With the translation of Homer terminated all the brightest period of Cowper’s life. There is little else to say. He undertook an edition of Milton—a most difficult task, involving the greatest and most accurate learning, in theology, in classics, in Italian—in a word, in all ante-Miltonic literature. By far the greater portion of this lay quite out of Cowper’s path. He had never been a hard student, and his evident incapacity for the task troubled and vexed him. A man who had never been able to assume any real responsibility was not likely to feel comfortable under the weight of a task which very few men would be able to accomplish. Mrs. Unwin too fell into a state of helplessness and despondency; and instead of relying on her for cheerfulness and management, he was obliged to manage for her, and cheer her. His mind was unequal to the task. Gradually the dark cloud of melancholy, which had hung about him so long, grew and grew, and extended itself day by day. In vain Lord Thurlow, who was a likely man to know, assured him that his spiritual despondency was without ground; he smiled sadly, but seemed to think that at any rate he was not going into Chancery. In vain Hayley, a rival poet, but a good-natured, blundering, well-intentioned, incoherent man, went to and fro, getting the Lord Chief Justice and other dignitaries to attest, under their hands, that they concurred in Thurlow’s opinion. In vain, with far wiser kindness, his relatives, especially many of his mother’s family, from whom he had been long divided, but who gradually drew nearer to him as they were wanted, endeavoured to divert his mind to healthful labour and tranquil society. The day of these things had passed away—the summer was ended. He became quite unequal to original composition, and his greatest pleasure was hearing his own writings read to him. After a long period of hopeless despondency he died on April 25, in the first year of this century; and if he needs an epitaph, let us say, that not in vain was he Nature’s favourite. As a higher poet sings:— ‘And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense, A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how nor whence, Nor whither going.’ ... ‘If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn, A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure.’ APPENDIX. LETTERS ON THE FRENCH COUP D’ÉTAT OF 1851. (_Addressed to the Editor of ‘THE INQUIRER.’_) LETTER I. _THE DICTATORSHIP._ PARIS: Jan. 8, 1852.