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The chief places connected with the name of Cowley are Barn-Elms and
Chertsey, both in Surrey. Cowley is one of those poets who had a great
reputation in his own time, but who at the present day are only read by
those who are anxious to know the real history of the poetry of their
country. He is so overloaded with the most outrageous conceits, and his
whole system of versification is at once so affected, artificial, and
yet rugged and often mean, that he has, in the midst of so much more
genuine inspiration, fallen into almost utter neglect. Johnson, often
unjust to our poets, can hardly be said to have been so to Cowley, when
he says of him and the other metaphysical poets, that "they were men of
learning, and to show their learning was their whole endeavor; but
unluckily resolving to show it in rhyme, instead of writing poetry, they
wrote only verses, and very often such verses as stood the trial of the
finger better than of the ear; for the modulation was so imperfect, that
they were only found to be verses by counting the syllables."... From
this account of their compositions it will be readily inferred that
they were not successful in representing or moving the affections. "For
these reasons," Johnson adds, "that though in his own time considered of
unrivaled excellence, and as having taken a flight beyond all that went
before him, Cowley's reputation could not last. His character of writing
was, indeed, not his own: he unhappily adopted that which was
predominant. He saw a certain way to present praise; and, not
sufficiently inquiring by what means the ancients have continued to
delight through all the changes of human manners, he contented himself
with a deciduous laurel, of which the verdure in its spring was bright
and gay, but which time has been continually stealing from his brows."
In Cowley, in fact, you will find many beautiful sentiments, and much
learning; but he seems always playing with his matter, not dealing
earnestly with it; constructing toys and gewgaws, not everlasting
structures. You have artifice instead of feeling, and conceits and often
downright fustian instead of heart, soul, and human passion. Who would
now willingly wade through pages of such doggerel as this?
"Since 'tis my doom, Love's undershrieve,
Why this reprieve?
Why doth she my advowson fly,
Incumbency?
To sell thyself dost thou intend
By candle's end;
And hold the contract thus in doubt,
Life's taper out?
Think but how soon the market fails," &c.
Who can tolerate, after being raised to some expectation by a beginning
like the following, the end which comes?
"Begin the song, and strike the living lyre:
Lo! how the years to come a numerous and well-fitted quire,
All hand in hand do decently advance,
And to my song with smooth and equal measure dance;
While the dance lasts, how long soe'er it be,
My music's voice shall bear it company,
Till all gentle notes be drowned
In the last trumpet's dreadful sound.
*...*...*...*
But stop, my muse--
Hold thy Pindaric Pegasus closely in,
Which does to rage begin--
'Tis an unruly and a hard-mouthed horse
'Twill no unskillful touch endure,
But flings writer and reader too that sits not sure."
As a specimen of his fiction, Johnson has quoted his description of the
Archangel Gabriel:
"He took for skin a cloud most soft and bright,
That e'er the mid-day sun pierced through with light;
Upon his cheeks a lively blush he spread,
Washed from the morning beauties' deepest red;
An harmless, fluttering meteor shone for hair,
And fell adown his shoulders with loose care;
He cuts out a silk mantle from the skies,
Where the most sprightly azure pleased the eyes;
This he with starry vapors sprinkles all,
Took in their prime before they grow ripe and fall;
Of a new rainbow, ere it fret or fade,
The choicest piece cut out, a scarf is made."
This comes but indifferently after a passage of Byron or Shelley. But,
in fact, Cowley seems to have been a man who could not be permanently
and decidedly any thing. He could not rise out of affectations, and
dubious, half-way sort of positions, either in poetry or in life. He
would fain pass for an ardent lover, and general admirer of the fair
sex, and published a poem called "The Mistress," on the ground stated in
the preface to one of its editions, "that poets are scarcely thought
freemen of their company, without paying some duties, or obliging
themselves to be true to love." This is genuine Cowley: he did not write
a poem on a love subject because he was full of the subject, but because
it seemed to be expected of a poet. It was not passion and admiration
that fired him, but it was necessary to appearances that he should do
it. He was unluckily always spying about on the outside of his subject,
and never plunging boldly into it. He was like a man who, instead of
enjoying his house, should always be standing in the front and asking
passengers what they thought of it, and if it did not look very fine;
or, if not, where he could lay on some plaster, or put up a veranda. If
his heart and soul had been engaged, there would have been less
opportunity for his eternal self-consciousness; he would have done his
work for the love of it, and because he could not help it, and not
because he found it becoming to do some sort of work. Of love,
therefore, says his biographer, he never knew any thing but once, and
then dare not tell his passion.
He was a strong Loyalist; went over to France after the queen of Charles
I. retired thither, and became secretary to Lord Jermyn, afterward Earl
of St. Alban's, and was employed in such compositions as the royal cause
required, and particularly in copying and deciphering the letters which
passed between the king and queen. He afterward came back, and occupied
the somewhat equivocal character of spy on the republican government,
and detailer of its proceedings to the royal party abroad. "Under
pretense of privacy and retirement, he was to take occasion of giving
notice of the posture of things in this nation." This soon led to his
arrest and incarceration; and he was not set at large without a
guarantee of a thousand pounds. As it was supposed, he now published his
poems, with the object of writing something in his preface which should
give government an idea of the abatement of his loyalty. This gave great
offense to the royal party, and was in subsequent editions withdrawn.
Continuing to live in England as if contented with the existing
government, on the death of Cromwell he wrote verses, as is said, in
praise of him, and which verses he suppressed; and then went over again
to France, as soon as the Commonwealth gave signs of dissolution; and
came back in the crowd of royalists, eager for the spoil of the nation.
Like many others, however, who had been more decided and consistent than
himself, he did not get what he expected, the Mastership of the Savoy.
This, and the ill success of his play, "Cutter of Coleman-street," which
also was accused of being a satire on the king, filled Cowley with a
desperate desire of retreating into the country. Whenever he was in
trouble at court, this passion for solitude came rapidly upon him. Under
the Commonwealth, when imprisoned as a spy, he introduced into the
preface to his poems, that "his desire had been for some days past, and
did still very vehemently continue, to retire himself to some of the
American plantations, and to forsake this world forever." His courtly
ambition being now again disappointed, he styled himself the
_melancholy_ Cowley, and resolved to ruralize in earnest. He had
formerly studied physic, and obtained a diploma, but never practiced;
having now, however, convinced himself that he was a lover of the
country, he determined to practice that, and so betook himself to
Barn-Elms. "He was now," says Sprat, "weary of the vexations and
formalities of an active condition. He had been perplexed with a long
compliance to foreign manners. He was satiated with the arts of a court,
which sort of life, though his virtue made it innocent to him, yet
nothing could make it quiet. These were the reasons that moved him to
follow the violent inclinations of his own mind, which, in the greatest
hurry of his own business, had still called upon him, and represented to
him the delights of solitary studies, of temperate pleasures, and a
moderate income below the malice and flatteries of fortune."
It was not from a mind like Cowley's that we should expect a deep
contentment as the result of this choice, and it is said not to have
been the case. At first his poverty debarred him the necessary domestic
comfort, but through the influence of his old patrons, the Earl of St.
Alban's, and the Duke of Buckingham, he secured a lease of some of the
queen's lands, which afforded him an ample income.
Barn-Elms lies about half a mile from Barnes, near the road leading from
Hammersmith suspension bridge to Wimbledon. It is an old estate, and in
Cowley's time must have been tolerably solitary. Since then the road
just mentioned has been made across the estate, and an inn built close
to its entrance gate. It still, however, presents the aspect of
antiquity. The land is rich and flat, and the present park is thickly
scattered with the trees from which it derives its name. Some of these
are reduced to mere massy fragments of trunks, which give a venerable
aspect to the place. The house here is now occupied by Sir Lancelot
Shadwell, the vice-chancellor of England. The spot is remarkable for
many other associations than those with Cowley.
The old house here was called Queen Elizabeth's Dairy, and, from the
richness of the meadow land, seems admirably calculated for a dairy on a
grand scale. The property belonged to the canons of St. Paul's, having
been granted to them by King Athelstan; but it was leased to Queen
Elizabeth, and she granted her interest in it to Sir Francis Walsingham
and his heirs. Here, in 1589, that subtle courtier entertained the queen
and her whole court, where I suppose they would drink milk and be very
rural. The Earl of Essex married Sir Francis's daughter, the widow of
Sir Philip Sidney, and resided here frequently. No other man than Jacob
Tonson afterward lived in this house, to which he built a gallery,
wherein he placed the portraits of the members of the Kit-kat Club,
which had been painted for him by Kneller. The members of the club were
also entertained here frequently by the munificent bookseller, their
secretary. Garth wrote the verses for the toasting-glasses of the club,
which, as they are preserved in his works, have immortalized some of
the principal beauties of the commencement of the last century: Lady
Carlisle, Lady Essex, Lady Hyde, and Lady Wharton. Tonson's gallery was
partly pulled down a good many years ago, and partly united to a barn,
so as to form a riding-school. The pictures were removed to
Bayfordberry, the seat of William Baker, Esq., near Hertford.
In George the Second's time, Heydegger, his master of the revels, was
the tenant, and the following whim of his was played off on his royal
master. The king gave him notice that he would sup with him one evening,
and that he would come from Richmond by water. It was Heydegger's
profession to invent novel amusements, and he was resolved to surprise
his majesty with a specimen of his art. The king's attendants, who were
in the secret, contrived that he should not arrive at Barn-Elms before
night, and it was with difficulty that he found his way up the avenue to
the house. When he came to the door all was dark, and he began to be
angry that Heydegger should be so ill prepared for his reception.
Heydegger suffered the king to vent his anger, and affected to make some
awkward apologies, when, in an instant, the house and avenues were in a
blaze of light, a great number of lamps having been so disposed as to
communicate with each other, and to be lighted at the same instant. The
king heartily laughed at the device, and went away much pleased with his
entertainment.
Adjoining the park, and not far from the house, is the farm and
farm-yard of William Cobbett. Here that extraordinary man, as much
attached to agriculture as to politics, had a sort of domicile and
sleeping-place made for him in the farm-buildings, and used to survey
his planting and plowing as assiduously as if there were no corruptions
to root up, and no rank weeds to extirpate in the great estate of the
nation.
Cobbett's farm-yard still stands to remind you of him, but the house
which Cowley inhabited has long been pulled down. From what I could
learn on the spot, and it was little, it seems to have stood near the
present stable-yard. The walls of the old gardens still remain, and old
mulberry and other fruit trees bear testimony to the occupation by
wealthy families for ages. The grounds are now disposed in the fashion
of a considerable park, with these old gardens and extensive shrubberies
adjoining. A carriage drive of considerable extent leads from the Barnes
road down to the house, on one hand giving a level prospect over the
meadows toward Hammersmith, and on the other bounded with the tall hedge
and thick trees inclosing the park. The whole, with its rich meadow
land, its old elms, and old gardens and shrubberies of fine evergreens,
is almost too goodly for our ideas of the fortunes of a poet, and
accords more truly with the prestige of a successful lawyer.
The house of Cowley at Chertsey yet remains, though it has been
considerably altered: it is still called the Porch House, but the porch
has been cut away because it projected into the street. Over the front
door is a tablet of stone, let into the wall, on which is inscribed--
"Here the last accents fell from Cowley's tongue."
His garden and grounds were on the level of the meadows, as level as the
meadows of Barn-Elms. These meadows lie along the road, as you go from
Weybridge to St. Ann's Hill, and a pleasant brook runs through them,
skirting the garden. The country around is very agreeable, and the
nearness of St. Ann's Hill, with its heathy sides, and noble views far
and wide, is a great advantage. For a heart that loved solitude, there
need have been no pleasanter spot, especially as the little town of
Chertsey could afford all creature comforts, and the occasional chat of
the clergyman, the doctor, and a resident family or two. But in Cowley's
time, how much deeper must have been the retirement of such a retreat
here; how much further it was from London! Now it is only a few hours'
distance by the Southwestern Rail-way; then it was a journey--they took
a night's rest on the way! His letter to Sprat from this place gives us
an odd kind of idea of his enjoyment of the place.
"_To_ DR. THOMAS SPRAT.
"Chertsey, May 21, 1665.
"The first night that I came hither I caught so great a
cold, with a defluxion of rheum, as made me keep my chamber
ten days; and, two after, had such a bruise on my ribs with
a fall, that I am yet unable to move or turn myself in my
bed. This is my personal picture here to begin with. And,
besides, I can get no money from my tenants, and have my
meadows eaten up every night by cattle put in by my
neighbors. What this signifies, or may come to in time, God
knows; if it be ominous, it can end in nothing less than
hanging. Another misfortune has been, and stranger than all
the rest, that you have broken your word with me, and
failed to come, even though you told Mr. Bois you would.
This is what they call _Monstri simile_. I do hope to
recover my late hurt so far within five or six days, though
it be uncertain whether I shall ever recover it, as to walk
about again. And then, methinks, you and I, and _the dean_,
might be very merry upon St. Ann's Hill. You might very
conveniently come hither the way of Hampton Court, lying
there one night. I write this in pain, and can say no more.
_Verbum sapienti._"
Poor Cowley did not long enjoy his retreat here, if he did enjoy it at
all. Within two years he died at the Porch House (in 1667), in the
forty-ninth year of his age. He was buried with great pomp in
Westminster Abbey, near Chaucer and Spenser.