the unlimited imaginative vigor of the writers of the Age of Elizabeth (1559-1660). Alexander Pope and his followers regarded Shakespeare as a writer of strength and force, but without purity or simplicity of diction, and lacking in art. And it meant also a very strict regard for form at the expense of matter. The "Augustan Age," as its admirers proudly called it, after the loftiest days of Roman literature, was to them the perfection of English achievement. But in reality it was primarily artificial and not at all equal to the disparaged Elizabethan Age. Adapted from the French, who were then supreme in letters, it was not a happy graft upon the English tree. The poetry laid stress on form rather than thought. The form was perfect of its kind-sparkling and epigrammatic; yet the higher element of imagination was sadly lacking. The prose of the time was its best output; the poetry was of an inferior type. And about 1780 the classic spirit had practically run its course. Its most persistent upholders had passed away. During the ensuing decade four poets arose who struck an entirely new note, preluding the full harmony of the earlier and greater-nineteenth century literature. Their names were WILLIAM COWPER, GEORGE CRABBE, WILLIAM BLAKE, and ROBERT BURNS. For a space before there had been a heavy time of waiting, an interval when nothing of importance was written. The old had passed and the new had not yet come to birth.

The first to give definite signs of what manner of thing this was to be was William Cowper, born in Hertfordshire, 1731; the significant work was a long poem called The Task, published in 1785. Cowper's whole life was shadowed by the terrible cloud of madness. After leaving school he entered a lawyer's office. His work here seems to have been of rather pointless character, and there is no doubt that he wasted some of his best years. But he was happy enough-happier than he would allow when long afterwards he re-created his youth in a poem called Tirocinium. During this time, however, his character gave indications of its nature. Cowper was a man of gentle and lovable disposition, but absolutely incapable of making any strenuous effort— even for his own advancement. He lacked energy and was content with a position of dependence. Unfortunately for him, means were always provided in his youth, and it was never necessary for him to make the strong endeavor that would have braced his mind for the battle of life. In those days the system of patronage held full sway, and, as Cowper had influential relatives, he foresaw nothing less than a life of ease such as he loved, spent in some comfortable sinecure.

So he "trained himself to incapacity as other men do to work." And when the tide came which should have floated him on to fortune, he was simply unable to take it. His uncle, Major Cowper, had the gift of three appointments-a not unusual plurality

at the time. The best of these he offered to his nephew, who at once joyfully accepted it. But the publicity of the office terrified the latter's timid nature, and after a time he implored that one of the lesser posts be given him. It was required that he should pass a public examination to prove his efficiency. The effect upon Cowper was dreadful. "A thunderbolt would have been as welcome to me as this intelligence," he says. For six months he studied, but with little understanding. Brooding over the then uncommon ordeal before him, he gradually worked himself into a state of morbid fear. So deeply did the idea seize upon his enervated mind that, on the very morning of the dreaded examination, he attempted to commit suicide, being saved only through the breaking of the rope by which he had attempted to hang himself. In despair he sent for his relative and entreated that he might be excused. The request was promptly granted; but not so could the long anguish of foreboding be eradicated. He became mad. His insanity took the form of religious mania, and "was the persistent shadow of his life." For two years he was under medical care, and then went to the small town of Huntingdon, near Cambridge. Here he fell in with the family of Rev. Morley Unwin, the clergyman of the place. To them he was indebted for what of happiness and tranquillity he saw during the remainder of his life. They were four in number-father, mother, son, and daughter.

The mother was Cowper's life-long friend and helper -the "Mary" of his tender song. When Mr. Unwin died (1767), and the son and daughter had formed new ties, Cowper and Mrs. Unwin moved to Olney, in Buckinghamshire. The relation between them was that of brother and sister; the complete dependence of the poet made her friendship a necessary part of his existence.

The life at Olney was not for Cowper's good. He became strongly attached to a clergyman— Newton-who was in fullest sympathy with the religious movement of the time: the great evangelical revival under Wesley. The continual preaching, the minute self-analysis, the perpetual meditation, however good they might be to a robust personality, had an opposite effect upon the shy and melancholy man who by nature was only too much of a recluse. Several years of this ascetic life, of gloomy saintliness, of unending self-sacrifice, brought about a second attack of his malady (1773). For many

months he was in the dark shadow-indeed, his amendment cannot be called complete until after Newton had left Olney. Then began the brightest period of Cowper's life. After a few years of slowly increasing mental strength he gained the friendship of one who touched some hidden chord in his soul and awoke his unsuspected art. Hitherto Cowper had written only the most orthodox eighteenth-century verse; now, under the stimulating influence of Lady Austen, he suddenly broke forth into poetry

of an entirely different type, fresh, true to nature, and absolutely unconventional. No one had any idea of the forces that were pent up in the breast of the gentle invalid; how it was that after lying dormant so long they should emerge at this time must remain one of the puzzles of literature. But emerge they did. Lady Austen told him the story of John Gilpin's famous ride, and next day he wrote the immortal ballad. The matchless Loss of the Royal George was also due to her suggestion. She proposed that he should try blank verse, and the famous Task was composed.

But before the book appeared the pleasant circle had been broken. For some cause, not clearly ascertained, Lady Austen left Olney never to return. This made a serious blank in the poet's life. And to increase his trouble, his friend Newton attacked him in a spirit of brutal narrowness. A translation of Homer kept his mind occupied for some time; but when it was finished he went down to the depths. Mrs. Unwin, the companion of his life, was stricken with paralysis (1792), and Cowper in the deepest despondency was obliged to attend her. Yet about this time he produced two of his finest poems-the Lines Addressed to my Mother's Picture and My Mary. The close of his life was miserable. Mrs. Unwin sank into imbecility and death; the poet survived her little more than three years. In 1799 his fancy was caught by the story of a sailor who was lost at sea in a storm. Struck by a resemblance