We talk of our freedom, and some of us are free enough, but not the poor. Dependent as they are upon parish bounty, they are sometimes obliged to submit to impositions which, perhaps in France itself, could hardly be paralleled. Can man or woman be said to be free, who is commanded to take a distemper sometimes, at least, mortal, and in circumstances most likely to make it so? No circumstance whatever was permitted to exempt the inhabitants of Weston. The old as well as the young, and the pregnant as well as they who had only themselves within them, have been inoculated. Were I asked who is the most arbitrary sovereign on earth, I should answer, neither the king of France, nor the grand signior, but an overseer of the poor in England.* I am as heretofore occupied with Homer: my present occupation is the revisal of all I have done, viz., the first fifteen books. I stand amazed at my own exceeding dexterity in the business, being verily persuaded that, as far as I have gone, I have improved the work to double its value. That you may begin the new year and end it in all health and happiness, and many more when the present shall have been long an old one, is the ardent wish of Mrs. Unwin and of yours, my dearest coz., most cordially, W. C. TO THE REV. WALTER BAGOT. Weston, Jan. 5, 1788. My dear Friend,—I thank you for your information concerning the author of the translation of those lines. Had a man of less note and ability than Lord Bagot produced it, I should have been discouraged. As it is, I comfort myself with the thought that even he accounted it an achievement worthy of his powers, and that even he found it diflicult. Though I never had the honor to be known to his lordship, I remember him well at Westminster, and the reputation in which he stood there. Since that time I have never seen him except once, many years ago, in the House of Commons, when I heard him speak on the subject of a drainage bill better than any member there. My first thirteen books have been criticised in London; have been by me accommodated to those criticisms, returned to Loudon in their improved state, and sent back to Weston with an imprimatur. This would satisfy some poets less anxious than myself about what they expose in public; but it has not satisfied me. I am now revising them again by the light of my own critical taper, and make more alterations than at first. But are *The discovery of vaccination, since the above period, has entitled the name of Jenner to rank among the benefactors of mankind. they improvements? you will ask. Is not the spirit of the work endangered by all this attention to correctness? I think and hope that it is not. Being well aware of the pos sibility of such a catastrophe, I guard particularly against it. Where I find that a servile adherence to the original would render the passage less animated than it would be, I still, as at the first, allow myself a liberty. On all other occasions I prune with an unsparing hand, determined that there shall not be found in the whole translation an idea that is not Homer's. My ambition is to produce the closest copy possible, and at the same time as harmonious as I know how to make it. This being my object, you will no longer think, if indeed you have thought it at all, that I am unnecessarily and over-much industrious. The original surpasses everything; it is of an immense length, is composed in the best language ever used upon earth, and deserves, indeed demands, all the labor that any translator, be he who he may, can possibly bestow on it. Of this I am sure; and your brother, the good bishop, is of the same mind, that at present mere Eng. lish readers know no more of Homer in reality than if he had never been translated. That consideration indeed it was, which mainly induced me to the undertaking; and if, after all, either through idleness or dotage upon what I have already done, I leave it chargeable with the same incorrectness as my predecessors, or indeed with any other that I may be able to amend, I had better have amused myself otherwise: and you, I know, are of my opinion. I send you the clerk's verses, of which I told you. They are very clerk-like, as you will perceive. But plain truth in plain words seemed to me to be the ne plus ultra of composition on such an occasion. I might have attempted something very fine, but then the persons principally concerned, viz., my readers, would not have understood me. puts them in mind that they are mortal, its best end is answered. My dear Walter, adieu! TO LADY HESKETH. If it W. C. The Lodge, Jan. 19, 1788 When I have prose enough to fill my paper which is always the case when I write to you, I cannot find in my heart to give a third part of it to verse. Yet this I must do, or I must make my packets more costly than worship. ful, by doubling the postage upon you, which I should hold to be unreasonable. See then the true reason why I did not send you that same scribblement till you desired it. The *The verses on the new year. thought which naturally presents itself to me on all such occasions is this:-Is not your cousin coming? Why are you impatient? Will it not be time enough to show her your fine things when she arrives? dated to the theme; so should the sister arts TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.* Jan. 21, 1788. My dear Friend,-Your last letter informed us that you were likely to be much occupied for some time in writing on a subject that must be interesting to a person of your feelings-the slave trade. I was unwilling to interrupt your progress in so good a work, and have therefore enjoined myself a longer silence than I should otherwise have thought excusable; though, to say the truth, did not our once intimate fellowship in the things of God recur to my remembrance, and present me with something like a warrant for doing it, I should hardly prevail with myself to write at all. Letters, such as mine, to a person of a character such as yours, are like snow in harvest; and you well say, that if I will send you a letter that you can answer, Fine things indeed I have few. He who has Homer to transcribe may well be contented to do little else. As when an ass, being harnessed with ropes to a sand-cart, drags with hanging ears his heavy burden, neither filling the long-echoing streets with his harmonious bray, nor throwing up his heels behind, frolicsome and airy, as asses less engaged are wont to do; so I, satisfied to find myself indispensably obliged to render into the best possible English metre eight-and-forty Greek books, of which the two finest poems in the world consist, account it quite sufficient if I may at last achieve that labor, and seldom allow myself those pretty little vagaries in which I should otherwise delight, and of which, if I should live long enough, I intend hereafter to enjoy my fill. This is the reason, my dear cousin, if II shall make your part of the business easier may be permitted to call you so in the same breath with which I have uttered this truly heroic comparison; this is the reason why I produce at present but few occasional poems, and the preceding reason is that which may account satisfactorily enough for my with-have had the pleasure of seeing your friend holding the very few that I do produce. A thought sometimes strikes me before I rise; if it runs readily into verse, and I can finish it before breakfast, it is well; otherwise it dies and is forgotten; for all the subsequent hours are devoted to Homer. than it is. This I would gladly do; but though I abhor a vacuum as much as nature herself is said to do, yet a vacuum I am bound to feel of all such matter as may merit your perusal. I expected that before this time I should Mr. Bean, but his stay in this country was so short, that it was hardly possible he should find an opportunity to call. I have not only heard a high character of that gentleman from yourself, whose opinion of men, as well as of other matters, weighs more with me than anybody's; but from two or three dif judge. From all that I have heard, both from you and them, I have every reason to expect that I shall find him both an agreeable and useful neighbor; and if he can be The day before yesterday I saw for the first time Bunbury's new print, the " Propa-ferent persons likewise, not ill qualified to gation of a Lie." Mr. Throckmorton sent it for the amusement of our party. Bunbury sells humor by the yard, and is, I suppose, the first vender of it who ever did so. He cannot therefore be said to have humor with-content with me (for that seems doubtful, out measure (pardon a pun, my dear, from a poet as I am, and row, alas! nothing more), man who has not made one before these it seems certain that I shall be highly satisforty years) though he may certainly be said fied with him. to be immeasurably droll. Here is much shifting and changing of The original thought is good, and the ex-ministers. Two are passing away, and two emplification of it in those very expressive are stepping into the places. Mr. B, I figures, admirable. A poem on the same suppose, whom I know not, is almost upon subject, displaying all that is displayed in the wing; and Mr. P- - with whom I those attitudes and in those features (for have not been very much acquainted, is either faces they can hardly be called) would be going or gone. A Mr. C is come to ocmost excellent. The affinity of the two arts, cupy, for the present at least, the place of viz., verse and painting, has been often ob- the former; and if he can possess himself of served; possibly the happiest illustration of the two curacies of Ravenstone and Weston, it would be found, if some poet would ally will, I imagine, take up his abode here. Hav himself to some draughtsman, as Bunbury, ing, as I understood, no engagements elseand undertake to write everything he should where, he will doubtless he happy to obtain draw. Then let a musician be admitted of a lasting one in this country. What acceptthe party. He should compose the said poem, adapting notes to it exactly accommo • The celebrated caricaturist. * Private correspondence, Formerly Vicar of Olney, and also one of the Librarians of the British Museum. Mr. Postlethwaite. ance he finds among the people of Ravenstone I have not heard, but at Olney, where he has preached once, he was hailed as the sun by the Greenlanders after half a year of lamp-light. Providence interposed to preserve me from the heaviest affliction that I can now suffer, or I had lately lost Mrs. Unwin, and in a way the most shocking imaginable. Having kindled her fire in the room where she dresses (an office that she always performs for herself), she placed the candle on the hearth, and, kneeling, addressed herself to her devotions. A thought struck her, while thus occupied, that the candle, being short, might possibly catch her clothes. She pinched it out with the tongs, and set it on the table. In a few minutes the chamber was so filled with smoke that her eyes watered, and it was hardly possible to see across it. Supposing that it proceeded from the chimney, she pushed the billets backward, and, while she did so, casting her eye downward, perceived that her dress was on fire. In fact, before she extinguished the candle, the mischief that she apprehended was begun; and when she related the matter to me, she showed me her clothes with a hole burnt in them as large as this sheet of paper. It is not possible, perhaps, that so tragical a death should overtake a person actually engaged in prayer, for her escape seems almost a miracle. Her presence of mind, by which she was enabled, without calling for help or waiting for it, to gather up her clothes and plunge them, burning as they were, in water, seems as wonderful a part of the occurrence as any. The very report of fire, though distant, has rendered hundreds torpid and incapable of self-succor; how much more was such a disability to be expected, when the fire had not seized a neighbor's house, or begun its devastations on our own, but was actually consuming the apparel that she wore, and seemed in possession of her person. It draws toward supper-time. I therefore heartily wish you a good night; and, with our best affections to yourself, Mrs. Newton, and Miss Catlett, I remain, my dear friend, truly and warmly yours, TO LADY HESKETH. W. C. The Lodge, Jan. 30, 1788. My dearest Coz.,-It is a fortnight since I heard from you, that is to say, a week longer than you have accustomed me to wait for a letter. I do not forget that you have recommended it to me, on occasions somewhat similar, to banish all anxiety, and to ascribe your silence only to the interruptions of company. Good advice, my dear, but not easily taken by a man circumstanced as I am. I have learned in the school of adver- TO LADY HESKETH. The Lodge, Feb. 1, 1788. ful ditty that I sent you last. There are Pardon me, my dearest cousin, the mourntimes when I see everything through a medium that distresses me to an insupportable degree, and that letter was written in one of them. A fog that had for three days obliterated all the beauties of Weston, and s north-east wind, might possibly contribute But my mind is now easy: your letter has not a little to the melancholy that indited it. made it so, and I feel myself as blithe as a bird in comparison. I love you, my cousin, and cannot suspect, either with or without cause, the least evil in which you may be concerned, without being greatly troubled! Oh, trouble! The portion of all mortalsbut mine in particular; would I had never known thee, or could bid thee farewell forever; for I meet thee at every turn my pillows are stuffed with thee, my very roses smell of thee, and even my cousin, who * This letter proves how much the sensitive mind of Cowper was liable to be ruffled by external incidents. Life presents too many real sources of anxiety, to jusaty creation. us in adding those which are imaginary and of our ow would cure me of all trouble if she could, is sometimes innocently the cause of trouble to me. I now see the unreasonableness of my late trouble, and would, if I could trust myself so far, promise never again to trouble either myself or you in the same manner, unless warranted by some more substantial ground of apprehension. What I said concerning Homer, my dear, was spoken, or rather written, merely under the influence of a certain jocularity that I felt at that moment. I am in reality so far from thinking myself an ass, and my translation a sand-cart, that I rather seem, in my own account of the matter, one of those flaming steeds harnessed to the chariot of Apollo, of which we read in the works of the ancients. I have lately, I know not how, acquired a certain superiority to myself in this business, and in this last revisal have elevated the expression to a degree far surpassing its former boast. A few evenings since, I had an opportunity to try how far I might venture to expect such success of my labors as can alone repay them, by reading the first book of my Iliad to a friend of ours. He dined with you once at Olney. His name is Greatheed, a man of letters and of taste. He dined with us, and, the evening proving dark and dirty, we persuaded him to lake a bed. I entertained him as I tell you. He heard me with great attention, and with evident symptoms of the highest satisfaction, which, when I had finished the exhibition, he put out of all doubt by expressions which I cannot repeat. Only this he said to Mrs. Unwin, while I was in another room, that he had never entered into the spirit of Homer before, nor had anything like a due conception of his manner. This I have said, knowing that it will please you, and will now say fail of being most acceptable to me. I lost him just in the moment when those truths which have recommended my volumes to your approbation were become his daily sustenance, as they had long been mine. But the will of God was done. I have sometimes thought that had his life been spared, being made brothers by a stricter tie than ever in the bonds of the same faith, hope, and love, we should have been happier in each other than it was in the power of mere natural affection to make us. But it was his blessing to be taken from a world in which he had no longer any wish to continue, and it will be mine, if, while I dwell in it, my time may not be altogether wasted. In order to effect that good end, I wrote what I am happy to find it has given you pleasure to read. But for that pleasure, madam, you are indebted neither to me, nor to my Muse; but (as you are well aware) to Him who alone can make divine truths palatable, in whatever vehicle conveyed. It is an established philosophical axiom, that nothing can communicate what it has not in itself; but, in the effects of Christian communion, a very strong exception is found to this general rule, however self-evident it may seem. A man himself destitute of all spiritual consolation may, by occasion, impart it to others. Thus I, seems, who wrote those very poems to amuse a mind oppressed with melancholy, and who have myself derived from them no other benefit (for mere success in authorship will do me no good), have, nevertheless, by so doing, comforted others, at the same time that they administer to me no consolation. But I will proceed no farther in this strain, lest my prose should damp a pleasure that my verse has happily excited. On the contrary, I will endeavor to rejoice in your joy, and especially because I have been myself the instrument of conveying it. Since the receipt of your obliging letter, I have naturally had recourse to my recollection, to try if it would furnish me with the name that I find at the bottom of it. At the same time I am aware that there is nothing more probable than that my brother might be honored with your friendship without mentioning it to me; for, except a very short period before his death, we lived necessarily at a considerable distance from each other. Ascribe it, madam, not to an impertinent curiosity, but to a desire of better acquaintance with you, if I take the liberty to ask (since ladies' names, at least, are changeable) whether yours was at that time the same as now. Sincerely wishing you all happiness, and especially that which I am sure you covet most, the happiness which is from above, I remain, dear madam-early as it may seem to say it, Affectionately yours. W. C. TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ. The Lodge, Feb. 14, 1788. Dear Sir,-Though it be long since I received your last, I have not yet forgotten the impression it made upon me, nor how sensibly I felt myself obliged by your unreserved and friendly communications. I will not apologize for my silence in the interim, because, apprized as you are of my present occupation, the excuse that I might allege will present itself to you of course, and to dilate upon it would therefore be waste of paper. You are in possession of the best security imaginable for the due improvement of your time, which is a just sense of its value. Had I been, when at your age, as much affected by that important consideration as I am at present, I should not have devoted, as I did, all the earliest parts of my life to amusement only. I am now in the predicament into which the thoughtlessness of youth betrays nine-tenths of mankind, who never discover that the health and good spirits which generally accompany it are, in reality, blessings only according to the use we make of them, till adadvanced years begin to threaten them with the loss of both. How much wiser would thousands have been than now they ever will be, had a puny constitution, or some occasional infirmity, constrained them to devote those hours to study and reflection, which for want of some such check they had given entirely to dissipation! I, therefore, account you happy, who, young as you are, need not be informed that you cannot always be so, and who already know that the materials upon which age can alone build its comfort should be brought together at an earlier period. You have, indeed, in losing a father, lost a friend, but you have not lost his instructions. His example was not buried with him, but happily for you (happily because you are desirous to avail yourself of it), still lives in your remembrance, and is cherished in your best affections. yet perhaps my Greek may be difficult to decipher. Οιη περ φύλλων γενεη, τοιηδε και ανδρων. Φυλλα τα μεν ανεμος χαμάδις χέει, αλλά δε θ' υλη Excuse this piece of pedantry in a man whose Homer is always before him! What would I give that he were living now, and within my reach! I, of all men living, have the best excuse for indulging such a wish, unreasonable as it may seem; for I have no doubt that the fire of his eye, and the smile of his lips would put me now and then in possession of his full meaning more effectu ally than any commentator. I return you many thanks for the elegies which you sent me, both which I think deserving of much commendation. I should requite you but ill by sending you my mortuary verses, neither at present can I prevail on myself to do it, having no frank, and being conscious that they are not worth carriage without one. I have one copy left, and that copy I will keep for you. W. C. excited by the slave trade that nefarious The public mind was, at this time, greatly House of Lords, by Bishop Horsley, as “the system, which was once characterized in the greatest moral pestilence that ever withered the happiness of mankind." The honor of inthe interest of humanity and justice were so troducing this momentous question, in which deeply involved, was reserved for William task, is too well known to require either Wilberforce, Esq. How he executed that detail or panegyric. The final abolition of the slave trade was an era in the history of Great Britain, never to be forgotten; and the subsequent legislative enactments for wanting, in this noble triumph of national abolishing slavery itself completed what was benevolence. The following letter alludes to this inter TO LADY HESKETIL The Lodge, Feb. 16, 1783. I have now three letters of yours, my dearest cousin, before me, all written in the space of a week; and must be indeed insensible of kindness did I not feel yours on this occasion. I cannot describe to you, neither could you comprehend it if I should, the manner in which Your last letter was dated from the house of a gentleman who was, I believe, my schoolfellow. For the Mr. C, who lived at Wat-esting subject. ford, while I had any connexion with Hertfordshire, must have been the father of the present, and, according to his age and the state of his health when I saw him last, must have been long dead. I never was acquainted with the family further than by report, which always spoke honorably of them, though, in all my journeys to and from my father's, I must have passed the door. The circumstance, however, reminds me of the beautiful reflection of Glaucus in the sixth Iliad; beautiful as well for the affecting nature of the observation as for the justness of the comparison and the incomparable simplicity of the expression. I feel that I shall not be satisfied without transcribing it, and We insert Pope's translation, as being he most familiar to the reader. "Like leaves on trees the race of man is found. |