applied to his own; fiddling or chess-playing, to say nothing of natural history studies, need not be less innocent than growing cucumbers or making rabbit-hutches. It is strange that he did not see that his vaunted method of securing peace of mind failed in his own case. He mocked at the folly of others for seeking happiness in other pursuits than the simple ones in which he was engaged, and vet he was "supremely unhappy" the whole time. A more charitable method, if he had been taught it, might have wrought a happy change upon him.
It is not until we come to the Third Book, "The Garden," that the plan of the poem becomes definite. As the author expresses* it, he has been winding
. . . now this way, and now that,
His devious course uncertain."
Now, however, he settles quietly down to his subject of domestic happiness. Many flit to and fro in vain quest of happiness; he lives at home engaged in simple occupations. And here we come to one of the chief excellences of the volume, that which was lacking in the first volume, and which now had the chief part in winning popularity. "The Task" is all about himself. He takes you into his confidence, and his artless blank verse seems more like a flowing and melodious conversation with some dear friend than a service of the Muses. His religious thoughts and meditations, his friends, his ill-health, his walks, his tame hares, he tells you all about them in a simple straightforward way, as though he were quite aware that he is able to interest you in every one of them. There is not a piece of description anywhere in which he himself is not in the foreground of the landscape, though he never seems intrusive or egotistical. There are some fine pieces of description in "The Garden," and the satire upon the gaieties and extravagances of London life is pungent and well-deserved. But his attempt to make poetry out of minute directions for the raising of a cucumber is not very successful.
"The Winter Evening" is delightful throughout; the interest never flags at all. It is the best of his poems. The description of the old postman, of the approach of evening, of the Poet's "brown study," of the suffering poor, are all perfect. "the Winter Morning Walk," too, begins with pictures equally good,—the slanting winter sun, the feeding of the cattle, the woodman toiling through the snow, with "pipe in mouth and dog at heels." But the greater part of this poem is occupied with a disquisition on Liberty, which the author brings in oddly. The icicles remind him of the Russian ice-palace, which leads on to the amusements of monarchs, and these to a discussion on monarchy in general, which affords the Poet an opportunity of stating his moderate Whig views.
Though necessarily traversing the same subjects as Thomson, and writing in the same metre, Cowper is not at all like him. Thomson is sometimes sublime. But he knows less of his subject than Cowper, and is often vague, indistinct, and untrue. Cowper never is. Every picture is clear and minute. As he says in one of his letters, he describes only what he sees, and takes nothing at second-hand. As
