of us depends upon what he meets with at our hands, if we use him well, and listen to his admonitions, he is a friend indeed; but otherwise, the worst of enemies, who takes from us daily, something that we valued, and gives us nothing better in its stead. It is well with them, who, like you, can stand a tip-toe on the mountain top of human life, look down with pleasure upon the valley they have passed, and sometimes stretch their wings in joyful hope of a happy flight into eternity. Yet a little while, and your hope will be accomplished. The course of a rapid river is the justest of all emblems, to express the variableness of our scene below. Shakespeare says, none ever bathed himself twice in the same stream; and it is equally true, that the world upon which we close our eyes at night, is never the same as that upon which we open them in the morning."

CHAPTER VIII.

Makes preparations for publishing his first volume-Reasons assigned for it Beneficial effects of composition on his mind- - His comparative indifference to the success of his volume-Great care, nevertheless, with which he composed it—His readiness to avail himself of the assistance and advice of his friends-The interest which Mr. Newton took in his publication-Writes the preface for the volume-Cowper's judicious reply to some objections that had been made to it-Publication of the volume-Manner in which it was received - Continuance of Cowper's depression - State of his mind respecting religion- - His warm attachment to the leading truths of the gospel-Ardent desires to make his volume the means of conveying them to others.

MORE than seven years had now elapsed since the commencement of Cowper's distressing malady; and though he was not yet perfectly recovered, he had, at length, gradually acquired the full exercise of those mental powers for which he was so highly distinguished. Having now employed his muse, with the happiest effect, for nearly two years, he had composed a sufficient number of lines to form a respectable volume. Mrs. Unwin had witnessed with delight the productions of his pen, and she now wisely urged him to make them public. He was, at first, exceedingly averse to the measure; but, after some consideration, he at length yielded to her suggestions, and made preparations to appear as an author. His letters to his correspondents on the subject are highly interesting; and afford a full developement of the design he

had in view in appearing before the public. To Mr. Unwin he thus writes::- "Your mother says I must write, and must admits of no apology; I might otherwise plead that I have nothing to say, that I am weary, that I am dull, that it would be more convenient for you, as well as for myself, that I should let it alone. But all these pleas, and whatever pleas besides, either disinclination, indolence, or necessity, might suggest, are overruled, as they ought to be, the moment a lady adduces her irrefragable argument, you must. Urged by her entreaties, I have at length sent a volume to the press; the greater part of it is the produce of the last winter. Two-thirds of the volume will be occupied by four pieces. It contains, in all, about two thousand five hundred lines; and will be known, in due time, by the names of Table Talk, The Progress of Error, Truth, Expostulation, with an addition of some smaller poems, all of which, I believe, have passed under your notice. Altogether they will furnish a volume of tolerable bulk, that need not be indebted to an intolerable breadth of margin, for the importance of its figure."

In this undertaking he was encouraged by his friend, Mr. Newton, with whom he corresponded on the subject, and to whom he thus discloses his mind:-" If a board of enquiry were to be established, at which poets were to undergo an examination respecting the motives that induced them to publish, and I were to be summoned to attend, that I might give an account of mine, I think I could truly say, what perhaps few poets could, that though I have no objection to lucrative consequences, if any such should follow, they are not my aim; much less is it my ambition to exhibit myself to the world as a genius. What then, says Mr. President, can possibly be your motive? I answer, with a bow, amusement. There is no occupation within the compass of my small sphere, poetry excepted,

that can do much towards diverting that train of melancholy forebodings, which, when I am not thus employed, are for ever pouring themselves in upon me. And if I did not publish what I write, I could not interest myself sufficiently in my own success to make an amusement of it. My own amusement, however, is not my sole motive. I am merry that I may decoy people into my company, and grave that they may be the better for it. Now and then I put on the garb of a philosopher, and take the opportunity that disguise procures me, to drop a word in favour of religion. In short, there is some froth, and here and there a bit of sweet-meat, which seems to entitle it justly to the name of a certain dish the ladies call a trifle. I did not choose to be more facetious, lest I should consult the taste of my readers at the expence of my own approbation; nor more serious than I have been, lest I should forfeit theirs. A poet in my circumstances has a difficult part to act; one minute obliged to bridle his humour, if he has any, the next, to clap a spur to the sides of it. Now ready to weep, from a sense of the importance of his subject, and on a sudden constrained to laugh, lest his gravity should be mistaken for dulness."

Writing to his amiable correspondent, Mrs. Cowper, 19th October, 1781, he says:-" I am preparing a volume of poems for the for the press, which I imagine will make its appearance in the course of the winter. It is a bold undertaking at this time of day, when so many writers of the greatest abilities have gone before, who seem to have anticipated every valuable subject, as well as all the graces of poetical embellishment, to step forth into the world in the character of a bard; especially when it is considered that luxury, idleness, and vice, have debauched the public taste, and that scarcely anything but childish fiction, or what has a tendency to excite a laugh, is welcome. I

thought, however, that I had stumbled upon some subjects that had never been poetically treated, and upon some others, to which I imagined it would not be difficult to give an air of novelty, by the manner of treating them. My sole drift is to be useful; a point which, however, I knew I should in vain aim at, unless I could be likewise entertaining. I have therefore fixed these two strings to my bow; and by the help of both, have done my best, to send my arrow to the mark. My readers will hardly have begun to laugh, before they will be called upon to correct that levity, and peruse me with a more serious air. I cast a side-long glance at the good-liking of the world at large, more for the sake of their advantage and instruction than their praise. They are children; if we give them physic, we must sweeten the rim of the cup with honey. As to the effect, I leave that in his hands, who alone can produce it; neither prose, nor verse, can reform the manners of a dissolute age, much less can they inspire a sense of religious obligation, unless assisted, and made efficacious by the power who superintends the truth he has vouchsafed to impart."

To his warm friend, Mr. Hill, he thus amusingly adverts to his publication:-"I am in the press, and it is in vain to deny it. My labours are principally the production of the last winter; all, indeed, except a few of the minor pieces. When I can find no other occupation, I think, and when I think, I am very apt to do it in rhyme. Hence it comes to pass that the season of the year, which generally pinches off the flowers of poetry, unfolds mine, such as they are, and crowns me with a winter garland. In this respect, therefore, I and my contemporary bards are by no means upon a par. They write when the delightful influences of fine weather, fine prospects, and a brisk motion of the animal spirits, make poetry almost the language of