Here all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine.’
Mr. Newton was soon to leave Olney, which he did under circumstances that appear, at this time of writing, rather comic. He had a great dread of fire, and strictly prohibited every species of bonfire, illumination, or firework in the locality on Gunpowder Plot Day. Such an inroad on a time-honoured institution could not be tolerated. The parish rose en masse, and his reverence narrowly escaped with his life. Disgusted by the ingratitude and rebellion of his flock, the curate removed to London.
Cowper had before this returned to his own house, and gradually his bodily health improved and his mind regained its equilibrium; he now began to resume out-of-doors pursuits, walking and gardening, and the like. He was much addicted to reading out of doors, and said that external objects fixed the subject of his lecture on his memory. He wrote to William Unwin about this time, requesting him to procure a diamond for cutting glass, and expatiating at length on the joys of a glazier’s trade. He hardly knows a business in which a gentleman might more successfully employ himself. ‘Possibly the happy time may come,’ he goes on to say, ‘when I may be seen trudging off to the neighbouring towns, with a shelf of glass hanging at my back. A Chinese of ten times my fortune would avail himself of such an opportunity,—and why not I, who want money as much as any mandarin in China?’ He recommends the notion to his clerical friend, who, by mending the church windows, might increase his income, and his popularity in the parish into the bargain. How acceptable must these jocose passages in his letters have been to those who loved him, after the terrible period of gloomy hallucinations; but a bright vein of humour was generally interwoven with the darkest threads of Cowper’s life. He had always evinced a passion for animals, and had a fancy for pets; and besides the hares (whose lives and deaths, if we may be permitted a Hibernianism, he has rendered immortal), Cowper was the proprietor of a flock of pigeons, which perched every morning on the garden wall, awaiting the moment when their gentle master should appear to give them breakfast. Still writing to Unwin, he says: ‘If your wish should ever be fulfilled, and you obtain the wings of a dove, I shall assuredly find you some fine morning among my flock; but, in that case, pray announce yourself, as I am convinced your crop will require something better than tares to feed upon.’
There is something very refreshing in his outburst of indignation at the manner in which Dr. Johnson handles Milton, ‘plucking the brightest feathers’ (or at least so Cowper thought) ‘from the Muse’s wing, and trampling them under his great foot. I should like to thrash his old jacket till his pension jingled in his pockets.’ He gives a most amusing description of an unwelcome visitor at Olney, in which he carefully draws the line between a ‘travelled man’ and a ‘travelled gentleman.’ He speaks of the intruder’s long and voluble talk, which set their favourite robins twittering through rivalry, neither the birds nor the talker inclining to give in; but, ‘I am thankful to say the robins survived it, and so did we.’
A delightful ray of human sunshine crossed the monotonous path of Cowper’s life about this time, and for a period cheered and relieved its grey and sombre colouring. Looking out of the window one afternoon, he saw Mrs. Jones (the wife of a neighbouring clergyman) entering the opposite shop, in company with a being (no other word could be applicable), whose appearance riveted him to the spot. He summoned Mrs. Unwin to his side, and requested she would ask both ladies to tea. The stranger proved to be Mrs. Jones’s sister, a widow, Lady Austen by name, lately returned from a lengthened sojourn in France, where she appeared, by all accounts, to have become imbued with a large portion of French vivacity, without losing any of those sterling qualities or earnestness of purpose, for which we (at least) give our fair countrywomen credit. The sisters accepted the invitation, and, as they entered the room, Cowper, with his characteristic timidity, made his escape at the other door. But the attraction was too great; he soon stole back to the tea-table, plunged headlong into conversation, and, when the ladies rose to take leave, craved permission to accompany them part of the way home. In fact, he had fallen in (Platonic) love at first sight. Lady Austen was soon in the receipt of poems and letters, addressed to ‘Sister Anna.’ Mrs. Jones having gone to join her husband in London, Lady Austen, finding herself lonely, and surrounded, she said, by burglars, was easily persuaded to settle at Olney, and at first under the same roof as Cowper and Mrs. Unwin. It was a large rambling house. ‘She has taken that part of the building formerly occupied by Dick Coleman, his wife, child, and a thousand rats.’
We confess to sharing the opinion of the author of a charming sketch of Cowper’s life, lately published, when he says, ‘That a woman of fashion, accustomed to French salons, should choose such an abode, with a couple of Puritans for her only society, surely proves that one of the Puritans, at least, possessed some great attraction for her.’
The Vicarage was too large for the requirements of Mr. Scott (Newton’s successor), whose sermons Lady Austen admired, though it was said he scolded rather than preached the Gospel; and so it was settled she should take rooms in his house, and the door of communication between the Scott and Cowper gardens was opened. Cowper writes to Unwin on the subject of the charming widow, and expatiates on the delightful change wrought in their daily life by her advent. ‘Our society,’ he says, ‘is not much increased, but the presence of one individual has made the whole difference. Lady Austen and we pass the day alternately at each other’s château. In the morning I walk with one or other of the ladies; in the evening I wind thread;—so did Hercules, and so, I opine, did Samson! Were either of these heroes living, I should not fear challenging them to a trial of skill.’
Lady Austen became as watchful as his older associate in marking the different phases of Cowper’s moods, and as assiduous in her endeavours to cheer and amuse him. She would sit by his side for hours, and tax her memory for anecdotes of foreign life, and the chequered scenes through which she had passed; and while Mrs. Unwin set him to work on moral satires, on ‘The Progress of Error,’ ‘Table-Talk,’ and, if we may so express it, sermons in verse, his younger companion suggested more lively themes for his Muse. One eventful evening, bent on cheering the drooping spirits of the invalid, Lady Austen related to him the wonderful adventures of John Gilpin. The poet laughed, laughed immoderately, went to bed, woke in the night and laughed again and again; and the next morning at breakfast he produced the immortal poem. How many generations, how many children of all ages have laughed since! how many artists have striven to portray their conception of that famous ride, till it was reserved for the pencil of Caldecott to embody (who can doubt it?) the very ideal of the poet’s fancy! Gilpin became widely known, even while the author continued unknown. Henderson, the popular actor, recited the ballad on the stage, and far and near it was read and re-read with delight. Cowper now frequently turned to Lady Austen for subjects, and followed her injunctions to the letter when she playfully bade him ‘sing the sofa,’ on which she sat. This poem swelled into ‘The Task’ and ‘The Task’ it was that made Cowper famous. There is no doubt that the first stone of his future fame was laid by the fair hand of that friend from whom he was so soon to be separated. ‘The Task,’ while inculcating piety and morality (the absence of which ingredients would have been impossible in any of Cowper’s lengthened writings), abounded in exquisite descriptions of life at home and abroad, paintings of Nature, of the quiet, homely, lovely, loveable nature of his own native land, some passages of which can scarcely be surpassed for calm beauty and musical rhythm. Let those readers unacquainted with ‘The Task’ turn to the lines where the poet stands, with the friend ‘whose arm has been close locked in his for twenty years,’ on the eminence, when their ‘pace had slackened to a pause,’ and judge for themselves of Cowper’s talents as a landscape painter. His interiors are as perfect in their way. How irresistible is the invitation to
‘Stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,