Читать книгу The Works of William Cowper - William Cowper - Страница 190

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Olney, June 12, 1782.

My dear Friend—Every extraordinary occurrence in our lives affords us an opportunity to learn, if we will, something more of our own hearts and tempers than we were before aware of. It is easy to promise ourselves beforehand that our conduct shall be wise, or moderate, or resolute, on any given occasion. But, when that occasion occurs, we do not always find it easy to make good the promise: such a difference there is between theory and practice. Perhaps this is no new remark; but it is not a whit the worse for being old, if it be true.

Before I had published, I said to myself—you and I, Mr. Cowper, will not concern ourselves much about what the critics may say of our book. But, having once sent my wits for a venture, I soon became anxious about the issue, and found that I could not be satisfied with a warm place in my own good graces, unless my friends were pleased with me as much as I pleased myself. Meeting with their approbation, I began to feel the workings of ambition. It is well, said I, that my friends are pleased; but friends are sometimes partial, and mine, I have reason to think, are not altogether free from bias. Methinks I should like to hear a stranger or two speak well of me. I was presently gratified by the approbation of the "London Magazine" and the "Gentleman's," particularly by that of the former, and by the plaudit of Dr. Franklin. By the way, magazines are publications we have but little respect for till we ourselves are chronicled in them, and then they assume an importance in our esteem which before we could not allow them. But the "Monthly Review," the most formidable of all my judges, is still behind. What will that critical Rhadamanthus say, when my shivering genius shall appear before him? Still he keeps me in hot water, and I must wait another month for his award. Alas! when I wish for a favourable sentence from that quarter (to confess a weakness that I should not confess to all,) I feel myself not a little influenced by a tender regard to my reputation here, even among my neighbours at Olney. Here are watchmakers, who themselves are wits, and who at present perhaps think me one. Here is a carpenter, and a baker, and not to mention others, here is your idol, Mr. ——, whose smile is fame. All these read the "Monthly Review," and all these will set me down for a dunce, if those terrible critics should show them the example. But oh! wherever else I am accounted dull, dear Mr. Griffith, let me pass for a genius at Olney.

We are sorry for little William's illness. It is, however, the privilege of infancy to recover almost immediately what it has lost by sickness. We are sorry too for Mr. ——'s dangerous condition. But he that is well prepared for the great journey cannot enter on it too soon for himself, though his friends will weep at his departure.

Yours,

W. C.

The immediate success of his first volume was very far from being equal to its extraordinary merit. For some time it seemed to be neglected by the public, although the first poem in the collection contains such a powerful image of its author as might be thought sufficient not only to excite attention but to secure attachment: for Cowper had undesignedly executed a masterly portrait of himself in describing the true poet: we allude to the following verses in "Table Talk."

Nature, exerting an unwearied power,

Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower;

Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads

The dancing Naiads thro' the dewy meads:

She fills profuse ten thousand little throats

With 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 sky

Brings colours, dipt in heaven, that never die;

A soul exalted above earth, a mind

Skill'd in the characters that form mankind;

And, as the sun in rising beauty drest

Looks 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 rays

On 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 strive

To 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.