. An Egyptian wig is
attainable, a wig of the Georgian era is hardly so, much less a tie of
the Regency. So it is with the scenes of common life a century or two
ago. They are being lost, because they were familiar. Here are two of
them, however, which have limned themselves with the distinctness of
the camera obscura on the page of a chronicler of trifles.
TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.
"_Nov. 17th_, 1783.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--The country around is much alarmed with apprehensions
of fire. Two have happened since that of Olney. One at Hitchin, where
the damage is said to amount to eleven thousand pounds; and another, at
a place not far from Hitchin, of which I have not yet learnt the name.
Letters have been dropped at Bedford, threatening to burn the town; and
the inhabitants have been so intimidated as to have placed a guard in
many parts of it, several nights past. Since our conflagration here,
we have sent two women and a boy to the justice, for depredation, S. R.
for stealing a piece of beef, which, in her excuse, she said she
intended to take care of. This lady, whom you well remember, escaped
for want of evidence; not that evidence was wanting, but our men of
Gotham judged it unnecessary to send it. With her went the woman I
mentioned before, who, it seems, has made some sort of profession, but
upon this occasion allowed, herself a latitude of conduct rather
inconsistent with it, having filled her apron with wearing-apparel,
which she likewise intended to take care of. She would have gone to
the county gaol, had William Raban, the baker's son, who prosecuted,
insisted upon it; but he, good-naturedly, though I think weakly,
interposed in her favour, and begged her off. The young gentleman who
accompanied these fair ones is the junior son of Molly Boswell. He had
stolen some iron-work, the property of Griggs the butcher. Being
convicted, he was ordered to be whipped, which operation he underwent
at the cart's tail, from the stone-house to the high arch, and back
again. He seemed to show great fortitude, but it was all an imposition
upon the public. The beadle, who performed it, had filled his left
hand with yellow ochre, through which, after every stroke, he drew the
lash of his whip, leaving the appearance of a wound upon the skin, but
in reality not hurting him at all. This being perceived by Mr.
Constable H., who followed the beadle, he applied his cane, without any
such management or precaution, to the shoulders of the too merciful
executioner. The scene immediately became more interesting. The
beadle could by no means be prevailed upon to strike hard, which
provoked the constable to strike harder, and this double flogging
continued, till a lass of Silver-End, pitying the pitiful beadle thus
suffering under the hands of the pitiless constable, joined the
procession, and placing herself immediately behind the latter, seized
him by his capillary club, and pulling him backwards by the same,
slapped his face with a most Amazon fury. This concatenation of events
has taken up more of my paper than I intended it should, but I could
not forbear to inform you how the beadle thrashed the thief, the
constable the beadle, and the lady the constable, and how the thief was
the only person concerned who suffered nothing. Mr. Teedon has been
here, and is gone again. He came to thank me for some left-off
clothes. In answer to our inquiries after his health, he replied that
he had a slow fever, which made him take all possible care not to
inflame his blood. I admitted his prudence, but in his particular
instance, could not very clearly discern the need of it. Pump water
will not heat him much, and, to speak a little in his own style, more
inebriating fluids are to him, I fancy, not very attainable. Ho
brought us news, the truth of which, however, I do not vouch for, that
the town of Bedford was actually on fire yesterday, and the flames not
extinguished when the bearer of the tidings left it.
"Swift observes, when he is giving his reasons why the preacher is
elevated always above his hearers, that let the crowd be as great as it
will below, there is always room enough overhead. If the French
philosophers can carry their art of flying to the perfection they
desire, the observation may be reversed, the crowd will be overhead,
and they will have most room who stay below. I can assure you,
however, upon my own experience, that this way of travelling is very
delightful. I dreamt a night or two since that I drove myself through
the upper regions in a balloon and pair, with the greatest ease and
security. Having finished the tour I intended, I made a short turn,
and, with one flourish of my whip, descended; my horses prancing and
curvetting with an infinite share of spirit, but without the least
danger, either to me or my vehicle. The time, we may suppose, is at
hand, and seems to be prognosticated by my dream, when these airy
excursions will be universal, when judges will fly the circuit, and
bishops their visitations; and when the tour of Europe will be
performed with much greater speed, and with equal advantage, by all who
travel merely for the sake of having it to say, that they have made it.
"I beg you will accept for yourself and yours our unfeigned love, and
remember me affectionately to Mr. Bacon, when you see him.
"Yours, my dear friend,
WM. COWPER."
TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.
"_March 29th_, 1784.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--It being his Majesty's pleasure, that I should yet
have another opportunity to write before he dissolves the Parliament, I
avail myself of it with all possible alacrity. I thank you for your
last, which was not the less welcome for coming, like an extraordinary
gazette, at a time when it was not expected.
"As when the sea is uncommonly agitated, the water finds its way into
creeks and holes of rocks, which in its calmer state it never reaches,
in like manner the effect of these turbulent times is felt even at
Orchard Side, where in general we live as undisturbed by the political
element as shrimps or cockles that have been accidentally deposited in
some hollow beyond the water-mark, by the usual dashing of the waves.
We were sitting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies and myself, very
composedly, and without the least apprehension of any such intrusion in
our snug parlour, one lady knitting, the other netting, and the
gentleman winding worsted, when to our unspeakable surprise a mob
appeared before the window; a smart rap was heard at the door, the boys
bellowed, and the maid announced Mr. Grenville. Puss was unfortunately
let out of her box, so that the candidate, with all his good friends at
his heels, was refused admittance at the grand entry, and referred to
the back door, as the only possible way of approach.
"Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of affronts, and would
rather, I suppose, climb in at the window, than be absolutely excluded.
In a minute, the yard, the kitchen, and the parlour, were filled. Mr.
Grenville, advancing toward me, shook me by the hand with a degree of
cordiality that was extremely seducing. As soon as he, and as many
more as could find chairs, were seated, he began to open the intent of
his visit. I told him I had no vote, for which he readily gave me
credit. I assured him I had no influence, which he was not equally
inclined to believe, and the less, no doubt, because Mr. Ashburner, the
draper, addressing himself to me at this moment, informed me that I had
a great deal. Supposing that I could not be possessed of such a
treasure without knowing it, I ventured to confirm my first assertion,
by saying, that if I had any I was utterly at a loss to imagine where
it could be, or wherein it consisted. Thus ended the conference. Mr.
Grenville squeezed me by the hand again, kissed the ladies, and
withdrew. He kissed likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed upon
the whole a most loving, kissing, kind-hearted gentleman. He is very
young, genteel, and handsome. He has a pair of very good eyes in his
head, which not being sufficient as it should seem for the many nice
and difficult purposes of a senator, he has a third also, which he
suspended from his buttonhole. The boys halloo'd, the dogs barked,
puss scampered, the hero, with his long train of obsequious followers,
withdrew. We made ourselves very merry with the adventure, and in a
short time settled into our former tranquillity, never probably to be
thus interrupted more. I thought myself, however, happy in being able
to affirm truly that I had not that influence for which he sued; and
which, had I been possessed of it, with my present views of the dispute
between the Crown and the Commons, I must have refused him, for he is
on the side of the former. It is comfortable to be of no consequence
in a world where one cannot exercise any without disobliging somebody.
The town, however, seems to be much at his service, and if he be
equally successful throughout the country, he will undoubtedly gain his
election. Mr. Ashburner, perhaps, was a little mortified, because it
was evident that I owed the honour of this visit to his
misrepresentation of my importance. But had he thought proper to
assure Mr. Grenville that I had three heads, I should not, I suppose,
have been bound to produce them.
"Mr. Scott, who you say was so much admired in your pulpit, would be
equally admired in his own, at least by all capable judges, were he not
so apt to be angry with his congregation. This hurt him, and had he
the understanding and eloquence of Paul himself, would still hurt him.
He seldom, hardly ever indeed, preaches a gentler well-tempered sermon,
but I hear it highly commended; but warmth of temper, indulged to a
degree that may he called scolding, defeats the end of preaching. It
is a misapplication of his powers, which it also cripples, and tears
away his hearers. But he is a good man, and may perhaps outgrow it.
"Many thanks for the worsted, which is excellent. We are as well as a
spring hardly less severe than the severest winter will give us leave
to be. With our united love, we conclude ourselves yours and Mrs.
Newton's affectionate and faithful,
"W. C.
M. U."
In 1789 the French Revolution advancing with thunder-tread makes even
the hermit of Weston look up for a moment from his translation of
Homer, though he little dreamed that he with his gentle philanthropy
and sentimentalism had anything to do with the great overturn of the
social and political systems of the past. From time to time some crash
of especial magnitude awakens a faint echo in the letters.
TO LADY HESKETH.
"_July 7th_, 1790.
"Instead of beginning with the saffron-vested mourning to which Homer
invites me, on a morning that has no saffron vest to boast, I shall
begin with you. It is irksome to us both to wait so long as we must
for you, but we are willing to hope that by a longer stay you will make
us amends for all this tedious procrastination.
"Mrs. Unwin has made known her whole case to Mr. Gregson, whose opinion
of it has been very consolatory to me; he says indeed it is a case
perfectly out of the reach of all physical aid, but at the same time
not at all dangerous. Constant pain is a sad grievance, whatever part
is affected, and she is hardly ever free from an aching head, as well
as an uneasy side, but patience is an anodyne of God's own preparation,
and of that He gives her largely.
"The French who, like all lively folks, are extreme in everything, are
such in their zeal for freedom; and if it were possible to make so
noble a cause ridiculous, their manner of promoting it could not fail
to do so. Princes and peers reduced to plain gentlemanship, and
gentles reduced to a level with their own lackeys, are excesses of
which they will repent hereafter. Differences of rank and
subordination are, I believe, of God's appointment, and consequently
essential to the well-being of society; but what we mean by fanaticism
in religion is exactly that which animates their politics; and unless
time should sober them, they will, after all, be an unhappy people.
Perhaps it deserves not much to be wondered at, that at their first
escape from tyrannic shackles they should act extravagantly, and treat
their kings as they have sometimes treated their idol. To these,
however, they are reconciled in due time again, but their respect for
monarchy is at an end. They want nothing now but a little English
sobriety, and that they want extremely. I heartily wish them some wit
in their anger, for it were great pity that so many millions should be
miserable for want of it."
This, it will he admitted, is very moderate and unapocalyptic.
Presently Monarchical Europe takes arms against the Revolution. But
there are two political observers at least who see that Monarchical
Europe is making a mistake--Kaunitz and Cowper. "The French," observes
Cowper to Lady Hesketh in December, 1792, "are a vain and childish
people, and conduct themselves on this grand occasion with a levity and
extravagance nearly akin to madness; but it would have been better for
Austria and Prussia to let them alone. All nations have a right to
choose their own form of government, and the sovereignty of the people
is a doctrine that evinces itself; for whenever the people choose to be
masters, they always are so, and none can hinder them. God grant that
we may have no revolution here, but unless we have reform, we certainly
shall. Depend upon it, my dear, the hour has come when power founded
on patronage and corrupt majorities must govern this land no longer.
Concessions, too, must he made to Dissenters of every denomination.
They have a right to them--a right to all the privileges of Englishmen,
and sooner or later, by fair means or by foul, they will have them."
Even in 1793, though he expresses, as he well might, a cordial
abhorrence of the doings of the French, he calls them not fiends, but
"madcaps." He expresses the strongest indignation against the Tory mob
which sacked Priestley's house at Birmingham, as he does, in justice be
it said, against all manifestations of fanaticism. We cannot help
sometimes wishing, as we read these passages in the letters, that
their calmness and reasonableness could have been communicated to
another "Old Whig," who was setting the world on fire with his
anti-revolutionary rhetoric.
It is true, as has already been said, that Cowper was "extramundane,"
and that his political reasonableness was in part the result of the
fancy that he and his fellow-saints had nothing to do with the world
but to keep themselves clear of it, and let it go its own way to
destruction. But it must also be admitted that while the wealth of
Establishments, of which Burke was the ardent defender, is necessarily
reactionary in the highest degree, the tendency of religion itself,
where it is genuine and sincere, must be to repress any selfish feeling
about class or position, and to make men, in temporal matters, more
willing to sacrifice the present to the future, especially where the
hope is held out of moral as well as of material improvement. Thus it
has come to pass that men who professed and imagined themselves to have
no interest in this world, have practically been its great reformers
and improvers in the political and material as well as in the moral
sphere.
The last specimen shall be one in the more sententious style, and one
which proves that Cowper was capable of writing in a judicious manner
on a difficult and delicate question--even a question so difficult and
so delicate as that of the propriety of painting the face.
TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN.
"May 3rd, 1784.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--The subject of face painting may be considered, I
think, in two points of view. First, there is room for dispute with
respect to the consistency of the practice with good morals; and
secondly, whether it be on the whole convenient or not, may be a matter
worthy of agitation. I set out with all the formality of logical
disquisition, but do not promise to observe the same regularity any
further than it may comport with my purpose of writing as fast as I can.
"As to the immorality of the custom, were I in France, I should see
none. On the contrary, it seems in that country to be a symptom of
modest consciousness, and a tacit confession of what all know to be
true, that French faces have in fact neither red nor white of their
own. This humble acknowledgment of a defect looks the more like a
virtue, being found among a people not remarkable for humility. Again,
before we can prove the practice to be immoral, we must prove
immorality in the design of those who use it; either that they intend a
deception, or to kindle unlawful desires in the beholders. But the
French ladies, so far as their purpose comes in question, must be
acquitted of both these charges. Nobody supposes their colour to be
natural for a moment, any more than he would if it were blue or green:
and this unambiguous judgment of the matter is owing to two causes;
first, to the universal knowledge we have, that French women are
naturally either brown or yellow, with very few exceptions; and
secondly, to the inartificial manner in which they paint; for they do
not, as I am most satisfactorily informed, even attempt an imitation of
nature, but besmear themselves hastily, and at a venture, anxious only
to lay on enough. Where therefore there is no wanton intention, nor a
wish to deceive, I can discover no immorality. But in England, I am
afraid, our painted ladies are not clearly entitled to the same
apology. They even imitate nature with such exactness that the whole
public is sometimes divided into parties, who litigate with great
warmth the question whether painted or not? This was remarkably the
case with a Miss E----, whom I well remember. Her roses and lilies
were never discovered to be spurious, till she attained an age that
made the supposition of their being natural impossible. This anxiety
to be not merely red and white, which is all they aim at in France, but
to be thought very beautiful, and much more beautiful than Nature has
made them, is a symptom not very favourable to the idea we would wish
to entertain of the chastity, purity, and modesty of our countrywomen.
That they are guilty of a design to deceive is certain. Otherwise why
so much art? and if to deceive, wherefore and with what purpose?
Certainly either to gratify vanity of the silliest kind, or, which is
still more criminal, to decoy and inveigle, and carry on more
successfully the business of temptation. Here, therefore, my opinion
splits itself into two opposite sides upon the same question. I can
suppose a French woman, though painted an inch deep, to be a virtuous,
discreet, excellent character; and in no instance should I think the
worse of one because she was painted. But an English belle must pardon
me if I have not the same charity for her. She is at least an
impostor, whether she cheats me or not, because she means to do so; and
it is well if that be all the censure she deserves.
"This brings me to my second class of ideas upon this topic, and here I
feel that I should be fearfully puzzled, were I called upon to
recommend the practice on the score of convenience. If a husband chose
that his wife should paint, perhaps it might be her duty, as well as
her interest, to comply. But I think he would not much consult his
own, for reasons that will follow. In the first place, she would
admire herself the more; and in the next, if she managed the matter
well, she might he more admired by others; an acquisition that might
bring her virtue under trials, to which otherwise it might never have
been exposed. In no other case, however, can I imagine the practice in
this country to be either expedient or convenient. As a general one it
certainly is not expedient, because in general English women have no
occasion for it. A swarthy complexion is a rarity here; and the sex,
especially since inoculation has been so much in use, have very little
cause to complain that nature has not been kind to them in the article
of complexion. They may hide and spoil a good one, but they cannot, at
least they hardly can, give themselves a better. But even if they
could, there is yet a tragedy in the sequel, which, should make them
tremble.
"I understand that in France, though the use of rouge be general, the
use of white paint is far from being so. In England, she that uses
one, commonly uses both. Now all white paints, or lotions, or whatever
they may be called, are mercurial, consequently poisonous, consequently
ruinous in time to the constitution. The Miss B---- above mentioned
was a miserable witness of this truth, it being certain that her flesh
fell from her bones before she died. Lady Coventry was hardly a less
melancholy proof of it; and a London physician perhaps, were he at
liberty to blab, could publish a bill of female mortality, of a length
that would astonish us.
"For these reasons I utterly condemn the practice, as it obtains in
England; and for a reason superior to all these I must disapprove it.
I cannot, indeed, discover that Scripture forbids it in so many words.
But that anxious solicitude about the person, which such an artifice
evidently betrays, is, I am sure, contrary to the tenor and spirit of
it throughout. Show me a woman with a painted face, and I will show
you a woman whose heart is set on things of the earth, and not on
things above.
"But this observation of mine applies to it only when it is an
imitative art. For in the use of French women, I think it is as
innocent as in the use of a wild Indian, who draws a circle round her
face, and makes two spots, perhaps blue, perhaps white, in the middle
of it. Such are my thoughts upon the matter.
"_Vive valeque_,
Yours ever,
W. C."
These letters have been chosen as illustrations of Cowper's epistolary
style, and for that purpose they have been given entire. But they are
also the best pictures of his character; and his character is
everything. The events of his life worthy of record might all be
comprised in a dozen pages.