imate _The Tempest_ as poetry simply because it gives them so
precious a clue to the character of his genius, and makes clear once more
that the grand source and material of poetry is the infinite tenderness of
the human heart. Cowper's letters are a tiny thing beside Shakespeare's
plays. But the same light falls on them. They have an eighteenth-century
restraint, and freedom from emotionalism and gush. But behind their
chronicle of trifles, their small fancies, their little vanities, one is
aware of an intensely loving and lovable personality. Cowper's poem, _To
Mary_, written to Mrs. Unwin in the days of her feebleness, is, to my
mind, made commonplace by the odious reiteration of "my Mary!" at the end
of every verse. Leave the "my Marys" out, however, and see how beautiful,
as well as moving, a poem it becomes. Cowper was at one time on the point
of marrying Mrs. Unwin, when an attack of madness prevented him. Later on
Lady Austen apparently wished to marry him. He had an extraordinary gift
for commanding the affections of those of both sexes who knew him. His
friendship with the poet Hayley, then a rocket fallen to earth, towards
the close of his life, reveals the lovableness of both men.

[2] _Letters of William Cowper_. Chosen and edited by J.G. Frazer.
Two vols. Eversley Series. Macmillan. 12s. net.

If we love Cowper, then, it is not only because of his little world, but
because of his greatness of soul that stands in contrast to it. He is like
one of those tiny pools among the rocks, left behind by the deep waters of
ocean and reflecting the blue height of the sky. His most trivial actions
acquire a pathos from what we know of the _De Profundis_ that is behind
them. When we read of the Olney household--"our snug parlour, one lady
knitting, the other netting, and the gentleman winding worsted"--we feel
that this marionette-show has some second and immortal significance. On
another day, "one of the ladies has been playing a harpsichord, while I,
with the other, have been playing at battledore and shuttlecock." It is a
game of cherubs, though of cherubs slightly unfeathered as a result of
belonging to the pious English upper-middle classes. The poet, inclined to
be fat, whose chief occupation in winter is "to walk ten times in a day
from the fireside to his cucumber frame and back again," is busy enough on
a heavenly errand. With his pet hares, his goldfinches, his dog, his
carpentry, his greenhouse--"I