hing, and the poet
himself has probably not told us all. To these calumnies respecting
Cowley's comedy, raised up by those whom Wood designates as "enemies
of the muses," it would appear that others were added of a deeper dye,
and in malignant whispers distilled into the ear of royalty. Cowley,
in an ode, had commemorated the genius of Brutus, with all the
enthusiasm of a votary of liberty. After the king's return, when
Cowley solicited some reward for his sufferings and services in the
royal cause, the chancellor is said to have turned on him with a
severe countenance, saying, "Mr. Cowley, your pardon is your reward!"
It seems that ode was then considered to be of a dangerous tendency
among half the nation; Brutus would be the model of enthusiasts, who
were sullenly bending their neck under the yoke of royalty. Charles
II. feared the attempt of desperate men; and he might have forgiven
Rochester a loose pasquinade, but not Cowley a solemn invocation. This
fact, then, is said to have been the true cause of the despondency so
prevalent in the latter poetry of "the melancholy Cowley." And hence
the indiscretion of the muse, in a single flight, condemned her to a
painful, rather than a voluntary solitude; and made the poet complain
of "barren praise" and "neglected verse."[30]

While this anecdote harmonises with better known facts, it throws some
light on the outcry raised against the comedy, which seems to have
been but an echo of some preceding one. Cowley retreated into
solitude, where he found none of the agrestic charms of the landscapes
of his muse. When in the world, Sprat says, "he had never wanted for
constant health and strength of body;" but, thrown into solitude, he
carried with him a wounded spirit--the Ode of Brutus and the
condemnation of his comedy were the dark spirits that haunted his
cottage. Ill health soon succeeded low spirits--he pined in dejection,
and perished a victim of the finest and most injured feelings.

But before we leave _the melancholy Cowley_, he shall speak the
feelings, which here are not exaggerated. In this Chronicle of
Literary Calamity no passage ought to be more memorable than the
solemn confession of one of the most amiable of men and poets.

Thus he expresses himself in the preface to his "Cutter of Coleman
Street."

"We are therefore wonderful wise men, and have a fine business of it;
we, who spend our time in poetry. I do sometimes laugh, and am often
angry with myself,