sion, that his was an experience of unrelieved, unmixed suffering and gloom. Lest this should be the case, we will quote the remarks of his biographer, so true and so beautifully expressed :

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Happily there was nothing irksome in any of the business to which he was called. His correspondence except only when, upon writing to Mr. Newton, and to him alone, the consciousness of his malady arose in his mind. was purely pleasurable. He had his own affliction, and that was of the heaviest kind; but from the ordinary cares and sorrows of life, no man was ever more completely exempted. All his connexions were prosperous. Mr. Unwin was the only friend, whose longer life must have appeared desirable, of whom death bereaved him. From the time when, in the prime of manhood, he was rendered helpless, he was provided for by others; that Providence, which feeds the ravens, raised up one person after another to minister unto him. Mrs. Unwin was to him as a mother; Lady Hesketh as a sister. And when he lost in Unwin one who had been to him as a brother, young men, as has already been seen in the instance of Rose, supplied that loss with filial affection. Sad as his story is, it is not altogether mournful; he had never to complain of injustice, nor of injuries, nor of neglect. Man had no part in bringing on his calamity; and to that very calamity which made him leave the herd,' like a 'stricken deer,' it was owing, that the genius which has consecrated his name, which has made him the most popular poet of his age, and secures that popularity from fading away, was developed in retirement; it would have been blighted, had he continued in the course for which he had been trained up. He would not have found the way to fame, unless he had missed the way to fortune. He might have been happier in his generation; but he could never have been so useful; with that generation his memory would have passed away, and he would have slept with his fathers, instead of living with those who are the glory of their country, and the benefactors of their kind."— Vol. II. pp. 148, 149.

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It remains to offer a few remarks suggested by Cowper's genius, and the peculiar character of his writings. Cowper's taste," says Sir Egerton Brydges, "lay in a smiling, colloquial, good-natured humor." His English is idiomatic, at least in those productions upon which his reputation as a writer rests. Some of the most racy, poignant, and nervous English is that which is current in the market, in the workshop, in the camp, and the cabin. It is not elaborated in the schools, is marked VOL. XXVII. -3D s. VOL. IX. NO. III. 45

by none of the regularity of philosophical diction, will not submit to classical canons, but has its birth amidst the necessities and dangers, the passions and the humors of active life. From this fruitful source, Scott, and Shakspeare, and Swift, derived the instruments of their power, and found their way through many ears to a multitude of hearts. But the strong sense of such writers as have been named is apt to be mingled with coarseness; their wit runs easily into vulgarity, and their humor has a strong tang, which the very delicate would not enjoy. Cowper's style has no such strong relish. It is remarkable for delicacy and refinement, yet with all its refinement it is not spiritless, and in its beautiful polish does not lose its point. It is the perfection of the parlor-dialect, continually attracting the reader by happy turns of thought and expression, which have enough of ingenuity to excite an agreeable surprise; but without the elaborate, far-fetching wit that astonishes at its brilliancy, having enough of humor to call up a smile without becoming quaint and grotesque.

It is noticeable that those works of our author, which were most painfully and carefully wrought, have received the least favor from the public, whilst his permanent fame is founded upon productions which cost him little or no effort, and which were rather the living children of his nature, than the beautiful but dead forms originated by his art. Of this his translation of Homer is an illustration. In this work, his mind and imagination were constrained, as every translator's must be, who scruples to take the liberty which Pope took, of using his original merely as a stock upon which to engraft fruit of his own. His diction in this translation is also constrained, not only from the cause already named, but because it would be natural for him, in rendering an ancient classical author, for whom he entertained such a veneration as he did for Homer, to endeavor to construct his sentences upon a classical model, and to force his English to conform in phrase and idiom to the ancient pattern, and the result would be what has been, a correct, faithful version of the Grecian, which well repays the scholar who is content to study it, but has few attractions for one who is seeking for the spirit and style of Cowper. On the contrary, the Ballad of John Gilpin, the Dirge on the loss of the Royal George, the Lines addressed to his Mother's Picture, and the Boadicea flowed spontaneously from his fancy and heart, — and will be read again and again with ever new delight. We do

not intend to undervalue the importance of art, or to express a wish that literature should be reduced to the few and rare, although luxuriant products which nature bears without cultivation. But if it be true that art must furnish the instruments with which Nature is to work, it is also true that these instruments will be useless, unless the intellect possess ideas worthy of being expanded and combined; or the imagination be crowded with pictures; or the heart be filled with sentiments, which demand fit phrase to give them utterance. In the Task, Cowper's principal poem, Nature and Art are happily blended, and aid and heighten each other. For rural scenes he had ever an observing eye, and a loving heart. And as we accompany him in his favorite walks, his descriptions seem to us full of truth and reality; and the moral reflections blended with them, are either such as we remember to have entertained, and which we are glad to have revived; or if new, such as will ever henceforth be associated with the like sights and sounds.

There are three striking phenomena in the literary character of Cowper, the healthiness of his writings, contrasted with the insanity which we know to have been for a long time the condition of his mind; the union of a playful humor with the blackest melancholy that ever oppressed human spirits; and the very late period at which his genius developed itself. Each of these circumstances might furnish matter for curious speculation to the philosopher. He commenced author, when he was fifty years of age, a period of life to which few postpone their fame. But the aspirations natural to youth had been, in his case, checked by a painful shyness, which shrunk from all exposure; and they were afterwards purposely and on principle mortified, in obedience to the dictates of a morbid religion. That he was ambitious of true honor, we have from his own lips. "I have," he says, "(what perhaps you little suspect me of) in my nature, an infinite share of ambition. But with it I have, at the same time, as you well know, an equal share of diffidence. To this combination of opposite qualities it has been owing, that, till lately, I stole through life without undertaking anything, yet always wishing to distinguish myself. At last I ventured, ventured too in the only path, that, at so late a period, was yet open to me; and am determined, if God have not determined otherwise, to work my way through the obscurity, that has been so long my portion, into notice. Everything, therefore, that seems to threaten this my favorite purpose with

disappointment, affects me nearly. I suppose that all ambitious minds are in the same predicament. He who seeks distinction. must be sensible of disapprobation, exactly in the same proportion as he desires applause. And now, my precious cousin, I have unfolded my heart to you in this particular, without a speck of dissimulation. Some people, and good people too, would blame me." Yes, and he had, doubtless, blamed himself a thousand times. It was only when his nature had succeeded in breaking through the restraints that bound it, that he became a useful and happy man.

We have mentioned as one of the striking phenomena in Cowper's literary character, that his writings should be so healthy, when the mind that produced them was so often clouded and diseased. We find in them everywhere clearness, order, precision, discrimination. He was the farthest possible from mysticism, in his habits of thought, or modes of expression. All his thoughts were distinct and sharply defined. This was indeed the great source of mischief to his mind. The false and insane notions, with which he became possessed, stood before him with a horrible distinctness. Had his mind been of a different habit, he might have escaped from his pursuers, or they would have vanished, lost in clouds. But they held their shape, and would not away.

We can hardly credit the assertion, when we are informed that the humorous ballad of John Gilpin was composed, when the mind of the author was oppressed by the deepest gloom. It would seem as if Nature, tired of a perpetual sadness, took this method to obtain relief, by playing for a time with images, as different as possible from the thoughts that swayed the mind.

It is as a letter-writer that Cowper's delightful talent is most happily exercised. He sits down, evidently without a subject, not even knowing what the next sentence is to contain ; and his letters, for simplicity, elegance, vivacity, and ease, cannot be surpassed. We would willingly enter upon this topic, but the pages we have already filled warn us to forbear.

W. P. L.

ART. IV. Conclusion of the Liverpool Controversy.

In answer to Mr. McNeile's Discourse, entitled "The Proper Deity of our Lord the only ground of Consistency in the Work of Redemption," we have a Discourse by Mr. Martineau, entitled "The Scheme of Vicarious Redemption inconsistent with itself, and with the Christian idea of Salvation.” Acts iv. 12. The Author brings before us a picture of the scene on Mount Calvary and its accompaniments, at the Crucifixion. The ostensible impression, which it leaves upon the mind, is that of manifesting the last degree of moral perfection in the Saviour, an expression of his character, a needful preliminary to his resurrection and ascension, and leading to a development of the spirituality and universality of the Gospel. This, however, is said to be the mere outside aspect of the crucifixion. Beneath this is the deeper meaning of a vicarious Sacrifice. This alleged deeper meaning, Mr. Martineau combats as inconsistent with itself, and inconsistent with the Christian idea of Salvation. The appeals made to nature for analogies between her operations and the vicarious scheme are inconclusive. This scheme is inconsistent likewise with the character of God, and with the work of Christ. These we know are old heads of argument against the Calvinistic Atonement; but Mr. Martineau has presented them with such novelty and depth of thought, such discriminating judgment, and such an eloquent choice of words, that we are ashamed to give our readers only this meagre outline. The scheme of vicarious Suffering is inconsistent with the Scriptures; the language, which is supposed to imply it, does not appear until the Gentile controversy. The Old Testament has not the slightest trace of it. The Jews, so far from thinking that the death of the Messiah was to be a propitiation, thought he could never die at all. Neither does the Saviour in all his Parables and Discourses make any reference to a propitiatory Sacrifice, as the ground of forgiveness. The Apostles, preaching to their countrymen, insist on the resurrection, not upon the crucifixion. When preaching to the Gentiles, they do lay stress upon the death of the Saviour, because that event extended his Messiahship, which before was confined to the Jews. The writer of the Epistle to the Hebrews thinks to console his countrymen for the abrogation of