Nature, exerting an unwearied power,Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower;Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leadsThe dancing Naiads thro' the dewy meads:She fills profuse ten thousand little throatsWith music, modulating all their notes;And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds unknown,With artless airs and concerts of her own;But seldom (as if fearful of expense)Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence—Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought:Fancy, that from the bow that spans the skyBrings colours, dipt in heaven, that never die;A soul exalted above earth, a mindSkill'd in the characters that form mankind;And, as the sun in rising beauty drestLooks from the dappled orient to the west,And marks, whatever clouds may interpose,Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close—An eye like his to catch the distant goal—Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll,Like his to shed illuminating raysOn every scene and subject it surveys:Thus grac'd, the man asserts a poet's name,And the world cheerfully admits the claim.
Nature, exerting an unwearied power,Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower;Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leadsThe dancing Naiads thro' the dewy meads:She fills profuse ten thousand little throatsWith music, modulating all their notes;And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds unknown,With artless airs and concerts of her own;But seldom (as if fearful of expense)Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence—Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought:Fancy, that from the bow that spans the skyBrings colours, dipt in heaven, that never die;A soul exalted above earth, a mindSkill'd in the characters that form mankind;And, as the sun in rising beauty drestLooks from the dappled orient to the west,And marks, whatever clouds may interpose,Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close—An eye like his to catch the distant goal—Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll,Like his to shed illuminating raysOn every scene and subject it surveys:Thus grac'd, the man asserts a poet's name,And the world cheerfully admits the claim.
The concluding lines may be considered as an omen of that celebrity which such a writer, in the process of time, could not fail to obtain. How just a subject of surprise and admiration is it, to behold an author starting under such a load of disadvantages, and displaying on the sudden such a variety of excellence! For, neglected as it was for a few years, the first volume of Cowper exhibits such a diversity of poetical powers as have very rarely indeed been known to be united in the same individual. He is not only great in passages of pathos and sublimity, but he is equally admirable in wit and humour. After descanting most copiously on sacred subjects, with the animation of a prophet and the simplicity of an apostle, he paints the ludicrous characters of common life with the comic force of a Moliere, particularly in his poem on Conversation, and his exquisite portrait of a fretful temper; a piece of moral painting so highly finished and so happily calculated to promote good humour, that a transcript of the verses cannot but interest the reader.
Some fretful tempers wince at every touch;You always do too little or too much:You speak with life, in hopes to entertain;Your elevated voice goes through the brain;You fall at once into a lower key;That's worse:—the drone-pipe of an humble-bee!The southern sash admits too strong a light;You rise and drop the curtain:—now it's night.He shakes with cold;—you stir the fire and striveTo make a blaze:—that's roasting him alive.Serve him with ven'son, and he chooses fish;With sole, that's just the sort he would not wish.He takes what he at first profess'd to loath;And in due time feeds heartily on both;Yet, still o'erclouded with a constant frown,He does not swallow, but he gulps it down.Your hope to please him vain on every plan,Himself should work that wonder, if he can.Alas! his efforts double his distress;He likes yours little and his own still less.Thus, always teazing others, always teaz'd,His only pleasure is—to be displeas'd.
Some fretful tempers wince at every touch;You always do too little or too much:You speak with life, in hopes to entertain;Your elevated voice goes through the brain;You fall at once into a lower key;That's worse:—the drone-pipe of an humble-bee!The southern sash admits too strong a light;You rise and drop the curtain:—now it's night.He shakes with cold;—you stir the fire and striveTo make a blaze:—that's roasting him alive.Serve him with ven'son, and he chooses fish;With sole, that's just the sort he would not wish.He takes what he at first profess'd to loath;And in due time feeds heartily on both;Yet, still o'erclouded with a constant frown,He does not swallow, but he gulps it down.Your hope to please him vain on every plan,Himself should work that wonder, if he can.Alas! his efforts double his distress;He likes yours little and his own still less.Thus, always teazing others, always teaz'd,His only pleasure is—to be displeas'd.
Mr. Bull, to whom the following poetical epistle is addressed, has already been mentioned as the person who suggested to Cowper the translation of Madame Guion's Hymns. Cowper used to say of him, that he was the master of a fine imagination, or, rather, that he was not master of it.
Olney, June 22, 1782.
My dear Friend,
If reading verse be your delight,'Tis mine as much, or more, to write;But what we would, so weak is man,Lies oft remote from what we can.For instance, at this very time,I feel a wish, by cheerful rhyme,To soothe my friend, and had I power,To cheat him of an anxious hour;Not meaning (for I must confess,It were but folly to suppress,)His pleasure or his good alone,But squinting partly at my own.But though the sun is flaming highI' th' centre of yon arch, the sky,And he had once (and who but he?)The name for setting genius free;Yet whether poets of past daysYielded him undeserved praise,And he by no uncommon lotWas famed for virtues he had not;Or whether, which is like enough,His Highness may have taken huff,So seldom sought with invocation,Since it has been the reigning fashionTo disregard his inspiration,I seem no brighter in my wits,For all the radiance he emits,Than if I saw through midnight vapourThe glimm'ring of a farthing taper.O for a succedaneum, then,T' accelerate a creeping pen,O for a ready succedaneum,Quod caput, cerebrum, et craniumPondere liberet exoso,Et morbo jam caliginoso!'Tis here; this oval box well fill'dWith best tobacco, finely mill'd,Beats all Anticyra's pretencesTo disengage the encumber'd senses.O Nymph of Transatlantic fame,Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name,Whether reposing on the sideOf Oroonoquo's spacious tide,Or list'ning with delight not smallTo Niagara's distant fall,'Tis thine to cherish and to feedThe pungent nose-refreshing weed,Which, whether, pulverized it gainA speedy passage to the brain,Or, whether touch'd with fire, it riseIn circling eddies to the skies,Does thought more quicken and refineThan all the breath of all the Nine—Forgive the Bard, if Bard he be,Who once too wantonly made freeTo touch with a satiric wipeThat symbol of thy power, the pipe;So may no blight infest thy plains,And no unseasonable rains,And so may smiling Peace once moreVisit America's sad shore;And thou, secure from all alarmsOf thund'ring drums and glitt'ring arms,Rove unconfined beneath the shadeThy wide-expanded leaves have made;So may thy votaries increase,And fumigation never cease.May Newton, with renew'd delights,Perform thine odorif'rous rites.While clouds of incense half divineInvolve thy disappearing shrine;And so may smoke-inhaling BullBe always filling, never full.
If reading verse be your delight,'Tis mine as much, or more, to write;But what we would, so weak is man,Lies oft remote from what we can.For instance, at this very time,I feel a wish, by cheerful rhyme,To soothe my friend, and had I power,To cheat him of an anxious hour;Not meaning (for I must confess,It were but folly to suppress,)His pleasure or his good alone,But squinting partly at my own.But though the sun is flaming highI' th' centre of yon arch, the sky,And he had once (and who but he?)The name for setting genius free;Yet whether poets of past daysYielded him undeserved praise,And he by no uncommon lotWas famed for virtues he had not;Or whether, which is like enough,His Highness may have taken huff,So seldom sought with invocation,Since it has been the reigning fashionTo disregard his inspiration,I seem no brighter in my wits,For all the radiance he emits,Than if I saw through midnight vapourThe glimm'ring of a farthing taper.O for a succedaneum, then,T' accelerate a creeping pen,O for a ready succedaneum,Quod caput, cerebrum, et craniumPondere liberet exoso,Et morbo jam caliginoso!'Tis here; this oval box well fill'dWith best tobacco, finely mill'd,Beats all Anticyra's pretencesTo disengage the encumber'd senses.
O Nymph of Transatlantic fame,Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name,Whether reposing on the sideOf Oroonoquo's spacious tide,Or list'ning with delight not smallTo Niagara's distant fall,'Tis thine to cherish and to feedThe pungent nose-refreshing weed,Which, whether, pulverized it gainA speedy passage to the brain,Or, whether touch'd with fire, it riseIn circling eddies to the skies,Does thought more quicken and refineThan all the breath of all the Nine—Forgive the Bard, if Bard he be,Who once too wantonly made freeTo touch with a satiric wipeThat symbol of thy power, the pipe;So may no blight infest thy plains,And no unseasonable rains,And so may smiling Peace once moreVisit America's sad shore;And thou, secure from all alarmsOf thund'ring drums and glitt'ring arms,Rove unconfined beneath the shadeThy wide-expanded leaves have made;So may thy votaries increase,And fumigation never cease.May Newton, with renew'd delights,Perform thine odorif'rous rites.While clouds of incense half divineInvolve thy disappearing shrine;And so may smoke-inhaling BullBe always filling, never full.
W. C.
Olney, July 16, 1782.
My dear Friend,—Though some people pretend to be clever in the way of prophetical forecast, and to have a peculiar talent of sagacity,by which they can divine the meaning of a providential dispensation while its consequences are yet in embryo, I do not. There is at this time to be found, I suppose, in the cabinet, and in both houses, a greater assemblage of able men, both as speakers and counsellors, than ever were contemporary in the same land. A man not accustomed to trace the workings of Providence, as recorded in Scripture, and that has given no attention to this particular subject, while employed in the study of profane history, would assert boldly, that it is a token for good, that much may be expected from them, and that the country, though heavily afflicted, is not yet to be despaired of, distinguished as she is by so many characters of the highest class. Thus he would say, and I do not deny that the event might justify his skill in prognostics. God works by means; and, in a case of great national perplexity and distress, wisdom and political ability seem to be the only natural means of deliverance. But a mind more religiously inclined, and perhaps a little tinctured with melancholy, might with equal probability of success hazard a conjecture directly opposite. Alas! what is the wisdom of man, especially when he trusts in it as the only god of his confidence? When I consider the general contempt that is poured upon all things sacred, the profusion, the dissipation, the knavish cunning, of some, the rapacity of others, and the impenitence of all, I am rather inclined to fear that God, who honours himself by bringing human glory to shame, and by disappointing the expectations of those whose trust is in creatures, has signalized the present day as a day of much human sufficiency and strength, has brought together from all quarters of the land the most illustrious men to be found in it, only that he may prove the vanity of idols, and that, when a great empire is falling, and he has pronounced a sentence of ruin against it, the inhabitants, be they weak or strong wise or foolish, must fall with it. I am rather confirmed in this persuasion by observing that these luminaries of the state had no sooner fixed themselves in the political heaven, than the fall of the brightest of them shook all the rest. The arch of their power was no sooner struck than the key-stone slipped out of its place, those that were closest in connexion with it followed, and the whole building, new as it is, seems to be already a ruin. If a man should hold this language, who could convict him of absurdity? The Marquis of Rockingham is minister—all the world rejoices, anticipating success in war and a glorious peace. The Marquis of Rockingham is dead—all the world is afflicted, and relapses into its former despondence. What does this prove, but that the Marquis was their Almighty, and that, now he is gone, they know no other? But let us wait a little, they will find another. Perhaps the Duke of Portland, or perhaps the unpopular ——, whom they now represent as a devil, may obtain that honour. Thus God is forgot, and when he is, his judgments are generally his remembrancers.
How shall I comfort you upon the subject of your present distress? Pardon me that I find myself obliged to smile at it, because, who but yourself would be distressed upon such an occasion? You have behaved politely, and, like a gentleman, you have hospitably offered your house to a stranger, who could not, in your neighbourhood at least, have been comfortably accommodated any where else. He, by neither refusing nor accepting an offer that did him too much honour, has disgraced himself, but not you. I think for the future you must be more cautious of laying yourself open to a stranger, and never again expose yourself to incivilities from an archdeacon you are not acquainted with.
Though I did not mention it, I felt with you what you suffered by the loss of Miss ——; I was only silent because I could minister no consolation to you on such a subject, but what I knew your mind to be already stored with. Indeed, the application of comfort in such cases is a nice business, and perhaps when best managed might as well be let alone. I remember reading many years ago a long treatise on the subject of consolation, written in French, the author's name I forgot, but I wrote these words in the margin. Special consolation! at least for a Frenchman, who is a creature the most easily comforted of any in the world!
We are as happy in Lady Austen, and she in us, as ever—having a lively imagination, and being passionately desirous of consolidating all into one family (for she has taken her leave of London), she has just sprung a project which serves at least to amuse us and to make us laugh; it is to hire Mr. Small's house, on the top of Clifton-hill, which is large, commodious, and handsome, will hold us conveniently, and any friends who may occasionally favour us with a visit; the house is furnished, but, if it can be hired without the furniture will let for a trifle—your sentiments if you please upon thisdemarche!
I send you my last frank—our best love attends you individually and all together. I give you joy of a happy change in the season, and myself also. I have filled four sides in less time than two would have cost me a week ago; such is the effect of sunshine upon such a butterfly as I am.
Yours,W. C.
Olney, Aug. 3, 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 over-sanguine in my expectations from that quarter. Very learned and very critical heads are hard to please. He may perhaps treat me with lenity for the sake of the subject and design, but the composition, I think, will hardly escape his censure. But though all doctors may not be of the same mind, there is one doctor at least, whom I have lately discovered, my professed admirer.[151]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 perhaps might have occupied that shelf in his memory which he then allotted to the Doctor.
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 green-house to the barn, I saw three kittens (for we have so many in our retinue) looking with fixed attention on something which lay on the threshold of a door nailed 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 that I remember to have seen, rearing itself, darting its forked tongue, and ejaculating the aforesaid 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 immoveably on 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 philosophic 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 upon him 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 out-houses, 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 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 may 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 therefore no longer any connexion with the great city, 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, put into my hands three volumes of French poetry, composed by Madame Guion—a quietist, say you, and a fanatic, I will have nothing to do with her.—'Tis 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 chimney. It is a striking portrait, too characteristic notto 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.
Yours,W. C.
To this letter we annex a very livelylusus poeticusfrom the pen of Cowper, on the subject mentioned in the former part of the preceding letter.
THE COLUBRIAD.
Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast,Three kittens sat; each kitten look'd aghast.I, passing swift and inattentive by,At the three kittens cast a careless eye;Not much concerned to know what they did there,Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.But presently a loud and furious hissCaus'd me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?"When, lo! upon the threshold met my view,With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue.Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,Darting it full against a kitten's nose;Who, having never seen, in field or house,The like, sat still and silent as a mouse:Only projecting, with attention due,Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, "Who are you?"On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe:With which well arm'd I hastened to the spot,To find the viper, but I found him not.And turning up the leaves and shrubs around,Found only—that he was not to be found.But still the kittens, sitting as before,Sat watching close the bottom of the door."I hope," said I, "the villain I would killHas slipt between the door and the door's sill;And, if I make despatch and follow hard,No doubt but I shall find him in the yard;"For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,'Twas in the garden that I found him first.Ev'n there I found him, there the full-grown catHis head with velvet paw did gently pat:As curious as the kittens erst had beenTo learn what this phenomenon might mean.Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight,And fearing every moment he would bite,And rob our household of our only cat,That was of age to combat with a rat;With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door,And taught himNEVER TO COME THERE NO MORE.
Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast,Three kittens sat; each kitten look'd aghast.I, passing swift and inattentive by,At the three kittens cast a careless eye;Not much concerned to know what they did there,Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.But presently a loud and furious hissCaus'd me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?"When, lo! upon the threshold met my view,With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue.Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,Darting it full against a kitten's nose;Who, having never seen, in field or house,The like, sat still and silent as a mouse:Only projecting, with attention due,Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, "Who are you?"On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe:With which well arm'd I hastened to the spot,To find the viper, but I found him not.And turning up the leaves and shrubs around,Found only—that he was not to be found.But still the kittens, sitting as before,Sat watching close the bottom of the door."I hope," said I, "the villain I would killHas slipt between the door and the door's sill;And, if I make despatch and follow hard,No doubt but I shall find him in the yard;"For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,'Twas in the garden that I found him first.Ev'n there I found him, there the full-grown catHis head with velvet paw did gently pat:As curious as the kittens erst had beenTo learn what this phenomenon might mean.Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight,And fearing every moment he would bite,And rob our household of our only cat,That was of age to combat with a rat;With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door,And taught himNEVER TO COME THERE NO MORE.
Lady Austen became a tenant of the vicarage at Olney. When Mr. Newton occupied that parsonage, he had opened a door in the garden-wall, which admitted him in the most commodious manner to visit the sequestered poet, who resided in the next house. Lady Austen had the advantage of this easy intercourse; and so captivating was her society, both to Cowper and to Mrs. Unwin, that these intimate neighbours might be almost said to make one family, as it became their custom to dine always together, alternately in the houses of the two ladies.
The musical talents of Lady Austen induced Cowper to write a few songs of peculiar sweetness and pathos, to suit particular airs that she was accustomed to play on the harpsichord. We insert three of these, as proofs that, even in his hours of social amusement, the poet loved to dwell on ideas of tender devotion and pathetic solemnity.
Air—"My fond shepherds of late," &c.
No longer I follow a sound;No longer a dream I pursue:O happiness! not to be found,Unattainable treasure, adieu!I have sought thee in splendor and dress,In the regions of pleasure and taste;I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,But have proved thee a vision at last.An humble ambition and hopeThe voice of true wisdom inspires!'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scopeAnd the summit of all our desires.Peace may be the lot of the mindThat seeks it in meekness and love;But rapture and bliss are confinedTo the glorified spirits above!
No longer I follow a sound;No longer a dream I pursue:O happiness! not to be found,Unattainable treasure, adieu!
I have sought thee in splendor and dress,In the regions of pleasure and taste;I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess,But have proved thee a vision at last.
An humble ambition and hopeThe voice of true wisdom inspires!'Tis sufficient, if peace be the scopeAnd the summit of all our desires.
Peace may be the lot of the mindThat seeks it in meekness and love;But rapture and bliss are confinedTo the glorified spirits above!
Air—"The lass of Pattie's mill."
When all within is peace,How nature seems to smile!Delights that never cease,The live-long day beguile.From morn to dewy eve,With open hand she showersFresh blessings to deceiveAnd soothe the silent hours.It is content of heartGives Nature power to please;The mind that feels no smartEnlivens all it sees;Can make a wint'ry skySeem bright as smiling May,And evening's closing eyeAs peep of early day.The vast majestic globe,So beauteously array'dIn Nature's various robe,With wond'rous skill display'd,Is to a mourner's heartA dreary wild at best;It flutters to depart,And longs to be at rest.
When all within is peace,How nature seems to smile!Delights that never cease,The live-long day beguile.From morn to dewy eve,With open hand she showersFresh blessings to deceiveAnd soothe the silent hours.
It is content of heartGives Nature power to please;The mind that feels no smartEnlivens all it sees;Can make a wint'ry skySeem bright as smiling May,And evening's closing eyeAs peep of early day.
The vast majestic globe,So beauteously array'dIn Nature's various robe,With wond'rous skill display'd,Is to a mourner's heartA dreary wild at best;It flutters to depart,And longs to be at rest.
The following song, adapted to the march in Scipio, obtained too great a celebrity not tomerit insertion in this place. It relates to the loss of the Royal George, the flag-ship of Admiral Kempenfelt, which went down with nine hundred persons on board, (among whom was Rear-Admiral Kempenfelt,) at Spithead, August 29, 1782. The song was a favourite production of the poet's; so much so, that he amused himself by translating it into Latin verse. We take the version from one of his subsequent letters, for the sake of annexing it to the original.
Toll for the brave!The brave that are no more!All sunk beneath the wave,Fast by their native shore!Eight hundred of the brave,Whose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heel,And laid her on her side.A land-breeze shook the shrouds,And she was overset;Down went the Royal George,With all her crew complete.Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone;His last sea-fight is fought;His work of glory done.It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock;She sprang no fatal leak;She ran upon no rock.His sword was in its sheath;His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.Weigh the vessel up,Once dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float again,Full-charged with England's thunder,And plough the distant main.[152]But Kempenfelt is gone,His victories are o'er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.
Toll for the brave!The brave that are no more!All sunk beneath the wave,Fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave,Whose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heel,And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds,And she was overset;Down went the Royal George,With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone;His last sea-fight is fought;His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock;She sprang no fatal leak;She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath;His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,Once dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float again,Full-charged with England's thunder,And plough the distant main.[152]
But Kempenfelt is gone,His victories are o'er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.
Plangimus fortes. Periere fortes,Patrium propter periere littusBis quatèr centum; subitò sub altoÆquore mersi.Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat,Malus ad summas trepidabat undas,Cùm levis, funes quatiens, ad imumDepulit aura.Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducamFortibus vitam voluere parcæ,Nec sinunt ultrà tibi nos recentesNectere laurus.Magne, qui nomen, licèt incanorum,Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti!At tuos olim memorabit ævumOmne triumphos.Non hyems illos furibunda mersit,Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes,Fissa non rimis abies, nec atroxAbstulit ensis.Navitæ sed tum nimium jocosiVoce fallebant hilari laborem,Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram im-pleverat heros.Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque,Humidum ex alto spolium levate,Et putrescentes sub aquis amicosReddite amicis!Hi quidem (sic dîis placuit) fuere:Sed ratis, nondùm putris, ire possitRursùs in bellum, Britonumque nomenTollere ad astra.
Plangimus fortes. Periere fortes,Patrium propter periere littusBis quatèr centum; subitò sub altoÆquore mersi.
Navis, innitens lateri, jacebat,Malus ad summas trepidabat undas,Cùm levis, funes quatiens, ad imumDepulit aura.
Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducamFortibus vitam voluere parcæ,Nec sinunt ultrà tibi nos recentesNectere laurus.
Magne, qui nomen, licèt incanorum,Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti!At tuos olim memorabit ævumOmne triumphos.
Non hyems illos furibunda mersit,Non mari in clauso scopuli latentes,Fissa non rimis abies, nec atroxAbstulit ensis.
Navitæ sed tum nimium jocosiVoce fallebant hilari laborem,Et quiescebat, calamoque dextram im-pleverat heros.
Vos, quibus cordi est grave opus piumque,Humidum ex alto spolium levate,Et putrescentes sub aquis amicosReddite amicis!
Hi quidem (sic dîis placuit) fuere:Sed ratis, nondùm putris, ire possitRursùs in bellum, Britonumque nomenTollere ad astra.
Let the reader, who wishes to impress on his mind a just idea of the variety and extent of Cowper's poetical powers, contrast this heroic ballad of exquisite pathos with his diverting history of John Gilpin!
That admirable and highly popular piece of pleasantry was composed at the period of which we are now speaking. An elegant and judicious writer, who has favoured the public with three interesting volumes relating to the early poets of our country,[153]conjectures, that a poem, written by the celebrated Sir Thomas More in his youth, (the merry jest of the Serjeant and Frere) may have suggested to Cowper his tale of John Gilpin; but this singularly amusing ballad had a different origin; and it is a very remarkable fact, that, full of gaiety and humour as this favourite of the public has abundantly proved itself to be, it was really composed at a time when the spirit of the poet was very deeply tinged with his depressive malady. It happened one afternoon, in those years when his accomplished friend, Lady Austen, made a part of his little evening circle, that she observed him sinking into increasing dejection. It was her custom on these occasions, to try all the resources of her sprightly powers for his immediate relief. She told him the story of JohnGilpin (which had been treasured in her memory from her childhood) to dissipate the gloom of the passing hour. Its effect on the fancy of Cowper had the air of enchantment: he informed her the next morning, that convulsions of laughter, brought on by his recollection of her story, had kept him waking during the greatest part of the night, and that he had turned it into a ballad.—So arose the pleasant poem of John Gilpin. It was eagerly copied, and, finding its way rapidly to the newspapers, it was seized by the lively spirit of Henderson the comedian, a man, like the Yorick described by Shakspeare, "of infinite jest, and most excellent fancy." By him it was selected as a proper subject for the display of his own comic powers, and, by reciting it in his public readings, he gave uncommon celebrity to the ballad, before the public suspected to what poet they were indebted for the sudden burst of ludicrous amusement. Many readers were astonished when the poem made its first authentic appearance in the second volume of Cowper.
Olney, Sept. 6, 1782.
My dear Friend,—Yesterday, and not before, I received your letter, dated the 11th of June, from the hands of Mr. Small. I should have been happy to have known him sooner; but, whether being afraid of that horned monster, a Methodist, or whether from a principle of delicacy, or deterred by a flood, which has rolled for some weeks between Clifton and Olney, I know not,—he has favoured me only with a taste of his company, and will leave me on Saturday evening, to regret that our acquaintance, so lately begun, must be so soon suspended. He will dine with us that day, which I reckon a fortunate circumstance, as I shall have an opportunity to introduce him to the liveliest and most entertaining woman in the country.[155]I have seen him but for half an hour, yet, without boasting of much discernment, I see that he is polite, easy, cheerful, and sensible. An old man thus qualified, cannot fail to charm the lady in question. As to his religion, I leave it—I am neither his bishop nor his confessor. A man of his character, and recommended by you, would be welcome here, were he a Gentoo or a Mahometan.
I learn from him that certain friends of mine, whom I have been afraid to inquire about by letter, are alive and well. The current of twenty years has swept away so many whom I once knew, that I doubted whether it might be advisable to send my love to your mother and your sisters. They may have thought my silence strange, but they have here the reason of it. Assure them of my affectionate remembrance, and that nothing would make me happier than to receive you all in my greenhouse, your own Mrs. Hill included. It is fronted with myrtles, and lined with mats, and would just hold us, for Mr. Small informs meyourdimensions are much the same as usual.
Yours, my dear Friend,W. C.
Olney, Nov. 4, 1782.
My dear Friend,—You are too modest; though your last consisted of three sides only, I am certainly a letter in your debt. It is possible that this present writing may prove as short. Yet, short as it may be, it will be a letter, and make me creditor, and you my debtor. A letter, indeed, ought not to be estimated by the length of it, but by the contents, and how can the contents of any letter be more agreeable than your last.
You tell me that John Gilpin made you laugh tears, and that the ladies at court are delighted with my poems. Much good may they do them! May they become as wise as the writer wishes them, and they will be much happier than he! I know there is in the book that wisdom which cometh from above, because it was from above that I received it. May they receive it too! For, whether they drink it out of the cistern, or whether it falls upon them immediately from the clouds, as it did on me, it is all one. It is the water of life, which whosoever drinketh shall thirst no more. As to the famous horseman above-mentioned, he and his feats are an inexhaustible source of merriment. At least we find him so, and seldom meet without refreshing ourselves with the recollection of them. You are perfectly at liberty to deal with them as you please.Auctore tantùm anonymo, imprimantur; and when printed send me a copy.
I congratulate you on the discharge of your duty and your conscience, by the pains you have taken for the relief of the prisoners. You proceeded wisely, yet courageously, and deserved better success. Your labours, however, will be remembered elsewhere, when you shall be forgotten here; and, if the poor folks at Chelmsford should never receive the benefit of them, you will yourself receive it in heaven. It is pity that men of fortune should be determined to acts of beneficence, sometimes by popular whim or prejudice, and sometimes by motives still more unworthy. The liberal subscription, raised in behalf of the widows of seamen lost in the Royal George was an instance of the former. At least a plain, short and sensible letter in the newspaper, convincedme at the time that it was an unnecessary and injudicious collection: and the difficulty you found in effectuating your benevolent intentions on this occasion, constrains me to think that, had it been an affair of more notoriety than merely to furnish a few poor fellows with a little fuel to preserve their extremities from the frost, you would have succeeded better. Men really pious delight in doing good by stealth. But nothing less than an ostentatious display of bounty will satisfy mankind in general. I feel myself disposed to furnish you with an opportunity to shine in secret. We do what we can. But thatcanis little. You have rich friends, are eloquent on all occasions, and know how to be pathetic on a proper one. The winter will be severely felt at Olney by many, whose sobriety, industry, and honesty, recommend them to charitable notice: and we think we could tell such persons as Mr. ——, or Mr. ——, half a dozen tales of distress, that would find their way into hearts as feeling as theirs. You will do as you see good; and we in the meantime shall remain convinced that you will do your best. Lady Austen will, no doubt, do something, for she has great sensibility and compassion.
Yours, my dear Unwin,W. C.
Olney, Nov. 5, 1782.
Charissime Taurorum—Quot sunt, vel fuerunt, vel posthac aliis erunt in annis,
Charissime Taurorum—Quot sunt, vel fuerunt, vel posthac aliis erunt in annis,
We shall rejoice to see you, and I just write to tell you so. Whatever else I want, I have, at least, this quality in common with publicans and sinners, that I love those that love me, and for that reason, you in particular. Your warm and affectionate manner demands it of me. And, though I consider your love as growing out of a mistaken expectation that you shall see me a spiritual man hereafter, I do not love you much the less for it. I only regret that I did not know you intimately in those happier days, when the frame of my heart and mind was such as might have made a connexion with me not altogether unworthy of you.
I add only Mrs. Unwin's remembrances, and that I am glad you believe me to be, what I truly am,
Your faithful and affectionateW. C.
Olney, Nov. 11, 1782.
My dear Friend,—Your shocking scrawl, as you term it, was however a very welcome one. The character indeed has not quite the neatness and beauty of an engraving; but if it cost me some pains to decipher it, they were well rewarded by the minute information it conveyed. I am glad your health is such that you have nothing more to complain of than may be expected on the down-hill side of life. If mine is better than yours, it is to be attributed, I suppose, principally to the constant enjoyment of country air and retirement; the most perfect regularity in matters of eating, drinking, and sleeping; and a happy emancipation from every thing that wears the face of business. I lead the life I always wished for, and, the single circumstance of dependence excepted, (which, between ourselves, is very contrary to my predominant humour and disposition,) have no want left broad enough for another wish to stand upon.
You may not, perhaps, live to see your trees attain to the dignity of timber: I nevertheless approve of your planting, and the disinterested spirit that prompts you to it. Few people plant when they are young; a thousand other less profitable amusements divert their attention; and most people, when the date of youth is once expired, think it too late to begin. I can tell you, however, for your comfort and encouragement, that when a grove which Major Cowper had planted was of eighteen years' growth, it was no small ornament to his grounds, and afforded as complete a shade as could be desired. Were I as old as your mother, in whose longevity I rejoice, and the more because I consider it as in some sort a pledge and assurance of yours, and should come to the possession of land worth planting, I would begin to-morrow, and even without previously insisting upon a bond from Providence that I should live five years longer.
I saw last week a gentleman who was lately at Hastings. I asked him where he lodged. He replied at P——'s. I next inquired after the poor man's wife, whether alive or dead. He answered, dead. So then, said I, she has scolded her last; and a sensible old man will go down to his grave in peace. Mr. P——, to be sure, is of no great consequence either to you or to me; but, having so fair an opportunity to inform myself about him, I could not neglect it. It gives me pleasure to learn somewhat of a man I knew a little of so many years since, and for that reason merely I mention the circumstance to you.
I find a single expression in your letter which needs correction. You say I carefully avoid paying you a visit at Wargrave. Not so; but connected as I happily am, and rooted where I am, and not having travelled these twenty years—being besides of an indolent temper, and having spirits that cannot bear a bustle—all these are so many insuperables inthe way. They are not however in yours; and if you and Mrs. Hill will make the experiment, you shall find yourselves as welcome here, both to me and to Mrs. Unwin, as it is possible you can be any where.
Yours affectionately,W. C.
Olney, Nov. 1782.
My dear Friend,—I am to thank you for a very fine cod, which came most opportunely to make a figure on our table, on an occasion that made him singularly welcome. I write, and you send me a fish. This is very well, but not altogether what I want. I wish to hear from you, because the fish, though he serves to convince me that you have me still in remembrance, says not a word of those that sent him; and, with respect to your and Mrs. Hill's health, prosperity, and happiness, leaves me as much in the dark as before. You are aware, likewise, that where there is an exchange of letters it is much easier to write. But I know the multiplicity of your affairs, and therefore perform my part of the correspondence as well as I can, convinced that you would not omit yours, if you could help it.
Three days since I received a note from old Mr. Small, which was more than civil—it was warm and friendly. The good veteran excuses himself for not calling upon me, on account of the feeble state in which a fit of the gout had left him. He tells me however that he has seen Mrs. Hill, and your improvements at Wargrave, which will soon become an ornament to the place. May they, and may you both live long to enjoy them! I shall be sensibly mortified if the season and his gout together should deprive me of the pleasure of receiving him here; for he is a man much to my taste, and quite an unique in this country.
My eyes are in general better than I remember them to have been since I first opened them upon this sublunary stage, which is now a little more than half a century ago. We are growing old; but this is between ourselves: the world knows nothing of the matter. Mr. Small tells me you look much as you did; and as for me, being grown rather plump, the ladies tell me I am as young as ever.
Yours ever,W. C.
Olney, Nov. 18, 1782.
My dear William,—On the part of the poor, and on our part, be pleased to make acknowledgments, such as the occasion calls for, to our beneficent friend, Mr. ——. I call him ours, because, having experienced his kindness to myself, in a former instance, and in the present his disinterested readiness to succour the distressed, my ambition will be satisfied with nothing less. He may depend upon the strictest secrecy; no creature shall hear him mentioned, either now or hereafter, as the person from whom we have received this bounty. But when I speak of him, or hear him spoken of by others, which sometimes happens, I shall not forget what is due to so rare a character. I wish, and your mother wishes too, that he could sometimes take us in his way to ——: he will find us happy to receive a person whom we must needs account it an honour to know. We shall exercise our best discretion in the disposal of the money; but in this town, where the gospel has been preached so many years, where the people have been favoured so long with laborious and conscientious ministers, it is not an easy thing to find those who make no profession of religion at all, and are yet proper objects of charity. The profane are so profane, so drunken, dissolute, and in every respect worthless, that to make them partakers of his bounty would be to abuse it. We promise, however, that none shall touch it but such as are miserably poor, yet at the same time industrious and honest, two characters frequently united here, where the most watchful and unremitting labour will hardly procure them bread. We make none but the cheapest laces, and the price of them is fallen almost to nothing. Thanks are due to yourself likewise, and are hereby accordingly rendered, for waiving your claim in behalf of your own parishioners. You are always with them, and they are always, at least some of them, the better for your residence among them. Olney is a populous place, inhabited chiefly by the half-starved and the ragged of the earth, and it is not possible for our small party and small ability to extend their operations so far as to be much felt among such numbers. Accept, therefore, your share of their gratitude, and be convinced that, when they pray for a blessing upon those who relieved their wants, he that answers that prayer, and when he answers it, will remember his servant at Stock.
I little thought when I was writing the history of John Gilpin, that he would appear in print—I intended to laugh, and to make two or three others laugh, of whom you were one. But now all the world laugh, at least if they have the same relish for a tale ridiculous in itself, and quaintly told, as we have. Well, they do not always laugh so innocently, and at so small an expense, for, in a world like this, abounding with subjects for satire, and with satirical wits to mark them, a laugh that hurtsnobody has at least the grace of novelty to recommend it. Swift's darling motto was,Vive la bagatelle!a good wish for a philosopher of his complexion, the greater part of whose wisdom, whencesoever it came, most certainly came not from above.La bagatellehas no enemy in me, though it has neither so warm a friend nor so able a one as it had in him. If I trifle, and merely trifle, it is because I am reduced to it by necessity—a melancholy that nothing else so effectually disperses engages me sometimes in the arduous task of being merry by force. And, strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood, and but for that saddest mood, perhaps, had never been written at all.
I hear from Mrs. Newton that some great persons have spoken with great approbation of a certain book—who they are, and what they have said, I am to be told in a future letter. The Monthly Reviewers, in the meantime, have satisfied me well enough.
Yours, my dear William,W. C.
My dear William,—Dr. Beattie is a respectable character.[158]I account him a man of sense, a philosopher, a scholar, a person of distinguished genius, and a good writer. I believe him too a Christian; with a profound reverence for the scripture, with great zeal and ability to enforce the belief of it, both which he exerts with the candour and good manners of a gentleman: he seems well entitled to that allowance; and to deny it him, would impeach one's right to the appellation. With all these good things to recommend him, there can be no dearth of sufficient reasons to read his writings. You favoured me some years since with one of his volumes; by which I was both pleased and instructed: and I beg you will send me the new one, when you can conveniently spare it, or rather bring it yourself, while the swallows are yet upon the wing: for the summer is going down apace.
You tell me you have been asked, if I am intent upon another volume? I reply, not at present, not being convinced that I have met with sufficient encouragement. I account myself happy in having pleased a few, but am not rich enough to despise the many. I do not know what sort of market my commodity has found, but, if a slack one, I must beware how I make a second attempt. My bookseller will not be willing to incur a certain loss; and I can as little afford it. Notwithstanding what I have said, I write, and am even now writing, for the press. I told you that I had translated several of the poems of Madame Guion. I told you too, or I am mistaken, that Mr. Bull designed to print them. That gentleman is gone to the sea-side with Mrs. Wilberforce, and will be absent six weeks. My intention is to surprise him at his return with the addition of as much more translation as I have already given him. This, however, is still less likely to be a popular work than my former. Men that have no religion would despise it; and men that have no religious experience would not understand it. But the strain of simple and unaffected piety in the original is sweet beyond expression. She sings like an angel, and for that very reason has found but few admirers. Other things I write too, as you will see on the other side, but these merely for my amusement.[159]
Olney, Nov. 23, 1782.
My dear Madam,—Accept my thanks for the trouble you take in vending my poems, and still more for the interest you take in their success. My authorship is undoubtedly pleased, when I hear that they are approved either by the great or the small; but to be approved by the great, as Horace observed many years ago, is fame indeed. Having met with encouragement, I consequently wish to write again; but wishes are a very small part of the qualifications necessary for such a purpose. Many a man, who has succeeded tolerably well in his first attempt, has spoiled all by the second. But it just occurs to me that I told you so once before, and, if my memory had served me with the intelligence a minute sooner, I would not have repeated the observation now.
The winter sets in with great severity. The rigour of the season, and the advanced price of grain, are very threatening to the poor. It is well with those that can feed upon a promise, and wrap themselves up warm in the robe of salvation. A good fire-side and a well-spread table are but very indifferent substitutes for these better accommodations; so very indifferent, that I would gladly exchange them both for the rags and the unsatisfied hunger of the poorest creature that looks forward with hope to a better world, and weeps tears of joy in the midst of penury and distress. What a world is this! How mysteriously governed, and in appearance left to itself! One man, having squandered thousands at a gaming-table, finds it convenient to travel; gives his estate to somebody to manage for him; amuses himself a few years in France and Italy; returns, perhaps, wiser than he went, havingacquired knowledge which, but for his follies, he would never have acquired; again makes a splendid figure at home, shines in the senate, governs his country as its minister, is admired for his abilities, and, if successful, adored at least by a party. When he dies he is praised as a demi-god, and his monument records every thing but his vices. The exact contrast of such a picture is to be found in many cottages at Olney. I have no need to describe them; you know the characters I mean. They love God, they trust him, they pray to him in secret, and, though he means to reward them openly, the day of recompence is delayed. In the meantime they suffer every thing that infirmity and poverty can inflict upon them. Who would suspect, that has not a spiritual eye to discern it, that the fine gentleman was one whom his Maker had in abhorrence, and the wretch last-mentioned dear to him as the apple of his eye! It is no wonder that the world, who are not in the secret, find themselves obliged, some of them, to doubt a Providence, and others absolutely to deny it, when almost all the real virtue there is in it is to be found living and dying in a state of neglected obscurity, and all the vices of others cannot exclude them from the privilege of worship and honour! But behind the curtain the matter is explained; very little, however, to the satisfaction of the great.
If you ask me why I have written thus, and to you especially, to whom there was no need to write thus, I can only reply, that, having a letter to write, and no news to communicate, I picked up the first subject I found, and pursued it as far as was convenient for my purpose.
Mr. Newton and I are of one mind on the subject of patriotism. Our dispute was no sooner begun than it ended. It would be well perhaps, if, when two disputants begin to engage, their friends would hurry each into a separate chaise, and order them to opposite points of the compass. Let one travel twenty miles east, the other, as many west; then let them write their opinions by the post. Much altercation and chafing of the spirit would be prevented; they would sooner come to a right understanding, and, running away from each other, would carry on the combat more judiciously, in exact proportion to the distance.
My love to that gentleman, if you please; and tell him that, like him, though I love my country, I hate its follies and its sins, and had rather see it scourged in mercy than judicially hardened by prosperity.
Yours, my dear Madam, as ever,W. C.
Olney, Dec. 7, 1782.
My dear Friend,—At seven o'clock this evening, being the seventh of December, I imagine I see you in your box at the coffee-house. No doubt the waiter, as ingenious and adroit as his predecessors were before him, raises the tea-pot to the ceiling with his right hand, while in his left the tea-cup descending almost to the floor, receives a limpid stream; limpid in its descent, but no sooner has it reached its destination, than frothing and foaming to the view, it becomes a roaring syllabub. This is the nineteenth winter since I saw you in this situation; and if nineteen more pass over me before I die, I shall still remember a circumstance we have often laughed at.
How different is the complexion of your evenings and mine!—yours, spent amid the ceaseless hum that proceeds from the inside of fifty noisy and busy periwigs; mine, by a domestic fire-side, in a retreat as silent as retirement can make it, where no noise is made but what we make for our own amusement. For instance, here are two rustics and your humble servant in company. One of the ladies has been playing on the harpsichord, while I with the other have been playing at battledore and shuttlecock. A little dog, in the meantime, howling under the chair of the former, performed in the vocal way to admiration. This entertainment over, I began my letter, and, having nothing more important to communicate, have given you an account of it. I know you love dearly to be idle, when you can find an opportunity to be so; but, as such opportunities are rare with you, I thought it possible that a short description of the idleness I enjoy might give you pleasure. The happiness we cannot call our own we yet seem to possess, while we sympathise with our friends who can.
The papers tell me that peace is at hand, and that it is at a great distance; that the siege of Gibraltar is abandoned, and that it is to be still continued. It is happy for me, that, though I love my country, I have but little curiosity. There was a time when these contradictions would have distressed me; but I have learned by experience that it is best for little people like myself to be patient, and to wait till time affords the intelligence which no speculations of theirs can ever furnish.
I thank you for a fine cod with oysters, and hope that ere long I shall have to thank you for procuring me Elliott's medicines. Every time I feel the least uneasiness in either eye, I tremble lest, my Æsculapius being departed, my infallible remedy should be lost for ever. Adieu. My respects to Mrs. Hill.
Yours, faithfully,W. C.
Olney, Jan. 19, 1783.
My dear William,—Not to retaliate, but for want of opportunity, I have delayed writing. From a scene of most uninterrupted retirement, we have passed at once into a state of constant engagement, not that our society is much multiplied. The addition of an individual has made all this difference. Lady Austen and we pass our days alternately at each other'schâteau. In the morning I walk with one or other of the ladies, and in the afternoon wind thread. Thus did Hercules and Sampson, and thus do I; and, were both those heroes living, I should not fear to challenge them to a trial of skill in that business, or doubt to beat them both. As to killing lions, and other amusements of that kind, with which they were so delighted, I should be their humble servant, and beg to be excused.
Having no frank, I cannot send you Mr. ——'s two letters, as I intended. We corresponded as long as the occasion required, and then ceased. Charmed with his good sense, politeness, and liberality to the poor, I was indeed ambitious of continuing a correspondence with him, and told him so. Perhaps I had done more prudently had I never proposed it. But warm hearts are not famous for wisdom, and mine was too warm to be very considerate on such an occasion. I have not heard from him since, and have long given up all expectation of it. I know he is too busy a man to have leisure for me, and I ought to have recollected it sooner. He found time to do much good, and to employ us, as his agents, in doing it, and that might have satisfied me. Though laid under the strictest injunctions of secrecy, both by him, and by you on his behalf, I consider myself as under no obligation to conceal from you the remittances he made. Only, in my turn, I beg leave to request secrecy on your part, because, intimate as you are with him, and highly as he values you, I cannot yet be sure, that the communication would please him, his delicacies on this subject being as singular as his benevolence. He sent forty pounds, twenty at a time. Olney has not had such a friend as this many a day; nor has there been an instance, at any time, of a few families so effectually relieved, or so completely encouraged to the pursuit of that honest industry, by which, their debts being paid and the parents and children comfortably clothed, they are now enabled to maintain themselves. Their labour was almost in vain before; but now it answers: it earns them bread, and all their other wants are plentifully supplied.[162]
I wish that, by Mr. ——'s assistance, your purpose in behalf of the prisoners may be effectuated. A pen so formidable as his might do much good, if properly directed. The dread of a bold censure is ten times more moving than the most eloquent persuasion. They that cannot feel for others are the persons of all the world who feel most sensibly for themselves.
Yours, my dear friend,W. C.
Jan. 26, 1783.
My dear Friend,—It is reported among persons of the best intelligence at Olney—the barber, the schoolmaster, and the drummer of a corps quartered at this place—that the belligerent powers are at last reconciled, the articles of the treaty adjusted, and that peace is at the door.[164]I saw this morning, at nine o'clock, a group of about twelve figures, very closely engaged in a conference, as I suppose, upon the same subject. The scene of consultation was a blacksmith's shed, very comfortably screened from the wind, and directly opposed to the morning sun. Some held their hands behind them, some had them folded across their bosom, and others had thrust them into their breeches pockets. Every man's posture bespoke a pacific turn of mind; but, the distance being too great for their words to reach me, nothing transpired. I am willing, however, to hope that the secret will not be a secret long, and that you and I, equally interested in the event, though not perhaps equally well informed, shall soon have an opportunity to rejoice in the completion of it. The powers of Europe have clashed with each other to a fine purpose;[165]that the Americans, at length declared independent, may keep themselves so, if they can; and that what the parties, who have thought proper to dispute upon that point have wrested from each other in the course of the conflict may be, in the issue of it, restored to the proper owner. Nations may be guilty of a conduct that would render an individual infamous for ever; and yet carry their heads high, talk of their glory, and despise their neighbours. Your opinions and mine, I mean our political ones, are not exactly of a piece, yet I cannot think otherwise upon this subject than I have always done. England, more perhaps through the fault of her generals than her councils, has, in some instances, acted with a spirit of cruel animosity she was never chargeable withtill now. But this is the worst that can be said. On the other hand, the Americans, who, if they had contented themselves with a struggle for lawful liberty, would have deserved applause, seem to me to have incurred the guilt of parricide, by renouncing their parent, by making her ruin their favourite object, and by associating themselves with her worst enemy for the accomplishment of their purpose. France, and of course Spain, have acted a treacherous, a thievish part. They have stolen America from England; and, whether they are able to possess themselves of that jewel or not hereafter, it was doubtless what they intended. Holland appears to me in a meaner light than any of them. They quarrelled with a friend for an enemy's sake. The French led them by the nose, and the English have thrashed them for suffering it. My views of the contest being, and having been always, such, I have consequently brighter hopes for England than her situation some time since seemed to justify. She is the only injured party. America may perhaps call her the aggressor; but, if she were so, America has not only repelled the injury, but done a greater. As to the rest, if perfidy, treachery, avarice, and ambition, can prove their cause to have been a rotten one, those proofs are found upon them. I think, therefore, that, whatever scourge may be prepared for England on some future day, her ruin is not yet to be expected.
Acknowledge now that I am worthy of a place under the shed I described, and that I should make no small figure among thequidnuncsof Olney.
I wish the society you have formed may prosper. Your subjects will be of greater importance, and discussed with more sufficiency.[166]The earth is a grain of sand, but the spiritual interests of man are commensurate with the heavens.
Yours, my dear friend, as ever,W. C.
The humour of the following letter in reference to the peace, is ingenious and amusing.
Olney, Feb. 2, 1783.
I give you joy of the restoration of that sincere and firm friendship between the kings of England and France, that has been so long interrupted. It is a great pity when hearts so cordially united are divided by trifles. Thirteen pitiful colonies, which the king of England chose to keep, and the king of France to obtain, if he could, have disturbed that harmony which would else no doubt have subsisted between those illustrious personages to this moment. If the king of France, whose greatness of mind is only equalled by that of his queen, had regarded them, unworthy of his notice as they were, with an eye of suitable indifference; or, had he thought it a matter deserving in any degree his princely attention, that they were in reality the property of his good friend the king of England; or, had the latter been less obstinately determined to hold fast his interest in them, and could he, with that civility and politeness in which monarchs are expected to excel, have entreated his majesty of France to accept a bagatelle, for which he seemed to have conceived so strong a predilection, all this mischief had been prevented. But monarchs, alas! crowned and sceptred as they are, are yet but men; they fall out, and are reconciled, just like the meanest of their subjects. I cannot, however, sufficiently admire the moderation and magnanimity of the king of England. His dear friend on the other side of the Channel has not indeed taken actual possession of the colonies in question, but he has effectually wrested them out of the hands of their original owner, who, nevertheless, letting fall the extinguisher of patience upon the flame of his resentment, and glowing with no other flame than that of the sincerest affection, embraces the king of France again, gives him Senegal and Goree in Africa, gives him the islands he had taken from him in the West, gives him his conquered territories in the East, gives him a fishery upon the banks of Newfoundland; and, as if all this were too little, merely because he knows that Louis has a partiality for the king of Spain, gives to the latter an island in the Mediterranean, which thousands of English had purchased with their lives; and in America all that he wanted, at least all that he could ask. No doubt there will be great cordiality between this royal trio for the future; and, though wars may perhaps be kindled between their posterity some ages hence, the present generation shall never be witnesses of such a calamity again. I expect soon to hear that the queen of France, who just before this rupture happened, made the queen of England a present of a watch, has, in acknowledgment of all these acts of kindness, sent her also a seal wherewith to ratify the treaty. Surely she can do no less.
W. C.